The heavy bounty Solomon had promised back at the camp was now producing its most direct and savage effect.
A Burned Man warrior swung his spiked club, smashing a Lowlander soldier who had charged too recklessly to the ground. Before the clansman could even catch his breath, three more soldiers, eyes bloodshot with greed, threw themselves at him.
Spears, swords, and hatchets stabbed and hacked at his body without hesitation.
The warrior valiantly parried a sword strike, but a second spear pierced his lower abdomen. He screamed, his movements faltering.
Instantly, a third soldier's hand axe chopped hard into his neck.
The axe wasn't sharp enough to decapitate him in one blow; it wedged in the bone, blood spraying out in a geyser.
"I got him! I got him! I killed a savage!" the soldier who struck the neck screamed in ecstasy.
He was immediately shoved aside by his own comrades as more men surged toward the next target.
The seven ambushers were instantly drowned by a tide of blood-crazed, avaricious soldiers. Perhaps their individual combat skills were superior, but surrounded by twenty times their number—men who fought with no regard for their own lives—they could only swing their weapons in vain before being stabbed, hacked, and chopped to pieces.
The Burned Men could not understand it. Why had these usually weak, cowardly Lowlanders suddenly become so mad, so bloody-minded?
Solomon paid no attention to the chaotic melee.
The Mountain Clans called themselves the Free Folk. Yet their "freedom" consisted of robbing and slaughtering Lowlanders year after year, day after day. They dared not challenge the men in steel plate or the knights on tall horses. Instead, they preyed on the peasants who barely scraped a living from the soil. They burned their crops, torched their villages, and stole their wives and property.
They were used to hiding in the forests and mountain passes, launching sudden raids that turned defenseless commoners into ghosts under their blades. Their swords only knew the necks of the weak.
Yet now, when someone returned the favor in kind, they suddenly remembered to cry about "insidious" and "shameless" tactics.
Solomon's attention was entirely focused on the final enemy—the one hidden deepest in the shadows.
He intended to give the Burned Men the ultimate despair.
Suddenly, a black shadow erupted from a patch of ground that looked no different from the rest of the earth. Like a shadowcat on the hunt—silent, yet terrifyingly fast!
Val son of Nango! The greatest ambush hunter of the Mountain Clans!
Vok's plan had been simple. The tormented companions in the barn, Vok himself, and the seven warriors—they were all part of the plan. They were all sacrifices.
They were bait to draw the soldiers away from Solomon. But Val... Val was the killing blow.
Val had lain in wait, patient as stone, for the moment the commander's attention was diverted. Now, he launched his fatal strike.
Val was fast. His short sword was gripped tight in his hand. Just as he had ambushed countless animals, he thrust directly for the throat of the man on the white horse!
He could almost see the look of shock on Solomon's face.
Success!
However, in the next instant, the wild joy in Val's eyes froze.
He did not see shock on the young man's face.
He saw... a trace of a mocking smile.
A flash of sword light. A cold glint that blinked into existence. It was impossibly fast.
Shing! The sound of a blade leaving its sheath.
Val felt a massive force slam into his arm.
His severed arm and his short sword flew through the air together.
"Ahhhhhhh!" Val let out a wailing cry of agony.
His right arm, the one holding the blade, had been chopped clean off at the shoulder! Blood gushed like a fountain.
Solomon flicked the blood from his blade, his expression blank. He made no further move.
In his eyes, Val's movements had been pitifully slow.
"Hah... hah..." The pain nearly made Val faint.
But he bit down hard on the tip of his tongue, the sharp pain granting him a moment of clarity. With his remaining left hand, he pulled a small bone dagger from his waist.
His eyes shone with the light of madness and despair. Like a trapped beast, he roared and lunged at Solomon again!
"Die! Lowlander!"
Solomon didn't even step back. He simply flicked his wrist.
A cold light flashed past. A white line cut across Val's vision.
Val's forward momentum came to an abrupt halt. His head flew high into the air, the ferocious expression still frozen on his face.
In that final instant, countless images flashed through Val's mind.
He remembered his coming-of-age ceremony, where he had only dared to burn off the little toe of his right foot. He remembered the ridicule of his clansmen, the disappointed looks of his parents.
He had always yearned to prove himself, to be a true warrior. He wanted to burn out his eye, cut off his ear like the others. But every time he held the red-hot iron, the instinct of his body, the fear, made him recoil.
But he craved acceptance. So, he honed his hunting skills every single day. He could lie buried in the snow for a day and a night without moving just to ambush a single prey. None of his clansmen could do that!
Yet, no matter how much game he brought back, no matter how dangerous the beast, his father, mother, and tribe still looked down on him. They believed that only those who raided the Lowlands and stole women were "real men."
But he never understood... why rob the Lowlanders who farmed the earth?
They just worked the soil, trading sweat for harvest, building houses to ward off the snow. They threatened no one. They provoked no one. They just... lived there.
They clawed food from the barren earth with their hands, struggling to survive just as he struggled in the snow. Why rob them?
Finally, he thought: Perhaps now, I have become the warrior my parents spoke of.
But... I don't want to be a warrior anymore. I want to go back to the high mountains.
To live alone. To hunt alone.
To leave the tribe and be a true Free Man.
But now, it was all over.
His headless body staggered forward three steps before collapsing into the dirt.
Meanwhile, the sounds of killing from the direction of the barn were beginning to fade.
Vok son of Nagga, covered in blood, looked toward Solomon in disbelief.
He had never imagined—had never even considered the possibility—that this young man, who looked so frail by tribal standards, was this strong.
He was too fast. It had ended in a blink. If Vok had been the one attacking, unprepared, he likely would have been cut down by that sword as well!
The predator on this battlefield wasn't Val. It was the Lowlander!
The soldiers were acting like madmen, shoving each other just to snatch the corpses of his fallen kin.
A trace of sorrow for his people flashed through Vok's eyes, quickly replaced by boundless rage.
"Kill!" "Kill!" "Kill!"
He let out a beast-like roar, raised his battle axe high, and led the few remaining clansmen in a suicide charge toward Solomon!
They were the Wolves of the Mountains. They would rather die in battle than surrender!
Solomon watched them come with cold indifference.
Lushen had already flanked from the barn, merging his squad with Solomon's personal guard.
"Form ranks!" "Spears up!" "Protect Lord Solomon!" Lushen shouted, raising a fist covered in gore.
The soldiers quickly formed several rows in front of Solomon. The forest of spears stood erect, a wall of death.
Vok saw the young Lowlander calmly begin to wipe his sword with a cloth. His eyes were on his blade, as if nothing else on the battlefield was worth his attention.
The Burned Men were brave. Each one fought with the strength of three, fearing no death.
However, they were facing a pack of "Bloody Mad Dogs" whose ferocity had been completely unleashed by ambition, greed, and lust!
A Burned Man smashed a soldier's skull with his hammer, only to immediately have two spears thrust into his gut. He roared, trying to snap the spear shafts, trying to strike back, but an arrow slammed into his eye, piercing through to the brain!
Vok swung his axe with all his might, but his tribesmen fell one by one.
He saw a young warrior dragged to the ground by three or four soldiers. The soldiers fought over the body, hacking it to pieces in their frenzy to claim a limb.
He saw a kinsman bite a soldier's arm, locking his jaw in a death grip, only to have the back of his head smashed in by a hatchet.
In this moment, Vok finally understood.
They were indeed the Wolves of the Mountains—fierce and strong.
But these Lowlanders... these creatures they viewed as sheep... they were a pack of hunting dogs. Countless, fearless, and relentless.
A wolf, no matter how fierce, cannot defeat a pack of hounds.
Shhhk!
A sword pierced his chest from behind.
Vok looked down slowly, staring at the bloody point protruding from his chest.
He felt his strength draining away. His body was turning cold.
Countless figures swarmed over him, drowning out his final view of the world.
He felt the weight of men piling on top of him. Their weapons hacked and sawed at his body.
He didn't know why they were doing this.
Until he heard it.
The last thing he heard while he still had consciousness.
"I got the head! It's Tommen! Tommen got the head!"
The voice was filled with ecstatic joy.