Chapter 140: Chapter 140 - Night Raid
"Have we escaped?"
The knight, his voice hoarse from thirst, leaned against the jagged cliff face, gazing vacantly at the western sea as he murmured the question to his companion.
The west coast of Cape Massey's Hook had been ravaged into desolation by the two thousand cavalrymen under their command.
Not merely the seaside villages and towns, but even the fishermen who plied their trade upon the waters had long since fled northward to safer harbors. The sea lay empty, not so much as half a boat visible upon its surface.
For a fleeing, defeated army, such a beach seemed the most promising route.
The deserted shore offered concealment enough to keep them apart from the few remaining souls on the Hook, preventing any sound that might alert the "hunters" to their presence.
Moreover, they had lost all their supplies.
If they wished to avoid spending precious time hunting and gathering fruit or scavenging through ruins for sustenance—thereby giving the "hunters" opportunity to overtake them—only one answer presented itself: the beach.
The tide would bring many shells and small fish, and for men who had marched ceaselessly, even such meager seafood might fill their empty bellies.
The only true concern was fresh water.
Small pools gathered behind rocks and within mudflats, but for hundreds of parched throats, these proved merely a drop upon a bonfire, vanishing with a sizzle, the flames of thirst burning no less fiercely than before.
Without sufficient fresh water, they would perish of thirst long before they could escape Cape Massey's Hook.
Every man among them understood this truth.
Yet who among them would risk venturing inland toward small rivers and lakes?
Any man of sound mind recognized that the guards of Sharp Point and Stone Dance, the hundreds of monsters that had appeared so suddenly—these "hunters" would surely watch every water source, waiting patiently for them to stumble into the trap.
Thankfully, this marked but the third day of their flight southward, and conditions had not yet grown desperate enough to spark disputes, looting, or even the killing of brothers-in-arms.
Fortune had smiled upon them yesterday, when heavy rain had fallen.
Powerful droplets had struck every inch of exposed skin, and all had turned their faces skyward, moistening chapped lips, letting the rain fall directly into open mouths.
At last, they had filled every vessel capable of holding water, rare smiles breaking across their weathered faces.
With luck, the gods might grant them several more such downpours, enough to replenish their water supplies—though preferably not so fierce as to raise the sea level or birth a storm.
Even so, the rain had not proven wholly beneficent.
More than twenty companions had already fallen along the way. Some suffered from infected wounds, others from high fevers, and some had simply collapsed mid-stride.
The rain had bestowed hope, yes, but had also imposed a test of endurance.
Only those with the strongest will and hardiest constitutions could hope to journey southward through Cape Massey's Hook, cross the border of the royal territory, and return to their homeland in the Stormlands.
Such a journey would require at least half a moon's turn.
Their defeat had been too complete. They carried only their armor and weapons, with no horses to ride and no provisions to sustain them.
It was no exaggeration to say their present circumstances were more dire even than those of refugees whose villages and towns had been destroyed.
When sending refugees to King's Landing to burden the city, they had provided each with two weeks' rations and other basic necessities.
Yet the monsters who had obliterated their entire camp had given no thought to what the survivors might need for their escape.
For three days, they had endured hunger and thirst, scorching sun and freezing nights, wind and rain, pursued by monsters, witnessing the continuous deaths of their companions.
How far had they traveled?
Had they at last escaped the hunting range of those terrible beings?
The knight lowered his gaze, staring blankly at the black sleeping lion emblazoned upon his breastplate.
"Let sleeping lions lie." The Grandison family of Grandview had always taken this as their motto, expressing both the peaceful nature of the sleeping lion and warning foreign enemies who might dare to rouse it.
If the sleeping lion was already so powerful, who would dare wake it from its slumber?
Yet three nights past, the flame monsters that had appeared so suddenly had launched their attack, waking the sleeping lion.
What had been the result?
Amidst raging fire, clashing steel, and inhuman roars and howls, Norbert Grandison had awakened suddenly from his bed, only to confirm the terrible reality—they were under attack!
From whence had these attackers come?
How had the sentries given no warning?
Norbert Grandison had immediately roused his servants and, while hastily donning his armor, pondered these mysteries with a face contorted by disbelief.
By order of the earls, their two thousand cavalry had been dispatched northward toward Sharp Point City at the northernmost tip of Cape Massey's Hook, destroying all villages and towns along their path, ensuring the populace would have nowhere to turn but King's Landing.
The mission had proceeded smoothly.
They had not wasted effort on well-defended castles, focusing instead on vulnerable villages and towns.
The scattered knights and guards of various lords could only cower behind city walls and watch helplessly. Those few who dared emerge to resist met only with capture or beheading.
By nightfall, they had cleared most of Cape Massey's Hook, leaving only a small area surrounding Sharp Point City in the north. The land there was even more barren, the population likely numbering only a few thousand.
Their mission neared successful completion, with the guards of Stone Dance and Sharp Point still cowering behind their walls, too frightened to venture forth.
Even so, they had maintained caution.
Norbert himself, Ser Bruce Buckler of Bronzegate, Ser Hart Fell of Fellwood, and Ser Rolland Storm of Nightsong each led separate contingents.
Yet since entering the territory of Cape Massey's Hook, their four groups had always gathered together when making camp.
This occasion had been no different.
A full two thousand mounted warriors had established camp in the nameless town between Sharp Point City and Stone Dance. Scouts dispatched in all directions had returned safely, reporting that all was well, and sentries and patrol teams had been arranged in shifts throughout the night.
With such careful and thorough preparations, how could they possibly have been attacked unaware?
Norbert could not comprehend it.
But when he had emerged from his quarters, everything before him seemed drawn from nightmare.
Endless flames roared, danced, and leapt skyward.
Men burned. Horses burned.
Weapons, houses, even the very ground itself lay covered in sheets of fire.
The air felt hot as a baker's oven, the world as bright as midday beneath a scorching sun—yet all bathed in crimson.
How could the flames burn so thick?
Surely this must be a nightmare?
A gust of wind swirled past, hot yet somehow humid air rushing against Norbert's face, strengthening his conviction that he dreamed.
How could real flames feel so damp?
Yet the shouts and scenes of battle from every direction quickened his pulse nonetheless, and he tightened his grip on his longsword.
"Drop your weapons and surrender, and you shall not be harmed!"
Norbert turned abruptly. The speaker shouted in another direction.
An opportunity! Norbert approached swiftly and quietly.
But he soon halted. The silver-white cloak behind that figure was embroidered with a golden six-pointed star, yet remained unblemished, as though freshly washed.
Indeed, this must be a dream!
Norbert hesitated, unsure whether to continue his approach.
The man withdrew a small sphere from the pouch at his waist and hurled it into the distance.
Boom!
The ball shattered. Flesh and blood sprayed outward, and a layer of white mist slowly spread through the air.
Then the man turned around.
He saw Norbert.