The mountain path was treacherous, sharp stones cutting into their boots.
Titt son of Titt 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 ant 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!"
Titt 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.
Titt looked at his column. It was a pathetic sight.
Wounded n 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.
"Titt son of Titt!" a warrior stumbled up to him, looking panicked.
"The Stone Crows and the Black Ears... they aren't with us!"
"So say they slipped away during the confusion at the siege!"
Titt'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!!!"
Titt threw the man to the ground. He scread at the sky, veins bulging on his forehead.
"Traitors!! Traitors!!"
Shagga and Chella had used him. They let the Burned n be the target, the distraction, while they slipped away with the plunder.
The Burned n had taken all the losses and gained nothing.
"How many are left?" Titt hissed.
"One hundred Burned n... maybe three hundred in total with the stragglers."
"Three hundred..." Titt 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 n.
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.
"Titt son of Titt! Ahead... Valley Lowlanders in iron skin are blocking the path!"
"They wear the sa colors as the ones who hired us!"
"How many?" Titt's eye flashed with murderous intent.
"Just four! On horses!"
Titt laughed. It was a sound of pure madness. They dared to show their faces?
"Capture them! Bring them to ! I will burn them alive!!"
The wildlings, desperate for an outlet for their rage, surged forward.
Monts later, four n in fine armor were dragged from their horses and thrown at Titt's feet.
"Titt son of Titt!" the leader shouted, trying to maintain dignity. "What is the aning of this?!"
"Fire!!" Titt sneered. "This is the price for lying to Titt son of Titt!"
The wildlings tied the four n 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 flas licked at his boots.
"Titt! rcy! rcy! You were tricked! We were all tricked!"
"Tricked?" Titt frowned. "Speak!"
The fire grew hotter. The n scread.
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 na is Solomon!!"
"He has three hundred n! Farrs! Peasants!!"
"There are no knights! No reinforcents! Just him!!"
Titt froze.
The wildlings froze.
The only sound in the forest was the crackle of the fire and the screams of the dying n.
Titt stood like a statue.
Sixteen years old.
Three hundred farrs.
He hadn't run from an army. He had run from a child.
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