Nekania's face twisted as the reality of the situation set in. Aegon Targaryen wasn't just a conqueror; he was a scavenger picking the meat off Tyrosh's bones.
"He wants our labor," Nekania hissed, his voice echoing in the damp cellar. "He lacks the men to hold a city, but if he takes those slaves, he gains a kingdom. We must kill the 'merchandise' before the Dragon can collect it."
The orders were brutal and absolute. Tyrosh began a frantic, desperate mobilization.
First: Every defensive ballista in the city was ripped from the ramparts and bolted onto the decks of a makeshift fleet. If they couldn't kill a dragon, they would at least try to sink the cogs carrying the grain.
Second: A shadow-army was raised. Twenty thousand slaves were rounded up and pressed into service. To ensure they didn't flee, two thousand hardened garrison guards were assigned as "overseers"—one guard for every ten slaves, with a blade at their backs.
"Annihilate the Rebel Army," Nekania roared at his advisor, Elville. "Spare no one. Not the women, not the children. If Aegon wants a population, give him a graveyard!"
The Foot of the Lango Highlands
Elville led the forced march himself. Twenty-two thousand men tramped across the dusty plains of Tyrosh Island, reaching the base of the highlands in record time. The heat was stifling, and the slave soldiers—clad in cheap leather vests and clutching wooden spears—looked more like ghosts than warriors.
Elville looked up at the steep, winding path of the highlands. He could see the remains of cooking fires and the fresh prints of the rebels.
"Charge!" Elville commanded, waving his sword toward the heights.
Taylor, the garrison commander, stepped forward, his voice a low plea. "Sir, the men are exhausted. We've marched for hours without water. If we charge now, we'll be winded before we hit the first line. Let them rest, set a perimeter—"
"Are you questioning me, Taylor?" Elville's eyes flashed with petty rage. "I am the Chief's voice here. If you are too cowardly to lead, I will do it myself. Watch and learn how a real Tyroshian fights."
Elville shoved Taylor aside and took direct command. With the guards' whips cracking behind them, the twenty thousand slaves began a frantic, disorganized scramble up the narrow mountain road.
The High Ground
At the top of the pass, Kress—one of the Rebel Army's veteran captains—watched the dust cloud rising from below. He had five hundred men under his command, the elite of the rebellion. They wore iron breastplates and held heavy shields, a far cry from the half-starved mob that had first fled the city.
"Sam is already halfway to the main camp," Kress told his lieutenants. "The mountain path is barely ten meters wide. We only need to hold them until the sun sets."
He looked down and blinked in disbelief. The Tyroshian army wasn't forming ranks or setting up a siege. They were simply... running. A mass of thousands was funneling into the narrow gorge, climbing the steep slope at a breakneck pace.
"Are they mad?" Kress muttered. "They haven't even rested."
He saw the spears glinting—thousands of them—but he also saw the familiar, hollow eyes of the men carrying them. These weren't the masters. These were his brothers, still in collars, being driven like cattle to the slaughter.
"Shields up!" Kress bellowed, his voice hardening. "First and second groups, lock ranks! Braces! They're coming!"
The two sides—the freed and the forced—slammed into each other on the narrow ledge. It was a collision of iron and wood, of hope and desperation. The "Slave War" had begun, and the mountain began to run red with the blood of those who had once shared the same chains.
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