The battle turned in an instant. The Golden Company, famed for their discipline and gilded skulls, did not strike the Wolf Pack. Instead, their heavy cavalry and war elephants crashed into the rear of Bloodbeard's Cat Company and the unsuspecting Myrish mercenaries.
The Myrish lines disintegrated under the weight of the assault. Panic spread like wildfire. The Spear Company and the Second Sons, realizing the tide had irrevocably turned, threw down their arms and surrendered to the Wolf Pack, then turned their blades on their former allies. The Cat Company was crushed between the hammer of the Wolf Pack and the anvil of the Golden Company.
From a hilltop overlooking the carnage, the high commanders of the Golden Company watched. Their standard bearers held aloft the gilded skulls of past captains—among them the monstrous, two-headed Maelys the Monstrous.
"A beautiful victory," said Gorlys Edoryn, the company's treasurer. "The Wolf Pack fights with the fury of the North, and their freed slaves are surprisingly disciplined."
"Bloodbeard was a brute, but he was not incompetent," mused Lysono Maar, the company's spymaster, his lilac eyes scanning the field. "The boy's tactics—harassment, encirclement, the use of cavalry—were clever. Bloodbeard was doomed even without us." He turned to his commander. "The boy has potential."
"Your ideas are too risky," sighed Harry Strickland, the company's commander. "Homeless Harry" was a stout man with thinning hair who looked more like a merchant than a warrior. He feared losing his men almost as much as he feared losing his gold. "When the slavers of the Free Cities unite against him, what can a few thousand slaves do?"
"We have no choice, Harry," argued Franklin Flowers. "The cheesemongers give us gold, but they will never help us return home. If the Liberator fails, our best chance fails with him."
"Helping him offends our clients!" Harry protested.
"We are tired of wandering," Flowers shot back. "Maelys crossed the Narrow Sea with the help of the Ninepenny Kings. We can do the same. The Wolf Pack is strong, and their cause draws recruits like moths to a flame. Once the Liberator takes the Disputed Lands, he can support our crossing."
"Robert Baratheon won the throne without dragons," added Black Balaq, the company's archer commander. "We can do the same. And if it fails, we retreat back across the sea, just as Bittersteel did."
Harry shook his head, his caution warring with his desire for home. "The risk..."
"Is minimal," Flowers insisted. "We have broken no contract. We signed nothing with Myr. We merely… intervened in a dispute between mercenaries. If the Liberator wins, we formalize our alliance. If he stumbles, the Free Cities will need us even more to finish him off. Either way, we win." He drew his sword and laughed. "Let's give the boy a hand. He has guts. He's a true man."
"I'd rather die in Westeros than grow old in these Disputed Lands," said Laswell Peake.
"And I'd rather live in a castle than a tent," added Marq Mandrake.
Harry looked at his officers, seeing the hunger in their eyes. He knew he could not hold them back. "You've all gone mad," he muttered, but he drew his sword. "Charge!"
***
The rout was absolute. Bloodbeard saw his elite vanguard collapse as the Wolf Pack's heavy infantry and the Free Army's lighter troops broke through. His mercenaries were fleeing into the woods, abandoning their weapons.
"Success!" Gendry breathed, watching the enemy lines crumble. The Free Army fought with the desperation of men who knew that defeat meant death or chains, but they lacked the discipline of the Unsullied. The heavy charge of the Wolf Pack cavalry had been the necessary hammer blow.
Nearby, Dick the Fletch's longbowmen rained arrows down on the retreating foe. "Long live the Wolf Pack!" the cry went up.
Bloodbeard, realizing the battle was lost, tried to flee. "I will return to Myr!" he screamed. "I will have my revenge!" But his massive frame and fiery red beard made him an easy target.
Gendry cut him off at a shallow river crossing. "You ruined me!" Bloodbeard roared, drawing his longsword. It was a blur of steel, fast and venomous.
Gendry met him with his warhammer. He feinted, then swung hard from the side. Bloodbeard dodged and slashed at Gendry's face. Gendry weaved aside, his movement as fluid as a lynx. His hammer caught Bloodbeard in the ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain. The sellsword didn't falter, launching a flurry of blows that Gendry blocked and parried with practiced ease.
Then, with a sickening crack, Gendry's hammer smashed into Bloodbeard's other side, shattering ribs and denting plate armor. The giant twisted in agony and pulled a second weapon from his saddle—a dark, rippled arakh of Valyrian steel.
"Die!" Bloodbeard screamed, slashing wildly.
But he was too slow. Gendry ducked the blade and brought his hammer down on Bloodbeard's temple. The helmet caved in, and the giant fell from his horse, blood bubbling from his lips.
Gendry dismounted and picked up the arakh. It was light and deadly, dark as smoke. *A fine prize,* he thought. *Why save it until the end?* Perhaps the brute had simply preferred his sword.
The knights of the Golden Company rode up, their horses splashing through the bloody water. "That's good steel," one of them said, eyeing the Valyrian blade, and then the young commander who held it. In their eyes, Gendry saw a new respect. He had killed the terror of the Disputed Lands.
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