Burned Men

The smoke from the burning pyres drifted through the air, carrying a mixture of charred wood and the scent of congealed blood.

The village was devoid of life, left now only to deathly silence and flames.

Over a dozen villagers lay dead—men and women alike—their bodies mangled and their eyes wide open.

They had died with their eyes full of resentment!

The doors and windows of the houses had been smashed by weapons, and all the furniture lay shattered, leaving nothing but broken walls and ruins.

The barn doors had been split open by axes, and golden grain was scattered across the ground, trampled into a mess by mud and footprints.

More than forty warriors of the Burned Men, a tribe of the Mountain Clans, sat huddled inside, their bodies reeking of fire, charcoal, and blood.

They were resting amidst the ruins.

They had built fires among the debris, roasting poultry looted from the village and gnawing on half-cooked chunks of meat.

Some sharpened their blades and axes, while others tallied their spoils.

Most of them bore horrific burn scars on their faces and bodies—the proof of their coming-of-age rites.

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

A warrior whose left ear was missing, leaving only a charred mark, muttered as he hung a bag of freshly packed loot onto his small, goat-like horse.

"A bountiful harvest. Enough for Walker, Son of Nego, to spend several warm winters on the mountain."

His companion grinned, revealing teeth as black as charcoal: "Those Flatlanders, all they know how to do is hide in their stone houses and cry!"

"They don't deserve to possess such good things at all!"

They had already raided several villages, killing hundreds of Flatlanders.

Just as they were enjoying their brief respite and the joy of their plundered harvest, a figure came stumbling in.

The Burned Men warriors recognized him.

He was a coward of the Burned Men, a scrawny warrior who had only dared to burn off his own little toe.

"What is it! Val, Son of Nango! Were you scared by the corpses of the Flatlanders!" a warrior mocked.

Val, Son of Nango, ignored him, his voice distorted by urgency: "People! Flatlanders with weapons! A large group of Flatlanders with weapons!"

All the Burned Men warriors fell silent, looking toward the warrior whose left ear was missing.

"Walker, Son of Nego wants to know how many there are!" he asked, picking up his axe.

Val answered nervously, "There must be two hundred! They have blocked the village! They are all armed and wearing armor!"

The village was built in a strategic location, with a cliff on the left and a river on the right, leaving only one exit.

Walker, Son of Nego, stood up and signaled for everyone to gather around; there were even some women among these Burned Men warriors.

They were to hold a council to discuss the situation.

The Mountain Clans held a peculiar belief that in a council, every member of the tribe had the right to express their opinion, including the women.

This resulted in the tribe's inefficiency, rendering them unable to pose a substantial threat to the Vale.

Walker, Son of Nego, brandished his axe and looked at Val, asking: "Do the Flatlanders have iron-skinned riders!"

The Mountain Clans harbored a deep fear of the knights of the Vale.

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

After a brief silence, the warriors gathered around erupted into laughter—two hundred foot-bound Flatlanders without iron skins.

Walker, Son of Nego, roared with laughter: "So, two hundred soft sheep want to eat Walker, Son of Nego!"

A burly warrior laughed heartily, wiping his face with hands still greasy from roasting meat:

"We don't even fear Flatlanders wearing iron skins! What do these people think they're doing! Hahaha!"

The Burned Men warriors vied to speak:

"Last time I fought a Flatlander warrior! He was so afraid of getting mud on himself that he cried and begged for mercy!"

"Do the Flatlander warriors think they're useful just because there are more of them! Hahaha!"

"The Flatlanders even wet their pants the moment they smell blood!"

"There are forty of us! We charge out! We can slaughter them all!"

The atmosphere of the discussion was less about strategy and more a collective mockery of the Flatlanders and a boast of their own martial prowess.

In their eyes, they only feared the iron-skinned riders; even the Iron-skins were considered manageable, let alone those who lacked even iron armor!

They believed that no matter how many Flatlanders there were, it could not compensate for the weakness in their bones and their fear of combat—which was why they wore iron skins, just as they lived in stone houses.

The Flatlanders lived on the comfortable, fertile plains and had not experienced the brutal survival competition of the mountain tribes; their bodies and wills were as fragile as un-forged iron.

Walker, Son of Nego, who lacked an ear, looked at his warriors, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.

This was how the warriors of the Burned Men should be.

He raised a hand, burned to the color of charcoal, and waved it in the air.

He let out a roar, drowning out the noisy chatter: "You are right! They are just Flatlanders!"

"They do not understand what true battle is! They do not understand what true courage is!"

He scanned the circle, and every Burned Men Warrior cast a look of anticipation his way.

Walker, Son of Nego, raised his axe; he would answer the expectations of his Burned Men Warriors!

"Walker, Son of Nego, will not hide! Walker, Son of Nego, will not flee! Because we are the Burned Men!"

"The sheer cliffs of the high mountains are our home! The cruel environment has forged us! It has made us as cold and ruthless as the mountain winds!"

"The Flatlanders want to surround and annihilate us!"

"Good! When the sky brightens tomorrow morning, we shall charge out!"

"Let the Flatlanders see how the wolves of the high mountains tear apart the sheep of the lowlands!"

A roar of excitement erupted in the camp, a cacophony of strange howls as if forty starving wild bears had finally caught the scent of prey.

To the Burned Men, being surrounded by two hundred soft-skinned Flatlanders was not a desperate situation, but a feast where they could harvest the lives of the weak to their hearts' content.

They felt no fear toward the coming battle, only a sense of eager anticipation.

For in their eyes, these Flatlanders from the Riverlands could not be considered true Warriors at all.

They were merely a flock of sheep without even iron skins, waiting to be torn apart by the wolf pack descending from the mountains!

They firmly believed that forty Champions from the Burned Men were enough to make two hundred Flatlanders without iron skins cry out and flee in terror.

This was merely a minor obstacle in their raiding process; kill them all, then continue to plunder the next Flatlander village.

The night passed amidst the Burned Men Warriors' mockery of the Flatlanders and their anticipation of the coming fight.

They did not sleep soundly; their wild instincts kept them vigilant!

At the break of dawn.

The Burned Men Warriors woke almost simultaneously.

Without a word, they quickly grabbed their respective weapons: longswords, axes, spears, and spiked wooden clubs.

Time was precious; for every moment they delayed, their plundered spoils would be one part less for the other clans!

Over forty Burned Men Warriors let out high-pitched war cries, following behind Walker, Son of Nego, as they sprinted toward the village exit.

They looked forward to seeing the panicked expressions of the Flatlander soldiers, looked forward to the spraying of flesh and blood during the slaughter, and looked forward to the desperate screams of those cowards.

Until—

Walker, Son of Nego, let out a thunderous roar, his face a mask of confusion: "What is this! What is happening!"

Before them lay an urgently dug trench; though not deep, it was impossible to cross, and to attack the Flatlanders, they would have to step into it, facing a situation where the Flatlanders held the high ground.

And even if they crossed the trench, behind it stood a row of crooked yet tightly connected wooden fences, bristling with countless wooden spikes!

Behind these fences stood rows of Flatlander Warriors.

They showed none of the expected panic; instead, their formation was orderly, with over a dozen archers standing in the front row, arrows already nocked to their bowstrings.

The moment they entered range, they would loose their arrows!

The spearmen stood in the second row, arrayed in strict formation!

The Burned Men Warriors stood at the village entrance, the sunlight casting their shadows, but they all froze in place.

They stared wide-eyed at the trench and fences before them, then looked at the Flatlanders waiting in formation behind, their minds seemingly blank and void.