The return of the raiders turned the valley into a place of firelight and noise.
By the time the sun dipped behind the western peaks, several great fires had been built in the center of the Painted Dogs camp. Warriors dragged fallen logs into the flames and sat around them with meat in their hands and blood still drying on their sleeves. The smell of roasting goat and smoke drifted through the cold mountain air, mixing with leather, sweat, and pine.
The raid had gone well.
That was clear from the size of the plunder piled in the center of the clearing.
Sacks of grain lay stacked beside bundles of cloth taken from farmhouses below the mountains. A pair of wooden chests had been cracked open to reveal scattered silver coins and a few pieces of jewelry. Cooking pots, tools, and knives lay in separate piles as the clan began sorting what belonged to everyone and what would be divided among the raiders.
Nearly sixty warriors had returned.
They sat now in a wide circle around the largest fire while the rest of the camp gathered behind them. Women watched from the edges of the clearing, children peering between their arms to see the spoils of the raid.
Torren stood near the back of the crowd, his pale face glowing faintly in the firelight as he watched.
At the center of the clearing stood Rorga, the chief of the Painted Dogs.
The old warrior rested both hands on the head of his axe while he looked down at the plunder. Bone rings braided into his beard clinked softly as he moved. His torn ear caught the firelight, casting a jagged shadow across his cheek.
When he spoke, the warriors fell silent.
"This raid fed us," Rorga said in the Old Tongue.
Several men nodded.
"We took grain first," he continued, gesturing toward the stacked sacks. "Food belongs to the clan."
No one argued with that.
Food was never divided among individuals. It kept everyone alive.
Rorga nudged one of the opened chests with his boot.
"Silver is different."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Rorga lifted a handful of coins and let them fall back into the chest with a metallic clatter.
"Harrag's band found the farms first," he said. "They fought the road guards. They take first share."
One of the younger warriors stepped forward immediately.
"That's too much," he said.
The clearing grew quiet again.
Torren leaned slightly forward to watch.
The young man who had spoken was strong and broad-shouldered, his face still flushed with excitement from the raid. His axe rested loosely against his thigh.
"We all bled," the warrior continued. "We should take equal share."
A few others behind him shifted uncertainly.
Rorga did not raise his voice.
He simply looked at the man.
"That is true," the chief said calmly. "You all fought."
Then he drove the haft of his axe into the dirt beside the chest.
"But I decide."
The words landed heavily in the clearing.
The younger warrior held his gaze for another moment, then slowly stepped back.
Torren watched the exchange carefully.
Leadership through authority and reputation, the calm voice in his mind observed.
Rorga continued dividing the spoils.
"Harrag's band takes one third. The rest divides among the others."
Now the murmurs were approving.
Warriors stepped forward one by one to claim their shares. Pouches of silver were handed out. Jewelry passed from hand to hand. Cloth and tools were distributed to those who had fought.
Torren noticed Harrag standing near the edge of the firelight.
His father waited calmly until Rorga gestured for him.
When Harrag stepped forward, he took only a few items: a pouch of silver coins, a well-made pair of riding gloves taken from the raid, and a short iron knife.
Then he turned and handed the gloves to one of the younger warriors beside him.
"Your hands froze last winter," Harrag said simply.
The man blinked in surprise before accepting them.
Torren felt a quiet swell of pride.
His father was not the clan chief.
But men respected him.
Near the edge of the clearing stood the prisoners.
Three women and one man.
The women had already been untied from their ropes, though their wrists were still loosely bound. Several of the older women of the clan were leading them toward the shelters, speaking in slow, careful tones.
They used the Common Tongue.
The captives did not understand the Old Tongue spoken by the Painted Dogs.
The male prisoner remained tied to a wooden post near the outer edge of the firelight.
Edwyn Redfort.
His hands were bound behind his back, and two warriors sat nearby sharpening blades while they watched him.
Torren studied him.
The young knight's clothes were stained with dirt from the mountain trails, but the quality remained obvious. His cloak clasp bore the small red fortress sigil of House Redfort.
Edwyn was watching the camp carefully.
Trying to understand.
Trying to measure the people who had taken him.
Torren stepped closer.
One of the guards noticed immediately.
"Careful, Red Eyes," the warrior said lazily in the Old Tongue. "This one spits."
Torren shrugged.
The second guard chuckled.
"Let the boy try," he said. "Maybe the little lord tells him where the gold is."
Torren crouched near the post.
Edwyn's eyes shifted toward him instantly.
For a moment neither spoke.
Torren searched for the words he had learned from other captives over the years. The Common Tongue always felt awkward on his tongue, like wearing someone else's boots.
"You… road rider?" he asked slowly.
Edwyn blinked.
"You speak Common?"
Torren shrugged slightly.
"Little."
The knight leaned forward as far as the rope allowed.
"Untie me."
Torren shook his head.
"No."
Edwyn studied him carefully now.
"You're making a mistake."
Torren ignored the threat.
"You ride road," he said slowly. "Why?"
The knight frowned.
"You ambushed us."
Torren understood only part of that sentence.
"You go… where?"
Edwyn hesitated.
"I was traveling to Gulltown."
Torren tilted his head slightly.
Inside his mind, the calm voice answered immediately.
False.
Torren kept his face neutral.
"You lie."
The knight stiffened.
Torren tried again.
"You come… hunt?"
Edwyn's eyes narrowed.
"You think I was hunting you?"
Torren did not answer.
Edwyn lowered his voice slightly.
"My father sent riders looking for raiders on the High Road."
Torren absorbed the words carefully.
The voice inside his mind spoke again.
Statement consistent with known Vale response patterns.
Torren nodded faintly.
Edwyn continued.
"You killed my guards."
Torren shrugged.
"Raid."
For a moment the knight simply stared at him.
Then he spoke again.
"You're not like them."
Torren frowned.
"Why?"
"You speak."
Torren understood enough to recognize the attempt.
The knight was trying to connect with him.
Subject attempting rapport, the voice noted.
Torren leaned slightly closer.
"You afraid."
Edwyn's jaw tightened.
"No."
The voice spoke again.
Elevated pulse. Subject displays fear.
Torren smiled faintly.
"Yes."
Behind them, laughter erupted near the fire as another pouch of silver was opened.
Edwyn watched the strange pale boy carefully now.
"They'll ransom me," he said finally.
Torren considered that.
"Maybe."
Edwyn frowned.
"If they're smart."
Torren glanced briefly toward Harrag across the clearing.
Then he looked back at the knight.
"You… wait."
"For what?"
Torren did not answer.
He stood and walked back toward the fires.
Behind him, the young knight of House Redfort watched the pale child disappear into the crowd of mountain warriors.
For the first time since his capture, Edwyn Redfort felt a quiet uncertainty settle in his mind.
And above the valley, unseen in the darkness, a golden eagle drifted through the cold mountain wind.