Minas Tirith was especially noisy that night.
Torches formed twisting ribbons of light, winding between the construction sites and camps along the fjord and casting wavering silhouettes against the rock walls.
In the Iron Fist Gang's camp, the atmosphere was oppressive.
Grom sat on an overturned tar barrel, repeatedly wiping his enormous hammer with an oilcloth.
A dozen or so trusted underlings stood in a circle around him, their expressions grim.
"Boss, the Garrison sealed off that whole patch of woods and carried the bodies away." A tall, thin miner rubbed his hands together. Half of one ear had been sliced off in a mining accident. "I asked around. The Wildfire Gang's people were taken in for questioning, but on our side... the Garrison hasn't even come."
"The fact they haven't come means we're in deep shit!" another burly man, missing a finger, growled. "They already know it was us! They're waiting for an excuse, something they can use to wipe us all out! Now those deaths are the perfect excuse!"
"What the hell are you scared of? Who has proof we struck first?"
"Bullshit! What good does that do now? People are dead! You think the lord will turn a blind eye?"
The arguing grew louder and louder.
Grom slammed his hammer into the ground. The heavy thud silenced everyone.
The camp fell quiet at once.
"All of you, shut up."
Grom raised his head and swept his gaze over their frightened, uneasy faces.
"Run? Tell me, where would we run? Outside the Gray Marsh Fief, we'd still be starving tenant farmers and mine slaves. Which of you wants to go back to living worse than pigs and dogs?"
No one spoke.
Those two days in Newborn Town had made it impossible for them to go back.
"If we