Smoke from the burning pyre drifted in the air, mixing with the smell of charred wood and congealed blood.
The village was deserted, now only silence and flames remained.
A dozen or so bodies of villagers, men and women, lay dismembered on the ground, their eyes wide open.
They died with grievances!
The doors and windows of the houses were smashed by weapons, all furniture was broken, leaving only broken walls and ruins.
The barn door was split open by an axe, golden grain spilled all over the ground, trampled beyond recognition by mud and footprints.
Over forty Burning Men Tribe warriors of the High Mountain Clan, dressed in animal skins and reeking of burnt charcoal and blood, were curled up inside, resting.
They lit fires among the ruins, roasting poultry looted from the village, gnawing on half-cooked meat.
Some were caressing their knives and axes, while others were counting their spoils.
Most of their faces and bodies bore terrifying scars from fire, proof of their coming-of-age ritual.
These scars made them seem like monsters in the eyes of the Plainsmen, but to themselves, they were symbols of courage.
A warrior, whose left ear was missing and only a burn mark remained on his head, grumbled as he hung a newly packed bag of spoils on his small, scrawny horse, which resembled a goat.
"A great harvest, enough for Walker, son of Negoti to have several warm winters in the High Mountain."
His companion grinned, revealing charcoal-like teeth: "Those Plainsmen, all they know is to hide in their stone houses and cry!"
"They don't deserve these good things at all!"
They had already looted several villages and killed hundreds of Plainsmen.
Just as they were enjoying a brief rest and the joy of their bountiful plunder, a figure stumbled in.
The Burning Men Tribe warriors recognized him.
A coward from the Burning Men Tribe, a scrawny warrior who only dared to char his own right pinky toe.
"What's wrong, Nanges Son Val! Scared by the Plainsmen's corpses?!" a warrior scoffed.
Nanges Son Val ignored him, his voice distorted by urgency: "Someone! Armed Plainsmen! A large group of armed Plainsmen!"
All the Burning Men Tribe warriors fell silent, looking at the warrior whose left ear was missing and only a burn mark remained on his head.
"Walker, son of Negoti needs to know how many there are!" he asked, picking up his axe.
Val nervously replied, "There should be about two hundred! They've blocked off the village! All of them are armed and armored!"
This village was built in a strategic location, with a cliff on the left, a river on the right, and only one exit.
Walker, son of Negoti stood up and gestured for everyone to gather around; among these Burning Men Tribe warriors were even some women.
They were going to hold a meeting to discuss.
The High Mountain Clan had a peculiar notion that during meetings, every member of the tribe had the right to express their opinions, including women.
This led to low tribal efficiency, making it impossible to pose a substantial threat to the valley.
Walker, son of Negoti brandished the axe in his hand, looked at Val, and asked, "Are there Plainsmen riders wearing iron?"
The High Mountain Clan had a lingering fear of the valley's knights.
"No!" Val lowered his head, ashamed of his earlier panic. "They don't even have iron!"
After a brief silence, the warriors gathered together burst into laughter. Two hundred foot-bound Plainsmen without iron.
Walker, son of Negoti roared with laughter: "So, two hundred soft sheep want to eat Walker, son of Negoti!"
A burly warrior laughed, wiping his face with hands greasy from recently roasted meat:
"We're not even afraid of Plainsmen wearing iron! What do these people think they're doing! Hahaha!"
The Burning Men Tribe warriors vied to speak:
"The last time I fought a Plainsmen warrior! It was as if he was afraid of getting dirty! He just cried and begged me for mercy!"
"Do Plainsmen warriors think numbers matter! Hahaha!"
"Plainsmen even wet their pants when they smell blood!"
"Forty of us! We'll charge out! And kill them all!"
The atmosphere of the discussion was less about strategizing and more about a collective mockery of the Plainsmen and a boastful display of their own bravery.
In their view, they only feared iron-clad riders; even iron-clad individuals were considered beatable, let alone those without iron!
They believed that no matter how numerous the Plainsmen were, it couldn't compensate for their inherent weakness and fear of battle, which is why they wore iron, just as they lived in stone houses.
The Plainsmen lived in the comfortable and prosperous plains, having never experienced the brutal survival competition of the High Mountain tribes; their bodies and wills were as fragile as un-forged iron.
Walker, son of Negoti, who had no ear, looked at his warriors, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes.
This was how Burning Men Tribe warriors should be.
He raised a hand, burnt to a charcoal-like crisp, and waved it in the air.
He roared, silencing the noisy chatter: "You are right! They are Plainsmen!"
"They don't know what true battle is! What true courage is!"
He surveyed the group, and every Burning Men Tribe warrior looked at him with anticipation.
Walker, son of Negoti raised his axe; he would respond to the anticipation of his Burning Men Tribe warriors!
"Walker, son of Negoti will not hide! Walker, son of Negoti will not flee! Because we are the Burning Men Tribe!"
"The towering cliffs of the High Mountain are our home! The harsh environment has shaped us! Making us as ruthless as the cold mountain winds!"
"The Plainsmen want to encircle us!"
"Alright! Tomorrow morning at dawn! We'll charge out!"
"Let the Plainsmen see! How the wolves from the High Mountain tear apart the sheep of the plains!"
A burst of excited roars erupted in the camp, the strange howls sounding like forty hungry bears finally catching the scent of prey.
For the Burning Men Tribe, being surrounded by two hundred non-iron-clad Plainsmen was not a desperate situation, but a feast where they could freely harvest the lives of weak Plainsmen.
They showed no fear of the impending battle, even carrying a sense of anticipation for it.
Because in their eyes, these Plainsmen of the Riverlands were not true warriors at all.
Just a bunch of sheep without even iron armor! Waiting to be torn apart by the wolves from the High Mountain!
They firmly believed that forty warriors from the Burning Men Tribe were enough to make two hundred Plainsmen without iron armor cry and flee.
This was just a small problem in their looting process; kill them all, then continue to loot the next Plainsmen village.
The night passed with the High Mountain Clan Burning Men Tribe warriors mocking the Plainsmen and anticipating the upcoming battle.
They did not sleep peacefully; their wild instincts kept them vigilant!
At the break of dawn.
The Burning Men Tribe warriors awoke almost simultaneously.
Without extra words, they quickly picked up their respective weapons: longswords, axes, spears, and wooden clubs with spikes.
Time was precious; every moment of delay meant one less share of looted spoils for their tribe!
Over forty Burning Men Tribe warriors let out a loud battle cry, following Walker, son of Negoti as they charged towards the village exit.
They expected to see the panicked expressions of the Plainsmen soldiers, anticipated the splattering of flesh and blood during the slaughter, and the desperate screams of those cowards.
Until...
Walker, son of Negoti's bewildered face roared loudly: "What's going on! What happened?!"
Before them was an hastily dug trench, not deep, but impassable, preventing them from attacking the Plainsmen.
They would have to step into it, facing the situation of being attacked from above by the Plainsmen.
And even if they crossed the trench, behind it was a crooked but tightly connected row of wooden palisades, covered with countless wooden spikes!
Behind these palisades stood rows of Plainsmen warriors.
They showed no sign of the expected panic; instead, their ranks were neat, with over a dozen archers standing in the first row, arrows already nocked on their bowstrings.
As soon as they entered firing range, they would release their arrows!
The spearmen stood in the second row, their formation tight!
The Burning Men Tribe warriors stood at the village entrance, their shadows cast by the sun, but they were all frozen in place.
They stared wide-eyed at the trench and palisade before them, then at the Plainsmen waiting in formation behind, their minds seemingly blank and confused.