The thunder of hooves faded slowly into the mountains.
For several heartbeats no one moved.
The road was suddenly quiet again, as if the violence that had just erupted there had been swallowed by the vast stone walls of the pass. Only the wind remained, moving between the cliffs and carrying with it the sharp smell of blood and iron.
One of the Painted Dogs warriors spat onto the road.
"Two escaped."
Another warrior kicked the body of a fallen guard onto its back.
"They will ride hard."
Harrag wiped the edge of his axe against the dead knight's cloak and looked down the road where the riders had disappeared.
"They will ride," he agreed. "But they will not return today."
That was enough for now.
He turned back toward the road.
"Strip them."
The warriors moved immediately.
Mountain clans wasted nothing.
Two men dragged the knight's body away from the crushed packhorse while another pulled at the straps of the heavy armor. The dead man's helm came free first, revealing a pale face smeared with blood where Harrag's axe had crushed the steel inward.
One of the younger warriors whistled quietly.
"Royce steel."
Torren stepped closer.
The bronze rune of House Royce was carved across the knight's breastplate, scratched now where Harrag's axe had struck.
Harrag crouched beside the body and began unfastening the leather straps that held the armor in place.
"Careful," he said. "Do not bend the plates."
Two warriors lifted the body slightly while Harrag worked the armor loose piece by piece. The metal was heavy but valuable beyond measure to the clans.
"Good iron," one of them muttered.
Torren moved past them and looked toward the guard he had killed.
The man lay where he had fallen, his broken spear beside him. Blood had dried dark across the stones beneath his neck.
Torren crouched beside the corpse.
For a moment he simply looked.
Inside his mind the calm voice spoke quietly.
First confirmed kill.
Torren said nothing.
He reached down and pulled the guard's short sword free from its sheath. The weapon was plain compared to the knight's steel but still far better than most stone blades the clans had once used.
He tested the balance once in his hand.
Not bad.
He slid the weapon through his belt.
Nearby, the warriors had managed to free the knight's breastplate. Another man began cutting the leather straps from the corpse's arm guards while someone else dragged the fallen guard's shield toward the pile of gathered weapons.
"Take the boots too," one warrior said.
"They fit you?"
"They fit someone."
Nothing was wasted.
Two men moved toward the packhorses next.
One of the animals had been crushed beneath the falling stone, its body twisted awkwardly against the cliff wall. The other horse still stood trembling nearby, its reins tangled against the rocks.
The warriors calmed it quickly.
Then they began cutting open the crates strapped across the saddle.
The first crate split open beneath an axe.
Iron spilled out.
Spearheads.
Dozens of them.
A low murmur spread among the Painted Dogs.
"Gods."
Another crate followed.
Arrowheads.
Hundreds.
The warriors stared.
Iron meant power in the mountains.
Stone weapons shattered against knight armor. Flint blades chipped and cracked during hard fights. But iron held.
Iron could turn a clan.
One of the older warriors lifted a spearhead and turned it in the sunlight.
"This could arm half the young hunters."
Another man laughed.
"Or half the Stone Crows if they hear about it."
Harrag looked over the crates slowly.
"Not today."
More bundles were opened.
A stack of iron axe heads wrapped in leather.
Small bars of worked metal ready for a smith's hammer.
Torren stepped closer.
He had never seen so much iron gathered in one place.
Inside his mind the calm voice spoke again.
Strategic resource acquisition successful.
Torren ignored the words.
He was watching his father.
Harrag stood over the crates with the other warriors, silent for a moment.
Then he said simply:
"We carry what we can."
One of the younger men grinned.
"Everything?"
"Everything that moves."
The warriors laughed.
They began dividing the weight between them, tying bundles of spearheads together and wrapping iron bars in cloth strips taken from the dead guards' packs.
One man struggled to lift a crate.
Another slapped his shoulder.
"You wanted iron."
"Not this much."
Torren turned as a sound reached him from above.
Footsteps.
Many.
Hands moved to weapons instantly.
The Painted Dogs warriors looked up toward the ridge.
Figures emerged between the rocks.
Fifteen men descended the slope.
Stone Crows.
They moved easily across the broken terrain, carrying spears and axes as they climbed down toward the road. Their leader stepped forward once they reached the bottom of the slope.
Rulf of the Stone Crows.
A tall man with a scar across his nose and a cloak of dark crow feathers across his shoulders.
He looked at the bodies.
Then at the opened crates.
Then at the pile of iron weapons.
Rulf let out a long breath.
"Well."
One of the Painted Dogs warriors snorted.
"You walk slow."
Rulf grinned slightly.
"Or you kill fast."
He stepped closer to the fallen knight and nudged the corpse with his boot.
"Royce."
Harrag nodded.
"From the Gate."
Rulf looked down the road where the riders had escaped.
"Two gone?"
"Yes."
Rulf shrugged.
"Then the Vale will hear of this."
He crouched beside one of the crates and picked up an iron spearhead.
For a moment he turned it in the light.
Then he looked up at Harrag again.
"You have more iron now."
Harrag's voice remained calm.
"The mountains reward those who climb first."
A few of the Stone Crows warriors exchanged glances.
Some of them carried iron weapons.
Others still held stone blades strapped to their belts.
Rulf noticed.
He stood and looked across the gathered crates.
"This will change your hunts."
"Perhaps," Harrag said.
Rulf's eyes moved across the warriors.
Then they stopped on Torren.
The pale boy stood slightly apart from the others, the streaks of dried red sap beneath his eyes dark against his skin.
Rulf studied him.
"That the pale one?"
Harrag followed his gaze.
"My son."
Rulf tilted his head slightly.
"He looks like something that stepped out of a weirwood."
A few of the Stone Crows chuckled quietly.
Torren did not react.
Inside his mind the calm voice whispered.
Observation: attention from allied clan.
Torren ignored it.
He turned his gaze back toward the road.
Far below the pass the High Road wound through the mountains toward the Vale.
The riders who had escaped would reach help eventually.
But not today.
Not before the Painted Dogs vanished back into the stone.