A young tribesman came closer, asking uneasily: "Chieftain, are we really going back?"
"That Black Lion, he's too terrifying, he uses dark magic! He turns into a lion!"
Kopi, son of Gern, stopped what he was doing and glanced at the cave entrance. He was also somewhat indecisive. Not long ago, an envoy from a Valley Flatlanders, from the Stone Castle, had found them, these tribes who originally settled on the Brightmoon Mountains side of the Riverlands, now exiled.
That envoy brought wine and smoked meat, and their most precious food, and also brought the news they most longed for.
"That Flatlanders lord named Arthur has taken all his army and will soon go to the plains to fight the Wildlings from the sea."
The Valley man's envoy had a graceful and contemptuous smile on his face at the time, making Kopi want to smash him with a punch, but the news about his home forced him to continue listening to the Flatlanders's account.
"When the war on the plains begins, the mountains will be yours, and your homes will be yours. Now is the best time to reclaim everything!"
This news, like a strong liquor, poured down his throat and down the throats of his desperate tribesmen. The flames of revenge and the hope of reclaiming their homes had made many of them temporarily forget their fear.
Kopi, son of Gern, gripped his battle-axe, stood up, and thumped his chest, speaking loudly to his somewhat uneasy tribesmen: "That devil is gone! The High Mountain has given us a chance! Gather the men! We're going to burn their wooden fortresses! And loot all their food!!"
On a High Mountain trail, Arthur unrolled a map completed by Evelyn and Brin.
The map's detail was astonishing; every hidden path, every usable water source, every possible hidden cave, all were clearly marked.
Rosso, Brin, and the retainer cavalrymen were all looking confused as they changed into more suitable walking boots.
He couldn't help but ask: "My Lord, we... aren't riding horses?"
Arthur pointed to the map and looked at him: "In the mountains, horses are a burden to us."
Led by Brin and his brothers, this force avoided all main roads, moving like animals through dense forests and between cliffs. The soldiers suffered greatly, especially the retainer riders, who also had to carry their heavy, un-donned armor.
But they utilized their established understanding of the area and long periods of reconnaissance, cutting like a precise surgical knife towards the Wildling tribes who had just returned and were being roused and encouraged.
The first engagement erupted in a cave behind a waterfall, where a small Wildling tribe was resting.
When Rosso, with his dismounted riders, armored and blocking the cave entrance, they hadn't even reacted.
The battle was not intense; it was more like a one-sided slaughter.
The dismounted heavy cavalrymen, with their armor, formed an insurmountable barrier at the front. The Wildlings fought back fiercely but could not advance an inch, not even requiring the other three hundred liegemen to engage.
Meanwhile, the crossbowmen formed from the new liegemen peered out from behind the rocks on the flank, picking off targets one by one with their crossbow bolts, as if venting the hardships of the march, shooting and cursing, and finally laughing hysterically as Wildlings fell one after another.
The Wildlings wore no armor; a crossbow bolt would pierce them instantly. The whistling sound of the crossbow bolts cutting through the air already drowned out the Wildlings' final wails.
When Arthur arrived, the place was already eerily silent. The battle had ended almost instantly. Looking at the captured Wildling warriors kneeling and trembling on the ground, his face showed no expression.
Arthur turned and walked away, only issuing a cold command: "Leave no one alive."
The command was given, making the surrounding air seem to freeze. Even Rosso Brun, who considered himself warlike and merciless, paused, turning to look at the departing Lord, as if re-evaluating this young leader.
What shocked him even more was the scene that followed: after the order to kill was given, the soldiers did not hesitate, rushing forward joyfully and quickly, their swords falling.
Then they cut off the heads of all the executed Wildling warriors, carrying them on their swords or spears, even performing a bizarre dance. The wind swept through the valley, rustling the disheveled hair on those grim heads, and dispersing the heavy smell of blood.
This terrifying sight horrified him, a seasoned veteran who had served as a mercenary free rider in Westeros and considered himself well-traveled. These people were like devils from the seven hells; did they no longer believe in the Seven Gods? What a hellish scene this was.
A retainer rider, who was on good terms with him, kicked away two soldiers who came forward to try and strike, dragging two terrified and desperate Wildlings before him.
Seeing Rosso Brun's confused expression, the rider smiled and said: "Lord Rosso, military merit is counted by heads. You cut these two."
Rosso Brun fell silent.
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