Rumors

Suleiman drew the Myr Sword Raymun Darry had given him.

The blade flashed coldly through the dim woods.

"Lushen! Sound the horn!"

"Soldiers! Follow me and kill!"

This was his first battlefield charge, but he was ready.

The remaining squad of Lushen's warriors.

Under Suleiman's command, they let out a thunderous battle cry.

They leapt from the dense woods and charged at the Burned Men, whose ranks were already in disarray.

Wildlings meant merit! Merit meant money! Time was of the essence!

Suleiman led the charge, weaving nimbly through the trees.

The sword in his hand struck like lightning, each swing aimed precisely at a vital spot.

His keen senses and extraordinary coordination, seemingly gifts of the fusion, were now on full display.

A wildling wielding a battle-axe roared and charged at him.

Suleiman shifted aside, easily dodging the forceful blow.

He brought his sword down, cleanly beheading the man.

Seeing their lord cut through the wildlings as if they were melons and vegetables, his soldiers were astounded by his valor.

"Is this for real? Lord Suleiman is incredible!" They were stunned for a moment.

Suleiman looked toward the rear of the wildling force.

Roslyn was leading her squad like a sharp blade, driving hard into the wildlings' rear.

She had completely cut off their retreat.

The Stone Crow Tribe wildlings were also forced to converge toward the Burned Men, trapped between two forces with no way out.

After the first wave of attacks, they reacted quickly, abandoning the plundered goods and leaving the Fire Scorch Tribe behind as they fled toward the forest's edge.

As time passed.

Fewer than a dozen wildlings remained, and Suleiman's soldiers steadily hemmed them into a small area.

Suleiman sheathed his sword.

He told the remaining wildlings, "Drop your weapons and surrender, or die!"

Dell, Son of Chek, was gravely wounded and being supported by his tribesmen—or rather, carried between them.

He looked at the Flatlander demanding his surrender and sneered. "The Burned Men's warriors would never abandon their weapons!"

"I see!" Suleiman had meant to trick the wildlings into laying down their weapons before killing them. He smiled at them. "Throw spears! Loose arrows!"

At the order, the soldiers hesitated. The wildlings had virtually no power to fight back. Did they still need to shoot arrows and throw spears first?

But they faithfully carried out Lord Suleiman's orders.

After all, Lord Suleiman was now the very father and mother who led them to riches.

Another dense volley of wooden spears and arrows.

Only a few wounded wildlings remained on the ground, groaning.

"I take no prisoners," Suleiman said coldly.

Hearing his command, the soldiers charged as if they had been injected with one last dose of frenzy-inducing medicine.

They rushed forward. This was merit for the taking!

Wildlings meant merit! Merit meant money! Time was of the essence!

No mercy, no hesitation.

The final slaughter began.

The soldiers scrambled to finish off the last wildling lying on the ground, still groaning.

The battle cries and screams that had filled the forest finally faded away.

The woods returned to their usual quiet, though even the animals had fallen silent.

Suleiman looked around.

Corpses covered the ground, with severed limbs scattered everywhere.

This was war with cold weapons, flesh colliding with flesh.

It was a tremendous test of the human spirit.

And yet,

his soldiers looked at him with feverish, frenzied, hopeful eyes.

Their faces, bodies, and weapons were stained with blood, wood splinters, and dirt.

But there was not a trace of fear or confusion in them.

Only madness and savagery.

Ever since they had received their first pay,

they were no longer the honest men they once had been. They had transformed completely into beasts.

In their hearts, human life had become synonymous with money.

But wasn't this the law of survival in Westeros?

If they wanted to live, if they wanted to protect the people they cared about,

they had to be stronger, more cunning, more ruthless, and more merciless than their enemies.

Mercy and compassion were luxuries reserved for the victors.

Suleiman slowly let out a breath, wondering whether this was really the kind of army he wanted.

His gaze fell on the prisoners, who were looking at them in fear.

The Mountain Clans' wildling encampment outside Valleydeep Town, where they had laid siege to the town.

The tents were scattered haphazardly.

They were all crude shelters made of animal hides and rough branches, with fire pits and scraps of food strewn everywhere.

The Burned Men's camp was the largest, and their fire pit was the biggest.

They loved flames most of all.

Tonight, the inside of Timett Son of Timett's beast-hide tent was especially noisy.

Whenever two Mountain Clans tribes stayed together, arguments were inevitable. Now, the tent was filled with the chieftains of the various tribes.

Inside, the chieftains sat in a circle.

They all wore animal-hide armor, with their various oddly fashioned weapons laid beside them.

Red Hand of the Burned Men, Timett Son of Timett, sat in the seat of honor.

He was a tall man, covered in burns, with one empty eye socket. He looked terrifying.

Shagga son of Dolf of the Stone Crow Tribe sat to Timett Son of Timett's left.

He was powerfully built, dressed in furs, and sported a wild, unkempt beard. He was drinking the Flatlanders' strong liquor they had plundered.

His battle-axe rested beside him.

Chella daughter of Chek of the Black Ears Tribe sat to Timett Son of Timett's right.

She was a small but tough woman, with a flat chest like a man's and dark skin.

The Milk Snakes, Moon Brothers, Painted Dogs, Tree Men, Howlers, and Redsmiths were also there.

They sat in a circle, their expressions wary, suspicious, and uneasy.

The chieftain of the Milk Snakes coughed a few times and cleared his throat.

"There's a rumor going around. They say a band of—"

Timett Son of Timett rudely interrupted him. "A rumor? What rumor? What ghost story have you made up to scare yourselves this time?"

"It's not a ghost story..." The Milk Snakes' chieftain was somewhat afraid of the Burned Men—or rather, every tribe feared them.

"It's about a band of Flatlanders. They say they've been hunting us nearby!"

The chieftains' eyes flickered. Several raiding parties had indeed failed to return on time lately.

"Hunting us?" Shagga of the Stone Crow Tribe sneered. His fierce, unkempt face looked even more savage.

"It's true!" the Howlers' chieftain said urgently. "My son took men out to plunder food for the tribe! He never came back!"

Timett Son of Timett let out a shrill laugh. "I bet your son got trampled to death by a wild rabbit! You bunch of cowards!"

"Who are you calling a coward?!" The Howlers' chieftain leapt to his feet and roared.

Those words ignited an even greater argument.

Some of the tribes, especially those whose raiding parties had gone missing, were visibly worried.

They were more inclined to believe the rumor, convinced that a Flatlander army really was hunting them.

The argument grew more and more heated, quickly moving beyond whether the rumor was true.

It turned into mutual accusations and hostility between the tribes.

Weapons were raised, and swords, knives, and axes swung through the air.

They whistled dangerously.

The wildlings pointed at one another, roaring and cursing.

It seemed a bloody brawl could break out at any moment.

Shagga son of Dolf slammed a great axe onto the ground, making a heavy thud.

But even he could not fully suppress the simmering fury on both sides.

Chella daughter of Chek sneered without joining the argument.

But her hand remained on the hilt of the knife at her waist, her eyes cold. She was clearly ready to join the fight at any moment.

"Enough!" Timett Son of Timett finally roared, though he had been the one to start the argument.

"Cowards who want to hide in the mountains, go back now! Those who want to keep raiding, follow Timett Son of Timett!"

"Clang!"

Timett Son of Timett plunged a sword into the ground, driving half the blade into the earth.

Matters had come to this.

The chieftains left the Burned Men's camp one after another, carrying their anger and hostility back to their own camps.

The meeting had completely fallen apart. They had reached no agreement and only stirred up more suspicion and division.

Each tribe decided to act in its own way.