The river curved through the western plain like a band of dull silver.
Mortarion stood upon the highest rise overlooking the water, studying the land he had chosen.
Low hills formed a natural barrier along the northern and southern approaches, while the river protected the eastern side of the camp.
The ground between them was broad, level and firm enough to support thousands of soldiers without turning immediately to mud.
It was not a fortress.
It did not need to be.
For the moment, Mortarion required water, open ground and enough distance from Astapor to avoid immediate interference.
The city remained two days east by road, far enough that no army could arrive without warning.
Any scouts sent by the Good Masters would have to cross exposed plains beneath Anaxion’s gaze.
The location would serve as a temporary base.
Anaxion rested near the riverbank.
The remains of the horned beast lay between the dragon’s foreclaws, stripped of most of its flesh.
Its dark green scales shone beneath the afternoon sun, becoming almost black along the spine and the edges of its folded wings.
Smoke escaped lazily from its nostrils while it watched Mortarion move across the ridge.
The dragon had eaten well.
Mortarion had not.
Hunger had become a constant pain within his stomach.
The last proper meal he remembered eating belonged to his former life, before he entered the southern mountains in pursuit of Karaban.
Death had restored his body and removed the exhaustion of dying, but the new flesh still required food.
Valyria had provided none.
Mortarion had considered cutting meat from Anaxion’s kill.
The dragon had consumed the freshest portions, leaving scorched flesh and torn remains around the carcass.
Some pieces had been partially roasted by the heat escaping its jaws.
Eating them would have been foolish.
Anaxion’s teeth and claws carried blood from creatures born among the ruins of Valyria.
The horned beast itself appeared ordinary, but Mortarion knew nothing of the diseases or parasites common to this land.
Meat left beneath the sun and dragged through soil by a dragon was not a meal worth risking his second life over.
He had consumed enough river water to dull the hunger temporarily.
It would not sustain him.
Mortarion turned from the plain and looked towards Anaxion.
The dragon had to remain calm.
Death had offered little explanation of how the army would arrive.
Ten thousand soldiers could not appear quietly.
Their sudden presence would fill the plain with movement, noise and unfamiliar scents.
Anaxion had tolerated Mortarion because of their bond, but the dragon had never encountered a disciplined army assembling around it.
Ten thousand armed strangers might be interpreted as a threat.
Mortarion descended the hill.
Anaxion raised its head as he approached.
One molten-green eye followed him, while the tip of its tail moved slowly through the grass.
Mortarion stopped near the dragon’s foreleg and removed his helmet.
The black armour had grown warm beneath the sun, though the heat was far more tolerable than the suffocation of Valyria.
He placed one gauntleted hand against Anaxion’s scales.
Through the bond, Mortarion sent images of soldiers appearing upon the plain.
He showed men carrying shields and spears, marching in ordered ranks without attacking.
He pictured the army lowering its weapons in the dragon’s presence.
Anaxion responded with suspicion.
Mortarion felt the dragon’s irritation at the thought of thousands of humans surrounding its resting place.
A flash of green fire crossed his mind, followed by bodies fleeing through burning grass.
“No,” Mortarion said.
Anaxion rumbled.
“They belong to me.”
The dragon understood possession more readily than allegiance.
Mortarion pressed the image again, presenting the soldiers as an extension of his own will.
They were not hunters approaching the dragon’s territory.
They were a force that would travel with them, bring food and destroy enemies.
At the thought of food, Anaxion’s interest shifted.
Mortarion showed livestock, supply wagons and future hunts beyond the plain.
He did not promise the dragon unrestricted access to the army’s animals, but the possibility of regular feeding softened some of its resistance.
“You will remain still,” Mortarion commanded.
“No fire.”
Anaxion exhaled smoke into his face.
Mortarion did not step back.
The dragon’s agreement came without words.
It was reluctant, accompanied by an unmistakable sense that Anaxion expected something in return.
“You will be fed.”
The creature lowered its head.
Mortarion removed his hand.
That would have to be enough.
He returned to the centre of the plain and examined the ground one final time.
There was no symbol to activate, no object Death had given him and no instruction beyond the promise that the army could be called when Mortarion was ready.
The lack of ceremony irritated him.
Mortarion closed his eyes and searched within himself.
Death’s gifts had each possessed a presence.
The knowledge of the world rested inside his mind.
The bond with Anaxion existed as a living pressure at the edge of his thoughts.
Dreaded Deliverance and the armour were physical, but the army remained somewhere beyond reach, waiting for an act of will.
Mortarion remembered Death’s words.
You may call for them once you have established a suitable location.
The plain was suitable.
Mortarion extended one hand.
“I call forth the army promised to me.”
Nothing happened.
Wind moved through the grass.
Anaxion released a faint rumble from the riverbank.
Mortarion opened his eyes.
The plain remained empty.
He tried again, this time focusing upon the image of ten thousand Unsullied standing in formation.
He imagined black helmets, round shields and long spears arranged beneath a single command.
“Come.”
The air changed.
A cold pressure passed across the plain despite the warmth of the day.
Grass bent away from Mortarion in a widening circle, though no wind touched his armour.
Anaxion rose.
The dragon’s wings opened partially as its head turned towards the empty ground.
Smoke poured between its teeth.
“Stay,” Mortarion ordered.
The pressure deepened.
A black line appeared in the air several hundred paces before him.
It stretched from north to south, thin as a sword cut and perfectly straight.
Light gathered along its edges, pale and without warmth.
The line widened.
Beyond it lay darkness.
Mortarion heard marching.
The sound began faintly, like rain striking a distant roof.
It grew heavier with every heartbeat until the earth trembled beneath thousands of feet moving in perfect rhythm.
Anaxion growled.
Mortarion pushed calm through their bond.
The dragon resisted, lowering its body as green fire began to glow within its throat.
“They are mine.”
They marched six abreast through the opening, their long spears held upright and their round shields resting against their left sides.
Dark helmets enclosed most of their heads, with fitted cheek guards and narrow openings that revealed little beyond their eyes.
Their equipment was simple and uniform.
Black leather covered their bodies, reinforced by dark metal across the chest and shoulders.
Greaves protected their lower legs, while boots covered their feet.
Short swords hung from plain belts at their waists.
Their broad, circular shields were unadorned, each darkened until it reflected little of the afternoon sun.
There were no bright cloaks, polished decorations or marks of individual distinction.
The Unsullied had been equipped for war, not display.
The first ranks cleared the opening and turned sharply towards the centre of the plain.
More followed behind them, every formation moving with the same measured discipline.
Hundreds became thousands.
The impact of their feet filled the valley with a steady rhythm.
Officers directed the formations through short commands and simple gestures, though they appeared almost identical to the soldiers beneath them.
Their armour, shields and weapons remained the same.
Only their position within the ranks and the obedience of those nearby revealed their authority.
Units separated without confusion, forming wide blocks across the open ground.
Mortarion watched closely.
The Unsullied were smaller than many of the heavy infantry he had commanded in his previous life.
Their armour provided less protection than full steel plate, while their round shields were built for formation fighting and mobility rather than enduring the impact of heavily armoured cavalry.
Their discipline compensated for much.
Each soldier maintained the same distance from those around him.
Spears remained upright at identical angles.
Shields rested in the same position, and no man broke formation as the army expanded across the plain.
Few even turned towards Anaxion.
The dragon’s presence could not have escaped them.
Anaxion rested near the river like a living fortress, dark green scales rising and falling beneath the sunlight.
Smoke leaked from its nostrils while its molten eyes studied the arriving soldiers.
Mortarion knew fear when he saw it controlled.
The Unsullied had been trained not to flee, stare or abandon their position.
That did not mean they were incapable of understanding the danger beside them.
The opening widened further.
Supply wagons emerged from the darkness.
Strong horses pulled carts carrying sacks, barrels, canvas tents and military equipment.
Herds of goats, sheep and cattle followed under the direction of handlers dressed in the same dark, practical clothing as the rest of the force.
Blacksmiths, cooks, healers and labourers marched beside the wagons.
They were not Unsullied infantry, but they carried themselves with the same quiet order.
Crates of spare weapons came first.
Bundles of spear shafts were stacked beside replacement shields, tools and armour components.
Other wagons carried grain, dried meat, beans, salt, preserved fruits and hard bread.
Barrels contained water, wine and oil.
There were tools for digging trenches, raising palisades and repairing roads.
Canvas, rope, cooking vessels and medical supplies filled the remaining carts.
The promised coin came last.
Several heavily guarded wagons entered the plain, each carrying iron-bound chests secured beneath chains.
The wealth within them would pay the army for an entire year and purchase whatever supplies Mortarion required once they entered regular contact with the cities of Slaver’s Bay.
The opening remained until the final wagon passed through.
Then the darkness contracted.
Its pale edges narrowed until only a thin line remained in the air.
The marching echoes disappeared, and the opening closed without leaving anything behind except flattened grass.
Ten thousand Unsullied now occupied the plain.
Their supply train extended towards the hills, while the animals shifted nervously beneath Anaxion’s attention.
The dragon stared at the cattle.
Hunger moved through the bond.
“Stay,” Mortarion commanded.
Anaxion’s tail struck the ground.
Several nearby horses reared, but their handlers brought them under control without abandoning their positions.
No soldiers raised their weapons towards the dragon.
An officer issued a command.
The Unsullied moved as one.
Ten thousand spears lowered together, producing a single rolling sound across the plain.
The points angled upwards rather than towards Anaxion, displaying readiness without challenging the creature.
Then the soldiers knelt.
Rows of dark helmets descended until only a small number of officers remained standing.
Even these men bore no decorative cloaks, coloured shields or ceremonial weapons.
They looked like every other Unsullied upon the field.
One officer stepped from the central formation.
He carried the same spear and round shield as the soldiers behind him.
The armour covering his body was identical, without colour, engraving or badge of rank.
Mortarion would not have recognised him as the commander had the surrounding officers not lowered their heads as he passed.
The man stopped ten paces away and knelt.
“This one is called Blue Bat,” he said in clear High Valyrian.
“The officers have chosen this one to command the ten thousand beneath you.”
Mortarion studied him.
Blue Bat was neither exceptionally tall nor physically imposing.
His face was largely hidden behind the cheek guards of his helmet, leaving only a pair of controlled dark eyes visible.
Nothing about his armour separated him from the ranks.
Mortarion approved.
A commander who needed bright cloth and expensive decoration to establish authority rarely possessed enough authority of his own.
“Why were you chosen?” Mortarion asked.
“This one was judged the most capable of directing the whole army.”
“By whom?”
“The senior officers.”
Mortarion looked towards the men standing behind Blue Bat.
None reacted, though each remained attentive.
“What were you told before you came here?”
“That our master would summon us when he had found suitable land,” Blue Bat replied.
“That his name was Mortarion.
That we would serve beneath his command and receive food, equipment and wages for one year.”
Nothing more.
The soldiers possessed no knowledge of Death, another world or the bargain that had brought Mortarion here.
Their understanding began with their army, their training and the master they had been created to serve.
That was preferable.
The fewer people who knew of Mortarion’s meeting with Death, the fewer explanations he would ever be required to provide.
“You know my name, then.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
The title was more appropriate than High Marshal.
Mortarion no longer served the Aurellian Empire.
That rank had belonged to a dead man in another world and carried no authority in Essos.
His surname would also remain unspoken.
Krieg belonged to a land no maester, priest or noble could locate.
A foreign name without a history would invite unnecessary questions when Mortarion eventually presented himself as a descendant of the dragonlords.
He would choose a new family name once his claim had been prepared.
Until then, he was simply Mortarion.
“Order the army to rise,” he said.
Blue Bat stood and turned.
Ten thousand Unsullied rose as one.
Anaxion lifted its head.
Confusion passed through the bond as the dragon watched thousands of men move with the unity of a single creature.
The soldiers did not break formation beneath its gaze.
“They obey you?” Mortarion asked.
“They obey the officers appointed over their formations,” Blue Bat answered.
“Those officers obey this one.
This one obeys you.”
“How is the army divided?”
“Ten senior officers command one thousand soldiers each.
Beneath them are officers commanding groups of one hundred.
File leaders maintain the smaller formations.”
The organisation was simple and practical.
Mortarion preferred it.
“Do you have scouts?”
“Two hundred have been trained for observation, pathfinding and movement beyond the main formation.
They carry lighter equipment but remain capable of fighting as Unsullied.”
“Cavalry?”
“None.”
Mortarion expected that answer.
The army was built around disciplined infantry.
Cavalry, engineers and more specialised forces would need to be acquired later.
“Archers?”
“One thousand possess training with short bows.
Their primary weapons remain spear and shield.”
It was enough for the beginning.
Mortarion returned his attention to Blue Bat.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Near Slaver’s Bay.”
“You recognise Astapor?”
“Yes.
It lies two days west.
It is a city where soldiers called Unsullied are trained and sold.”
There was no resentment in Blue Bat’s voice, only knowledge.
“Were any of you trained there?”
“No.”
“Where were you trained?”
Blue Bat paused before answering.
“We remember training.
We remember formation, weapons, discipline and command.
We possess no memory of a city before this plain.”
The army had been created complete with the experience required to function.
The men were neither stolen slaves nor deserters from Astapor.
No Good Master could truthfully claim them.
That would not prevent the city’s rulers from trying.
Mortarion stepped closer.
“You will obey military law,” he said.
“You will follow orders, maintain discipline and remain with this army until formally released.
You will receive wages and food for your service.”
Blue Bat listened without moving.
“You are not merchandise,” Mortarion continued.
“No man will buy or sell you.
If anyone attempts to place a chain upon one of my soldiers, he will lose the hand holding it.”
A faint change appeared in Blue Bat’s eyes.
“This one understands, Master Mortarion.”
“You are soldiers under my command.
Nothing less.”
Blue Bat lowered his head.
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
“Rise.”
Blue Bat returned to his feet.
Mortarion looked towards the wagons and the empty ground surrounding the formations.
“My first order is to establish a fortified camp before nightfall.
Use the river as the eastern boundary.
Dig a defensive ditch along the western and eastern approach and place sentries upon every hill.”
“It will be done.”
“Keep the livestock away from Anaxion.”
Blue Bat looked towards the dragon.
Anaxion stared back.
“No soldier is to raise a spear against him unless I give the command,” Mortarion said.
“If he approaches the animals, clear the area and send for me.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
“Select one cow and leave it beyond the southern edge of the camp.”
“For the dragon?”
“For Anaxion.”
The dragon’s attention sharpened at the sound of its name.
Mortarion continued issuing orders.
“Place the kitchens downstream from where drinking water is gathered.
Latrines will be dug east of the camp.
Nothing is to contaminate the river.”
Blue Bat nodded.
“Inventory the weapons, food and coin.
I want the first report before sunrise.
Send scouts towards Astapor, but they are not to approach the walls.
They will observe the roads, villages and patrols.”
“How many?”
“Twenty travelling in pairs.
Send another twenty north and south.
Place five pairs along the eastern road to warn us of anyone approaching.”
“It will be done.”
“No fires upon the hills,” Mortarion added.
“Keep the camp beneath the ridgelines.
Astapor knows that a dragon passed over its walls.
It does not need to know about this army yet.”
Blue Bat struck one fist against his chest.
“Yes, Master Mortarion.” He turned to carry out the orders.
“Wait.”
Blue Bat stopped.
Mortarion removed his helmet.
Hunger twisted painfully through his stomach, while exhaustion darkened the pale skin beneath his violet eyes.
“I require food.”
“A meal will be prepared.”
“Immediately.”
Blue Bat signalled towards the supply wagons.
Several attendants separated from the column and hurried towards the riverbank.
Mortarion watched them with quiet approval.
Efficiency.
He had missed commanding men who understood it.