Chapter 121: Act 2: Chapter 54

Fifth day, Eleventh Moon, 260 AC (+10 days)

Ryden POV

"These are the entire demands?" asked the captain in disbelief.

"Lord Baratheon believes that this is not your fight, and as such, offers you a most gracious opportunity," I replied. "However," I said, in a harder tone, "rejection of these terms will escalade this conflict. Other mercenary groups have tried my lord's patience and generosity, and now naught but ash marks their final resting place."

The captain of the hill fort frowned. "Ah, but we are much closer to Tyrosh. Reinforcements are nearer, and my men will not continue to be paid if we surrender."

"You will also not receive your coin when you die."

The captain grinned. "An eternal problem in this business! But, if someone was to pay more than our current contract…"

"No," I rejected. "These are my lord's terms. There is no hope for you – you are surrounded. Tyrosh is hungry and becomes more and more cutoff each day. You will find no help from them – they have abandoned you."

The captain lost his levity and was stone-faced - giving nothing away. "Your forces in the Disputed Lands have been forced to retreat. Soon, the Golden Company will arrive here, and you will be driven from the island. We must merely wait until that happens."

I laughed. "How long do you think you can hold this small fort? Even if the Golden Company made to come here now, it would take weeks for them to get here! Can you hold these walls for that long? No!" The captain was unmoved, so I continued, "Besides, your knowledge is incorrect - a result of Tyrosh abandoning you. Prince Duncan Targaryen has driven back the Golden Company once he was able to consolidate his men. Already, they chase them through the countryside as the Golden Company flees in terror."

It was an exaggeration, as Prince Duncan had won a few battles and driven the Golden Company northwards, but this man wasn't going to know that. It took time for information from the mainland to arrive here, and it was only by virtue of sticking by Rickard's side during Lord Baratheon's meetings that I knew. A man as unimportant as this captain would have no idea.

The man scoffed, but I could see his shoulders hunch slightly. "A fanciful boast, but my men are secure, and we have plenty of provisions."

"But are your men willing to fight to the death for a hopeless cause?" I raised my voice, so those in the fort could hear me. "Is that what you promised your men if they followed you? Certain death? You have Lord Baratheon's terms, now let me tell you the price of rejection! My lord shall give you the rest of the day to say your prayers to whatever gods you follow, but come nightfall, fires shall rain down on you! For those still unburnt, seven hours after dawn, we shall march over the ashes of your walls and kill all we find. The extent of our mercy is here and now! Accept and throw down your weapons! Your property is forfeit, but not your lives! You will be given food if you swear an oath not to fight in the war any longer!"

After taking so long to reach here, the mercenaries had actually reinforced their fort quite significantly compared to some of our early victories. They had whitewashed the walls, dug a trench, and had a proper bridge leading into the fort. It would not be an easy fight by any measure, but there was no sense in giving them hope of victory.

"Put a stop to this miserable existence! Leave this place and return to places that have wine and women! Go to places where there is coin and wealth to be had! For there is none here! Only death!"

I was too far from the walls to hear what was being said, but I could tell that the entire group was discussing, and the captain could tell the same. I could see him doing the mental math of his odds – both in battle and in being deposed – and I could tell when his common sense won out. "We surrender," he said, sighing.

"Your weapon?" I asked, holding my hand out.

He unbuckled his scabbard and handed it to me. I signaled to the men at the bottom of the hill, and the army marched forward. Another fort taken.

There was a whirlwind of activity as the men were taken prisoner and the fort taken over. We were coming ever closer to Tyrosh, but Lord Baratheon's patience was truly wearing thin. He had slightly splintered the army, so that delegations, like my own, would demand the surrender of these forts along the way. If they didn't surrender, a larger portion of the army would come and carry out the threats the delegates outlined. The armies progress picked up remarkably once this had been applied, rather than trying to force a path through.

The mercenaries were a cowardly lot, but if we didn't clear out enough of the forts surrounding our path to Tyrosh, they would simply ride out to harry our rear. For the most part, the forts all surrendered – especially after examples were left of the first few who resisted, and their survivors were sent away to spread the tale. The towns were another issue.

We generally avoided the ones not in our path and didn't bother to subdue them since they lacked the ability to cause us problems. Tyrosh, at this point, had already stripped them of much of their resources, so there was little to gain by attacking them. The towns that were in our path were a pain. Propaganda from the city had told the people lies upon lies and told them to fear and resist us with all strength. Lord Baratheon's initial offers were usually rejected – they never wanted to free their slaves, dismantle their walls, and hand over their grain stores.

Their rationale was always flawed – a surprising number feared we would free their slaves and then enslave them! Madness! It made no sense!

In a military sense, they were not difficult fights to take the towns. They had no large number of trained guards, just people who had taken up whatever arms they could find. Most of the towns either had walls, either newly built or old and established, but they were a small obstacle for a large army such as ours. But as with everything, it came down to numbers. Throwing away lives to get to Tyrosh quickly would see our numbers dwindle – just before the real fight was to begin. It was slow work, but Lord Baratheon was no fool. The island would be ours – it was just a matter of time.

By the time my men and I returned to the main camp, night was already falling. The moon was whole and the sky cloudless, so the walk was easy – even if everyone was hungry. I dismissed the men and made my way to my own tent, but I was waylaid by Auric Cerwyn and Alan Flint.

"Evening," I greeted.

Auric smiled and said, "Ah! Ryden! Were you successful today?"

I nodded. "I was; they took the initial offer."

Auric smiled wistfully. "That is well done! I only wish I was given the privilege of leading such a delegation!"

I shrugged. "What did you do today?"

"Trained with my men mostly. They are all veterans at this point, even the smallfolk, but its best to keep everyone well-trained."

"And you, Alan?" I asked the younger man. Alan was the eldest son of Lord Robin Flint of Flint's Finger, and at 15 years old, he was the youngest in their group of friends.

Alan laughed. "Sat on my arse for most of it! Since my lord uncle from Widow's Watch is in charge of the men, I don't have much to do. I look forward to the army moving forward again tomorrow."

Auric muttered, "Praise the gods."

I laughed. "And you said you were enjoying this great adventure, Alan!"

"The fighting parts," he agreed. "Not the waiting parts. They ought to just face me like a man and have done with it!"

"Ah, but waiting is what makes up most of the whole aspect of war."

"Exactly! War is awful. Just give me a damn good fight." Alan was young, but he was already as tall as I was, and a bit wider in the shoulders – a relic from his Umber grandmother.

Auric shook his head in mock despair. "It saddens me that both of you aren't thinking of what comes after the fall of Tyrosh! The wealth! The power shifts! With the fall of the westernmost slaver state, how will it impact the slave trade? Together with Braavos, will the Iron Throne truly become ascendant on this side of the world?" He leaned forward. "Will Volantis become angered at the attacks on the slave trade? Or will they be glad there is less competition for buying slaves? So many possibilities."

Alan's face twisted in exaggerated disgust. "Ack! Politics!"

I laughed as I collapsed on the stool in front of my tent and started to tug off my boots. "If you think about it, Alan, fighting is just another form of politics."

"How dare you! Fighting is an art! While disgusting, they say that there are fighting pits in the east where all men do is fight! Granted, they are filled with slaves and grotesques, so it is hardly a pure thing, but just imagine the constant ability to duel!"

I grimaced. "The slave pits are hardly something to aspire to."

"No! No! Not like that." Alan frowned. "I'm not Auric - I don't have a way with words. I just meant the essence of it! The competition. The struggle to better yourself." He sighed. "Just ignore me."

"I can see what you are trying to say," consoled Auric. "Like a melee at a tournament, but more concentrated."

"Exactly! Maybe once this is all done with, I shall ask leave from my father to travel around Essos a while – at the very least, I want to make the eight."

Changing the subject, I asked, "What other news from today?"

Alan smirked and said, "Oh, nothing."

Auric nodded. "Oh, yes. Nothing at all."

I narrowed my eyes. "Sure. Sure. Not like I believe that at all."

Auric laughed. "You gave it away, Alan!"

Alan shrugged. "I'm no mummer."

"Spit it out!" I said.

"Tyrosh sent out a peace offer."

"What?!"

Auric grinned. "Lord Baratheon rejected it, of course – the terms were absurd."

"Oh?"

"Essentially, it demanded we leave the island, return Little Tyrosh, and they would pay us a nominal amount in gold and silver."

"How much?"

Auric shrugged. "Rickard didn't say, but I assume a small amount. I suppose the most the Tyroshi are willing to concede is that they have lost."

Alan snorted. "Bold of them."

"That's it? That was the whole offer?"

Auric shrugged. "As far as I am aware. Still, it shows that even the Tyroshi know continuing is pointless – they have lost."

"Will Lord Baratheon continue with negotiations?" I asked.

"As we march," answered Auric. "We won't stop, but I assume the next step is for Lord Baratheon to demand the total surrender of Tyrosh and continue from there."

"So, we might not have to try and take Tyrosh as well?" I asked, hopefully.

"We will probably still have to take the city; I don't see the Tyroshi surrendering, and we need them to if we are to continue to try and fight the Blackfyres. Giving up the islands would hurt our ability to wage war in the Disputed Lands for an extended period – to say nothing of the riches that everyone is waiting for once Tyrosh is sacked."

"Still. A peace offer," I said incredulously.

Alan laughed. "We thought you might like that."

I sighed. "Ah, my cruel friends – you tried to hide it from me."

Auric chuckled. "What else are friends for?"

Xxxx

Arthur POV

It had taken almost a week to set up, but this was going to be one of my greatest achievements in this campaign.

Local mercenary and guard forces had been a constant thorn in my side, but as time wore on, and my forces grew, the threat they posed diminished. On the other hand, the forces from the Nine, and the Golden Company specifically, were a threat I was not quite ready to face head-on. Most of the time, I had organized ambushes and other indirect warfare to weaken them before we struck. They had a sizeable army, made up of various mercenary groups, sitting astride the main road between us and the coast – a place where we could really damage their war efforts. They had not tried to truly retake the land yet, but they were slowly boxing us in.

We needed to break out, and we needed a major victory – or at least something we could make seem like a major victory. Around two thousand freemen had joined the cause, many of them ex-slaves, and I had trained them for this fight. They were mostly equipped with spears and shields, a few helms scavenged from ambushes, and the other odd piece of armor here and there. Together with my original three hundred cavalry, we were a numerous, if not a very skilled, force. As the army continued to expand, morale was high, so it was a perfect time to strike.

I had laid the groundwork out, spreading false information out into the population about our plans. Most tales told of how we were going to strike inland, attacking farms directly rather than fight over the more important distribution and trading centers. After letting that build, I let loose some talk of splitting my forces. By now, I guessed that the mercenaries would have learned of my tendency to split my original forces to cover more ground, so it would seem likely for me to do so again. One would strike to the north, the other to the southeast.

We marched at a brisk pace, but I wasn't worried about being spotted – I could never hide this army. The main road made for quick and easy travel, so I wasn't going to tire my men out before a fight by going through forest or field.

The mercenary army sat astride a large crossroads, evidence showing where the rest of it had been before departing. They didn't have many fortifications to defend their camp, for which I was grateful, but a trench surrounded it, with a bridge leading to the entrance – not the greatest of defenses but enough to cause troubles. The mercenaries were already formed up in front of their camp, with the bridge to their back, and their weapons and armor gleaming in the sunlight.

I blew through the horn and signaled my men to form up as they had trained. The fields surrounding the camp were clear of any hedgerows or fences, allowing my men to form rank upon rank without obstacle. My army was eager, if not overly skilled, so removing as many obstacles as I could was paramount.

Like my army, the movement was also eager but still coalescing. They both had yet to form into something strong – something that would last. They both needed a defining event – a victory. Something to bind them together, for the army was unskilled and scared, and the movement was filled with anger and desperation. I needed to turn that into hope – something to build with.

As the armies faced each other down, I stood to the rear with Vamyx while my cavalry was flanking around the army out of sight. The enemy crossbowman remained behind their trenches, off to each side of the army, which gave us plenty of breathing space. Vamyx was seated on a horse next to me, finally having gotten somewhat comfortable on a horse for a short while, with his sword strapped to his waist.

I signaled for him to move forward, and with once last look to me, he moved to the front of the army. He made a large loop in front of the army and turned to face us. It was hard to hear him from the very back, but in a loud voice, he called out, "My brothers! Today we have before us our enslavers! Those who want to put us back in chains! But these are not even the worst of them! These bastards care nothing for us! They don't even have the balls to take for themselves! If they have their way, they will put chains on us and pass us on to others! They won't remember us, and soon we would fade! I ask you: Do you want to fade?!"

The army roared back its answer, "No!"

"This is our moment! Drive them back from our land! Kill them! Prove yourself and make them remember you!"

With the last words being the signal, I motioned for the men with the horns to blow, and the army surged forward. The freedmen clashed angrily with the mercenaries, and I was happily surprised to see the line somewhat hold its shape. It was hard to see clearly, even on horseback, but it looked like the army was pushing back the mercenaries.

"Send our crossbowmen to the left flank," I said to one of my message runners. "Tell Taric to take his one hundred from the reserve to the right flank and swing out far to threaten the crossbowmen on that flank. I don't want him to rush them, but have him relieve pressure on the main army," I addressed to another runner.

As I watched, our army cut through the mercenaries like a hot knife through butter. With a sinking feeling, I said, "Tell our center to check their progress!" But it was too late, and the mercenaries collapsed on the exposed center, slaughtering the cornered men.

I silently cursed as the mercenary lines reformed themselves expertly, and my armies progress ground to a halt. There were too many of us for them to march forward and expose their sides and back, so we were at a stalemate.

Vamyx returned from the front, his unique clothes dirtied, but he was unharmed. "What is happening?" he asked.

"We are at a stalemate,"I replied. "They tricked our center and killed some of them."

It was always hard to judge what Vamyx was feeling, especially when he was as wrapped up as he was, but I could feel his disappointment. "Should I have led from the center then? I led from the left like we had discussed."

I shook my head. "No, you needed a way to get out of if the situation turned sour – you are not a soldier. Not yet at least. This was a failure from our squad leaders."

"What are we going to do?"

I smiled grimly. "It's time for a secret weapon."

The last time it had been used, smoke had hung heavy in the air, and the crying of the innocent rang out loudly. Or so I was told. In truth, the only thing I really remembered from that day was that the sunset seemed so red. My parents had tried to shield me from the aftermath, but there was only so much they could do to hide such a defining moment in Redbridge's history. When the Ironborn attacked, my father attacked back. When they were stalemated, my father took decisive action.

I told the drummer, "Signal the disengage and seven steps back."

To a runner, I said, "Have Jarak bring up the pots."

"Pots?" asked Vamyx as he watched the runner leave curiously.

"Pots," I confirmed. "Its something my father came up with to break a stalemate."

"I thought your father was a farmer lord?"

"He is," I said. "So, he needed something to help when those who were trained in fighting came calling; he could defend his land. Watch."

The men carrying the pots went first, heading straight to the center of the army, with the torchbearers walking behind them. It felt as if such a momentous occasion should have something to mark it, but I had no speech, and the sounds of the armies were oppressive, even without fighting. All to soon, I could see the pots thrown into the air, landing among the unsuspecting mercenaries. The torches marred the sky, leaving a trail of smoke as they followed.

The screams were terrible. Unfortunately, they were not the worst I had heard. I told the horn blower, "Signal the hold." I needed to let panic set in their ranks. I needed to let the flames heat their armor. I needed them to burn.

As the cries of surprise turned to panic and pain, I said, "Signal the army forward."

"What is it?" asked Vamyx in morbid fascination.

"Molotov pitch."

"There are tales, even among the slaves, about the Westerosi and their fascination with fire – even as they deny R'hllor."

"This is not wildfire – what those tales are likely about. But it doesn't much matter to those who die from it, does it?"

"I suppose not."

The fire broke the mercenaries' expert cohesion, and my army pounced on the opportunity. It wasn't long until the mercenaries began to run. At first, only a few, but like a dam breaking, soon the entire army was broken. My men are hot on the trail, as I kick my horse forward to follow.

The mercenary camp was in shambles as I passed through, with garbage littering the ground. My army had already chased them out of the camp and was now chasing them down the road, but I wasn't ready to call a halt just yet. The fewer enemies that escaped, the better, and I trusted my cavalry to keep things somewhat organized.

The road to Tegunil, Landfall, was clear. The next phase had begun.