Chapter 10
Part I

Their charge thundered across the plain, wondrous to behold. Noro leant forward on his horse, cold wind whistling in his ears, blowing back his hair, streaming straight into his face. Hundreds of his fellows rode beside him, bellowing their war-cries. Still on horseback, they drew back their bowstrings and let loose.

The killing rain descended on a faceless figure dark against the dawn, with its back to the rising sun. The cold wind hissed and blew suddenly harder, shifting serpent-swift, a cool gust that forced most of the arrows to fall short. Those few that did hit struck uselessly with the clang of steel on steel.

Silently, the enemy approached.

Do you think your blindness keeps you safe?

It does not.

The whisper did not come from far or near. Soft as silk, it was—quiet, faintly amused—yet the words thundered in his thoughts like lines of blue-white lightning burning through the sky; as soon as they came, he could think of nothing else.

You do not see your death even when it stands before your eyes…

but I… see… you…

The army drew closer. The foe lifted a spear of blazing flame and lashed out as the first of the riders came near. Men and horses fled alike, screaming, burning. Noro's fellows died in droves, and his nose was filled with the sickeningly tasteful scent of roast meat. His own horse reared; he struggled with the reins for a moment, then it threw him with all of its strength and bolted away, consumed by its fear of fire.

Noro toppled to the ground. For a while he knew nothing but his own breaths, harsh and quick, and the pain of his broken leg that arced through him like red lightning. Then a steel-toed boot kicked him over. With a howl of pain, he rolled onto his back.

A long shadow fell upon him.

Tall and terrible, the enemy gazed down on Noro. He was covered entirely with silvery armour, bright in the light of the morning sun; over it he wore a featureless surcoat as black as clouded night. The only part of his skin that could be seen were his hands, scarlet and seemingly self-replenishing. For time passed and the blood never ceased to flow.

Noro spat in his face. The drops of spit and blood fizzled and vanished at a rod of pale flame.

"Kill me then," said Noro boldly, conquering his fear. "I have fought greater men than you, maegi, and every warrior's life must end in time. Slay me and I will go on to ride in the Night Lands."

You will never ride in the Night Lands, came the same soft voice, from everywhere and nowhere. There are crueller fates than death in this world. I do not only kill. I take.

Despite himself, unease crawled down Noro's spine. "I have little worth taking."

Is that what you believe? That amused the man with the bloody hands. I do not speak of gold. All that I will take from you is what is mine.

"And what is yours?"

The visor fell, and Noro stared into eyes as dark as the depths of the sea. They held his eyes, transfixed him, fixed him where he lay, as tight as iron chains; and a red dripping hand pressed down on his heart.

Why, you are.

Curling crimson fingers pulled, pulled, pulled, and his vision lurched, the whole world shuddering…

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Noro awoke with a scream. He grabbed his arakh, leapt to his feet and became entangled for a moment, making him fall. Pure terror thrummed through his thoughts, picturing dark blue eyes and red hands come to steal his soul. Then he realised he was caught in his own ger, and sheepishly he had to dismantle the warm hides that clung to him.

"Ko Noro!" Three guards came running up to him, having heard the disturbance and seeing him up and awake. "Where are the intruders? Command me!"

"At ease, Zebho," Noro said to the one who had spoken. "There was no intrusion."

"How can there be no intruders? I heard the cry!"

"There has been no intrusion," Noro insisted. "The khal is well. You may check on him if you wish, but do so quietly. He needs his sleep as much as any man."

"Then how—"

"Zebho," Noro said in a warning tone.

"Very well, ko," Zebho said, surrendering. The warrior strode off.

Noro sighed. He could hardly have said it was a dream. He would be the subject of ridicule from all. Thanks be to the god, at least, that as a ko he had a tent all to himself. No-one else had witnessed his shame.

It was still dark; only a swollen half-circle moon lit the night sky. Noro went back to bed. It would be a while before dawn.

When he awoke for the second time, Ko Noro donned his armour—light, certainly lighter than the suit of full plate worn by the shining figure in his dreams, but present nonetheless. He took up his arakh, a long curved blade, and his bow for horse-archery, which no self-respecting Dothraki would ever go without. Thus armoured and armed, he went out to greet his lord.

Khal Jhatho's ger was guarded as it always was. The warriors who had stood there in the night knew better than to disturb a bloodrider. They bowed as Noro entered.

He saw his khal, a thickset man of middling height, strong and sunbronzed and stouthearted. The sight of Jhatho was familiar to him. But to his displeasure and surprise he and the khal were not alone.

"What is the meaning of this, blood of my blood?" Noro demanded, lifting a callused hand to gesture at the paler men who shared the tent with them. "Are we to let dragon-men into our councils?"

"Peace, blood of my blood," Jhatho said. "Commander Ponat, Commander Kandah, Captain Sebvonis and Captain M'nar are here by my leave as my guests. They share our hearth because they will share our burdens on the field of battle."

"They are allies," Noro said, "but they are not of our khalasar. I deem this unwise, blood of my blood. It so happens that at this time we are together, but such things are ofttimes short-lived. That does not mean their purpose is our purpose."

"Enough!" said Jhatho. "They are here by my will, and that suffices. We shall draw our plans." That was not the voice of Jhatho his friend. That was the voice of his khal; and Noro knew the khal more than well enough to know he would not brook dissent when he spoke thus.

He could have challenged him anyway. He and Jhatho had been boys together, in old Khal Mokhago's khalasar, whose riders had been so mighty that once upon a time five Free Cities had paid tribute in a single year without the need to spill the slightest drop of blood. They had ridden against one another in a hundred childhood games and ridden beside one another in a hundred battles. But it was a new-made thing that Jhatho had seen fit to declare himself khal. Noro had supported him in that, as in all else, as Jhatho's first and thus far only bloodrider; and he did not deem it wise to erode his friend and lord's fragile authority by gainsaying him.

"Your will," he said, inclining his head.

"Good," Jhatho said. "Captain M'nar, you said that you had words for me?"

"I did."

Of them all, Noro knew, Badohin M'nar was the man who mattered. The diminutive Lorathi might be a mere captain, whereas two of the other sellsword leaders commanded free companies in their own right; but he was a captain of the Bright Banners, and a mere detachment of that one free company outsized the whole of most others.

"My outriders have brought me word of our enemy," M'nar said. "Handtaker's raiders have abandoned their advance on Norvos."

Of everything Noro had expected, it had not been that. He spluttered, "What?"

Ever since the pillagers who had been seen with Company of the Cat insignia—Handtaker's men—had somehow emerged from the mountains, they had marched south towards the Free City of Norvos, sacked and despoiled every village and town that they passed near. Norvos itself and its tributary cities held firm, for they were garrisoned and well-walled, but not firm enough to throw the raiders out from the surrounding countryside. No-one had expected that an enemy force could reach here. After all, the Ralemne Heights were supposed to be impassable.

Powerless to prevent this damage to their fortunes and estates, the wealthy men of Norvos had sent envoys to come screaming at the great host of the Pact of Four that was marching to deal death to the arrogant Braavosi. The high commanders of that host had had no choice but to placate them. That was why Noro, Khal Jhatho and the others were here in the first place.

Thus far, the enemy sellswords had plundered only lands to the north of Norvos in the Hills of Norvos. Men called the whole region 'the Hills of Norvos', as if that huge area of land were all alike, but in truth it contained everything from the high craggy mountains of the Ralemne Heights to the low-lying and almost flat Noyne river-plain. Most of the warmer, wealthier, flatter lands in the Hills of Norvos lay to the south of the great city. Why would Braavos's raiders change course away from the richest pickings, while they were winning?

"I doubted it too," Captain M'nar said. "I did not tell you at first because I thought it an attempt at deception. But many of my scouts, by now, have told the same tale—too many to be disbelieved."

"Where are they heading?" asked Kandah, commander of some small free company of a hundred men whose name Noro did not bother to recall. "North, back into the Ralemne Heights? West, to face us?"

"East," said M'nar.

"To threaten Qohor?" mused Sebvonis.

"He can't," objected Ponat, who was himself a Qohorik. "It is too far. The river Darkwash flows wide and swift and treacherous; few bridges have been built there, all of them well-defended. Besides, it's so far that the war would like as not be over by the time he arrived. No, he must know of our coming—good scouts, I suppose—and mean to flee."

"Fleeing would do him no good," Khal Jhatho said. It pleased Noro to hear Jhatho speak; this meeting already felt uncomfortably like being servants in the khalasar of Khal M'nar. "My people know well how to raid the dominions of the dragon-men."

Exactly why they knew this so well was left politely unspoken by both the dragon-men and the Dothraki.

"Raiders can kill many times their number," Jhatho went on, "but there are always deaths, when pillaging is done. Some lucky peasant slays a warrior in a fight, or a gang falls upon a warrior when he relieves himself, or a brother or husband surprises a warrior in a woman's bed. Not many deaths, but some. Pillage one town, this is no great thing. But in time, it cripples armies."

"So time is on our side," said Commander Ponat.

"Yes," said the khal. "We are hired by the Pact of Four, so we are given food by the Norvoshi. The enemy must seize it. As he seizes it from villagers, their thorns prick him, and he weakens with every passing day."

"Then Handtaker's man is a fool," declared Captain Sebvonis. "It's to be expected. He's a Sunsetlander, their whole way of life is a relic of a world dead for thousands of years."

"This Brathian may have been born a brute of the Sunset Lands," M'nar said, "but I know Handtaker well—better than I would have wished to. In the Company of the Cat, captains he deems unworthy do not live long and do not die quickly. The gods have made few crueller men, but also few more cunning. I refuse to underestimate any man the old monster has entrusted with command."

"The one you dragon-men call Handtaker is not unknown to us," Noro said. "Any man hand-chosen by Aro the Cruel should not be taken lightly. I agree."

Noro had not been there—he had not yet been born—but it was not a tale the Dothraki would soon forget. The great khal Megoro had sought to be the first khal to make Old Volantis pay tribute. He had come against a great sellsword host that included the Company of the Cat and its then-new commander, and he had fallen short. Whereas most of the sellswords had simply murdered and looted their Dothraki prisoners, Aro Isattis had taken two-thousand Dothraki captives alive, swearing not to kill or maim them, in exchange for all the gold and slaves and weapons they could give him. He had been as good as his word. He had marched deep into the Red Waste, leaving them alive and whole. There, in the scorching desert without food or water, he had set them free.

"Indeed," said M'nar. "I do not think Handtaker would have appointed a coward. Whatever the Sunsetlander means to do by fleeing east, he has some purpose. Mayhaps it is simply that he knows we have the better of him in numbers, and his purpose is to keep us away from the rest of the war, not to engage us. That would ease my mind, if it is truly so simple. But I dare not presume it. We must maintain many outriders, to give us clear views of where the enemy is and what he is doing; we must keep a strong guard of our camp, lest he seek to come upon us by some treachery; and we must avoid contested river-crossings at all costs."

"Surely that's not needed," Kandah said. "The Gallant Men tell tall tales because their detachment lost a battle to a host smaller than itself. No implications on present company—" he smiled wryly— "but sellswords aren't known for honesty about their shortcomings."

"I think it is needed," said Ponat.

"So do I," said Jhatho, to Noro's surprise.

"And I," said Captain M'nar. "I doubt there is truth to the Gallant Men's tale. It sounds too absurd to be believed. But if there is… well, I would rather not find out the hard way."

That word was final, for Badohin M'nar's detachment and Jhatho's khalasar outnumbered the other sellsword hosts together.

"Blood of my blood," Jhatho said, "stay behind. I would speak with you."

It was not a request. Noro remained as the sellswords gave curt nods and left Khal Jhatho's ger, M'nar last of all.

"I am sorry for speaking harshly to you among the dragon-men," Jhatho said, reaching up and clapping Noro on the shoulder. "You are worth more than most of those self-important fools they call commanders, petty khals of a hundred men. But the folk of the Free Cities do not respect our people, nor any people who are not themselves. We must be seen to speak with one voice."

"I understand that, blood of my blood," Noro said, bowing his head. "But I do not see why we should trust them. Many a time have dragon-men betrayed khalasars, the smaller ones especially. If we must hold council with them, let it be in their tents, after we have already decided our course privately among ourselves. They should not be let in a Dothraki ger."

"If we thus recluse ourselves," said Jhatho, "they will do the same, and we will hear less than the dragon-men commanders do. That would blind us to the world, for their scouts can move around in these lands and escape notice, whereas our people cannot."

"Better fight blind than fight with a knife in your back," said Noro.

"That is so," laughed Jhatho. "But it is a hard truth that we must impress them, blood of my blood, so that the dragon-men will grant us greater contracts in later times. Our khalasar is small, and we need to fight dragon-men's wars and take their coin if it is to grow."

A truly vast khalasar, the sort that singers sang about, could cross the whole dominion of a Free City and be greeted with feasts and gifts of gold and girls along the way, for nowadays the dragon-men were practical folk who found it cheaper to pay off the horselords than to fight them. Only Volantis maintained the attitude of Old Valyria, forbidding the Dothraki from entering their lands and enforcing that decree by shining ranks of steel.

But most khalasars were not nearly large enough to threaten a Free City thus. Few khals were able to pass down a khalasar to an adult son; most khals started small, as Jhatho had. To gain followers, a khal must be renowned as a great leader and warrior; to win renown, he must wage war; and if he could not wage war against the dragon-men, he must wage war for them.

"I dislike fighting for dragon-men's gold," said Noro.

"I dislike it just as much as you do," answered the khal, "but there is need of it, nonetheless. One day, I hope, this khalasar will be so great that Norvos, Qohor, Lorath and Pentos will throw open their gates and pay us tribute whenever we come near, fearing to face us. Now, though, we shall fight the Pact of Four's war for them."

"And they will attend our councils and tread in our gers."

"For a few years, while our strength needs building. Yes."

Noro sighed. "It isn't what I would have done. But I will trust in your judgement. I swore a vow to you, blood of my blood, and I mean to keep it."

"Thank you," Jhatho said solemnly, recognising that the last word of the argument had been spoken.

They rode on all day, through rolling hills and pleasant green valleys. Noro was not fond of it; the grasses were too short, the land too twisted; but he had grown accustomed to it in his time out of the Dothraki Sea.

In the evening, with the sun low in the west, Noro and his fellows stopped for the night. They fed their horses first, then tied them. Noro sat with Jhatho as they had since they were young. Together they drank mare's milk and dined on stews of grasses and leaves and whatever meats the khalasar could find.

Long they laughed with one another and spoke of old times, until the summer sun was near gone from the sky. Noro put up the bamboo lattices and hides of his ger and went to sleep.

That night, the nightmares came again.

The air was filled with screams and weeping. Tongues of flame licked at the houses and danced down the roads. Weeping townsfolk sometimes emerged, carrying everything they owned, only to find themselves impaled and looted by the hordes.

It was as a vision of fiery hell. It was horror. It was war.

"Where is he?"

"He is here. He will come."

A scarlet-mantled silhouette came striding out of a burning town hall as the timbers of its roof crackled and collapsed behind him. Both the silvery steel of his armour and the black cloth of his surcoat were concealed, for he was bathed almost from head to toe in blood.

"My captains and counsellors," boomed the deep voice of Ser Stannis Baratheon. "Speak to me."

"The militia are broken, Captain Baratheon," said Marro Namerin succinctly. "We crushed the heart of them when we came here, and those left have failed to rally and give much resistance. I reckon half of them have cast down their axes and fled. The town is as good as fallen; what's left is only pillage and butchery."

"Very good," Ser Stannis said approvingly. He liked Namerin, that was plain enough. They were both men of the Company of the Cat; Ser Stannis did not get along as well with men from other free companies. "What of the men?"

"All's well with the men, Captain," Justin said with a sharp salute. "I'd even say that they're delighted. From empty bellies and cold beds in the mountains, they've gone to abundant meals and bedwarmers here in the lower hills. No trouble with morale."

"I thought they would approve." The captain looked sour. "Losses?"

"Three," said Justin. "Five wounded. Mayhaps more by the time it's done."

"Insignificant, then," Stannis said. "Good. It will be enough, so long as the garrisons in Norvos and her tributary cities still prefer to cower behind their Valyrian-wrought walls than to come out and face us."

Bozyno Vunel, another Company of the Cat man, cast a pointed glance at the fires and screams that emanated all around them. "If you were them, wouldn't you?"

Several of the sellswords laughed. Namerin grinned. "I'd certainly have to consider it."

"Those losses may be small," said Nomeo Lagan, the Iron Shields' commander, "but we had similar in the last town, and the one before. Time is against us; our host is bleeding, the enemy's is not. When are we going to stop running?"

All the Company of the Cat men turned to face him with cold expressions. Meanwhile, the other commanders of small, separate free companies shuffled over to stand with Lagan. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn through the soil, separating the largest of the free companies in this host from the others—those who had faith in Stannis Baratheon's leadership from those who did not.

"Running?" Alequo Nudoon said slowly, drawing out the word.

"Running," Lagan repeated, glaring up at the green-haired Tyroshi who towered over him, taller than even Stannis. "This eastward flight is weakening us at no cost to the enemy. Yes, M'nar has a greater host than we do; yes, fighting him is perilous; but it isn't getting better for us. Delay doesn't avoid making a decision, it is a decision itself. And your decision is making things worse for us."

"You so readily imagine running because that's what you would do," said Justin. "You've been thinking of it since as soon as we chose to brave the Ralemne Heights." He looked around the other Company of the Cat men for support. "Or am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong, Sunsetlander," Nudoon rumbled in accented Braavosi.

Lagan purpled. "You—!"

"Your vision is so limited, so wrapped up in material things." All other voices fell silent at Stannis's soft hiss. "Battles are not fought by numbers, they are fought by men, and men can be encouraged or dismayed. The enemy are weakening more than we are, I tell you. Soon we shall turn and destroy them. But not yet."

"Then when?"

The captain was unperturbed. "I will say when it is time."

"Your time might be too late!" said Lagan. The other commanders of small free companies stood behind him, though they did not speak, fearful of the Company of the Cat's anger, for they were smaller than the Iron Shields. "His Excellency the Sealord was quite clear. We are to go east, lay waste to the estates of the Norvoshi, lure away a Norvoshi army away from the great host of the Pact of Four, and then destroy it. That needs to be done so that Norvos sends even more of its army back home to root us out of the hills, and then the main host of Lorath, Norvos and Qohor is shrunken before it can face the Braavosi in the west. Those were our orders. Have you forgotten?"

"Why don't you just listen to our Sunsetlander?" Vunel said. "You questioned him before, with that valley through the Ralemne Heights that no-one knew existed. You were wrong. Handtaker trusts the Sunsetlander's insights, Handtaker of all men, for gods' sake you know how he is. Why can't you?"

"Because this is madness!" cried Lagan. "That valley is why I've been silent so long, but it's been a whole turn of the moon since we came out of the Heights! Who knows what's been happening in the rest of the war while we dawdle further and further east in the Hills of Norvos? Even if whatever bizarre plan you've cooked up somehow works, we don't just need to win a battle, we need to win a battle soon, if the Sealord is to win the war. The host of the other three Free Cities in the Pact needs to be weak enough for the Braavosi to overcome it before it can join with the Pentoshi. Do you understand that, Sunsetlander? Do you have a plan for that?"

"Yes," said the captain, grinding his teeth.

"What is it?" asked Nomeo Lagan. "Are we going to the Darkwash river, to overwhelm their greater numbers at a river-crossing?"

It was a good guess. Justin had thought of that himself. He had not been at the Battle of Nyrelos, unlike most of the other Company of the Cat men, but he had heard what his captain had done there. But the captain said, "No. Not that far."

"Then what?"

"Preparations are being made." Ser Stannis would not disclose any more than that. "Trust in me, and our foes will be like lambs to the slaughter. You will see." There was not an ounce of doubt in that low, cold voice, only anticipation. "You will see."