Torches were already burning when the Painted Dogs returned to their valley.
The sun had begun its slow descent behind the jagged peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, casting long shadows across the camp as the warriors emerged one by one from the high paths above the valley. Children were the first to notice them. A shout rose from the lower shelters, and within moments half the camp had turned toward the slope where the raiders descended.
Hokor saw them before most.
He had been sitting on a rock near the outer edge of the camp, carving something useless and crooked into a stick with a dull knife when the first figures appeared between the pines. The moment he recognized the shape of the returning warriors he sprang to his feet.
"They're back!"
He ran before anyone could stop him.
By the time the Painted Dogs reached the edge of the camp, Hokor had already pushed his way through the gathering crowd and was halfway up the slope toward them. His eyes moved frantically across the returning men until they found Torren.
The boy—no, not a boy anymore—stood among the warriors with a bundle of iron strapped across his shoulders and both axes hanging at his back.
Hokor skidded to a stop in front of him.
"You lived."
Torren looked down at his younger brother.
"Yes."
Hokor's eyes immediately dropped to the iron bundle.
"Is that iron?"
Torren shifted the weight on his shoulder slightly.
"Yes."
Hokor stared at it as if it were treasure from some forgotten kingdom.
"Did you kill someone?"
Torren hesitated only a moment.
"Yes."
Hokor's face broke into something between awe and pride.
"I knew it."
Behind them, the rest of the Painted Dogs began spilling into the camp. Bundles of iron were lowered to the ground, shields tossed into piles, and the stripped armor of the Royce knight drew immediate attention from the older warriors who had not joined the raid.
A low murmur spread through the camp.
Iron.
More iron than most of them had seen gathered in one place.
One of the older hunters lifted a spearhead and turned it carefully in his hands.
"From the Gate?"
Harrag nodded once.
"Royce riders."
That caused the murmuring to grow.
Even the children quieted slightly at the name.
Before the noise could swell further, a voice rose above the crowd.
"Bring it forward."
The clan leader had emerged from his shelter.
He was an old man now.
Torren remembered him as a giant when he was a child, but age had taken much from him. His back bent slightly when he walked, and his hair had gone completely white. The fur cloak across his shoulders hung heavier than it once had.
But he was still the chief of the Painted Dogs.
The warriors carried the iron toward the central fire.
The entire clan gathered around the growing pile.
Spearheads.
Arrowheads.
Iron bars.
Axe heads.
And the dented armor of the fallen Royce knight.
The old chief studied the pile in silence for a long moment.
Then he raised his hand.
"Listen."
The murmuring faded.
"This iron belongs to the clan."
No one argued with that.
Mountain clans lived or died together.
The chief pointed to the bundles of spearheads.
"These go to the hunters first."
He gestured to the arrowheads next.
"These to the archers."
The iron bars were set aside separately.
"These will be kept for trade."
Torren watched carefully as the distribution continued.
Most warriors accepted the decisions quietly, but he noticed the subtle glances that passed between some of the younger fighters. The chief's voice lacked the strength it once had. Twice Harrag had to repeat parts of the decision so those standing further away could hear.
The authority was still there.
But thinner now.
When the armor of the Royce knight was lifted, several men leaned closer.
Good steel.
Rare.
The chief looked at it for a moment before speaking again.
"This goes to the man who struck the killing blow."
Several heads turned.
Harrag said nothing.
The chief nodded.
"Harrag."
There was no argument.
The armor was carried toward him.
The sharing continued until the pile of iron had been divided into practical bundles. When it was finished, the camp slowly began to disperse again as warriors carried their shares back toward their shelters.
Night came quickly in the mountains.
By the time the fires burned bright again, the valley had settled into its usual rhythm. Meat roasted over open flames, children chased one another between the shadows, and the sounds of quiet conversation drifted through the camp.
Torren sat near the edge of the firelight sharpening the edge of one of his axes.
Hokor sat beside him, still watching the weapon with admiration.
"You hit the knight too?"
Torren nodded.
Hokor leaned closer.
"Did he scream?"
"Yes."
Hokor grinned.
"I want to see a knight."
"You will."
"When?"
"When you are older."
Hokor scowled slightly but said nothing.
The fire cracked softly.
Then a quiet voice spoke behind Torren.
"The trees are restless tonight."
Torren looked up.
The Tree Speaker stood at the edge of the firelight.
He looked much the same as he always had.
His cloak was woven from bark-colored cloth and small pieces of bone, and the long carved staff in his hand was etched with the twisting shapes of roots and branches. His face seemed older than the mountains themselves.
His eyes rested on Torren.
"You walked the road of blood today."
Torren did not answer.
The Tree Speaker turned and began walking toward the dark edge of the valley.
"Come."
Torren stood.
Hokor looked up at him immediately.
"Where are you going?"
Torren glanced toward the retreating figure.
"The grove."
Hokor's eyes widened slightly.
"The Weeping Grove?"
Torren nodded.
Hokor watched him go with open curiosity.
The path to the grove was quiet.
Torren followed the Tree Speaker through the trees until the white shape of the weirwood emerged between the dark trunks of the surrounding forest.
The Weeping Grove.
The pale tree stood alone at the center of the clearing, its bark white as bone and its leaves deep red in the moonlight. The carved face in its trunk seemed to watch everything that entered the grove.
Torren had stood here many times before.
But tonight felt different.
The Tree Speaker stopped beside the weirwood.
"The blood you spilled today has woken something."
Torren said nothing.
The Tree Speaker placed a thin hand against the bark of the tree.
"The Old Gods listen through these roots."
He stepped back slightly.
"Touch it."
Torren approached the weirwood slowly.
Inside his mind the calm voice spoke.
Unknown neural resonance detected.
Torren ignored it.
He placed his hand against the pale bark.
The world vanished.
For a moment there was only darkness.
Then the vision came.
He stood in a vast forest beneath a sky of grey clouds. Weirwood trees stretched endlessly across the land, their red leaves moving like blood in the wind.
Then the forest began to burn.
Flames consumed the trees.
Iron swords flashed in the hands of armored warriors as the forest fell.
But the vision did not stop there.
The fire faded.
The land changed.
Stone towers rose where the forests once stood.
Great castles.
High walls.
Then the sky darkened.
Snow fell across the mountains.
Torren saw the Mountains of the Moon again.
But something was different.
The ridges were filled with warriors.
Thousands of them.
Painted faces.
Axes raised.
And above them all stood a single white tree growing from the highest peak.
Beneath it stood a figure with pale skin and red eyes.
Blood flowed down the trunk of the tree like sap.
The warriors knelt.
The vision shattered.
Torren gasped as the grove returned around him.
The Tree Speaker watched him quietly.
"What did you see?"
Torren stared at the weirwood.
The red leaves moved softly above them.
Finally he spoke.
"The mountains."
The Tree Speaker nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Torren looked up at him.
"The trees were watching."