The mountain path was treacherous, sharp stones cutting into their boots.
Timett son of Timett gasped for air, sweat and dust caking his face. His chest heaved violently, every breath a burning agony.
He had never been this terrified.
He dared not stop. The Lowlanders were tracking him, sticking to him like a shadow.
It meant one thing: the Lowland army didn't intend to let him go.
The Mountain Clans were born in these hills. They moved through forests and rocks better than anyone. Yet, a Lowland vanguard—at least a hundred strong—was matching their pace.
Whenever his tribe slowed down to rest, the "vanguard" would appear on their flanks, making noise, forcing them to run again.
They were being herded.
"Red Hand! Let the tribe rest!" a Burned Man rasped, his lips cracked and bleeding. "We can't go on!"
Timett spun around, his single eye wild like a cornered bear.
"Rest? You want the Lowlanders to catch us?!"
He roared, his voice cracking with hysteria. "They are right behind us! Like hounds! We can't shake them! We can't shake them!!"
He didn't understand how Lowlanders could move so fast in this terrain. It was unnatural.
Timett looked at his column. It was a pathetic sight.
Wounded men limped along. Heads hung low. To escape the "ghost army," they had abandoned all their loot at the castle.
They were wolves who hunted sheep. Now, the sheep were the hounds, and the wolves were running for their lives.
They had failed. Completely.
"Timett son of Timett!" a warrior stumbled up to him, looking panicked.
"The Stone Crows and the Black Ears... they aren't with us!"
"Some say they slipped away during the confusion at the siege!"
Timett's pupil shrank to a pinprick. He grabbed the warrior by his furs and lifted him off the ground.
"What did you say? Say it again!"
The warrior choked, feet dangling. "They left! Before we retreated! They took their loot and ran back to the mountains!"
"Cowards!! Traitors!!!"
Timett threw the man to the ground. He screamed at the sky, veins bulging on his forehead.
"Traitors!! Traitors!!"
Shagga and Chella had used him. They let the Burned Men be the target, the distraction, while they slipped away with the plunder.
The Burned Men had taken all the losses and gained nothing.
"How many are left?" Timett hissed.
"One hundred Burned Men... maybe three hundred in total with the stragglers."
"Three hundred..." Timett whispered.
He had led over a thousand warriors down the mountain. The greatest host in a generation.
Now, he was leading a funeral procession of broken men.
The humiliation was unbearable. He was the Red Hand. He had burned his own eye out to prove his fearlessness. How could he face the clan mothers?
"Arghhhhhhh!!!!"
His scream echoed through the mountains, scaring birds from the trees.
Suddenly, a scout ran back, face pale.
"Timett son of Timett! Ahead... Valley Lowlanders in iron skin are blocking the path!"
"They wear the same colors as the ones who hired us!"
"How many?" Timett's eye flashed with murderous intent.
"Just four! On horses!"
Timett laughed. It was a sound of pure madness. They dared to show their faces?
"Capture them! Bring them to me! I will burn them alive!!"
The wildlings, desperate for an outlet for their rage, surged forward.
Moments later, four men in fine armor were dragged from their horses and thrown at Timett's feet.
"Timett son of Timett!" the leader shouted, trying to maintain dignity. "What is the meaning of this?!"
"Fire!!" Timett sneered. "This is the price for lying to Timett son of Timett!"
The wildlings tied the four men to trees. Dry brush was piled high around their legs.
Torches were thrown.
Crackle.
"No! Don't burn us!" The leader broke, urine staining his expensive breeches. The flames licked at his boots.
"Timett! Mercy! Mercy! You were tricked! We were all tricked!"
"Tricked?" Timett frowned. "Speak!"
The fire grew hotter. The men screamed.
Desperate to buy a few more seconds of life, the leader shrieked the truth at the top of his lungs.
"The Riverlands sent no army!!"
"There is no great host!!"
"It was one boy! Sixteen years old!!"
"His name is Solomon!!"
"He has three hundred men! Farmers! Peasants!!"
"There are no knights! No reinforcements! Just him!!"
Timett froze.
The wildlings froze.
The only sound in the forest was the crackle of the fire and the screams of the dying men.
Timett stood like a statue.
Sixteen years old.
Three hundred farmers.
He hadn't run from an army. He had run from a child.
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