Capítulo 152: Baelin 1
293AC
Myr was alight.
Blazing missiles blotted the sky, launched from the bows of the besieging army, and Baelin pressed himself against the stone battlement behind him. Most were arrows carrying fires no greater than candles, but some were great burning balls of tar and stone, leaving trails of greasy smoke in their wake, or the great spears thrown by scorpions with their heads wrapped in oil-soaked rags.
This was the tenth day of the attack, and even the stone city of Myr was not immune to such things. The area directly behind the southern walls had finally caught and burned down two days ago, and now it seemed that the eastern wall would meet the same fate. Even now black clouds of smoke were rising from behind the cowering defenders who clung to the wall.
Citizen soldiers like him, drafted to the city's defense clutched the walls as tightly as any of the mercenaries paid to help defend it. Out of all the men, only one group did not cower, did not run, and did not break.
They were the Golden Company, and their yellow-painted armor matched their name. They were clad in the mail of Westeros, thick and sturdy metal plates. Many wore cloaks and tabards of brightly colored silk, standing out against their yellow armor, and they all held jewelry or gold on their persons far beyond the resources of any normal man. They seemed utterly unfazed by the arrows as they stalked the walls in groups of twenty or thirty, seeking to rally the defenders.
It was shameful he thought as he sat, clutching his crossbow, that these sellswords should defend Myr better than her people.
But then, Myr was not a warlike city, no great titan like Braavos or Volantis. Its strength came from the triarchy, it's alliance with its sisters.
That alliance was keeping them fed at least, but the news on the street was that Tyrosh had spent its armies at Lys and that Lys' own armies had been smashed in the Volantine invasion.
In short, the triarchy was spent, even when it could not afford to be.
He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of a hunting horn from within the walls. His head turned sharply at the sound, and he saw that the Golden company indeed was coming to the city's defense once again. Banners lifted higher enough that even the attackers on the ground could likely see them, a patrol of archers was moving into the area. They were Summer Islanders, all of them, wielding enormous bows of some bronze colored wood. They began to fire, picking individual shots with their heavy-looking bows, rather than firing in volleys like normal men.
Baelin almost jumped when their leader turned and shouted at him.
"What are you doing on your knees boy? The enemy is making an assault. Put that crossbow to use and thin their damn ranks!"
"Ye-yes," Baelin nodded, pushing himself off the ground and onto his quivering legs with a hand.
"Good, every whoreson we kill now is one that doesn't make the wall later."
He turned to face the enemy and wanted immediately to collapse again.
Great siege towers, taller even than the city walls, we're rolling forward. Pushed by dozens of men, and pulled by teams of oxen beneath great wooden shields, they were driving inexorably forward. Ahead of them, the archers continued their barrage, sending arrows clattering into the stone of the walls, their burning payloads wasted.
Not wishing to be yelled at again, he fired his crossbow into the mass.
He didn't know whether it hit a man, whether it killed him or bounced off of his shield or armor because he was reloading, firing again as quickly as he could.
It was nothing of course, not compared to the summer Islanders and their bows that seemed to rain graceful death into the enemy ranks, or to the better-massed archers further down the wall, who delivered punishing volley after volley into the enemy lines.
Still, his crossbow kept firing, kept putting bolt after bolt into the enemy, as he ducked back behind the stonework to avoid reprisal. He must have shot it dozens of times until his arms felt like they were almost falling off.
Despite it all though, the siege towers only kept coming, until eventually, they ground to a halt in front of the walls.
He could see the mechanism, the ramp that would come smashing down onto him if he kept where he was, so he fell to his knees, scrambling and crawling to the side.
It was a good idea, as the heavy plated metal ramp smashed into the top of the masonry, and would easily kill any caught beneath it.
There was a scream of High Valyrian from the tower behind him, and a matching shout of "Hold" from the Golden Company men. He turned to see that they had drawn out short spears and shields, forming a barrier at the end of the ramp. Their Gold-painted shields interlocking to form a barrier that should be able to stop any charge.
What the tower disgorged though we're not soldiers.
Dressed in red robes, and with little armor, the first in was a group of screaming fanatics. In each hand, they held maces wrapped in burning cloth that must surely scorch their own hands more than their foes, and they screamed and sang of fire and death as they charged forward in a mob, disorderly and rampant, but terrifying nonetheless.
They slammed into the golden company with a frothing madness, and even as they were cut down, more of their lot poured forward, though to Baelin's relief there seemed to be more reinforcements coming up the wall to help the defenders.
It was then that he spotted the black shape in the center of the mass. Taller than the rest by several inches, and clad in black armor like that of the Golden company, it was obvious at a glance that he was not cut of the same cloth as the rest of the R'hllorites.
More obvious still as he moved through the pressing crowd and stabbed straight through the shield of one of the Summer Islanders, driving a burning sword straight into his chest.
Time seemed to stop as he saw a black char, darker than even the man's natural skin tone, spread up over the man's face, caught in a rich us scream of pain and horror. The company man collapsed, stumbled and fell from the wall, seeming to be eaten from the inside by the fire.
Baelin soiled his pants.
He had heard the rumors, of course, the words the priests of R'hllor had spoken before they had been driven from the city, that the Azor Ahai, their champion, had risen in Volantis. They had said that he wielded a burning sword.
In that nightmarish black armor, he seemed unstoppable.
The leader of the archers, who had earlier told him to stand, charged towards the man, stabbing at him with his spear repeatedly, and for a moment it seemed that the monster was being pushed back.
That was until he brought his sword up in a great swing, like that of a Bravo but heavier, and knocked the man's spear aside with a simple motion, cutting it at the haft, before carrying through and jabbing the pommel of his sword under his foes visor, eliciting a shout as the summer islander fell to the ground. The black-armored swordsman then unceremoniously plunged his sword through the man's armor.
Baelin watched as fire burst out from the leader's eyes and mouth. Watched as that proud and commanding warrior was left a blackened corpse.
What could he do about a monster like that?
Falling to his ass, he threw down his weapons and raised his hands in surrender.
As the cultists closed in around him, all he could do was pray that they would have mercy.
The Gods, as always, we're silent.
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