The air in the ruined village tasted of ash and copper.
The Burned Men huddled around a fire in the wreckage of a barn. They were roasting chickens stolen from the dead villagers, laughing as grease ran down their scarred chins.
Around them lay the bodies of the smallfolk—men and women hacked down in their fields, their eyes wide with the shock of a sudden, violent end. The granary doors were smashed, golden wheat spilled into the mud like blood.
There were forty of them. Hard men. Cruel men.
Every one of them bore a burn scar. Some were missing fingers. Some had ears melted into nubs. In the Vale, these mutilations were medals of honor—proof that they had the courage to face the fire.
Vok son of Nagga sat on a grain sack, sharpening his axe. The left side of his head was a mass of scar tissue where his ear used to be.
"Good harvest," Vok grunted, patting a sack of stolen silver. "Enough to keep us warm all winter."
His companion, a warrior with blackened teeth, grinned. "These Lowlanders... they just hide in their stone houses and cry. They don't deserve good things."
"They are soft," another agreed, spitting a chicken bone onto a corpse. "Like their bread."
Suddenly, a figure stumbled into the firelight.
It was Val son of Nango, a scrawny scout who had only burned off his pinky toe—a coward by their standards.
"Vok!" Val gasped, his face pale. "Men! Armed men! At the pass!"
The laughter died. Forty pairs of hard eyes turned to Vok.
"How many?" Vok demanded, standing up.
"Two hundred!" Val stammered. "Maybe three! They have blocked the exit! They have spears!"
The village was a trap—a cul-de-sac with cliffs on one side and a river on the other. There was only one way out.
Vok didn't panic. He called a council.
"Gather!" he shouted. "We speak!"
The Burned Men, including the few women among them, formed a circle. In the clans, every voice had to be heard—a tradition that made them fiercely independent but strategically slow.
"Do they have Iron Men?" Vok asked, his voice tight.
The clans feared nothing but knights. Men in full plate armor were walking fortresses that their stone axes couldn't scratch.
"No!" Val shook his head. "No horses. No heavy iron. Just leather and wood."
A silence fell over the circle.
Then, laughter exploded.
"No iron?" a giant warrior roared, wiping grease on his chest. "Two hundred sheep want to stop us? With sticks?"
"I fought a Lowlander once!" another bragged. "He cried when I cut him! They piss themselves when they smell blood!"
"We are forty wolves!" a woman with a burned cheek screamed. "We will tear them apart!"
To them, numbers didn't matter. Without armor, a Lowlander was just meat. They believed that the people of the plains were weak, softened by their comfortable lives. They believed that one mountain warrior was worth ten farmers.
Vok raised his maimed hand.
"They think they can trap us?" he bellowed. "They think digging a hole will stop the Burned Men?"
"Tomorrow at dawn, we charge!"
"We will kill them all! We will take their weapons! We will drink their wine!"
The warriors howled, banging their weapons against their shields. They weren't afraid. They were excited. It wasn't a battle; it was a buffet.
The night passed in fitful sleep. The Burned Men dreamed of slaughter and plunder.
At first light, they woke. No trumpets, no speeches. Just the silent, deadly intent of predators.
They grabbed their axes, their spiked clubs, their mismatched swords.
"For the mountains!" Vok roared.
"For the fire!" the clan screamed back.
They surged out of the village, sprinting toward the narrow exit, expecting to see a disorganized mob of terrified farmers.
Instead, they stopped.
Vok skidded to a halt, his boots sliding in the dirt. Behind him, forty warriors crashed into each other, confusion rippling through the ranks.
"What..." Vok breathed. "What is this?"
Across the road, blocking the only exit, was a trench. It wasn't deep, but it was wide enough to break a charge.
Behind the trench was a wall of sharpened stakes, angled outward like the teeth of a dragon.
And behind the stakes stood three hundred men.
They weren't running. They weren't crying. They stood in silent, disciplined ranks.
In the front, archers stood with arrows nocked, eyes fixed on the Burned Men. Behind them, a forest of spear points glittered in the morning sun.
The "sheep" had built a fortress overnight.
Vok stared at the silent lines, his brain struggling to process the sight.
They aren't moving, he realized with a dawn of horror. They are waiting for us.