Chapter 273

After the initial clearing came continuous icy drizzle; the soldiers shivered, huddled inside their tents, swearing oaths, saying it was colder than heavy snow, complaining that the rain and dampness soaked their leather armor and underwear, and the cold was like a bone-boring maggot, drilling into them until their bones ached.

Under the gloomy, damp drizzle, everything looked listless; the exhausted soldiers trudged the muddy road, shouldering and carrying the supplies their squad needed. These were the newly purchased tents and wool vests shipped from Bai Gang; Count Mandele had carefully ordered simple tundra-wolf patterned embroidery on the vests, which was meant to celebrate the victory, either bought with his own money by Wiman Mandele as a gift to her, or as an extra when she procured large quantities of curtains for the soldiers—take your pick.

Mei Yi preferred the former.

In the freezing, gloomy rain, the gift was heartwarming enough; Mei Yi received it and immediately ordered its distribution, with the camp's soldiers, under their superiors' command, drawing it from the quartermaster. They stayed busy in the rain over this matter.

The fine rain soaked the face and cloak of the officer in charge of distributing supplies; he quickly retrieved the tally tags in the rain, counted the vests, then placed them into the soldiers' hands or onto their shoulders.

The faces of the soldiers carrying supplies were all dull, except for those herding the llamas; each bowed his neck and silently walked to his own tent. Rain slid off the arcs of their cloaks, falling in step with their stride, sprinkling here and there; the soldiers hooked arms or raised their hands, careful not to wet the clothing they had received.

She gazed absentmindedly at the coming and going soldiers and the weary-looking warhorses.

Maomao stood before her, imitating her, silently gazing ahead toward the fine drizzle and gray tents within the camp, and toward the mountain ranges hidden in the thin mist far away.

It had just returned from outside, a fine layer of rain beads clinging to its fur, yet it seemed unaware, alertly watching for any abnormal sound; whenever a distant warhorse let out a muffled neigh, it would prick up its ears, occasionally twitching its nostrils to discern an odd scent from the thin smoke.

That was the plain smell of firewood combined with a unique vapor; she could almost imagine that, if left unattended like this, the pile of firewood would soon go out.

"Ooh—" a horn blast like shattering metal came from the gate at this moment; then she heard the order to open the gate, followed immediately by the creak of the stockade closing.

The warhorses neighed long, their hooves landing in unison, then quickened their pace as they approached her.

"Your Highness," Sir Mason Sewin looked at her with an unrestrained, hearty smile he could not hide; rain ran down his fatigued face, yet he was oblivious, wiping it with his sleeve and at any moment tossing his already-soaked cloak to the attendant behind him. "The matter is settled."

Mei Yi smiled, turned, and gestured for him to enter the tent.

The brazier inside the tent was already lit with charcoal, feeling quite warm. Mei Yi took a wine pot that had been warmed by the fire and filled his cup to the brim.

He reached out to take it, and carefully swallowed a sip.

"Ah, satisfying—hard to imagine where else one could find better wine than yours." He set down his cup, wiped the corner of his mouth, "Lord Bolton swore before my eyes at the heart tree and signed the agreement." His attendant behind him then stepped forward with a thick vellum scroll.

Mei Yi had already endorsed it, knowing its contents, but she did not want to open it again to look at Bolton's signature; so she took it and casually placed it on her desk.

"Bolton isn't the type to be bound by a scrap of paper," Mei Yi thought saying this might undermine the knight before her, so she smiled and said, "However, if paper can bring peace and wholeness to the North, this risk is wholly worth taking. Sir, with the restoration of peace in Hedong, you have done great service."

"I would be honored to serve Your Highness." He lowered his cup, wiped his smile away, "However, Bolton has frankly admitted that the Stark family sword Ice is not in the Dreadfort."

"Where then?"

"Braavos." The knight sighed, "He said he will certainly send envoys to retrieve the sword for you."

"The Braavosi say he intends to pledge Ice as collateral to buy supplies and hire mercenaries, and that seems true." Mei Yi tapped the table, "We must also send word to Braavos, demanding that the Braavosi return Ice safely."

The matter of Ice filled her with deep resentment. She did not want to be remembered by the Starks' descendants for losing a family sword. She did not want to hear, one day in the crypt, the Starks' descendants pointing at her statue and saying, "Look, our ancestral sword was named 'Ice'; it was during this woman's rule that its name became 'Passion'—not because she renamed the sword, but because she lost the great one and had to make do with a small one."

"Besides Ice, I also took hostages. Too bad, Lord Bolton himself has no children." Under the influence of alcohol, the knight's face flushed quickly, and Mei Yi refilled his cup. "They are the children of Bolton's important vassals and officers; I selected boys and girls aged five to seven, seven in total." After a pause, he joked, "Your Highness, if you are willing to adopt them, you can become their foster mother."

"That's too unfair," Mei Yi laughed at the teasing, "If we adopted them, they'd have no foster father."

"Anyway, no one will suspect their father is a bear's cub," he also chuckled, "No matter what, tomorrow these children will be delivered to you together with the red-robed monk."

"I only prepared a noose, not diapers," Mei Yi frowned, "Send these children to Deep Forest Fort; Count, since you've raised an excellent foster son, perhaps you could raise seven more."

"He only has leaves; where would he get diapers?" He burst out laughing, "But if that were the case, Lord Glover would be delighted." He took another sip of hot wine, mimicking Mei Yi's frown, "Bolton said he will leave the castle tomorrow with his officers," he glanced at Mei Yi, "unless it's still raining tomorrow—he said he dislikes the feeling of being soaked."

The next morning, the heavens withdrew the persistent drizzle, but the sky remained overcast, occasionally spitting a drop or two; she did not know whether Bolton would be so pretentious as to refuse to come out because of it.

"Lord Bolton must think Your Highness would go back on your word, assuming everyone is as wicked as he is." Count Glover watched as soldiers in leather armor bearing Bolton's flayed-man insignia escorted a tall, sturdy figure, while a monk in a bright red, wide robe walked along the lake's edge, steadily drawing nearer to them.

At this moment Mei Yi had gathered all her senior officials beside her, mounted on a tall warhorse, awaiting the Dreadfort's next move.

"Lord Bolton is famously cautious." Sir Mason Sewin looked somewhat worried; he had poured too much energy into these negotiations.

"He's a silent bastard," Yalishan Moermeng shouted in a rough voice: "A few years ago I saw Lord Bolton in Winterfell; he hardly seemed a Northerner, and no one could guess his thoughts. Your Highness, even if he surrendered, we would still have to be wary of him at every turn—there's no doubt about that." She spat, then lowered her volume, "Hah, Hedongers."

"There's no way I could let my guard down on him." Mei Yi answered offhandedly. A damp, salty feeling blew from Red Lake; she seemed to catch a whiff of nauseating stench again, and had no desire to speak.

"Your Highness, later you must stay away from the red-robed monk; my mother says one must never touch strange, weird people—this red-robed monk looks downright odd, and I fear he'll go mad when he dies."

Mei Yi noticed that the Lady of Bear Island's hand never left her Valyrian steel sword, as if she were ready to kill any approaching foe at any moment.

"He can't hurt me yet."

The children rode on small horses, solitary as they emerged from the Dreadfort, gradually separating from Bolton's soldiers; the red-robed monk, however, was bound and shoved forward by Bolton's troops.

From afar, the red monk seemed to be strolling casually; even at a great distance, Mei Yi felt he was smiling at everyone. She also noticed he had removed his original eye covering.

He revealed his blind eye; compared to how he looked when last seen in Hewood, he appeared much thinner, his robe hanging like it was on a corpse.

Seeing the red-robed monk in this ghastly state, Mei Yi couldn't help but feel a shudder of dread.

Could they still be pulling tricks at the last moment? She flexed her fingers on the sword's gem hilt, feeling that her condition was sound enough that even if a legendary mammoth elephant appeared before her, she could cleave it with a single stroke.

"Bolton has sworn an oath upon the tree," the Count of Deep Forest Fort said solemnly, "He is a Northerner; once today ends, we can withdraw…"

"Being a Northerner is fine, but whether he still follows the old gods is uncertain." Mei Yi cut him off before he finished, then tugged on the reins and shoved aside the knights crowded together.

The warhorses responded with a muffled sound, lightly shaking off the mud clinging to their hooves.

Mei Yi decided to answer her worries honestly, looked back, found her orderly, and said, "Qiaozhi, have the soldiers stay on guard!"

"Ooh—" thereafter a low, deep horn sounded, its waves sweeping across the vast Red Lake, as if driving layers of ripples.

She felt her whole spine begin to go numb.

After the horn blast, the distant soldiers began to fall into formation, though occasionally some could not find their proper place, moving back and forth, causing the whole unit to tremble.

The horns answered each other; this is the sound of two armies meeting.

"Could Bolton have no dry clothes left?" Count Glover sneered, "It's not raining now… Damn, if he can't even keep such a small promise…"

Mei Yi raised her hand to signal him to be quiet.

At that moment Maomao began a low, drawn-out howl, more unsettling than the horn's blast. The warhorse beneath her started to nervously tremble its hooves. She tightened the reins, gripping the horse firmly, her eyes fixed ahead.

Bolton's soldiers had already shoved the red-robed monk aside. All that could be seen was the monk with disheveled hair, arms flung wide toward the void, his garments continually shifting in color. Too far away, she could not make out the pattern, only sensing he was like a mass of light.

"What is that?" Sir Mason Sewin asked.

"I don't know." Mei Yi replied coldly; Passion had left its scabbard, now faintly emitting a corresponding hue of light.

The senior officials and guard cavalry around her also drew their longswords at that moment.

Red Lake began to bubble; she truly smelled an indescribable stench, and the knights beside her evidently did as well.

"Ooh—" Maomao began to howl.

Red Lake began to boil at this moment, like a fetal movement, thick smoke and abnormal waves rolling up from its center.

"On guard! On guard!" Count Géluófú began shouting at the soldiers behind and in the distance.

"Your Highness…" she heard, but could not tell whose voice it was.

In the smoke, it seemed cavalry charged out of the surging lake water, rushing to attack them.

The warhorses panicked, neighing as they lifted their forehooves. She heard Count Géluófú's muffled grunt as he fell from his horse, saw his horse rear up and collapse in the mire, and her cavalry instantly fell into chaos.

She clamped down hard on her own warhorse, immobilizing it. She had no time to worry about Count Géluófú's safety.

Now she finally saw clearly: what charged at them—not at her retinue, but unmistakably a horse‑shaped monster, its body larger than any warhorse she had ever seen, bearing a bizarre skull like the legendary head‑horse; if it lacked a second red‑eyed skull atop its back, it would be exactly that legend. Yet this head‑horse had grown a pair of hands, each gripping a long blade.

"Your Highness, retreat!" she heard a guard cavalryman shout in terror.

For some reason, she felt she could not retreat, must not retreat.

She instantly spurred her warhorse, commanding man and beast to counter‑charge the "cavalry" racing toward her and the senior officials.

In an instant she felt that searing sensation again—undoubtedly another "sanction" from the Red‑robed Monk.

This time she stubbornly resisted the illusory heat, fiercely opposing the false blaze, controlling every muscle of her warhorse as she charged full‑force at those ghost‑like riders.

As they neared, she felt her warhorse aflame; she swung her radiant passion wide, reaping the fearsome‑looking yet actually frail phantoms.

"Kill!" she heard a monstrous female voice behind her—Yàlìshān mò'ěrméng's voice—she abandoned her horse, and with the warriors beside her rushed on foot toward the black phantoms coming at them.

Meiyi felt as if she were being struck by rushing water, constantly darting to avoid collisions; the bright passion struck each phantom's body and head with deadly accuracy.

She could not examine their thick black blood, nor pause to discern the strange odor that made one retch at a whiff.

The black phantoms surging ashore grew ever more numerous, yet the lake kept churning; from the black mist new ones continually leapt out, some wearing—she instantly recognized—the leather armor the dead had worn in life, embroidered with golden roses…

The black phantoms nearly encircled her in a tight ring; the rest slipped past, slashing into Meiyi's soldiers.

She saw the little furry dog leap in, bite off a phantom's neck before her, then whimper and vanish into the black shadows.

She wanted the cavalry or infantry behind her—whoever they were—to join the slaughter together, but she had no breath to give orders; she longed for them to learn a bit more from Yàlìshān mò'ěrméng right then.

She poured in more strength; her passion became a demon devouring phantoms, gradually sprouting a red tail‑flare that burst with dazzling light.

"Kill!" her attendant cavalry—or whoever else—also surged forward at that moment, having abandoned their mounts.

"Hoo…" she heard other horn calls.

This was the signal that Bùdùn had launched his attack!

She knew it all too well. But she could no longer return to the main army to direct the fight, to let the attacked troops stand firm and repel this treacherous ambush.

As long as they did not collapse… victory would surely be in her hands.

The phantom cavalry behind her finally dwindled at this point, and her guard cavalry likewise followed her into the fray.

She was heartened that these soldiers had not chosen to flee the sudden assault, and heartened by her own instinct not to retreat… though perhaps she spoke too soon.

She saw company after company of infantry crumble in Bùdùn's assault tide, one lord's banner after another falling.

Under the combined effort of many soldiers, the phantoms grew ever fewer. Meanwhile, beside her, Yàlìshān mò'ěrméng screamed wildly, swinging her longer claws in a frenzy, hacking without pattern.

"Your Highness, what about us?" Qiáozhì kǎisuǒ panted, his guards at her rear.

"Exterminate these things!" what else could she say?

"Hoo…" the horn sounded again.

She could not tell whose horn it was, nor whose order it carried.

Men and horses were locked in melee; she could not observe the other side's man‑to‑man battlefield. But she knew that as long as the army did not utterly collapse, whoever stood last would surely be her.

How dreadful the fortress is to storm, yet how many soldiers could it hide, and how much courage do those soldiers possess?

With the aid of her guard cavalry and a band that seemed to be warriors from some mountain tribe, the phantoms at her side dwindled.

She watched the churning waves of Red Lake gradually turn white. She knew the Red‑robed Monk had exhausted his tricks; he never had contingency plans or fallback schemes, right?

After cleaving a phantom's head and torso together, she gripped her sword, hatred burning, and rushed toward the Red‑robed Monk.

At this moment Bùdùn's soldiers finally reversed course, beginning to advance toward her.

Bùdùn ought to have sent troops to intercept her earlier, instead of arrogantly pitting his whole army against her; yet he might indeed have succeeded.

"Hoo…" the cavalry horn.

At that moment, Xí'ēn xuěnuò, bearing the ice‑plain wolf flag, charged through the disordered infantry, leading a dozen or so horsemen down the gentle slope into Bùdùn's troops to shield her.

Bùdùn's infantry, under Chief Instructor Mùléi, surged past Xí'ēn xuěnuò's cavalry and rushed at her and her retinue.

She was hard‑pressed, fending off wave after wave of assault.

The searing mental blows, the relentless mêlée, the unbearable stench—she could scarcely keep from vomiting blood at once.

The death‑defied slaughter seemed endless, foes pouring in one after another, as if they too were limitless.

When she lifted her head again, she found herself farther from the Red‑robed Monk, as if she had been shoved onto another battlefield. She knew she was instinctively fleeing the foul‑smelling phantoms.

She did not know how much time had passed.

Yet she could feel that as time wore on, her advantage grew.

"Annihilate Bùdùn!" she bellowed, then spat a mouthful of blood, feeling her spirit lift; under the worried gaze of some soldiers she rose again, crying, "Annihilate Bùdùn!"

"Annihilate Bùdùn!" the noisy, fervent battlefield rang with cries that never ceased—yet soon it began to grow still.

The soldiers almost forgot they were on a battlefield, lifting their heads blankly to stare at the sky.

A black shadow blanketed the field, the rustle of leather stirring the air.

"Ong…" a sound more shocking than any horn or howl rose.

Dragons appeared.

One, then another, and yet another.

In all history, the northern skies had perhaps never seen three dragons flying side by side.

They spewed gold, red, and black dragonfire over the fields of phantom corpses, then, heedless of onlookers, began gulping down the corpses in great mouthfuls.

The soldiers stared in shock at the dragons by the lake; Meiyi and the other surviving officers likewise turned their gaze to the great beasts.

At this moment, the lake water churned, and in the gray mist another ghost emerged—a huge ghost. Mei Yi felt that if what had appeared before was a 'person-head horse,' then what appeared now should absolutely be called a 'giant-head horse,' the only difference being that this huge ghost consisted solely of a skeleton—undoubtedly the skeleton of a giant.

The three-headed dragon immediately finished swallowing the ghost's corpse, then turned and began frantically grabbing the 'giant.' However, the 'giant' collapsed at the lakeside before even stepping out of the water.

At this moment, the golden dragon charged toward Bodun's soldiers, spewing dragonfire from its maw; the black giant dragon trampled the shaking ground with its steps, then snapped up the abruptly standing red-robed monk in its jaws, tearing him back and forth, scattering flesh fragments.

Meanwhile, the red dragon charged toward Shitake's soldiers, spewing blood-like fire at the gathered troops.

Bloodcurdling screams rose and fell; wherever the fire passed, flesh and bone turned to flying ash.

Is this her dragon?

She held Reqing, rushing swiftly toward the red dragon; behind her, the cries of 'Your Highness, Your Highness' rang out, but she acted as if she hadn't heard, not knowing why she had made this choice. He felt it was merely to prevent the red dragon from causing further harm to the soldiers.

The giant dragon was too fast, but she was more agile than it; when it spewed fire, she withdrew with even greater speed, and when it retracted its fire and opened its blood‑filled maw, she felt it had slowed.

At this moment, Reqing fiercely swung a sword at its huge head.

The giant dragon winced in pain, then let out another frenzied roar, its eyes full of hatred.

She changed direction, and the giant dragon charged at her again, flames spraying everywhere; everyone knew the dragon had been provoked into near‑complete madness.

Without a doubt, to the soldiers, their lord was just as unrestrainedly mad.

Meiyi struck the dragon's huge head again with a blow; the bone sword clashed, producing a ringing sound like metal striking stone.

The giant dragon winced in pain, and blood rolled out of the wound like lava.

From the impact, Meiyi was thrown several zhang away; as the giant dragon leapt, preparing to trample her into mud, she was shaken and kept retreating, while the dragon continued to close in at full speed.

She gasped, feeling that this was the most difficult opponent to deal with.

However, upon seeing those blood‑red eyes, she directed her full mental focus onto its huge head.

Its flesh far surpassed her strength, she admitted, yet though its spirit could also be called strong, it was not as strong as hers.

She sensed the surging rage in the red dragon's mind, but she paid it no heed—except for the fluffy dog, all animals reacted to her in this way—and she began to see the world through the dragon's eyes.

Looking ahead at the Fortress of Terror.