The eyes of the Burned Men were red with bloodlust. The humiliation of seeing their champion shot down like a dog had stripped away any last shred of caution.
A roar erupted from forty throats—a sound of pure, animal rage.
They didn't care about the trench. They didn't care about the stakes. Their only thought was to close the distance, to smash the wood, and to butcher the cowards hiding behind it.
"Kill them!" Vok son of Nagga screamed, waving his battle axe. "Warriors of the Burned Men! Slaughter them all!"
The horde surged forward.
They were fast, their legs hardened by years of hunting on vertical slopes. They sprinted toward Solomon's fortifications, a wave of leather, muscle, and jagged steel.
But speed creates momentum, and momentum can be a trap.
The front rank hit the trench like a sprinter running into a wall. To engage the enemy, they had to jump down into the ditch or try to vault the stakes. But before they could decide, the warriors behind them—blinded by the dust and the rage—slammed into their backs.
The charge collapsed into a crush.
Men were shoved into the ditch. Others were pressed against the sharp wooden stakes. They clawed at the palisade, trying to climb over, trying to hack through the wood with axes and swords.
It was a traffic jam of flesh. And it was exactly what Solomon had waited for.
"Loose!" Solomon ordered, his voice cutting through the din.
The ten archers standing in the front row—men who had been poachers and hunters in their former lives—drew their bows. At this range, they couldn't miss.
Solomon's order had been specific: Shoot the eyes.
The Burned Men wore no helmets. They disdained armor as a sign of weakness. Now, that pride was their undoing.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Arrows hissed into the mass of bodies. Hunters who were used to hitting rabbits on the run found it laughably easy to hit the faces of men stuck in a ditch three meters away.
Warriors screamed as arrows punched into sockets, throats, and open mouths. They couldn't look up to climb the fence without risking an arrow in the brain.
The Burned Men's greatest strength—their ferocity—was rendered useless. They were trapped in a killing box, flailing at wood while death rained down on them.
Behind the palisade, the levy soldiers felt a shift in the air.
Their hands were sweating. Their hearts were hammering against their ribs. They were still terrified. But as they looked down at the chaos, they realized something profound:
We are safe.
They stood on solid ground. They had a wall. And the "monsters" were just men stuck in a hole.
"Stab them!" Lushen roared. "Use the spears!"
The spear wall thrust forward. It wasn't a duel; it was manual labor.
Thrust. Retract. Thrust.
Spear points jabbed over the fence, catching the climbers in the shoulders, arms, and chests.
Tommen, the boy who had almost deserted, gripped his spear shaft until his knuckles were white. He saw a tattooed face appear above the stakes, screaming. Tommen thrust blindly. The spear tip sank into the man's neck.
The warrior gurgled and fell back.
Tommen stared at his hands. I did that. I killed a Burned Man.
The fear began to recede like a tide, replaced by a cold, strange exhilaration. The trembling in their arms stopped. Their movements became rhythmic.
Stab. Scream. Stab. Silence.
It was unfair. It was brutal. And the soldiers were starting to enjoy it.
Vok son of Nagga watched from the edge of the fray, his heart sinking.
He had expected to overrun the barrier in seconds. He had expected the "sheep" to break and run. Instead, his best warriors were being harvested like wheat.
"Back!" Vok screamed, his voice cracking. "Pull back! Retreat!"
But retreating is harder than attacking. The Burned Men had no discipline. The warriors in the back were still pushing forward, eager for glory, pinning the front ranks against the deadly wall.
It took agonizing minutes for the mob to untangle itself. Vok grabbed men by their hair and threw them backward, screaming at them to run.
Finally, the survivors broke away, leaving a dozen bodies twisted in the mud of the trench.
Inside the fort, a cheer went up.
"They're running!"
"Cowards!"
Some of the levies, drunk on sudden victory, climbed onto the palisade, preparing to jump over and chase the fleeing enemy.
"Hold!" Solomon's voice cracked like a whip.
"Lushen! Lauchlan! Keep them in line! Archers, keep firing!"
Solomon scanned the retreat. The Burned Men weren't routed; they were regrouping. They were dragging their wounded, glaring back with hateful eyes. If his raw recruits ran into the open field, Vok would turn around and slaughter them in seconds.
"Anyone who leaves the fort dies!" Solomon bellowed.
Lushen and Lauchlan rode along the line, beating the eager soldiers back with the flats of their swords.
"Stay put, you idiots!" Lushen shouted. "Keep shooting!"
The archers sent a final volley into the backs of the retreating clansmen. A few more fell, arrows protruding from their spines.
Only when the enemy was well out of range did Solomon relax.
"Rest," he ordered.
The tension snapped. Men slumped against the wooden stakes, sliding to the ground. They gasped for air, their tunics soaked in sweat.
But then, the sound started.
It began as a giggle.
Tommen sat in the dirt, looking at the blood drying on his spear tip. He started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound, but it was infectious.
"Did you see that?" he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "I got him! I got one!"
"I got two!" another man bragged, his chest heaving. "Right in the gut!"
Laughter rippled through the ranks. It was the laughter of survivors, the manic joy of men who had faced death and won.
Solomon watched them from his horse. He didn't smile.
He knew what this was. He had taken innocent farmers and turned them into killers. He had fed them blood, and they had found it sweet.
Good, Solomon thought grimly. Wolves need to like the taste of meat.