More than a dozen fires had already flared up across Myr. The enemy was busy rooting out the supporters Magister Casso had left behind. Blood and flame spread through the city.
Gendry tightened his grip on his spiked hammer, watching the men closing in on the Wolf Pack. Myr garrison soldiers, Sellswords hired by the Myrish, and the private guards of various Magisters were all mixed together in pursuit.
Olive-skinned, slender Myrish men. Tyroshi with purple, red, or blue hair and beards. Fair-skinned, golden-haired, blue-eyed Lysenes. Even Meereenese. Gendry saw Sellswords from nearly every corner of the Known World.
They were outnumbered several times over.
The battered remnants of the Wolf Pack joined up with the reinforcements and quickly re-formed into a wedge, driving toward the outer city gate. The Handsome Man, Longspear, and Gendry led their men into the formation.
"Cover me!" Fletcher shouted.
The Wolf Pack raised their shields, blocking his silhouette from view. His longbow never missed. Arrow after arrow struck true, piercing mounted pursuers and briefly halting the tightening noose.
"You made it!"
The leader of the surviving Wolf Pack clutched his cheek, tears streaking down a face smeared with blood. At their head stood a middle-aged man wearing iron spiked gauntlets, the metal dark with gore.
"Where's the Captain, Steel Fist?" the Handsome Man demanded.
He already knew the likely answer. Still, he held on to a sliver of hope.
"Magister Joeyr of the Fire Herb Guild betrayed us!" Steel Fist said hoarsely. "Magister Casso went to seek help, but he and his whole family were poisoned at the banquet. The Captain tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. Magister Joey and the men from the Navigators' Guild sent in Unsullied and Meereen gladiators. The Captain and four or five brothers died there. We broke out of the estate and barely escaped."
Pain twisted Steel Fist's face.
"Magister Joeyr… he's part of the Fire Herb Guild too," the Handsome Man muttered, stunned.
It seemed the Magisters aligned with the maritime trade had far more reach than he'd thought. They had even turned Casso's former allies.
"Nothing's impossible," Steel Fist replied bitterly. "After Casso died, the vacant seat went to the man backed by Magister Joeyr and the pirates. Joeyr's brother-in-law—also a pirate. The candidate the Navigators' Guild put forward before was just a smokescreen. Behind the scenes, they'd already secured Joeyr."
"How did it come to this…" The Handsome Man let out a long breath.
Myr's politics had shifted like a storm at sea. Their patron, Magister Casso, was dead. And Greybeard, their Captain, had fallen with him.
"Captain," Steel Fist said, pulling out a ring. "The Captain left this to you. After him, you lead the Wolf Pack."
The ring bore the head of a lone, proud wolf. Forged from black iron and bronze, etched with ancient runes of the First Men, it was the symbol of the Wolf Pack.
"Move!" the Handsome Man snapped.
There was no time for mourning. They had to get out of Myr.
"The east gate of the outer city—its defenses are weaker!" Steel Fist said.
"Too late," the Handsome Man replied under his breath. "Myr is crawling with danger tonight. We have another way—the underground passage."
"Then we feign an assault on the east gate first, and fall back to the tunnel."
"Agreed."
Boom.
Boom.
The Myrish ranks shifted and opened. From the rear, small catapults were wheeled forward, pushed by Myrish slaves.
They had seen what Fletcher's longbow could do and no longer dared rush in recklessly. Instead, they chose to soften the Wolf Pack with stones.
"Shields! Shields!" Fletcher Dick called.
He continued firing with calm precision, prioritizing mounted enemies. If he could thin out the riders, the pressure would ease. The men operating the catapults were heavily protected, forcing him to focus on the cavalry at the front.
Fletcher shot relentlessly, and the other Wolf Pack longbowmen joined him. The Myrish crossbows could not match the range of the longbows. Frustrated, they could only watch as the wounded Wolf Pack closed ranks and pushed forward together.
Suddenly, a horn blared.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Ahead of Gendry, a line of men advanced—hard as iron. They wore spiked helmets and black leather armor, armed with short swords, shields, and long spears. Thirty Unsullied moved in perfect formation, closing in.
"The Unsullied!"
"The Unsullied are here!"
Cheers erupted from the Myrish ranks. The Unsullied had always been hailed as the trump card of the Free Cities—the warriors who had saved Qohor from destruction. The Free Cities feared the Dothraki above all, and the Unsullied's reputation had only grown from that day.
Their arrival turned the tide at once. Ignoring the threat of longbows, the Myrish forces surged forward, shouting in triumph.
"Damn these Myrish—they really are willing to spend coin," the Handsome Man muttered.
"The Unsullied don't ride. We push them back, then withdraw to the rear!" he ordered.
The Handsome Man, Steel Fist, Gendry, and Longspear angled forward to meet the advancing line.
The Unsullied wore no expressions. Obedience and iron discipline were their hallmark. They had always commanded a high price. At Qohor, the Dothraki had charged eighteen times, only to break against that wall of shields and spears like waves against rock.
Now they advanced in unison. Only the sound of synchronized footsteps marked their approach. No wasted movement. No wasted breath.
They were swift, ruthless killing machines.
Clang.
Gendry's hammer struck against an Unsullied spear. Just as the tales said, they were agile and tempered by relentless training. Not only because of their brutal drills, but because they had been raised on the wine of courage since childhood.
Longspear lunged, his weapon flicking like a venomous serpent. Yet the Unsullied defense was seamless, difficult to break.
"Don't get bogged down!" someone shouted. "They've drunk the wine of courage since they were boys—they feel less pain than we do!"
Gendry raised his spiked hammer and seized a fleeting opening, swinging for the man's head. The Unsullied lifted his bronze shield to block and thrust his spear forward in the same motion.
Gendry's other hand found his Arakh scimitar.
He twisted his body mid-strike. Instead of the head, the hammer came down on the man's chest.
A dull crack.
The Unsullied let out a muffled sound and fell.
Leather armor. That was his chance.
Gendry ducked beneath another spear thrust, snatched up the fallen shield, and rolled back to his feet. Myr's mild climate meant the Unsullied here wore no heavy plate. Had they been fully armored, they would have been far harder to deal with.
"Kill!"
Power surged through him. The enemy's movements seemed slow and unnecessary before his eyes. He didn't need finesse—only force. Faster. Steadier. Never miss the opening.
His blows flowed one into the next. The spiked hammer tore through the air like a dark storm. The strikes grew heavier, more ruthless. Against leather armor, each impact was deadly.
Gendry fought with rising fury, shield raised in one hand, hammer swinging in the other. The weapon's weight and balance were devastating in his grip.
He roared like a stag in rut, standing amid the bodies of several fallen Unsullied.
"Move!"
The Handsome Man grabbed him, dragging him toward a gap in the chaos.
They still had to break away and return to the underground passage.