The Burned Men’s eyes were bloodshot, their faces flushed dark with rage.
This group of lowlanders had stirred something in them they had never felt before.
A raw, furious roar burst from their throats.
They stopped caring about the ditch and the barricade.
Their only thought was to close the distance as fast as possible and hack apart the cowards hiding behind wood and earth.
They would avenge their fallen brother.
Wok son of Nego raised his axe and bellowed.
“Burned Men!
Kill them all!” The warriors surged forward, waving a wild mix of swords, axes, spears, and spiked clubs.
They moved with the speed and power that came from living their whole lives in the mountains, trying to smash straight through every obstacle in their path.
But the charge broke against an invisible wall.
The lead warriors reached the ditch and had to slow down to jump or climb.
The men behind them kept pushing forward, turning the front ranks into a jammed, struggling mass.
Some tried to leap the ditch.
Others clawed at the barricade.
Every movement exposed them.
Solomon’s archers — former hunters he had pulled from the ranks — stood ready in the front line.
“Loose!” he ordered.
Arrows flew.
The hunters were used to shooting small, fast game.
Solomon had told them exactly where to aim.
Eyes.
At this range the arrows were devastating.
Burned Men trying to climb or hack at the barricade suddenly found themselves unable to lift their heads.
Shaft after shaft punched into unprotected faces.
Men screamed and clutched at their eyes, blood pouring between their fingers.
Those who tried to push forward anyway were met by spearmen thrusting upward from behind the barricade, stabbing arms and shoulders.
The mountain warriors’ raw strength and ferocity, the things they had always relied on, were suddenly useless.
They were trapped in the ditch, forced to fight upward while arrows and spears rained down on them.
Their advantage had been stripped away by simple earth and wood.
Behind the barricade, Solomon’s soldiers were still nervous — most of them had never seen real battle — but the scene in front of them was giving them courage by the second.
They didn’t have to charge into a screaming melee with these terrifying savages.
They stood on solid ground with a ditch and a wall between them and the enemy.
All they had to do was follow simple orders.
Archers kept shooting.
Spearmen kept thrusting.
At first the spearmen’s hands had shaken on their shafts.
But every time a spearpoint sank into flesh and they heard a Burned Man scream, the fear receded a little more.
Their movements grew faster, stronger, more certain.
The archers found their rhythm too — draw, aim, loose.
Every arrow that found an eye sent a fresh rush of confidence through the line.
Some of them even felt a dark, savage satisfaction.
This was how Solomon had wanted it.
He had never intended to let his raw recruits fight the Burned Men hand-to-hand on even ground.
Not yet.
These men still needed to taste blood and win before they could be trusted in a real melee.
Right now they fought from safety, following clear commands, building the confidence that would one day let them stand toe-to-toe with anyone.
Wok son of Nego watched his warriors dying in the ditch and felt his blood run cold.
He had expected the Burned Men’s ferocity to carry them straight over the barricade and into the kind of close-quarters slaughter they excelled at.
Instead they were being butchered from safety.
“Fall back!” he roared, voice raw.
“Retreat!
Now!” His order was half lost in the chaos.
Many of the Burned Men were too deep in their blood-rage to hear him, or too proud to obey.
They kept clawing at the barricade even as more arrows found them.
Others tried to pull back but were blocked by the men still trying to push forward.
The whole formation turned into a bloody, screaming tangle.
Solomon watched it all from the rise, cold and steady.
When the Burned Men finally began dragging their wounded backward, some of his soldiers started to cheer and step forward as if to pursue.
Solomon’s voice cut through the noise like a whip.
“Archers — keep shooting!
Target anyone trying to break away!
Infantry hold the line!
No one leaves the barricade without my order!” Luden and Rosslyn relayed the commands at once.
The spearmen, eager as they were, stayed in place.
The archers kept loosing arrows into the backs of the retreating mountain men.
Without their shields facing forward, the Burned Men were easy targets.
Several more fell before they got out of range.
Once the last Burned Men staggered beyond bowshot, Solomon let his men stand down.
“Rest where you are,” he ordered.
The soldiers lowered their weapons and sank to the ground, chests heaving.
Sweat soaked their clothes.
Arms burned from tension and effort.
But their faces were bright with something new — excitement, pride, the fierce joy of having faced monsters and survived.
Toman knelt in the dirt, staring at the blood on the tip of his spear.
Then he threw his head back and laughed — loud, raw, and full of something close to joy.
He had stabbed five or six of the Burned Men.
Every time his spear had gone in, he had felt a rush of savage satisfaction.
The sound of his laughter spread.
One by one the other soldiers started laughing too — tired, breathless, but real.
The sound rolled along the line like a wave breaking.
For the first time since they had been levied, these men didn’t feel like helpless farmers dragged to war.
They felt like soldiers who had just won their first fight.