In a ruined little town called Stone Crow Town on the western bank of the Disputed River, Tiberius and Vito sat talking in a dim room.
A few days earlier, right after Swordbreak Fort fell, they had tried to cross to Watchfort — the Lysene stronghold directly across the river. But the river was so choked with boats and desperate refugees that it had become a floating traffic jam. To keep from getting trapped and slaughtered in one neat package by the pursuing Volantenes, Tiberius had ordered everyone to push downstream instead, even though that risked running straight into whatever forces were coming out of New Volantis Port and the Tax Collector's Bay.
Mitridas's catastrophic blunder had seen the main armies of the Three Daughters shredded on the eastern bank. So once the Volantene main force crossed the Disputed River and hit the west bank, there was no way the scattered, broken remnants could stand against an enemy riding high on total victory.
Tiberius understood better than anyone that the Volantene commander named Marcus had one simple goal: to annihilate the fighting strength of the Three Daughters once and for all. He didn't care about capturing land for its own sake — he wanted to make sure no one would ever dare challenge Volantis again.
If that was the enemy's plan, then running with the rest of the routed troops toward other western strongholds or crossings was suicide. So Tiberius had turned the group inland, aiming for the Flank Corridor to link up with Jules and the White Company.
[Once we reach the Flank Corridor, we'll be safe!] he had thought at the time.
But things had gone even worse.
Their golden goose — Lysandro — had taken an arrow in the shoulder during the escape. With no time for proper surgery, they could only slap on a hasty bandage. The wound had festered, and yesterday the governor had started burning with fever.
To keep their paymaster from dying on the road, Tiberius had been forced to slow the march.
Which meant they were now very easy to catch.
Right now, Tiberius was solving the arrow-wound problem once and for all. If he didn't, Lysandro would die of infection and fever long before any Volantene spear could reach him.
"Tiberius, this is the strongest liquor we could find in the whole damn town," Vito said, pushing a small cask forward.
"Double-distilled wine. Locals call it 'Second Best.' Nothing stronger around here." Vito frowned. "But why the sudden need for fire-water? Trying to drink your troubles away? Don't do it, kid — we're still in the middle of a war! A little ale now and then, fine, but right now—" He jerked a thumb toward the Lightning Company and the other stragglers camped outside. "You need to stay stone-cold sober."
"Vito," Tiberius shook his head. "I'm not drinking it. I'm using it to disinfect Lysandro's wound."
Vito blinked. "Huh. I've heard some maesters use maggots to eat rotten flesh, but strong liquor…" He scratched his beard. "Never seen that. And what's with the quicklime? You planning to scald the man's flesh off while he's still breathing?"
"Relax, Vito," Tiberius rolled his eyes. He poured the liquor into a cleaned iron pot, then set that pot inside a larger one filled with water. Over the small stove in the corner the liquid soon boiled, filling the room with a sharp alcoholic bite that overpowered the stink of blood and pus.
He inverted the pot lid to catch the rising vapor, poured cold water over the top to condense it, and carefully collected the distilled spirit in a clean glass vessel.
"Gods, that smells good!" Vito swallowed hard. As an old drunk, the aroma hit him straight in the gut. "If you added a little brown sugar and honey it'd be perfect! Hey, when you're done, can I have a sip? I wanna see how it compares to Myr fire-wine!"
"Forget it. At least not this batch. Back in Lys I'll make you as much as you want," Tiberius gave him a flat stare, then slowly poured the distilled alcohol into the vessel.
Once he had enough, he took the quicklime and added it a pinch at a time, watching the reaction carefully. One big dump and the violent heat would shatter the glass and waste a whole morning's work. Patience was everything.
"Done. Leave it overnight, Vito," Tiberius dusted his hands and nodded.
The next morning Tiberius filtered the final product while Vito watched the clear liquid with hungry eyes, swallowing repeatedly.
"Stop drooling, Vito!" Tiberius warned, tilting the bottle over the filter. "I'll make you barrels of it when we get home, but right now keep your hands steady! If you spill one drop I'll skin you alive!"
"Don't worry, I know the stakes!"
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"Tiberius…" Lysaro stood in the doorway, eyes already red when he saw Tiberius carrying the bundles. "My father… he's in your hands. He burned with fever all night, talking nonsense…" Big tears rolled down his cheeks, staining the gilded cuffs of his sleeves.
"Don't worry, Lysaro," Tiberius clapped him on the shoulder. "The lord has luck on his side, and I finally know how to treat that arrow wound properly."
"You sure this will work?" Vito muttered in Tiberius's ear once they were inside. "Jules never messed around with distilled liquor and quicklime…"
"How does he usually treat you lot?" Tiberius asked curiously.
"Simple," Vito shrugged. "Arrow, knife, deep puncture — heat a pair of tongs red-hot, jam it on the wound — hiss — smoke and sizzle, stops the bleeding. Hurts like hell, of course, and you have to make sure he doesn't bite his own tongue off. Then he pulls out a bunch of herbs and ointments, mashes them into paste, mutters some prayer to the gods, and slaps the black goo on. After that he gives you calming herbs, ointment, and strict orders to drink, change dressings, and rest."
He shrugged again. "Everyone knows your uncle dabbles in a bit of witchcraft. Plenty of men have survived because of it."
"We don't have Uncle Jules with us right now," Tiberius said grimly. "He knows the full set of spells and herb-lore; I only picked up the basics. But…" He glanced at the feverish Lysandro on the bed and Lysaro waiting anxiously outside. His chest tightened.
"He's not here, so we do it ourselves. And think about it, Vito — if we save Lysandro and get him back to Lys, our future rewards won't be small. Now hand me that sponge!"
"My lord… my lord, wake up!" Tiberius gently shook Lysandro's good shoulder and removed the wet cloth from his forehead.
"Tiberius…" Lysandro groaned. "Where… where are we?"
"Still in Stone Crow Town, my lord. We need to treat that arrow wound in your arm. If we don't, the infection will get worse — you could die."
[And if you die, we're all screwed. Who pays our wages? Plus, how are we supposed to run for our lives while carrying a corpse?] Tiberius thought.
Seeing Tiberius's steady gaze, Lysandro nodded weakly.
"Then do the surgery."
"Very well, my lord. Try to breathe steadily." Tiberius signaled Vito. Both men wrapped rags over their mouths and noses. Vito produced a palm-sized natural sea sponge that had been soaked in a mixture of mandrake leaf juice, opium tincture, henbane sap, and a touch of hemlock, then dried, smoked, and dried again three times. It was now dark brown and gave off a faintly sweet, pungent smell. He set a small copper pot of hot water and a splash of wine over the coals.
"My lord, please inhale as much of the smoke from the burning sponge as you can," Tiberius said. "Ideally we'd use linen masks and copper tubes to keep the fumes contained, but… we don't have that luxury right now."
He handed Lysandro a small cup of distilled liquor mixed with crushed henbane and dried rhododendron.
"Drink this too, my lord. It will help keep you calm. Unfortunately we have no milk of the poppy or sweet sleep."
Lysandro gave a weak, bitter smile after draining the cup. "Stronger than the fiercest Myr fire-wine… but it has no flavor at all. Ordinary."
Even now, on the edge of surgery, the man could still critique the drink. Tiberius felt a little more confident.
A man truly about to die doesn't waste time on tasting notes.
"Vito, light the sponge."
Steam rose from the copper pot. Vito dropped the anesthetic sponge in. The drug-laced vapor billowed up. Lysandro breathed it in deeply.
His mind slowly dulled, muscles went slack, vision blurred, mouth dried.
Tiberius watched his pupils dilate.
"My lord, can you hear me?" He waved a hand in front of Lysandro's face.
"Yes…"
Speech slowed. Perfect.
"I'm going to disinfect the wound with boiling liquor."
"Do it, Tiberius…"
About half an hour later, Lysandro's eyelids were half-closed and he only answered with low moans.
"Ready for surgery, Vito," Tiberius said. "Hold him down. Put a wooden bit in his mouth!"
They unwrapped the bandages. The stench of rot hit them immediately. Tiberius stared at the yellow fat, pus, and the arrowhead buried deep in the flesh, fighting down nausea.
Time had been too short back then; they had simply sawn off the shaft and bandaged it.
With Vito's help, Tiberius washed his hands, then poured the high-proof alcohol directly into the wound for the first cleaning.
Next, using a pre-sterilized pair of forceps, he carefully worked the arrowhead out bit by bit, avoiding any sudden yank that could cause massive bleeding.
Finally he packed the wound with ointment and re-bandaged it.
When it was over, Tiberius's forehead was drenched in sweat.
"If only we had catgut," he muttered, wiping his face. "I heard some Myr doctors can actually sew wounds shut. Wonder if it's true."
"It is," Vito said. "Jules tried to buy that skill once. The man wouldn't teach it for any price!"
"Uncle Jules doesn't know it?" Tiberius asked.
"He does."
"But you said the guy wouldn't teach?"
"Gold didn't work, but the logic of it did." Vito laughed and patted the crossbow at Tiberius's hip. "One hand money, one hand teaching. Jules paid through the nose and swore not to pass it on to anyone except blood kin."
When Lysandro finally woke, he was breathing hard — from pain, and from a strange, floating relief.
After a long while he stopped gasping and his body began to accept the pain.
"You even brought medicine…"
"Yes, my lord."
"I should have listened to you back then. We wouldn't be in this mess," Lysandro said, voice thick with regret.
That day's battle had left a deep scar on him: the tough Myrish, the fierce Tyroshi, the battle-hardened mercenaries Lys had paid for, the seemingly perfect situation…
How had it all collapsed in just a few days? They had lost the hard-won Swordbreak Fort, the "Race to the Sea" had failed completely, and the armies of Myr and Tyrosh were shattered.
"Rest now, my lord," Tiberius said quickly.
He's wounded and still overthinking. Must be nice to have the energy.
"Tiberius, my father…" Lysaro rushed over the moment they stepped outside, face full of worry.
"The arrowhead is out, the wound is cleaned. In a few days he should be able to ride again," Tiberius told him.
Then Lysaro heard Tiberius's stomach growl loudly.
"Uh… hungry," Tiberius scratched his head. "That was real work."
A short while later Lysaro brought food: dried fruit, ribs, steaming coarse rice, a few greens, and a bowl of chicken soup.
"Sorry, we have plenty of hardtack, but I figured you were sick of bread," Lysaro said, a little embarrassed. "Stone Crow Town doesn't have much, but there are plenty of wild chickens in the hills. I made a bowl of soup — hope it helps."
Tiberius didn't stand on ceremony. He took the bowl and drank deeply.
Truth be told, even while fleeing for their lives, Lysaro's soup was excellent. Thick with pork fat, floating with a rich layer of oil, the young chicken meat was tender and flavorful. The innards had been removed cleanly, no feathers, and there were mushrooms and yam as sides. It was genuinely delicious.
While Tiberius ate, a scarred Myrish centurion named Demetrius muttered, "Tiberius, you think the Volantenes will chase us here?"
"Probably not," Tiberius answered through a full mouth. "Demetrius, our current position — Stone Crow Town — is too close to the Flank Corridor. Uncle Jules's cavalry can reach us from Twinbridge Town in less than two days! The Volantenes would have to be crazy."
"Besides," he added confidently, "I bet their commander's first move won't be to hit us directly. He'll want to clear every Lysene crossing and outpost in the Lysland region first!"
"Because if he doesn't, his flank and supply lines will always be threatened!"
"Especially that great fortress of ours — Watchfort, directly across from Swordbreak Fort. You know it. Until that gate falls, Marcus will never dare attack our more heavily defended Flank Corridor downstream!"
Demetrius pictured Watchfort in his mind: from a distance it looked like a giant steel eagle gripping the rocky western bank. It wasn't just a single fortress — it was surrounded by watchtowers, inner river ships, and outposts. Stubborn, cunning, and damn near impossible to take.
"And behind Watchfort is our Three-Tax Gate, the strongest Lysene city in the lower reaches. It sits on high ground overlooking the only solid trade road from the delta into the heart of Lysland." Tiberius sounded sure of himself.
"Two such strongholds — one guarding the middle reaches opposite Swordbreak Fort, the other locking down the delta so Watchfort can't be flanked… No way the Volantenes can reach us here in one jump, right?"
"Fair enough," Demetrius nodded. He thought Tiberius's reasoning held up. Then he grinned. "Lightning Kid… ha! I bet you're going to become a legend across Essos! At least you're a damn sight smarter than that Mitridas. Wonder if the bastard even survived the Volantene hooves."
"Hope he didn't!" Demetrius made a mock prayer gesture.
That was the deepest feeling in every Myr survivor — and in every man who had lived through the disaster at Swordbreak Fort.
If not for that idiot Mitridas, how could they have suffered such a crushing defeat?
[Legend my ass. I just want to stay alive. Stop putting halos on my head, you sound like a damn prophet.] Tiberius thought sourly.
[At least say something lucky like "May you lie low in comfort forever"…]
After the meal Tiberius was exhausted. Lysaro thanked him again; Tiberius brushed it off with a few words and collapsed onto a straw pallet, falling asleep almost instantly…
When Vito shook him awake, he had no idea how much time had passed. Outside the window the sky was the gray of false dawn.
Vito's face was deadly serious. "There's an army outside the town — Volantenes!"
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