Braavos was nothing but canals, so the only way to reach the Isle of the Gods was by boat.
Good thing the city had more boats than people.
Roughly two or three thousand players and native troops split into small craft and rowed hard toward the island.
The so-called Sanctuary—or the Big Junkyard, as Pointing-Rat-Calling-It-Duck liked to call it—was just a giant brick warehouse crawling with moss. At first glance it looked less like a holy temple and more like a storage shed.
To the players it felt exactly like a warehouse.
"Forget the other gods and their bullshit," Pointing-Rat-Calling-It-Duck ordered, waving his hand. "Straight to the House of Black and White. Every man, woman, and child inside—none of them walk out breathing."
The mixed force of players and Braavos Legion soldiers immediately stopped sightseeing and dug in, rowing like their lives depended on it.
The Kingsguard and royal enforcers stayed back as the heavy reserve. Everyone else—secret police included—shot past the main Sanctuary and made straight for the assassins' nest.
On the way they passed the Red Temple, a fortress-like building that made Teflon and his Grenadier Regiment boys crane their necks.
Pointing-Rat grinned at Teflon from his boat. "Heard the red priests inside love playing with fire. Maybe you pyromaniacs could swap recipes."
Teflon didn't answer. He and his brothers just stared at the Red God's mansion with hungry eyes.
The fleet rounded another bend and finally reached the domain of the Many-Faced God.
The House of Black and White rose from dark-gray stone under a roof of black tiles, the whole place radiating gloom.
Players didn't give a shit. An assassins' lair was supposed to look shady.
Bloodbeard had brought only his most trusted veterans. He wanted to put on a show for Brother Wei. When the order came to wipe out the Faceless Men, his boys would swing without hesitation.
"Kill them all! No one breathing!" he roared.
The first boat slammed into the stone dock. Players leaped ashore howling, blades flashing, cutting down two stunned servants before charging deeper.
The entire House sat on a low hill, so the main force had to climb. It wasn't far. They reached the entrance fast.
A pair of twelve-foot carved wooden doors blocked the way—one white, one black. A bunch of players immediately thought yin-yang.
"Bust it open!" a Braavos Legion squad leader shouted.
"No need," Teflon cut in. He glanced back at his man. "Carpenter Emperor! Bring up the cannons. Let the boys hear some thunder!"
"On it!" Carpenter Emperor—temporary artillery captain the Grenadiers jokingly called "Emperor"—yelled at the crew sweating over the three bronze cannons. "Push 'em up! Aim at the doors! Time to show these locals what we've been cooking!"
"Relax, boss!"
"That piece-of-shit door probably won't survive one shot—gonna disappoint the brothers!"
The makeshift gunners grinned like kids on Christmas.
Cannons were built to make noise.
Under the curious stares of native troops and players alike, the three bronze cannons lined up and aimed at the twelve-foot doors.
The gunners followed the drill they'd practiced a hundred times: black powder down the muzzle, rammed tight, stone shot plus iron scraps and sand loaded, touch-hole primed, fuse lit.
The natives looked lost. Even the players watched with fresh excitement.
Then—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The cannons roared. A couple of nearby native soldiers stumbled back from the blast.
White smoke rolled off the barrels, but every eye locked on the doors.
All three shots punched straight through. The gap in the white door was already big enough for the whole force to pour inside.
The gunners clearly weren't satisfied. They reloaded fast and fired a second volley, blowing the white door into splinters.
"Charge!"
Carpenter Emperor grinned at Teflon and Pointing-Rat-Calling-It-Duck. With a nod from the commander, he waved his arm and the entire force surged forward.
"Slaughter every last one! No survivors!"
Bloodbeard snapped out of his daze first, kicking his men into motion and charging with warblade raised. His soldiers followed at a run.
Smoke still poured from the breach, but players and troops were already pouring through.
Inside the House of Black and White the Faceless Men masters flinched at the explosions but didn't panic. They simply melted into the shadows.
The attackers burst through the shattered doors into a pitch-black corridor lit only by a few weak candles.
"Shit, I thought they were rats. Turns out they're goddamn vampires!" one player muttered.
Torches flared up fast, turning the passage into a river of fire.
"Kill anyone you see!"
The temple opened into a wide hall. Players and soldiers fanned out, searching.
Around the altar dozens of minor gods stood silent. A few servants froze in terror, then tried to run.
"Spare me! I'm only a servant!"
A gray-haired, hunchbacked old man begged—then lunged with a hidden dagger.
A blade answered. He pitched forward dead.
He was a Faceless Man. He just hadn't expected the attackers to kill on sight.
The rest of the servants were cut down fast. Two more Faceless Men among them fought back, dropping one soldier and one player with crossbows before the mob swarmed them and hacked them into meat.
Past the altar the hall opened wider. A twelve-foot-wide pool sat in the center.
Four or five shadows dropped from the ceiling, daggers flashing toward throats.
The line staggered back. The assassins tried to vanish again—but the Grenadier Regiment players had already lit the fuses on their copper hand cannons.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
White smoke billowed. Three Faceless Men dropped dead. The other two somehow survived the terrible aim.
"What the hell are those things?!" the two survivors thought at the same moment.
They never got an answer.
The first rank of gunners stepped back. The second rank stepped up, fresh hand cannons already primed.
Another volley cracked. Both remaining Faceless Men crumpled to the stone floor.
The massacre had only just begun.