The road was a river of chaos. The sellswords of the Brave Companions, followed by the troops organized by the Myrish magisters, were a noisy, cursing rabble. Qobo, Magister Joey's nephew, trusted neither the sellswords nor his own men. The "Butter-King's" promises of freedom had stirred the hearts of the slaves throughout the Disputed Lands, and Qobo feared a rebellion in his own ranks. His most trusted assets were the thirty Unsullied and four Meereenese gladiators his uncle had provided.
"How much longer?" he asked Vargo Hoat, the lisping, goat-helmeted commander of the Brave Companions.
"About… about two days," Vargo replied.
"I think we should wait," Qobo urged, his stomach churning with a nervous fear. "It would be more secure if we coordinated with the fleet and the bandits from Crown Town. A three-pronged attack." Rumor had it that the Butter-King was a demon in battle, capable of smashing Unsullied and gladiators to pieces. Hiring the Golden Company would have been a safer bet, but his uncle had been too cheap to pay their price.
"Why for three armies?" Vargo grunted, displeased. "To… to have more people to… to share the money with us? It is just a collection of bandits and escaped slaves. What… what is there to be afraid of?"
One of the other Companions, a man called Shagwell the Jester, rode up, dangling the severed heads of two escaped slaves. "How did you die?" one head seemed to ask. "I supported the Butter-King!" the other replied. Qobo felt a wave of nausea but held it in.
"The Wolf Pack's cubs are not so weak," he insisted. "And the slaves are utterly loyal to them. This will not be an easy fight." He scanned the road ahead. "Any sign of them?"
"None, Lord Qobo," the jester replied. "The estates are all sealed up tight, afraid of the wolf pups' attacks. The roads are empty. We've had no intelligence at all. Except for two slave boys I found on the road, trying to join the Butter-King."
"It is too calm," Qobo muttered, a sense of dread growing in him. The green plains and forests of the Disputed Lands suddenly seemed menacing, as if an enemy lurked behind every tree.
"This area is full of rich estates," the jester suggested with a sly grin. "Instead of letting the Butter-King have them, why don't we raid them first?"
"No!" Qobo said, horrified. "Those are the properties of the magisters! We are here to destroy the Wolf Pack, not to make new enemies." He was beginning to see the folly of hiring such a notorious company.
"Accelerate!" Vargo Hoat commanded. "We will make camp when we find a safe place!"
They found their campsite on a small hill overlooking a main road. And there, below them, was the enemy. Qobo saw them, arrayed for battle: a shield wall of oak and rough-hewn wood, and on a small hill to their left, archers and crossbowmen, ready for a fight.
A sharp horn blast echoed across the field, followed by the beating of war drums. "Go! Hurry!" Qobo shouted.
"Shut… shut your mouth, commander," Vargo lisped. "To survive, you need brothers to charge with you. Most of those men are escaped slaves. They have not seen real blood." He looked at the dense crowd behind the shield wall. Their armor and weapons were a motley collection of outdated, dilapidated gear.
"Fine," Qobo gritted his teeth. "Charge them once. I will give you twenty of my Unsullied."
Vargo's eyes lit up with a vicious gleam. He would lead the charge himself, with his own men, the twenty Unsullied, and the freelance knights. The elite of the Wolf Pack were few. If they could break the shield wall, the farm-boy slaves would scatter, and victory would be theirs.
The archers on the hill let loose a volley of arrows, but the Unsullied advanced under a wall of shields, and the crossbows of the other sellswords lacked the longbows' range. The Brave Companions pushed forward. "Watch for the longbows!" Vargo screamed, barely dodging an arrow that took down the man next to him. "We must break their formation!"
The Unsullied and the other sellswords crashed into the shield wall, a wave of axes and spears. But for every man who fell, another from the Free Army's reserves stepped forward to take his place. The line held.
"Infantry, forward!" Qobo screamed, seeing the shield wall begin to waver. He sent his freelance knights in as well. He let out a sigh of relief. The Wolf Pack was nothing special. He could already taste the sweet victory, the wealth and power that would be his.
But then, from the woods to the right, came a new sound: the thunder of heavy cavalry. Fifty or sixty armored knights burst from the trees, led by a fearsome warrior in black scale armor and a crude iron mask. They smashed into the flank of the Brave Companions and the Unsullied like a tidal wave.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!" the knights roared, their warhammers, great axes, and longspears creating a terrifying mist of blood, bone, and brain matter.
Qobo's vision went black. Honor and glory were gone. In that moment, he felt only the cold certainty of defeat.