The Burned Men

The smoke from the burning pyre drifted through the air, mingling with the smell of charred wood and congealed blood.

The village was deserted. Now, only silence and flames remained.

More than a dozen villagers' bodies—men and women alike—lay mutilated on the ground, their eyes wide open.

They had died with their eyes unclosed!

The doors and windows of the houses had been smashed apart by weapons. All the furniture had been destroyed, leaving nothing but ruins.

The barn door had been hacked open with an axe. Golden grain lay scattered across the ground, trampled into the dirt and footprints.

More than forty warriors of the Mountain Clans' Burned Men, dressed in furs and reeking of flames, charred wood, and blood,

were huddled inside, resting.

They had lit fires among the ruins, roasting poultry looted from the village and gnawing on half-cooked meat.

Some ran their hands over their knives and axes, while others counted their spoils.

Most had terrifying scars on their faces and bodies from being burned by flames. These were proof of their adulthood.

The scars made them look like monsters to the Flatlanders, but to the warriors themselves, they were symbols of courage.

A warrior with nothing but burn marks where his left ear should have been muttered as he hung a freshly packed bag of loot on his short, scrawny horse, which looked like a goat.

"A fine haul. Enough to keep Walker, Son of Nego warm through several winters up in the mountains."

His companion grinned, baring teeth black as charcoal. "Those Flatlanders know nothing but how to hide in their stone houses and cry!"

"They don't deserve all this fine stuff!"

They had already plundered several villages and killed hundreds of Flatlanders.

Just as they were enjoying their brief rest and the satisfaction of a successful raid, a figure stumbled in.

The Burned Men warriors knew him.

A coward from the Burned Men, a small-framed warrior who had only dared to burn off the little toe on his right foot.

"What's wrong, Val, Son of Nango? Did the corpses of the Flatlanders scare you?" one warrior jeered.

Val, Son of Nango, ignored him. His voice warped with urgency. "There are people! Armed Flatlanders! A huge group of armed Flatlanders!"

All the Burned Men warriors fell silent and looked toward the warrior with nothing but burn marks where his left ear should have been.

"Walker, Son of Nego wants to know how many!" He picked up his axe and asked.

Val answered nervously, "There must be two hundred! They've blockaded the village! They're all armed and wearing armor!"

The village had been built in a strategic position, with a cliff on the left and a river on the right. There was only one way out.

Walker, Son of Nego, rose to his feet and motioned for everyone to gather around. There were even women among the Burned Men warriors.

They were going to hold a meeting and discuss what to do.

The Mountain Clans had a strange custom: they believed everyone in the tribe had the right to voice their opinions at meetings, even the women.

This made the tribes inefficient, and unable to pose a real threat to the Vale.

Walker, Son of Nego, waved his axe and looked at Val. "Do the Flatlanders have riders wearing iron?"

The people of the Mountain Clans were haunted by the knights from the valley below.

"No!" Val lowered his head, ashamed of his panic. "They don't even have iron!"

After a brief silence, the warriors sitting together burst into laughter. Two hundred Flatlanders on foot, without iron.

Walker, Son of Nego laughed loudly. "So two hundred soft little sheep want to devour Walker, Son of Nego!"

A burly warrior laughed, wiping his face with a greasy hand that had just roasted meat.

"We're not even afraid of Flatlanders wearing iron! What do they think they can do? Hahaha!"

The Burned Men warriors all began talking at once.

"Last time I fought a Flatlander warrior, he was so afraid of getting dirt on himself that he cried and begged me to spare him!"

"Do the Flatlander warriors think having more men will help? Hahaha!"

"The Flatlanders are so scared of the smell of blood, they piss their pants!"

"There are forty of us! We can charge out and kill every last one of them!"

It was less a discussion of tactics than a group mockery of the Flatlanders and a chance to boast about their own valor.

As far as they were concerned, they feared only riders wearing iron. Even Iron-skins were opponents they could take on, let alone people who didn't even have iron!

They believed that no matter how many Flatlanders there were, their numbers couldn't make up for their weakness and fear of battle. That was why they wore iron, just as they lived in stone houses.

The Flatlanders lived in the peaceful, prosperous lowlands. They had never experienced the brutal struggle for survival of the mountain tribes, so their bodies and wills were as weak as untempered iron.

Walker, Son of Nego, who had no ears, looked at his warriors, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.

This was how Burned Men warriors ought to be.

He raised a hand burned black as charcoal and waved it in the air.

He roared, drowning out the noisy discussion. "You're right! They're Flatlanders!"

"They don't know what real battle is! They don't know what real courage is!"

He looked around. Every Burned Men warrior gazed back at him expectantly.

Walker, Son of Nego, raised his axe. He would answer the hopes of his Burned Men warriors!

"Walker, Son of Nego won't hide! Walker, Son of Nego won't run! Because we are the Burned Men!"

"The cliffs of the High Mountains are our home! The harsh land made us what we are! It made us as cold and merciless as the mountain winds!"

"The Flatlanders want to surround and destroy us!"

"Good! At dawn tomorrow, we charge out!"

"Let the Flatlanders see how the wolves from the mountains tear the sheep of the lowlands to pieces!"

Excited roars rang out through the camp. Their strange cries sounded like forty hungry wild bears finally catching the scent of prey.

To the Burned Men, being surrounded by two hundred Flatlanders without iron wasn't a desperate situation. It was a feast where they could reap the lives of the weak Flatlanders to their hearts' content.

They had no fear of the coming battle. They even looked forward to it.

In their eyes, these Flatlanders from the Riverlands weren't real warriors at all.

They were just a flock of sheep without iron, waiting to be torn apart by wolves descending from the mountains!

They were convinced that forty brave men from the Burned Men could make two hundred Flatlanders without iron flee in tears.

This was just a minor obstacle in their looting. They would kill them all, then continue raiding the next Flatlander village.

The night passed with the Mountain Clans' Burned Men mocking the Flatlanders and eagerly anticipating the coming battle.

They slept fitfully, their wild instincts keeping them alert!

At daybreak,

the Burned Men warriors woke almost simultaneously.

Without wasting words, they quickly grabbed their weapons: swords, axes, spears, and spiked clubs.

Time was precious. Every moment's delay meant a smaller share of the loot for the other tribes!

More than forty Burned Men warriors let out loud battle cries and raced behind Walker, Son of Nego toward the village exit.

They looked forward to seeing the Flatlander soldiers' panicked faces, the spray of blood as they struck them down, and the desperate screams of those cowards.

Until—

Walker, Son of Nego's bewildered face gave way to a thunderous roar. "What's going on! What happened!"

Before them was a hastily dug ditch. It wasn't deep, but they couldn't cross it to attack the Flatlanders.

They would have to climb down into it, leaving themselves vulnerable to the Flatlanders attacking from above.

And even if they crossed the ditch, there was another barrier behind it: a row of crooked but tightly connected wooden fences, studded with countless spikes!

Behind those fences stood rank after rank of Flatlander warriors.

They weren't panicking as expected. Instead, their ranks were orderly. More than ten archers stood in the front row, arrows already nocked.

The moment the Burned Men entered range, they would loose their arrows!

The spearmen stood in the second row, their formation neat and disciplined!

The Burned Men warriors stood at the village entrance. The sunlight cast their shadows, but they were all frozen in place.

They stared wide-eyed at the ditch and fence, then at the Flatlanders standing ready behind them. Their minds seemed utterly blank.