Morning in the valley of the Painted Dogs began with a shout.
Torren heard it before he saw anything. The cry echoed down from the watchers who kept their posts high above the High Road. It was not the sharp alarm used for enemies, but it was urgent enough to pull warriors from their fires and furs.
"Riders on the road!"
Torren rose immediately.
From where he stood he could already see movement spreading through the camp. Men reached for axes. Spears were lifted. The Painted Dogs leader stepped into the open space between the shelters while several warriors hurried toward the slope that overlooked the road.
Inside Torren's mind, the calm voice spoke.
Possible ransom party.
Torren did not answer. He had already started climbing.
The ridge above the camp was steep but familiar to him. He had climbed it many times before. The rocks were cold under his feet as he moved higher between the thin pines until the valley opened beneath him.
From there he could see the High Road.
It wound far below like a pale scar through the dark stone of the Mountains of the Moon.
For a moment the road was empty.
Then shapes appeared.
Horses.
Four riders moving slowly along the road.
Torren crouched low against the rock.
One of the riders carried a white cloth tied to a spear.
Peace.
Inside his mind, the voice spoke again.
House Redfort colors detected.
Torren narrowed his eyes. Even from this distance he could see the small red banners hanging from the riders' saddles.
Below in the camp, several Painted Dogs warriors began descending the slope. Harrag walked among them, carrying his axe across his shoulder. Another warrior dragged the prisoner behind them.
Edwyn Redfort walked stiffly between two guards, his hands still tied.
The two groups met on the road far below.
Torren leaned forward slightly, trying to see better.
The Redfort riders dismounted. One stepped forward wearing bright steel armor that reflected the cold morning light. The difference between the lowlanders and the mountain clans was obvious even at this distance.
Steel.
Clean cloth.
Tall horses.
Very different from the rough furs and leather of the Painted Dogs.
Torren watched as the men spoke.
He could not hear their words.
But he could see the shapes of negotiation.
Hands pointing.
Heads shaking.
One of the Redfort riders opened a saddle bag and poured its contents onto the road.
Silver.
Even from the ridge Torren could see the dull shine.
Then more items were brought forward.
Two of the riders dragged down a pair of long bundles wrapped in leather. When they opened them, thick bars of iron were revealed. Another man set down a wooden crate. When the lid was lifted, dozens of iron arrowheads glinted faintly in the morning light.
Torren leaned forward slightly.
Inside his mind, the voice spoke calmly.
Iron trade materials.
Below, the Painted Dogs leader stepped forward and inspected the items carefully. One of the warriors lifted an iron bar, testing its weight. Another opened the crate of arrowheads and ran his hand through the metal points.
The negotiation continued for several minutes.
Finally the ropes binding Edwyn Redfort were cut.
The young knight rubbed his wrists slowly and spoke briefly with the Painted Dogs leader. When he mounted his horse he paused for a moment and looked up toward the mountains.
Toward the hidden watchers.
Torren felt an odd sensation that the man might somehow know someone was watching from above.
Then the riders turned and disappeared down the High Road.
The exchange was over.
Torren climbed down from the ridge.
By the time he reached the camp, the warriors were already returning.
Children gathered excitedly as the men dropped heavy sacks near the central fire. Silver clinked softly inside them.
But it was not only silver.
Two warriors carried the iron bars between them, and another man dumped the crate of arrowheads onto a flat stone so the clan leader could examine them.
Torren walked straight toward Harrag.
His father set one of the iron bars down beside the fire.
"You climbed high again," Harrag said.
Torren nodded.
"I saw."
Harrag glanced at him.
"You saw the exchange."
"Yes."
Torren looked at the metal lying beside the fire.
"Da," he said, "why silver?"
Harrag crouched beside the sack and loosened the leather tie. The coins inside shifted with a dull clinking sound.
"Because lowlanders like silver more than dead sons."
Torren watched the coins carefully.
"What we do with it?"
Harrag let the coins fall back into the bag.
"We trade."
Torren tilted his head slightly.
"Trade who?"
Harrag pointed vaguely down the valley toward the distant road.
"Merchants on the High Road."
Torren followed the direction of his gesture.
"They come through the mountains sometimes," Harrag continued. "Caravans moving between Gulltown and the inland valleys."
Torren looked back at the silver.
"Why not take from them?"
Harrag raised an eyebrow.
"Take?"
Torren shrugged.
"Raid. Like villages."
Harrag chuckled softly.
"We could."
Torren waited.
"But if we steal from them every time," Harrag said, "they stop coming."
Torren frowned.
"They fear."
"Yes."
Harrag tapped one of the iron bars with his knuckles.
"But if they trade instead… they return."
Torren looked at the arrowheads spread across the stone.
"And bring more."
Harrag nodded.
"Exactly."
Torren studied the iron bar again.
"Next time… more iron."
Harrag smiled faintly.
"If the merchants bring it."
One of the other warriors lifted the crate of arrowheads and poured them out across a flat stone. The metal points rattled together.
Torren watched them closely.
Inside his mind, the voice spoke.
Stable trade routes increase long-term resource flow.
Torren answered silently.
Better than stealing once.
Correct.
Torren leaned back slightly and looked again toward the distant line of the High Road far below the mountains.
Sometimes the smartest raid… was not a raid at all.