Nine winters had passed since the Redfort knight rode away from the mountains with his life bought by silver and iron.
Winter had come and gone many times since then, and the valley of the Painted Dogs had changed with each passing year. The shelters were larger now, the camp spread slightly wider along the lower slope, and the sound of iron striking stone had become more common. Where once many warriors had carried flint blades and chipped spearheads, dull grey iron now glinted in the firelight of the camp.
Torren stood on the ridge above the valley.
He had stood there as a child many times before, but the world looked different now that he was fifteen winters old. The mountains seemed smaller than they once had, and the valley below felt more like something he belonged to rather than something that towered above him.
He had grown tall.
Years of climbing stone, hunting through narrow ridges, and training with Harrag had shaped his body into something lean and strong. His shoulders were broad, his arms hardened by the constant use of axe and spear, and his movements had the quiet balance of someone who understood the mountains well.
His skin remained pale as snow.
His head was shaved clean in the manner of many Painted Dogs warriors, though the white stubble that returned after each shave made him stand out even more among the darker mountain men. His eyes were still red, the strange color that had frightened lowlanders and unsettled even some of the clans when he had been a child.
Below them, faint streaks of dried crimson ran from beneath his eyes down across his cheeks.
Weirwood sap.
Painted Dogs warriors had always painted their faces before raids, but Torren had made the ritual his own. Thin lines of red beneath his eyes made it appear as though the pale boy of the mountains cried blood.
Some believed the Old Gods had marked him.
Others simply believed he was strange.
Torren crouched slightly on the ridge and looked down toward the camp.
Smoke rose slowly from the morning fires. Children ran between the shelters, shouting as they chased one another through the frost-covered grass. Warriors moved between the tents carrying axes, spears, and bundles of supplies.
Inside Torren's mind, the familiar calm voice spoke.
Wind direction stable.
Torren nodded slightly.
The voice had been with him for years now. What had once terrified him as a small child had become something closer to instinct. It spoke rarely, and when it did there was usually reason.
Torren stood and began climbing down the slope toward the camp.
The valley had changed during the years since the Redfort ransom.
Iron had slowly begun replacing stone among the Painted Dogs. Spears now carried proper iron heads instead of chipped flint. Arrowheads no longer shattered against armor the way the old ones had.
Some of that iron had come from trade.
Some had come from raids.
And some had come after the first great change that had shaken the clans.
The Burned Men had left.
The split had begun slowly. At first it had been arguments around the fires after raids, complaints about the way the old chief divided iron weapons and spoils. Younger warriors had begun whispering that the clan leader had grown weak with age.
The old chief had once been a powerful warrior.
But time had worn him down.
His hair had turned completely white, and his shoulders stooped slightly when he walked. Some warriors still respected him for the battles he had won in his youth. Others had begun to question whether he could still lead the Painted Dogs in the years ahead.
Torren had heard those whispers often.
Everyone had.
Two winters ago the Burned Men had finally gathered their families, their weapons, and their supplies and left the valley entirely. Nearly twenty warriors had crossed the northern ridges to claim their own territory deeper in the Mountains of the Moon.
The separation had not turned into bloodshed, but it had weakened the Painted Dogs.
Fewer warriors meant fewer hunters.
Fewer hunters meant more pressure on those who remained.
Torren remembered watching their torches disappear into the mountains during the night they left.
Inside his mind, the voice had spoken calmly.
Clan fragmentation reduces long-term stability.
Torren had not needed the explanation.
He had already understood.
As he entered the camp, a small figure nearly ran directly into him.
The boy stopped just in time.
"Torren!"
Torren looked down.
Hokor.
Nine winters old now.
The boy's hair was dark like their mother's had been, and his eyes carried a constant restless energy that reminded Torren of himself as a child. Dirt streaked Hokor's face, and a small wooden spear was clutched tightly in his hand.
"You go raid today," Hokor said eagerly.
Torren nodded.
"Yes."
Hokor's eyes lit up immediately.
"I come too."
Torren shook his head.
"No."
Hokor scowled.
"I fight."
"You are nine."
"I throw spear."
"Poorly."
Hokor opened his mouth to argue again, but a deeper voice interrupted him.
"He stays."
Harrag stepped forward from behind one of the shelters.
The years had carved deeper lines into his face, but the strength in his body remained obvious. His beard had grown thicker and darker with streaks of grey beginning to show through it, and the large axe across his back looked as natural there as it had when Torren was a child.
Hokor looked up at him stubbornly.
"I can go."
Harrag shook his head.
"You watch the camp."
Hokor kicked a rock across the dirt.
"Not fair."
Torren said nothing.
He remembered feeling the same frustration years earlier.
Harrag placed a heavy hand briefly on Hokor's head before turning toward Torren.
"You ready?"
Torren nodded.
"Yes."
Harrag studied him for a moment.
Torren now carried two axes across his back. Their iron heads were worn smooth from years of practice against wooden targets and tree trunks. Harrag had trained him to fight with both hands since he was old enough to lift the weapons.
"Stay near me," Harrag said.
Torren nodded again.
Behind them Hokor crossed his arms angrily.
"I will go next time."
Torren glanced back at him.
"Train more."
Hokor glared but said nothing.
Torren followed Harrag toward the group of warriors gathering near the center of the camp.
The raid would be small.
Fifteen warriors in total.
Many of them were young men around Torren's age who were joining their first real raids. A few older fighters had come along to keep the younger ones from making fatal mistakes.
Torren moved among them quietly.
Some had trained beside him for years.
Others still watched him cautiously.
Albino skin.
Red eyes.
Weirwood tears.
He had grown used to their stares.
Inside his mind the calm voice spoke again.
Raid objective: merchant caravan.
Torren nodded slightly.
The target had been spotted the night before by watchers above the High Road. A small group of merchants traveling north through the mountains with only a few guards.
Easy prey.
Or so they had thought.
The warriors began climbing the ridge path toward the High Road.
Torren followed.
The wind grew stronger as they climbed higher through the narrow rock paths. Cold air moved between the peaks, carrying distant smells upward from the road far below.
Torren stopped briefly.
Then he closed his eyes.
Inside his mind he reached outward.
The connection came easily now.
The golden eagle soared high above the mountains, riding the cold air currents that moved between the peaks. Torren's awareness rose with the bird, and the world shifted as his sight spread across the valleys below.
The High Road stretched through the mountains like a pale scar.
Movement appeared ahead.
Torren focused.
Not four men.
More.
Eight.
Two of them wore armor that shone in the sunlight.
Knights.
Torren withdrew immediately.
His eyes opened.
"Da."
Harrag turned toward him.
"What?"
Torren spoke quietly.
"More men."
Harrag frowned.
"How many?"
Torren looked toward the road again.
"Eight."
The warriors stopped.
Harrag studied him carefully.
Torren did not explain how he knew.
He never did.
Harrag turned toward the others.
"Change plan," he said calmly.
The raid would not be as easy as they had expected.
But the Painted Dogs had not survived this long in the mountains by fearing difficult fights.
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Current political map of the mountain clans in the Vale (Look at the paragraph comments)