Crackclaw Point – Unnamed river
Pierce's army rolled forward like an unstoppable steel fortress on its way to Warsong Keep.
But the thorns on this land weren't just the Boggs. The second the column camped on open ground near the river, trouble showed up right on schedule.
A handful of short, shaggy ponies trotted onto the ridge overlooking the camp. Riders in ragged leather, feathers, and bone charms—Crabbe scouts.
These bastards had been buzzing around like mosquitoes for days, keeping their distance, flashing taunts, then vanishing back into the tall grass.
Worse, they'd started dumping rotting animal carcasses into waterholes, trying to poison the supply and slow Pierce down.
That was exactly why he'd chosen this particular stretch of river. Every clan on the Point had its own name for the damn thing. Once he owned the whole peninsula, Pierce planned to give this river—and the little one coming out of Brown Hollow—proper names.
Right now he sat relaxed on the temporary wooden palisade, White Shadow lying quietly at his feet.
He watched the showy scouts from afar, no anger on his face—just the calm look of a man enjoying a good play.
He'd already ordered his crews not to use the ballistae or heavy crossbows to chase them off. He wanted these idiots to think "these outsiders can't touch us."
The only way to deal with scattered harassment was to lure them out and wipe them clean. Otherwise it would never end.
His Shifter ability gave him a literal god's-eye view. He knew every move they made—even their rear-guard setup back home.
He'd already decided to hit them where it hurt most and make them feel real pain.
Sure enough, a little while later one Crabbe rider trotted forward holding a ridiculous "rainbow flag" stitched from colored rags.
Old Andal custom—parley signal. Even with their mixed Seven and old gods bullshit, some ancient rules still stuck.
The guards took his weapons, checked him, then brought him to Pierce's command tent. The messenger's name was Malbert—skinny, weather-beaten face, and the kind of smug superiority that made you want to punch him.
He looked around like he owned the place.
"Outsider!" Malbert's voice was shrill and thick with the local accent. "I am Malbert, envoy of House Crabbe! I speak for our chief 'Forestfang' Garwyn Crabbe!"
He puffed out his narrow chest. "You've trampled Crabbe hunting grounds and disturbed the ancient spirits! The chief demands fifty horses and one hundred sets of good weapons and armor as compensation! Refuse, and the shadow of the Crabbes will haunt every step you take. You'll bleed for every mile. Forget reaching Warsong Keep—you'll be lucky to leave this region alive!"
The sheer balls of it made Rosco Blount's face turn beet red behind Pierce. He grabbed his sword hilt. "You piece of shit! You dare talk to the lord like that? I'll cut your head off and use it for a cup right now!"
Pierce raised a hand, stopping him. His face stayed calm—actually carried the faintest smirk.
He looked at Malbert and said evenly, "Fifty horses, one hundred sets of gear? Nice appetite. Go back and tell Chief Garwyn I received his demand. Three days. In three days have him come to my camp in person. I'll give him a very satisfying answer."
Malbert clearly hadn't expected Pierce to fold so easily. He blinked, then sneered even harder, snorted, swung onto his pony, and rode off like he owned the world.
"My lord!" Rosco nearly exploded. "How could you agree to that? It's humiliating! We should send the cavalry out right now and crush every one of those rats hiding in the grass!"
Pierce jumped down from the palisade and clapped Rosco on the shoulder. "Easy, Rosco. Anger doesn't solve problems. You know what the Crabbe family—especially their chief—cares about most?"
"The forest?"
Pierce shook his head.
"Horses?"
"It's their people and their tribe," Pierce said flatly. "How much do you actually know about them?"
Rosco's anger cooled a little. "That 'Forestfang' Garwyn? He's a hard bastard, but the thing everyone talks about is the wife he brought back from the woods. They say she's a witch named Melanye. Rumor is the Crabbes had to hunt an entire herd of sacred white aurochs as a bride-price before her family would let her go."
"People say she's got some connection to those creepy Cayfords over at Tearmark Lake. Don't know the details… those people are… strange." Rosco's voice carried real unease.
A knowing light flashed in Pierce's eyes. This new information made his plan almost foolproof. "The more arrogant he acts today, the harder he'll cry when real disaster hits…"
…
…
Three days passed in a blink.
When messenger Malbert rode back in, still waving that stupid rainbow flag and strutting like a peacock, he noticed the camp felt different.
Soldiers still worked, but their eyes now held cold excitement.
Pierce received him in front of the command tent with Rosco standing beside him, face like iron, hand on his sword.
"Outsider, three days are up. Have you considered the chief's demand?" Malbert asked, chin high.
Pierce didn't answer. He simply nodded to a squire.
The squire brought forward a wooden tray covered in red cloth.
"This is the gift I'm sending Chief Garwyn," Pierce said with a smile. "I hope he likes it."
Malbert eyed the tray suspiciously, still arrogant. "Hmph, you think some trinket will make up for—"
He stepped forward and yanked the cloth away.
No gold. No jewels.
Just a dagger.
The hilt was ornate, set with a decent ruby, but the blade was what stole the show—jet black, neither metal nor stone, gleaming with an eerie light in the sun.
Dragon-glass dagger.
Malbert's smug face froze. Pure instinctual terror replaced it. Dragon-glass!
The stuff of Children of the Forest legends—the weapon witches believed held special power. Sending this wasn't random.
(Wait… why does this look so damn familiar?)
He snapped his head up, met Pierce's deep, unreadable smile, and ice shot up his spine.
He didn't say another word. He snatched the dagger, scrambled onto his pony like the Others themselves were chasing him, and galloped east as fast as the animal could run.
Less than an hour later, dust clouds boiled on the horizon.
"Forestfang" Garwyn Crabbe had come in person, leading almost the entire fighting strength of House Crabbe—five hundred cavalry—thundering straight at the camp.
He'd been camped nearby, happily expecting tribute. The second he saw that dragon-glass dagger, his whole world collapsed.
They charged in waving feathered spears and bone-trimmed axes, howling like madmen, forming up outside Pierce's lines.
Garwyn himself was a big, rough, bearded brute riding a massive wild stallion. He roared at the camp, "Pierce Celtigar, you filthy bastard! How the fuck did Melanye's dagger get in your hands?! Get out here! I'm ripping your heart out for the old gods!"
The only answer was the cold arms of ten pre-loaded ballistae on the palisade. Three hundred longbowmen and crossbowmen rose into view behind the fence.
Pierce didn't give the order to fire yet. He simply raised one hand.
Behind the palisade supports, dozens of figures suddenly appeared—Crabbe women and elders. They were the "spoils" captured when Pierce's two hundred reinforcements from Crow's Rest had hit the undefended Crabbe rear while the main force was drawn here.
Garwyn's eyes nearly burst from his skull when he saw his own people in enemy hands.
That was when Pierce rode out slowly, wearing an oversized cloak. In front of his own lines he suddenly threw it open.
Sitting in front of him on the same horse was a woman.
Silver-white hair like moonlight, skin like fresh snow, golden eyes like pure amber—wide with fear and confusion.
She wore nothing but a sheer Lysene gauze dress that left almost nothing to the imagination. Her perfect figure shimmered in the sunlight, beautiful like something that didn't belong in the mortal world.
She was Garwyn's greatest treasure—the forest witch Melanye.
Pierce's voice rang clear across the battlefield, laced with deliberate mockery. "Chief Garwyn! That 'lake fairy' you were too afraid to touch tastes pretty damn good. She belongs to me now!"
"I'll kill you!!!"
Garwyn Crabbe's mind snapped. Rage and humiliation swallowed every thought.
Eyes blood-red, he swung his axe and bellowed the charge. "Kill them all! Get Melanye back!"
Five hundred Crabbe riders surged forward like a broken dam.
"Loose!"
Pierce's order was ice-cold.
THWUNK—SCREECH!
Ten spear-sized ballista bolts ripped through the air first, carving bloody tunnels straight through the charging mass.
Then came the longbow volley—like a black cloud of death.
When the survivors pushed closer, the crossbowmen fired flat and lethal.
Three waves of ranged fire shredded the Crabbe formation like giant iron combs. Bodies piled up.
By the time they finally reached the palisade they slammed into a wall of heavy infantry—spears like a forest, shields like a mountain.
While the Crabbe riders were bogged down and confused, the rear gate of the camp suddenly flew open.
Pierce's rested elite cavalry poured out like two red-hot blades, slamming into both flanks of the disorganized Crabbe rear.
The slaughter became completely one-sided.
The fight ended fast.
Five hundred Crabbe riders lay dead or dying. Most survivors dropped their weapons and surrendered. Chief Garwyn Crabbe was dragged off his horse, badly wounded, and hauled before Pierce like a dead dog.
Pierce stayed mounted, Melanye held in front of him, her body trembling slightly.
He looked down at the dying Garwyn, then at the blushing, confused witch in his arms, and asked softly, "My dear witch lady, tell me—how should I deal with this useless husband of yours?"
Melanye's golden eyes swirled with fear, shame, and maybe a flicker of awe at raw power. She bit her lip and couldn't speak.
Pierce hadn't expected an answer anyway. His gaze swept the prisoners until it landed on Malbert, who looked like he'd seen a ghost.
"You. Come here."
Malbert crawled forward on his knees, banging his head on the ground. "Mercy, my lord! Mercy!"
Pierce pointed at the dying Garwyn and tossed him a short sword. "Kill him. Then you're the new chief of House Crabbe."
Malbert froze. He looked at his once-mighty chief, then at Pierce's iron gaze and the soldiers watching like wolves.
Survival and the taste of power won.
Trembling, he picked up the sword, closed his eyes, and drove it into Garwyn's chest.
Garwyn convulsed once and went still.
"Good." Pierce nodded in satisfaction. "Chief Malbert, take my men and round up whatever's left of your scattered warriors. From today forward, House Crabbe swears loyalty to me."
He hadn't planned to move on the Crabbes this early, but since they'd delivered themselves on a silver platter, he wasn't about to refuse free meat.
Without another glance at the new "chief" groveling in thanks, Pierce turned his horse, kept the beautiful captive in his arms, and rode back toward his tent.