Rahallo raised his blade high and roared to the sky, “The final battle is here!
Send them all to the night lands!” He wheeled his horse, drove his heels into its flanks, and led what remained of his riders straight into Fogo’s formation without hesitation.
Two waves of flesh and blood crashed together with a thunder that shook the ground.
Fogo’s men had formed in haste.
Rahallo’s warriors swung Atak blades forged from true Damascus steel.
The superior weapons sheared through the enemy’s traditional arakhs like they were made of wood.
Sparks sprayed in every direction.
Broken blades spun through the air.
Screams tore at every ear.
On the first clash alone, at least half the enemy weapons shattered.
Fogo sat his big chestnut warhorse, eyes sweeping the chaos until they locked on Rahallo carving through the press like a demon.
His face twisted with rage.
Only by killing that man could he break this force that dared challenge him.
Fogo yanked his reins hard, turned his horse, and charged straight at Rahallo.
His arakh was slick with blood and bits of flesh and hair still clung to the edge.
The two khals met in the center of the fighting.
Their eyes locked and the air between them seemed to spark.
Fogo leveled his bloody blade at Rahallo and bellowed, “Rahallo!
You Lhazareen sheep-fucker!
Do you dare face me one-on-one?
Today I will take your head and drink from your skull!” The corner of Rahallo’s mouth lifted.
He pointed Ascala straight back at Fogo, voice cold and clear.
“Fogo!
When you die you’ll wander the darkness forever.
I will ride a horse of flame across the eternal night sky.
My light will burn over the entire grass sea!” Single combat was sacred among the Dothraki.
At the sound of their khals’ challenge the noise around them died.
Both sides pulled back, clearing a wide circle of open ground like a natural arena.
Warriors pounded weapons against shields and saddles, the sound rolling like thunder.
The air grew thick with tension.
Rahallo gave his war-roar.
Fogo answered with a savage bellow of his own.
Rahallo exploded forward.
Ascala flashed in a silver arc aimed at Fogo’s throat.
Fogo brought his blade up to block.
The two curved swords met with a ringing crash and a burst of sparks.
The force of it jolted both men.
Rahallo gave him no breathing room.
His attacks came in a relentless storm — fast as lightning one moment, light and darting the next, impossible to predict.
Fogo was fat but surprisingly quick.
He kept his guard tight and still found moments to strike back.
One of those counters came in a sudden horizontal sweep.
Rahallo tried to pull back but the edge still kissed his chest.
A line of blood welled and ran.
Fogo was faster than he had expected.
Days without real sleep, the forced march, the fighting — Rahallo’s body was no longer at its peak.
One mistake and Fogo had drawn first blood.
“Sheep-fucker, you can’t win!” Fogo grinned through bloody teeth and lashed out with a heavy kick aimed at Rahallo’s stomach.
Even the enemy warriors cheered.
Dothraki respected courage wherever they saw it.
Rahallo twisted aside, regained his balance, and his eyes went cold.
“You talk too much.” He lunged.
Ascala flicked upward at blinding speed.
Fogo’s blade rose to meet it.
There was a sharp crack.
Fogo’s arakh broke cleanly in half.
For one frozen instant Fogo’s eyes widened in shock.
Before he could make a sound, cold steel ripped across his belly.
His massive body jerked.
He looked down in disbelief.
His gut was open.
Hot blood poured out in a torrent, soaking the sand and pooling at his feet.
Pain hit him like a hammer.
Fogo roared and dropped to his knees, both hands clutching at the wound as if he could hold his life inside.
It was useless.
He lifted his head with effort, eyes full of stunned rage and something close to fear.
He had never imagined the worthless sheep bastard he despised could fight like this.
The watching warriors stood in perfect silence, waiting for the end.
Rahallo walked calmly behind the kneeling khal, seized Fogo’s long braid, and yanked his head back hard.
Fogo stared up at the blade hovering above him.
In the firelight he could see the flowing, water-like patterns on the steel — a weapon unlike any he had ever seen.
“Ah…” Fogo’s final cry was one of pure despair.
Ascala swept across his throat.
Blood sprayed in a bright arc, soaking his beard and chest.
His eyes went dull.
His massive body toppled sideways and hit the ground with a heavy thud, raising a cloud of dust.
Rahallo’s face was streaked with blood, but his black eyes burned like live coals.
He lifted Fogo’s severed head high on the tip of his blade and threw his head back, roaring across the grass sea.
“Anha, Khal Rhojosaroon!
I, King of the Grass Sea!” Fogo’s warriors stared in stunned silence.
Their khal — the powerful Khal Fogo — had been killed by this young man.
Fear spread through them like sickness.
Some nearly dropped their weapons in awe of such strength.
Then Fogo’s bloodriders let out furious roars.
Vengeance burned in their eyes.
They drew their blades and charged straight at Rahallo without hesitation.
Dothraki tradition was clear.
When a khal fell, his bloodriders had to avenge him — then follow him smiling into death.
Led by the bloodriders, the remaining warriors of Fogo’s khalasar threw themselves into a final, desperate charge.
Rahallo stood over Fogo’s corpse, eyes cold as he watched the tide of men rushing toward him.
He raised his bloody blade and roared to his own warriors.
“Fight to the death!” “Fight to the death!
Protect the khal!” His men answered with a thunderous shout.
They closed ranks around Rahallo, forming a tight, unbreakable ring.
A far bloodier fight began.
But the numbers were impossible to ignore.
Half of Fogo’s ten thousand had burned in the green fire.
More had died in the fighting that followed.
Still, the survivors outnumbered Rahallo’s remaining force several times over — and they kept coming.
Rahallo’s men were stretched to the breaking point.
Any warrior who brought back Rahallo’s head would be famous across the grass sea.
Rahallo and his fighters were drowning in an endless sea of blood.
Every swing of their blades cost more than they could afford.
Rahallo himself was soaked in gore, his own blood mixing with the enemy’s.
He fought like a beast that did not know how to tire, trying to carve a path through the press, but his strength was running out fast.
He had lost count of the men he had killed.
A hundred?
A hundred and fifty?
He no longer knew.
Just as his arms grew heavy and his vision started to blur, a deep thunder of hooves rose behind him — rolling like a storm, shaking the earth and every heart on the field.
Rahallo spun.
On the horizon a great wave of riders was thundering toward the camp, dust boiling behind them, iron hooves flashing in the firelight.
At their head flew a massive horse-tail banner — Rahallo’s own banner.
Jogo and his kos came on like gods descending from the sky, driving straight into the bloody chaos of the camp.
Rahallo’s reinforcements had arrived.