Mero of Braavos, the Titan's Bastard, smiled carnivorously as the last knot of rebellious slaves went down under the swords of his men. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but at least it was done and he could get after the clot of runaway slaves that was running for the Turtle River as fast as their feet could carry them.
As Naharis had feared, the slave rebellion had indeed spread north of Turtle River; word of the defeat at Solva had traveled fast and far. But the rebellion below the river had an advantage that their fellows above it did not. The Royal Army of Myr's defeat of the Tyroshi army had won them the ability to dispatch cavalry parties to organize and lend aid to the rebel slaves. Without that aid, the slaves here could not hope to stand against either Mero's Second Sons, even reduced as they were from Solva, or the Tyroshi militia, companies of which had been force-marched from the coast to put down the rebellion.
He had beaten down two large parties of rebel slaves before the rest, apparently getting the message, began to flee southward. Mero hadn't taken more than a moment to guess why; if they got south of Turtle River, the slaves would be effectively safe from reprisal. Naharis hadn't said it outright, but Mero could tell that he had more or less given up on trying to reclaim Alalia and its hinterland before the next campaigning season. Mero snorted softly; Naharis was canny enough and no one could deny that he was a brave and good man of his hands, but he couldn't help but think that Tara and Solva had done something to him. It was a rare sellsword that actively sought out a battle, but Naharis had seemed almost reluctant to try conclusions with the Myrish before their march on Alalia had forced his hand. There had been a few moments in the first two sennights of the war where Mero had thought himself in a position to strike a sound blow against the Royal Army, only to have Naharis call him off.
At least Naharis seemed to have not taken the defeat at Solva too much to heart. Indeed he seemed to be newly invigorated by the challenge of holding the line of the Turtle River against the Myrish and putting down a slave rebellion at the same time. Mero had been sent to put the slaves down, but he had heard that Naharis was shuffling companies from one bridge and ford to another on a stretch of the river thirty miles long, trying to create an impression of newfound strength great enough to bluff the Myrish out of attempting a crossing. And for a wonder it seemed to be working, or at least Mero hadn't heard that the Myrish had gotten over the river.
His soldiers began to settle, lowering their weapons and catching their breath after finishing off the last of the wounded slaves. Mero turned in his saddle and waved at the banda of cavalry he had kept as a reserve, sending them trotting forward. The slaves were fighting as hard as they could to keep him from catching up to the columns of their fleeing fellows, but to the best of his knowledge this was the last knot of armed slaves between him and the slowest of those columns. With any luck his cavalry should be able to run them down within another day or so, and then they would have some fun. It would be difficult to keep the lads from satisfying their pleasures before attending to business, but that was why he was riding with them with his personal guard of fifty men. If he took charge of any prisoners with the promise to share them out equally when the work was done, then his men would give them up without too much fuss. Mero demanded discipline, but he rewarded it by being generous and even-handed with the spoils and his men loved him for it.
Not that there were likely to be many spoils if the Tyroshi militia got to the slaves first, but they were infantry and his men were cavalry, so they probably wouldn't. For that matter there would be fewer spoils than usual even with his sellswords, given that they had orders direct from the Archon to spare no male slave over the age of ten who rebelled against his master. Wasteful, in Mero's opinion, but the Archon was paying his bill, so he would follow orders. And the Archon had said nothing about the female slaves.
Mero threw his head back and whooped in anticipation, his men taking up the call as they spurred their horses into a canter.
XXX
Eddard spat aside as he surveyed the bridge of Dubris. It was as great a structure as might be expected for one that bore the main north-south road of a state as rich as Tyrosh, a double-arched span of grey-white stone wide enough for two heavy wagons to pass abreast with room to spare on either side of them. If it could be taken intact, it would be perfect for conveying the army across Turtle River.
The operative word in that sentence, however, was if.
"I still say we should try to take it at a rush," Jaime Lannister said, eyeing the flat, even surface of the bridge's roadway and the flat plain leading up to it. "Concentrate our knights and men-at-arms into a single column, send them across at the charge with a company's worth of volunteers from the Legion following them up. If their infantry acts like it did at Solva, they'll break."
"Unless it's that company of Myrish exiles," Ser Brynden Tully said dourly, gesturing at the company of spearmen plugging the far end of the bridge with a wall of shields and the two other companies stacked behind them, ready to lend their weight to any pushing matches. "If it is then they'll stand, like as not, and we'll be stuck out there with no cover but a hip-high wall and our shields, while those bastards," another gesture indicated the hundreds of crossbowmen fanned out on either side of the bridge, "shoot us to pieces. Especially since they're close enough to the bridge to shoot through plate. A glorious failure is still a failure."
"And we wouldn't be able to get enough reinforcements across quickly enough to exploit even if they did break," Eddard added. "Not with those cavalry there ready to pitch in." He pointed to where a banda of enemy horsemen lurked under the trees a medium bowshot away from the bridge. The sellsword cavalry wasn't up to the standard of the Royal Army, but charging into a mass of men disorganized by even a successful charge across the bridge . . .
Jaime frowned, then shrugged. "True enough," he said unwillingly. "And it's not like we can ford the river here." Turtle River was relatively shallow as rivers went, but five feet was still too deep for infantry to wade across into the teeth of massed crossbows. And the muddy bottom would make it even worse going for heavy cavalry; horses hated mud even when they were unloaded for the way their hooves sank into it. With upwards of three hundred pounds of rider, armor, and weapons on top of them their hooves would go into the mud of the riverbed like nails into soft wood. Moreover, the open ground on either side of the river would give the Tyroshi crossbowmen plenty of time to shoot into them as they came and if they had any sense at all, they would aim for the horses first. "Is there another crossing anywhere close?"
Ser Brynden shrugged. "Corbray's scouts tell me there's a ford five miles downriver," he said. "But it's a narrow one and the footing's almost as bad there as it is here. Loose rocks in mud." The captains winced. A man walking across such a surface in heavy armor, especially if he couldn't look down to watch where he was putting his feet, would court a broken ankle with every step. And no horseman worth the name would take a horse across such a ford. It would be more merciful to simply take an axe to the beast's neck and spare it the pain of a broken leg. Ser Brynden turned to the fourth man in their little council. "Maester Gordon, can your Pioneers get a bridge across that ford?"
Gordon scratched at his freshly-shaven chin. "I rode out to take a look at it yesterday," he admitted, "and I'm not confident that they can; the ford's got a guard on it like this one, albeit smaller. If it were just a matter of building the bridge, then it wouldn't be a problem at all. But building a bridge in the face of an enemy covering force and then keeping it up long enough for reinforcements to get across?" He tipped a hand from one side to another. "I won't say it can't be done, but it'd be bloody. We'd probably be better off just laying planks along the bed of the ford, sending the Legion across to drive off the covering force, and then building the bridge."
"All of which would take time," Jaime mused, "Probably enough time for the Tyroshi to send enough men to beat down the bridgehead at the ford while keeping enough here to keep us from storming this bridge." He glared across the bridge at the Tyroshi opposite them. The infantry blocking the far end of the bridge were different companies from yesterday, they could tell that much by the differences in their armor and the blazons on their shields, usually a series of geometric designs but occasionally the odd fantastic beast. "Where in the hells did this bastard get all his new strength from? I thought the Tyroshi only had the one field army?"
"They've probably stripped the coastlands bare to make up the numbers," Eddard said. "It's what I'd do if I had their navy." He glared at the river again and cursed the quirk of history that meant there was only one large bridge within easy striking distance of Alalia. Turtle River, it seemed, had been the border between Tyrosh and Lys until a few decades ago, and as part of the two cities' plans for controlling the flow of trade and people between their territories only one major bridge had been built within four days ride of Alalia. They had even dredged out most of the fords within that radius, save for those that were already impassible to wheeled vehicles like the one Gordon had just dismissed as a crossing site.
He turned his horse to face his captains. "We have to keep at least half of our force here," he said, "in case the Tyroshi try to recross the river." Eddard had six Legion companies and a cavalry company at the bridge; Robert had two Legion companies at Alalia and Lyn Corbray had the two remaining Legion companies and the other three cavalry companies patrolling the country between the river and the Lyseni border. Word of Lys's entry into the war with the raid towards Campora had reached the army five days ago. "Ser Jaime, take three Legion companies, fifty lances, Maester Gordon and his Pioneers, and go upriver. If you can find a practicable crossing point within two day's march, secure it and send word. I'll keep one company and the remaining cavalry here as a covering force and send the other companies to reinforce you." He turned to the Blackfish. "Ser Brynden, I'll need you to remain with me. If the slavers can read our heraldry, then they'll start getting suspicious if the Blackfish disappears." The necessary corollary to that statement, that the Tyroshi would not be so suspicious if the lion of Lannister suddenly vanished, only made Jaime blink, and that mildly. Understandably so; Ser Brynden had had a famous name before either Jaime or Eddard had been born. And that fame hadn't been confined to Westeros.
"You'll move out tomorrow night, Ser Jaime, just before sundown," Eddard continued. "Make a night march in order to get clean away without the Tyroshi taking note, and then a hard day's march to find a crossing." At Jaime's nod of comprehension Eddard nodded himself. "Let's get to work then, sers."
XXX
Lord Vernan Irons sat back in his saddle and stared in disbelief. "Maiden's tits," he said wonderingly, "but I have never seen such a mess in all my born days."
Lord Brynnan Axewell, his sword-brother and fellow corporal in the seventh cavalry company of the Royal Army, laughed humorlessly. "Nor have I," he admitted. "And I've seen Lannisport the morning after the harvest festival. At least that mess stayed in one place."
Just in front of them was a ford that, judging by the evidence, was broad, flat-bottomed, and, best of all, was unguarded. The problem lay in the evidence.
The ford was jammed with people. From edge to edge and bank to bank was a seething mass of humanity so dense that Vernan could hardly see the water of the river. On the far side there were even more people, a milling swarm of bodies that jostled impatiently, almost frantically, to get into the ford and across the river, while even more people streamed into the mass from the road that led northward from the ford. On the near side those who had already crossed were streaming away at a plodding walk, save for those who were staggering aside to collapse from what appeared to be exhaustion. A slight eddy in the river of people had formed where they instinctively shrank away from the sight of armored men on horseback, but otherwise they simply trudged along with their heads down. The cacophony of noise from what had to be at least ten thousand and possibly as many as fifteen thousand people brabbling at each other in various tones of alarm, anger, confusion, and fear was incredible.
Vernan spurred his horse forward, leaned down, and took a man by the arm. "What is this?" he asked loudly and slowly in the Common-Low Valyrian-Dothraki creole that had sprung up in Myr. "Who are you people? What is going on?"
The man he had seized looked up at him with a hunted look in his eyes. "They're behind us," he said dully in thickly accented Low Valyrian. "We need to move. Get across the river before they cut us up."
"They," Vernan said, switching to Low Valyrian as he noticed the collar-scar around the man's neck. "The Tyroshi?" The man nodded, cringing a little in what seemed to be an involuntary reaction. Vernan nodded back. "Keep your people moving," he said, injecting a reassuring tone into his voice. "Anyone falls out, carry them out of the line of march. Keep the road clear."
The man nodded slowly. "Need to keep moving," he agreed. "Need to run, not let them catch us."
Vernan released the man's arm and seized him by the cheek and jaw, turning his face upward to look him in the face. "The Royal Army of Myr does not run," he said, the absolute finality of his voice starting the man out of his blank-eyed fear. "And slavers do not catch us," Vernan went on, "we catch them. Now keep the road clear and your people moving so we can do so." He released the man, straightened up in the saddle, and rode away from the crowd, leaving the man gaping at him. "Courier!" he shouted, summoning a hard-faced young freedwoman on a fine-boned horse that looked like a repurposed racehorse; the couriers of the Royal Army were either men just out of boyhood or a few hard women like this one, as they made the lightest and fastest riders. They were also all volunteers who knew the likely consequences if they were captured by the enemy. The only arms they carried were narrow daggers of the type called "mercy-blades", in order to prevent themselves from falling into enemy hands.
"Message to Ser Jaime," Vernan began. "Have discovered ford but unable to cross. Large crowd of escaped slaves crossing river at ford totally blocking passage. Interrogation of slaves indicates Tyroshi force in pursuit; location, speed, and type of force is unknown. Will hold this side of the ford and attempt to speed up crossing until reinforced. Recommend supplies be brought up to help feed the escaped slaves until they can be sent on to Myr. Do you have all that?" After the courier repeated his words back to him Vernan nodded. "Off with you then." As the courier galloped off Vernan turned to Brynnan. "Let's get our archers placed where they can cover the far side of the ford," he said. "When the Tyroshi get here we'll have to at least be able to shoot them off the rear of this column, even if we can't cross the river and drive them off."
Brynnan cocked an eyebrow. "The Tyroshi are behind this lot?" he asked, unconsciously stroking the head of his axe.
"According to the man I talked to, aye," Vernan replied. "If I had to guess," he went on, gesturing at the horde funneling itself across the river, "I'd say that this is what's left of a failed slave uprising north of the river."
Brynnan nodded, not needing to be told anything further. "We'll have to deploy all on this side of the ford," he said. "No way in hell we'll be able to coordinate a defense if we have to communicate across that lot." He indicated the dense, slow-moving, yet somehow inexorable river of people marching past them.
"Agreed," Vernan said. "Archers, pages, and valets on foot, knights and squires mounted for a countercharge, if they come. Until then, get everyone dismounted, loosen the saddle-girths, and let's do our part to get this herd safe across the river."
Brynnan nodded and turned away, shouting commands. Vernan turned back to survey the column, a grim resolve settling in his bones. The slavers were coming, and likely in some force, but that was what he and his ilk were for. It was a knight's duty to defend the weak from those who would do them harm. And even if it hadn't been, Vernan was a man with a powerful sense of obligation. When he had been made a lord after Narrow Run, unexpectedly despite all his hopes, he had effectively struck a bargain. In that bargain he received the land and the castle and the deference of the smallfolk and in return he pledged to fight to the death in the service of his king and the defense of his people.
The moment these people had thrown off their chains, they had become his people. Now they needed his protection against the terror that was pursuing them. And even when he had been a lowly hedge knight with barely two groats to rub together, Vernan Irons had paid what he owed, on the spot and in full. He would not break that record now.
