The sun sank below the horizon, and the blinding, dazzling light seemed to be stolen by some unseen force, leaving only a fiery red mist that clung to the sky, suffusing it with an incomparable, splendid hue.
In the fading light of the setting sun, a column of black smoke rose from within the walls of Kohor, relentlessly climbing, reaching for the heavens, and, once touched by the breeze, it transformed into a swirling haze of scarlet fog.
"Religions generally urge people to be virtuous, yet why do wars sparked by religious conflicts often become so extreme and violent?"
Monggo, riding upon his steed, gazed at the black smoke rising from the city, listening to the faint sounds of occasional unrest, and turned to the knowledgeable official, Olver, who stood beside him, seeking an answer.
The old man faltered for a moment, thinking deeply before he responded:
"Honored Ka'o, please forgive my ignorance. I cannot say which deity of Essos guides the people towards goodness. All I know is that mortals do not pray to the gods for them to dictate how they must be virtuous."
Monggo chuckled softly, a dark amusement in his eyes. Indeed, the gods of this bleak continent, if placed in modern society, would undoubtedly be branded as cults.
"It matters not," Monggo said, turning his horse as he glanced at the approaching Dothraki army. "The more religious strife in the city, the better it is for us."
With a grin, he added, "Kosoro has captured many more from the villages around Kohor."
Olver urged his horse forward to keep pace with Monggo and offered a suggestion:
"Ka'o, the camp now holds nearly ten thousand prisoners. While their food requirements are minimal, it is still an additional drain on our resources."
Monggo did not respond but instead veered off to inspect the siege equipment being crafted. Upon seeing the large stockpiles of siege mantlets, he nodded in approval.
The mantlet, a massive wooden shield, was not only capable of protecting against arrows but also allowed soldiers to take cover and return fire. If constructed sturdy enough, it could even withstand the impact of large crossbow bolts. A layer of mud was applied to reduce its flammability, and fortunately, Kohor's forests were abundant with the thick trees necessary for such constructions.
He then turned his gaze to the nearby Qinn River and spoke in a calm tone: "Tonight, we shall begin the earthworks. The soil along the riverbank is soft and easy to dig. Order the elderly and weak prisoners to gather it. Use livestock to transport the soil back to the camp, and have the stronger prisoners carry it to pile at the base of the walls. Be sure to gag them with wooden blocks. The walls of Kohor are over seven meters high. We need to pile the earth as high as possible before the prisoners are dead."
Olver, a veteran of many campaigns, was used to such orders and asked, "Shall we have the Dothraki warriors provide bowfire cover?"
Monggo glanced up at the sky, then replied without hesitation: "The visibility is poor. If they light a bonfire on the walls, we can consider it."
Before Olver could speak again, Monggo continued: "Where are the slaves we've gathered? I wish to address them."
Slavery was widespread across Essos, where slaves were regarded as property to be bought and sold.
The Dothraki, too, enslaved the people they conquered, herding them into Vis Dothrak. They would even sell their own kin into slavery, as when defeated tribes on the plains found themselves bound to serve their conquerors. This was why, after the defeat of the Khoren tribes, those that remained learned that they would not be sold into slavery and immediately swore their allegiance to Monggo Ka'o.
This practice of the Dothraki formed a symbiotic relationship with the trading city-states of Essos: You capture, we sell; you raid, I buy back our people—an unspoken, legal loop.
Monggo's tribe had gathered three thousand adult male slaves, and these were his siege infantry. Now, he meant to bring them hope and freedom.
The slave camp was a place of raw, unbridled strength, though it was far from the epic tales of Spartan warriors.
Life here was no more than weeds, with the slaves seen as nothing more than discarded chaff, unworthy of the bounty of life, their fate forever bound to despair. All, including themselves, viewed their lives as inconsequential.
Monggo rode through the slave camp without a word, his horse trampling over their meager bedding, crushing their decaying food, and flattening the remnants of their shattered dignity.
None of the slaves dared stand up to him, for their lives, even their very being, belonged to the tribe's Ka'o.
Yet, as Monggo prepared to drive his horse toward a group of slaves groveling in prayer, he saw a few lift their heads, their eyes brimming with indignation, sorrow, anger, and a glimmer of defiance. At last, they were no longer entirely numb.
Even though Monggo intended to send these slaves to their deaths, a flicker of empathy stirred in his heart. But more than that, he felt a deep frustration. In this dark world, who could guarantee that they would survive to see tomorrow, much less live with dignity?
Monggo shouted aloud, "No one wishes to be owned by another."
He had not yet learned Valyrian, so Olver translated his words. What should have been a powerful declaration came out sounding somewhat weak through Olver's lips.
After receiving an angry glare from Monggo, the old man gathered his strength and roared:
"No one wishes to be owned by another."
The slaves, at last, understood that Ka'o had not come to the slave camp to vent his frustrations over the battlefield but had something important to say. Most of them now held the hope of hearing his words and then seeing him leave swiftly.
"But you are unfortunate," Monggo continued. "All of you belong to me. I have the right to buy and sell you, and I have the right to execute you this very moment."
The slaves, having woken from their numbness, grew fearful, their minds racing with dark thoughts as they listened, anxious and uncertain about what Monggo would command next.
"Of course," Monggo said with a slight pause, "I also have the right to set you free."
The slaves, most of whom had been dreading the coming of such a day, now dared to raise their heads, wondering if Monggo had lost his sanity, hoping that he might indeed set them free.
"To gain freedom," Monggo declared coldly, "you must pay the price."
Most of the slaves lowered their heads, knowing well that nothing in this world came without cost. Only a few remained with their heads raised, listening intently.
"The price?" Monggo sneered. "Unfortunately, you're not female slaves who could be sold to Yunkai or Lys, where they train women in the arts of pleasure, teaching them the seven sounds of passion and the sixteen positions of intimacy, molding them into concubines or bed slaves."
Perhaps it was Monggo's crude words that stirred the hormones of the slaves. They listened with a hint of excitement, though some who had once had families appeared increasingly horrified.
"You," Monggo continued, "are fit only to be sold to perform the labor no one else will. You will be sent to the fiery mines, where you will toil alongside tens of thousands of other slaves, extracting gold and silver. The wealth that passes through your hands will never belong to you. After all, you are slaves whose very lives are not your own. Some of you will be burned; others will die from exhaustion, hunger, disease, and pestilence. You will live as less than human, praying day and night to the gods for mercy, hoping they will release you from your misery through death. Occasionally, one or two lucky souls may become gladiators, fighting in the arena where they will die swiftly in battle against beasts, leaving no trace of their bones behind."
Monggo rode his horse across the heads of the slaves, shouting calmly:
"Who is willing to hear the cost? The price of freedom?"
No one responded, and the camp fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
At last, one slave rose, then another, and soon most of the camp stood together, hands raised.
Monggo smiled at the sight and, pleased, said:
"Do you see Kohor ahead? Prepare yourselves, for when I give the command, you will storm the walls and bring me three enemy heads. Then, and only then, will you be free."
The slaves, weighing their options, began to calculate the risks. One tall, amber-skinned slave approached Monggo's horse and spoke a language that Monggo did not understand.
Olver, stepping aside, quietly explained: "That's High Valyrian, though heavily accented. From his appearance, it's clear he's a Ghiscari. But these days, the Ghiscari are the descendants of the conquerors, mixed blood living in the Slave Bay, and they know the fate of a slave all too well."
Seeing the displeasure on Monggo's face, the old man hurriedly added, "He asks if, by fulfilling this task, he can secure freedom for his wife and son. He is willing to bring back six enemy heads for you."
Upon hearing Olver's translation, Monggo leaned down, gazing intently into the Ghiscari's eyes and said:
"Slave masters will pay double the price for female slaves, triple for boys under ten. But I only require you to bring me three enemy heads: