The moon stood high.
Only the whisper of wind through the leaves and the occasional cry of a night animal broke the silence inside the forest.
Rahallo climbed a tall tree.
Its thick branches hid him from view.
Through gaps in the foliage he looked down on the enemy camp spread across the slope below.
Herds of cattle, sheep, and horses grazed quietly in the darkness — thousands upon thousands.
The camp itself was a sea of tents packed into the valley, far more than he had expected.
The numbers were several times what he had planned for.
Dothraki were born wild and lawless.
The camp was in complete chaos.
There was no sense that a battle might come at any moment.
That was true of every khalasar.
Fires leaped and twisted, throwing distorted shadows across the hides.
Warriors wandered everywhere with wineskins in hand, bare-chested, war tattoos gleaming.
They shouted, laughed, fought, and fucked openly.
Screams and moans carried far into the night.
Compared to this, Rahallo thought, getting his own elite to stay silent had been a miracle from the Horse God.
Over the smallest things — whose horse was stronger, whose slave was prettier — men drew blades and killed each other where they stood.
The enemy had no discipline, but their numbers were overwhelming.
Rahallo had hoped to catch Fogo off guard and shatter him in one blow.
That hope was gone.
If he turned back now, the reputation he had built would die with him.
A khal who lost his name would be pulled down fast.
He would have to fight this out.
… In the center of the camp stood a massive tent ringed by heavy guards.
That had to be the khal’s pavilion.
Inside, Khal Fogo sprawled on a throne made of bone and leather that groaned under his bulk.
He was bare-chested, his fat gone soft, old scars crossing his sagging flesh.
He tore at a haunch of roasted horse meat with greasy fingers.
Juice ran down his wrists and dripped onto the rugs.
A cruel smile curved his mouth.
His eyes were full of contempt.
“Rahallo?
That Lhazareen sheep-fucker?
Hah!
He thinks twenty thousand men can stand against my khalasar?
Ridiculous!” His bloodriders roared with laughter.
Big, hard men with knotted muscle and savage tattoos, they drank from cups or ate bloody meat straight from the bone, tearing into horseflesh and fermented mare’s milk without shame.
The tent was a wreck — broken bottles, scraps of food, torn clothing scattered everywhere.
A handful of Lhazareen slave women knelt on the floor, shaking with terror.
They had the same almond eyes and wheat-colored skin as the Dothraki, but only someone raised on the grass sea would know they came from Rahallo’s mother’s people.
Younger women were shoved down and taken where they lay.
Their cries were swallowed by the bloodriders’ laughter.
Fogo paid no attention.
He kept shouting insults at Rahallo, cursing his mother and his ancestors with every filthy word he knew.
The more he drank, the louder he became.
He grabbed a wineskin, drank deep, and let the liquor spill down his chin and soak the hair on his chest.
Suddenly he lurched to his feet, staggered to the center of the tent, and smashed the empty skin on the ground.
Shards flew.
“I’ll make that worthless sheep bastard kneel in front of me!” he bellowed.
“He’ll beg me to take whatever I want!” His bloodriders howled and cheered, drinking and fucking with fresh abandon.
The noise inside the tent reached a fever pitch.
At last Fogo’s legs gave out.
He collapsed back onto the throne, the meat fell from his hand, and his head lolled to the side.
Heavy snores filled the air.
… Deep in the night, Rahallo gripped his reins.
Two thousand warriors waited in the darkness, ready.
He drew a deep breath, lit the torch in his hand, and raised it high.
He swung it once in a circle.
Hundreds of torches flared to life across the slope like sudden stars.
Rahallo threw his head back and let out a raw, savage war-roar that split the sky.
This was how he had earned his name among the Dothraki — the Roaring Warrior.
“Charge!” He kicked his horse forward and thundered down the slope.
Two thousand riders followed, hooves shaking the earth, their own battle-roars joining into one great wave of sound.
In the darkness more points of light appeared — the flame-storm bottles being lit.
The bottles arced through the night trailing fire, then smashed into the camp.
“Crash!
Crash!
Crash!” Clay shattered.
Grease and the thick, sweet mixture sprayed everywhere and ignited at once.
These were not ordinary orange flames.
They burned a strange, sickly yellow-green and spread like living things, hellfire crawling across tents, fodder, and dry wood.
In seconds the camp became a sea of green fire.
Smoke boiled upward, thick and black, blotting out the stars.
Men who had not drunk themselves senseless woke to screams and the sight of green flames devouring everything.
Panic ripped through them.
“Green fire!
Green fire!
It’s demon fire!” Burned warriors staggered and fell, shrieking.
Drunk men trapped inside burning tents never even woke.
Others were trampled in the stampede.
The death toll climbed fast.
Fogo was jolted awake.
He stumbled out of his tent, rubbing his eyes, and stared in disbelief at the green inferno swallowing his camp.
His fat body trembled.
He tried to shout orders, but his voice was lost under the screams.
Rahallo’s riders hit the camp like wolves among panicked sheep.
Atak blades rose and fell without mercy, cutting down men who had no formation and nowhere to run.
Steel flashed.
Blood sprayed.
The night filled with the wet sounds of slaughter and the clash of weapons.
Rahallo rode at the front, Ascala in his hand like the scythe of death.
Heads flew wherever he passed.
Blood soaked the ground.
He saw one of his own warriors pulled from his horse and about to be cut down.
Rahallo roared, rode in hard, and took the enemy’s arm off at the shoulder before finishing him with a second stroke that sent the head spinning into the air.
Rahallo’s riders drove deep into the camp, splitting the enemy into smaller groups and destroying them one by one.
But Fogo had seen too many battles to break easily.
He grabbed a fleeing warrior by the braid and yanked him around.
“No retreat!
Kill them all!” Fogo shoved the man aside, blew his war horn, and swung into the saddle.
His presence and experience began to pull the survivors together.
Five thousand men had already died in the green fire.
The remaining four or five thousand heard the horn and started fighting their way toward the main tent, forming a hard knot of resistance.
The tide was turning.
Rahallo’s two thousand were still the better fighters, and the surprise attack had given them a brutal opening.
But they had not broken the camp completely.
Fogo had rallied enough men to hold.
Now Rahallo’s force faced more than twice their number in organized resistance.
If they could not shatter Fogo’s main body quickly, the advantage would vanish — and two thousand riders caught in a grinding fight against superior numbers would not survive the night.