At that moment, an officer in finely crafted chainmail, his expression rigid and severe, rode forward through the ranks. He was Bloodbeard's right-hand man, Lucas.
Frowning, his tone carried a hint of unease.
"Captain, something's wrong at the watchtower. Normally, they'd have sent scouts or messengers to report in by now, but there's been no sign of them at all."
Bloodbeard waved him off impatiently.
"Report? Report my ass! Those Lys fools are as arrogant as peacocks. Let them stay in their tower and tremble for all I care. The contract we signed with the Lysene says we defend the mining district, clear as day! It doesn't say a damn thing about guarding their cursed watchtower. If the Tyroshi want to fight over towers, let them—it's none of our business."
Lucas swallowed hard, hesitating. He'd wanted to mention the rumor spreading like wildfire across the Disputed Lands—how Tyrosh had fallen to a mysterious sorcerer from the East who wielded blasphemous necromancy, raising an army of the dead and even commanding a terrible dragon.
But looking at Bloodbeard's indifferent face—concerned only with gold and pleasure—he bit back the words.
Sellswords lived by the edge of their blades and trusted only what they could hold: steel and coin. Tales of gods and monsters were just excuses whispered by the defeated.
Still, for that Easterner to conquer Tyrosh, his power must be extraordinary. Bloodbeard might have been crude, but he was no fool when it came to preserving his strength.
The soldiers of the Company of the Cat continued waving their banner—a languid black cat—as they swaggered down the river valley toward the gates of the Grey Mountain mines. Most wore fierce grins, trading coarse jokes about the gold to come and the women of Lys, blissfully unaware of the trap awaiting them.
When the company's massive column finally reached the rough wooden gate of the mining district, the scene that greeted them seemed ordinary enough: a filthy, muddy basin filled with weary slaves, smoke-belching furnaces, and air thick with the familiar stench of rust and sweat.
At the center of the camp stood a man in the uniform of a Lys officer, smiling broadly.
Bloodbeard looked down from his saddle, surveying the place he despised. His lip curled in disgust, and whatever good mood he'd had from the promise of rich pay vanished instantly.
"Hmph!"
He snorted, swung heavily from his horse, and tossed his massive double-headed axe to a burly attendant. Striding toward the "Lys officer," he bellowed,
"Hey, Lysene! Get my men a dry camp! And wine! Meat! All of it! Gods damn it, making me stay in a place like this is pure torture!"
The "officer" smiled wider, his calm unsettling.
"Yes, Lord. The camp is ready. But as for fine wine and roasted meat... I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Because... the dead... can't enjoy such things."
Bloodbeard froze. A sharp dread clawed through him.
His reflexes were lightning-fast; his right hand darted for the dagger at his waist as he leapt back.
Too late.
A dark sword flashed—silent, swift—and tore through his fine armor, plunging straight into his chest.
The dull, wet sound of steel meeting flesh rang out clearly.
The fury on Bloodbeard's face froze into pure horror and disbelief. His massive frame trembled violently. He looked down at the blade buried deep in his chest.
Pain and cold spread rapidly through him. He opened his mouth, trying to roar, to curse—but only torrents of hot blood spilled out.
He glared at the "officer," watching the man's face ripple like disturbed water before settling into that of a young, striking Easterner, his gaze sharp and deadly.
"You..."
The last light faded from Bloodbeard's eyes as his enormous body crashed into the mud with a heavy thud.
The sudden explosion of violence was like a spark cast into boiling oil.
The sellswords at the front of the Company of the Cat who witnessed their captain's death felt their relaxed expressions vanish, replaced instantly by sheer horror and burning rage.
"Captain!!!"
"Kill them!!!"
The furious roars had barely erupted before an even more terrifying slaughter descended.
The very instant Bloodbeard hit the ground, the "slaves" who had been numbly toiling nearby—pushing mine carts and carrying baskets—suddenly flashed with savage light in their eyes. They overturned their baskets and drew gleaming swords and short axes hidden beneath straw piles and heaps of ore, lunging at the nearest sellswords of the Company of the Cat.
Blades and axes flashed through the ranks in an instant, screams of agony rising in waves.
"Behind us! The river valley! Ambushers!!"
The rear guard's warning was shrill and desperate. From both sides of the narrow valley, a dense tide of figures surged forth.
Twelve hundred silent Dragon Soul Guards, wielding razor-sharp Valyrian steel weapons, charged down from the heights, driving deep into the most vulnerable rear and flanks of the Company of the Cat's marching column. Their movements were perfectly synchronized and utterly silent, the only sounds the terrifying hiss of blades slicing through air and the wet rip of flesh being torn apart.
True to their reputation as veteran sellswords, the Company of the Cat's surviving captains rallied quickly after the initial shock and the crushing blow of their commander's death.
"Hold your ground! Form ranks! Back-to-back! Break through!"
Lucas roared hoarsely, swinging his longsword to cut down a charging "slave." But the attacks came ceaselessly from all sides.
Ahead, the Tyrosh regulars disguised as slaves pressed forward in a wall of steel spears. From the sides and rear, the Dragon Soul Guards struck relentlessly—Valyrian steel blades easily cleaving through the mercenaries' inferior weapons and armor. Every swing drew a spray of blood.
The mining basin had become a true hellscape.
The muddy ground turned a deep crimson, the stench of blood overwhelming the smell of rust and furnace smoke, rising thick into the night sky. Screams, the clash of steel, dying groans, and furious bellows blended together into a cacophony straight out of the abyss.
The Company of the Cat fought fiercely, but surrounded by overwhelming numbers, trapped in a meticulously planned ambush, and facing the near-inhuman efficiency of the Dragon Soul Guards, their resistance shattered quickly.
The battle raged from dusk until night fully fell.
When the last handful of Company of the Cat sellswords who tried to break through were cut down mercilessly by the Dragon Soul Guards at the valley's mouth, the entire Grey Mountain mining basin finally fell silent. Only the crackle of furnace flames and the faint moans of the dying echoed through the still air.
Three thousand soldiers of the Company of the Cat, along with their captain "Bloodbeard," were completely annihilated by Lo Quen, who had paid only a minimal cost.
Lo Quen stood amid the pools of blood, his gaze cold as he surveyed the fully subdued mining district.
He issued his command: the severed heads of the Company of the Cat were to be taken to the central hill and stacked into a "triumphal mound."
Let the scum of other mercenary companies see clearly the fate that awaited those who dared to defy him.
...
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