Twenty thousand against thirty thousand.
Both sides were light cavalry, and the new Atak blades were still too few to make a real difference.
A direct clash offered no real chance of victory.
So Rahallo decided to take a dangerous gamble.
He carried a great deal of knowledge about warfare from his previous life.
Though he had always been more of a theorist than a practitioner, he could combine that knowledge with the hard-won experience of the Dothraki.
Theory and practice together.
He also carried detailed memories of the continent of Essos.
Khal Fogo would never expect what was coming.
Rahallo turned to Rakharo.
“Take five hundred of our fastest scouts and shadow Fogo’s main force.
I want to know their route, their speed, even how often they shit.
If anything changes, report immediately.” “Jogo,” he continued, “select two thousand of our best archers from your kos.
Hide them in the hills on both sides of the Qohor forest.
The moment Fogo’s main column enters the valley, rain arrows on them.
Give them Khal Rahallo’s greetings.” The Qohor forest lay northeast of the khalasar.
The hills on either side offered perfect positions for both archery and downhill charges.
It was an ideal place for an ambush.
Before he could say more, a sudden commotion erupted outside the tent.
A scout stumbled inside, gasping for breath.
“Khal Rahallo!
Fogo did not go through the Qohor forest!
He swung southwest and is moving along the Sayhru River gorge, striking straight for our rear!” The commanders looked at one another in confusion.
“The Sayhru River?” Rakharo frowned.
“Both banks are nothing but cliffs and stone.
Warhorses can barely pass.
How could Fogo move thirty thousand men that way?” Old Moro’s expression changed.
“Unless… they found the old hidden trail through the mountains.” “What trail?” Rahallo asked.
“It is an ancient merchant road,” Moro explained.
“It has been abandoned for years.
Only a few traders still know of it.
The path goes around Sorrow’s Crest and comes out directly behind us in the Golden Fields.” Rahallo was silent for a moment.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted in a cold smile.
“If Fogo wants to go around and strike our rear, then we will go around and strike his heart instead.
If he is using that hidden trail, his main khalasar will not be with him.
His main force is most likely still south of the Qohor forest or west of the Croai.
When the time comes, I will cut through the forest and drive straight into his center.
I will burn his supplies, cut his lines, steal his cattle and horses, and trap what remains of his army inside the Sayhru River gorge.” Old Moro still looked doubtful.
“My blood is your blood… the grass sea is vast.
How can you be certain where Fogo is?” Rahallo did not answer.
He walked to the corner of the tent, opened a wooden chest, and took out a rolled sheepskin.
He spread it across the table.
The commanders gathered around.
When they saw what was drawn on the skin, every man went still with shock.
It was a complete map of the continent of Essos—from the Free Cities in the west to the Bone Mountains in the east, from the Shivering Sea in the north to the Summer Sea in the south.
Mountains, rivers, forests, and cities were all clearly marked.
“By the Great Mother…” Old Moro breathed, his fingers hovering over the map.
“We have been living on this all along…” Jogo’s eyes were wide.
“Even the old Valyrian Empire never had a map like this.” Rahallo’s finger traced two possible routes Fogo could take.
“Look carefully.
Fogo only has two real paths: through the Qohor forest or along the Sayhru River.
Any other way would force him to go all the way around Slaver’s Bay by sea.
If you follow my orders and hold the positions I give you, we cannot lose.” The worry in Old Moro’s eyes faded, replaced by deep reverence.
“My blood is your blood… how did you come by this map, Khal?” “That is not important,” Rahallo said, waving the question away as if he had always known every trail and river.
“What matters is that I know every river, every hill, and every forest on this land.
There are no secrets in this world that I do not see.” He had simply written down everything he could remember from the stories of his old life.
The map was one of those things.
Stories could change.
Geography never did.
“Lazal,” Rahallo ordered, “take five thousand men to the lower reaches of the Sayhru River.
Harass Fogo’s vanguard.
Strike like wolves—bite and run.
Do not get drawn into a long fight.” Lazal slammed a fist against his chest.
“My blood is your blood!
I will make them so tired they cannot sit their horses.
They will learn who truly rules the grass sea.” Rahallo turned to Moro.
“You will take five thousand men and screen the area between the Rhoyne and Sorrow’s Crest.
If you find Fogo’s main force, harass and delay them.
Work with Lazal to pin them from north and south.
Do not commit to a full battle.
Wait for my signal.” He looked at Quaro.
“Take five thousand as a reserve.
Protect the women, children, and elders.
Move them west toward the Golden Fields beyond Dagger Lake.
Keep them safe.
And be ready to reinforce whichever force is threatened.” Finally he turned to Jogo.
“You will hold the Qohor forest with three thousand men.
If Fogo’s move along the Sayhru is only a feint, you must hold that ground.
If you receive word from my hawk, ride south immediately and support the attack.” Rahallo drew a slow breath.
“I will take two thousand of our best riders and strike straight at Fogo’s main camp.
We will see whose speed is greater.
Fogo will learn who is truly the strongest khal on the grass sea.” The bloodriders stared at the map.
For the first time, the coming battle felt clear and winnable.
They answered as one, voices shaking the tent.
Morale surged.
… Night fell over the khalasar.
Most of the camp slept.
Only the night watch spoke in low voices around the fires.
In a cluster of tents set apart from the others, lamplight still burned.
Inside, Daenerys stood over rows of neatly arranged supplies: fifty crates holding six hundred empty wine bottles brought from Pentoshi merchants, bundles of cloth strips soaked in grease and oil, and sacks of white sugar wrapped in oiled paper.
She held a sheet of sheepskin on which a recipe had been written in the Common Tongue.
“Mix the white sugar with the wildfire in the correct ratio,” she read aloud, “then add a small amount of bitterthorn sap.
Fill each bottle to four-fifths.
Dip a cloth strip in oil and push it into the neck.
Make sure the cloth stays in place but does not completely seal the bottle…” Jhiqui translated her words into Dothraki for the other women.
The air inside the tent was heavy with the sharp smell of wildfire.
Every woman working here had been carefully chosen.
They were the most trusted females in the entire khalasar.
This was Rahallo’s secret weapon.
No one outside this tent could be allowed to know it existed.