The night was pitch black, the wind high.
Solomon led his soldiers silently to the edge of the wildling camp.
The wildlings hadn't left. They were regrouping, planning to attack Deepden again.
But Solomon struck first.
In the distance, Deepden's garrison was lighting extra fires and making noise, creating the illusion that Solomon's main force was still near the castle.
It was a distraction. The real blade was here.
"Ready?" Solomon whispered to Lushen.
He felt a twinge of nervousness. This was it. No more tricks, no more water, no more ghosts. This was steel against steel.
He had started with three hundred men. Now he had fewer. Half were original levies; the rest were refugees filled with hate for the clans. They were tired, poorly equipped, but hardened by seventeen consecutive victories.
They weren't farmers anymore. They were veterans.
"Ready, my Lord," Lauchlan whispered back. "The beasts are soaked in oil."
Solomon looked at the animals—captured mules and sheep, tied with bundles of dry straw and drenched in flammable oil.
"Lushen, take your wing. Press from the left," Solomon ordered. "We take the right. Squeeze them into the center."
"I will not fail you, Lord Solomon!" Lushen tapped his sword hilt.
Bronn was missing. Probably lurking in the shadows, waiting to see who won before collecting his debt.
Solomon raised his hand.
"Light them!"
Soldiers struck flint. Tiny sparks grew into flames.
"Release!"
Soldiers cut the tethers and slashed the hindquarters of the animals with knives.
SCREECH!
Pain maddened the beasts. Fire consumed the straw on their backs. They became living torches.
Howling in agony, the fire cattle stampeded straight into the wildling camp.
They tore through the flimsy tents of hide and branch. The dry camp caught fire instantly.
"Enemy attack!!"
"Fire! Fire!!"
The camp exploded into chaos. Sleeping wildlings stumbled out, naked or half-armored, into a nightmare of screaming animals and spreading flames.
Timett son of Timett burst from his tent, sword in hand.
The heat hit him like a hammer. The smell of burning hair and flesh was everywhere.
"Hold! Hold your ground!" Timett roared, running through the confusion.
"We are Burned Men! Fire is our friend!"
His voice cut through the panic. The Burned Men, who scarred themselves with fire for honor, were less terrified than the other tribes. They rallied to him.
But the other clans—the few remaining Stone Crows and Moon Brothers—saw the inferno and broke. Their chiefs, already wavering, signaled a retreat. They ran for the mountains, abandoning the fight.
They should never have trusted the Burned Men.
Solomon watched the chaos reach its peak.
He drew his Myrish blade. The firelight danced on the steel.
"Brothers!"
"After tonight!!"
"The Trident will sing our legend!!"
"The Trident will fear our name!!"
"ROAR! ROAR! ROAR!" His soldiers bellowed back, sounding like tigers released from a cage.
Lushen blew the war horn.
Boooo-oooo-oooo-m!
Two phalanxes of one hundred and fifty men each emerged from the darkness.
Shields locked. Spears bristling.
They didn't charge wildly. They marched.
Step. Step. Step.
A wall of iron and wood, closing in on the burning camp from both sides.
"Charge me! Kill the sheep!" Timett screamed, leading his Burned Men into the teeth of the formation.
They slammed into the shield wall. They kicked, hacked, and screamed.
But the wall didn't break.
Thud. Stab. Thud. Stab.
Spears thrust from the gaps, skewering the wildlings. The formation advanced over the bodies, tightening the noose.
Timett saw the trap closing. They were being herded into the center to be slaughtered.
He could still run. He could order a breakout.
But the hate in his heart was stronger than his survival instinct.
He locked eyes with the young lord commanding the line.
"Kill Solomon!" Timett shrieked, pointing his sword.
"KILL SOLOMON!!!"
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