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Emil Pov seventh moon 289 AC
I heard the sharp snap of a crossbow being fired. I turned my head instantly, instinctively searching for the source.
"I hit him! I hit him! I got him!" shouted one of the soldiers, raising his weapon high as he began to celebrate. His face was smeared with dirt and sweat, his gambeson stained with trench mud—but he didn't care. He waved the crossbow around like it was a trophy.
The others dropped their shovels for a moment and came closer, laughing, as if they'd just brought down a deer instead of shooting a man.
I turned my gaze back east. In the distance, three Dothraki riders who had been scouting the area were retreating at full gallop. They didn't look back. One of them didn't ride with them.
The body lay next to one of the horses. It didn't move. From this distance I couldn't see the wound, but the collapsed figure told me everything I needed to know.
I quickly ordered a couple of men to retrieve the fallen horse. While they were at it, I told them to cut off the Dothraki's braid—as was customary. We placed a few thick planks across the trenches to improvise a bridge and bring the animal back without having to dismantle anything.
In the three days we'd been here, we hadn't stopped working for a moment. Our fortress was barely half built. Like most of the defenses in these hills, it served only the basics: a perimeter wall, rough palisades, and a couple of elevated positions. But it lacked everything else. We had no second defensive ring, no moat, no interior barriers. Building such structures atop a hill was slower than we'd hoped.
During those days, the Dothraki hadn't fully withdrawn. They hovered at a distance, always at a trot, watching our positions like hungry wolves. They searched for gaps, weak spots, unguarded paths. Meanwhile, the cavalry saw the most action. Almost daily they went out on raids—crossing the river to burn grasslands, disrupt small khalasaars that had strayed too far ahead, or capture prisoners. Every time they brought one back, they handed him over to the Finns, who extracted information in the way only they knew.
As for us, we were responsible for reinforcing the line. We had around twelve thousand laborers under our command—peasants, workers, and useful prisoners—who toiled non-stop on the main fortifications. Meanwhile, our companies handled perimeter security, erected watchtowers of wood and stone, built raised platforms for lookouts, and kept expanding the trench system eastward. The latest orders were clear: they had to be deeper. Wider.
As we continued working, we heard the sharp, drawn-out sound of a trumpet. Everyone stopped. No orders were needed—those nearest to the weapons immediately began readying crossbows, tightening strings and handing out bolts. Others reinforced the makeshift bridge we'd built earlier, to allow for a quick crossing if needed.
Minutes later, a hundred riders appeared in the distance, approaching at full speed. They were ours.
We let them through in small groups, crossing over the wooden path as best they could. The horses were foaming and dusty, panting from the strain. Their leader dismounted without ceremony, his face still covered in dirt and blood.
"Emil… we kicked a hornet's nest," he said bluntly. "We caught a disorganized Dothraki group, killed some horses, destroyed a few tents, and managed to burn a supply cart from one of the greater khalasaars. They're pissed. So tell your men to armor up. They won't be long."
He hadn't even finished speaking when another trumpet sounded—this time from our watchtower. A sharper, closer call.
We looked up, and then we saw them.
A great cloud of dust to the east, followed by the sun's reflection on dozens—maybe hundreds—of arak blades.
"Everyone behind the barricades! Out of the trenches, now!" I shouted, making a quick hand signal to halt all work.
The shovels dropped. Hammers were set aside. The pace changed instantly. The men knew what to do. Voices rose, lookouts descended from their towers, and officers began shouting orders. The silence of the land broke beneath the thunder of a storm galloping straight toward us.
We quickly fell back behind the wooden barricades we had thrown together for skirmishes. Simple defenses—sharpened logs, stakes, and hastily nailed planks—but they gave us some cover. Most of the men weren't wearing full armor. Just padded gambesons, filthy from work and dirt—nothing more. They weren't prepared for open combat. A fight here, now, would cost us dearly.
I was one of the few who had most of my armor on. My job until that point had been to oversee that the construction met its design specs, so I had never taken it off completely. I was glad I hadn't.
The crossbows began loading instantly. A repetitive noise of tightening strings, creaking wood, and the dry snap of bolts being slotted into place. I peeked through the gaps in the palisade and saw them.
Hundreds.
The Dothraki charged in, screaming like wild animals, their horses frenzied and lances raised. They came like a wave that wouldn't stop until it crashed against our defenses.
Everyone still working—laborers, lookouts, engineers—ran for cover. Some dove into the watchtower. Others hid behind the flanking barricades.
I grabbed my helmet with one hand, slammed the visor down with a sharp clank, and picked up a preloaded crossbow resting against the parapet. I knelt behind the low wall and waited.
The Dothraki charged like demons, unleashing savage cries and waving their arakhs high. For a moment, I thought they might try to leap straight over the trench, as frenzied as they looked. But as soon as the first riders reached the edge and saw its depth, they pulled up hard. They didn't attempt to cross. Instead, they shifted tactics: they sheathed their curved blades and drew their bows.
That's when our crossbows began to sing.
A dozen Dothraki fell almost immediately, pierced by the bolts raining down from our positions. Each impact kicked up dust, blood, or screams, and their horses neighed in panic as their riders collapsed.
They responded instantly. Arrows began to whistle toward our barricades. Fortunately, we were well covered. The wooden parapets held up reasonably well, and most of the men stayed under shelter. Even so, some arrows found their mark. I heard short cries of pain, the splintering of a stake, the dull sound of armor being punctured.
The Dothraki didn't stay still. They rode back and forth like rabid predators, trying to throw off our aim, searching for blind angles. It was hard to track them with crossbows, but our marksmen did what they could. As I peeked out, several arrows flew past me. Some struck, clattering against my breastplate or shoulder guard. I felt the thud—a solid impact—followed by the sharp sound of the metal tip glancing off.
I fired several times. I had three soldiers behind me, reloading one crossbow after another. It was more effective for me to stay on the firing line, protected by the parapet with a clear view, while they handled the rotation of weapons. The Dothraki were accurate, and any movement outside cover could be your last.
The skirmish dragged on for several minutes. Arrows and bolts flew in both directions, and the tension began to weigh heavy on everyone.
Then came the reinforcements.
Some of our men began crossing the makeshift bridges from the flanks, covering themselves behind barricades as they took position. Shortly after, a detachment of archers from Myr manned a section of the rear trench wall and began firing in volleys. They shot in arcs, launching grouped shots that rained down on the enemy line—coordinated and without overexposing themselves.
The Dothraki began to withdraw after several volleys. They rode off at full gallop, leaving the field littered with bodies—men and horses alike. Some wounded still stirred, crawling across the bloodied dirt.
Once our sentries confirmed their retreat, we moved on to the dirty work. The wounded were taken to the medical posts as best we could—many dragged or carried by comrades who could barely manage their own gear. We also had to pull out several who had fallen into the trenches during the chaos and couldn't climb out on their own.
Once the line was secured, we laid the bridges back down and crossed to the other side to capture any Dothraki still breathing. Priority was stopping the bleeding—stabilizing them just enough to keep them alive… and chaining them up. The Finns would find a way to make them talk.
As for the horses, not all survived. The gravely wounded were put down on the spot. No sense letting them suffer. We'd likely be eating their meat tonight anyway. Better a hot stew of horse than another ration of dried meat and hard bread. The animals that could still walk were sent to the rear. Some would be assigned to the Dothraki who fought under Lothar—others would be used as pack animals.
We didn't take long to resume our work, though it became increasingly clear with each passing day that continuing to dig a new trench line was no longer possible. Not only were we under constant surveillance by Dothraki scouts—who seemed to watch us from the hills at all hours—but the skirmishes had become daily.
Our cavalry didn't sit idle. Every single day, a detachment would leave the safety of our fortifications and ride out into the plains. They hunted scouts, searched for grazing grounds where Dothraki left their horses, burned any forage, or intercepted small groups that strayed too close. Sometimes they rode out just to fight—to maintain initiative.
And every time they completed their mission, we'd see them return—exhausted, covered in dust… with enemies at their heels. The Dothraki never let them go unchallenged. When our cavalry came back, it was common to see an enraged pack of enemy riders right behind them, shouting, loosing arrows, chasing them to the edge of our defenses.
And with each day that passed, more Dothraki crossed the river.
Despite the casualties we inflicted—and there were many—they kept coming.
For every man we lost, at least five or six Dothraki fell. And still, they didn't stop.
Logic told us we were winning. But the air told another story. It felt like they had no end.
They couldn't be infinite. Every army, no matter how large, had a limit. But when you kill dozens and still see hundreds more coming...
May God help us.