Torren missed the second bent pine at first.
He stopped, cursed under his breath, and walked back thirty paces until he found it half-hidden behind a leaning stone. Two bent pines, Veyra had said. Not one. Two together. He had repeated the path twice before leaving the Milk Snakes, and still the mountain tried to make the words slippery.
He kept the red stone on his left after that. The ground climbed instead of falling, which told him he had avoided the lower mist cut. That was good. He had no desire to get lost alone, without axe, knife, or anyone to drag him back if he slipped.
By midday, the rocks changed.
Red stains appeared first in cracks, then in wider patches across the stone. Some were dull, like old blood dried under dust. Others had green streaks running through them. Torren did not touch any of it. Veyra had warned him not to, and he had no interest in reaching the Red Smiths with stained fingers and a stupid explanation.
He was looking for the next marker when he saw movement on the ridge ahead.
At first he thought it was a line of goats.
Then the line grew larger.
Men came over the northern slope in groups, not in a clean march. Some limped. Some carried bundles. A few dragged rough sledges made from branches and hide. Others had sacks across their backs, clay jars tied in rope nets, strips of cloth, baskets, and wrapped bundles of dried plants. Two men carried a third between them. Another had blood dark on his sleeve and kept his arm pressed tight against his ribs.
Torren moved behind a low stone and watched.
There were too many to be a hunting party. Too many wounded to be a trading group. Not enough order for a war band going out. They were coming back from something.
Raiders, he thought first.
Winter was deepening. Food was harder. Bitterleaf was scarce. Every clan had started making cruel choices and calling them necessary. Maybe Red Smiths had done the same. Gone down into lowlander farms, taken what they could, and paid for it in blood.
Then he saw the blades.
Not many. Maybe six. Maybe eight. The men carrying them were near the front and around the sledges. The swords were short and broad, leaf-shaped on some, straighter on others, the color wrong for steel. Red-gold under dirt. Green in the grooves near the hilt. Bronze.
Torren had seen bronze pins. Small knives. Old buckles taken from lowlanders or traded through too many hands. He had never seen a proper bronze sword carried openly by a mountain man.
Steel was better. Everyone knew that. A good steel sword would chew through bronze if it had the edge, the strength, and the arm behind it. Bronze could chip. Bronze could bend. Against castle-forged steel it was not equal.
But up here, among stone axes, stolen knives, bone points, and badly kept iron scraps, a bronze sword was still a serious thing.
Torren must have stared too long.
A voice came from below him. "You like looking at other men's belts?"
Torren froze.
Three men stood below the stone, close enough that he wondered how long they had been there. One held a spear with a dark stone point. One had a club capped with reddish metal. The third carried one of the bronze swords. His hands were stained red around the nails.
Torren lifted both hands slowly. "I was looking at the blade."
"We noticed."
"I'm not reaching for it."
"You don't have anything to reach with."
That was true enough. His empty belt made the men smile without warmth.
The one with the sword jerked his chin. "Stand."
Torren stood.
The returning column had stopped. More faces turned toward him. Tired faces. Dirty faces. Suspicious faces. These were not Stone Crows looking for a fight or Burned Men looking for fear. These people looked worn down and annoyed that the road had produced another problem.
A large man pushed through from the front.
He was broad across the shoulders and thick through the arms, with a heavy red beard braided in two places. His hands were stained the same red-green as the rocks, and old burn scars crossed his wrists. At his hip hung a bronze sword longer than the others, not pretty, not polished, but well cared for. He looked at Torren's pale hair, his red eyes, the small pack at his side, and the Milk Snake token tied inside his cloak.
"Name," the big man said.
"Torren."
"Clan."
"Painted Dogs."
That made several men mutter.
The big man's eyes narrowed. "Painted Dog alone on this path."
"Yes."
"Bad answer."
"It's the true one."
"Those often are."
He stepped closer. He was almost a head taller than Torren and much heavier. "I am Tarn."
Torren waited.
A man behind Tarn said, "Tarn Redsmith."
Tarn glanced back. "He can hear."
The man shut up.
Torren nodded once. "I came looking for Red Smiths."
"You found them."
"I have a method for the cough."
That changed the group. Not much, but enough. Men looked at each other. Someone near one of the sledges coughed into a cloth. Another man told him to keep quiet.
Tarn heard it and ignored it. "Milk Snakes sent you?"
"No."
Tarn looked at the token. "You came through their road."
"Yes."
"That road is closed."
"They opened a side path."
"For you."
"For me."
"Why?"
Torren kept his hands visible. "Because they had sickness inside. Their chief's brother was bad. The method helped him enough that they let me leave."
Tarn stared at him. "Helped."
"Yes. Not cured. Helped."
"You say that like you want less praise."
"I don't want blame later because someone thought I promised too much."
A few Red Smiths gave low, tired laughs at that. Tarn did not.
He pointed at the small pack. "What's in there?"
"Measured sap-water. Bitterleaf. Willow. Pine. A clean bowl. Instructions from the Milk Snake Tree Speaker."
"Milk Snake Tree Speaker wrote for us now?"
"He wrote the measure down. Not for you. For whoever needed it next."
Tarn's mouth twisted. "Convenient."
"No. Late."
That landed harder.
Tarn stepped closer again. "What do you know about late?"
"I know Red Smiths asked for bitterleaf and no one answered."
The muttering stopped.
Tarn's face went still. "Who told you that?"
"Milk Snakes."
"And they sent bitterleaf with you?"
"Some. Not enough."
"Of course not."
Torren looked past him at the sledges and bundles. "You went to get your own."
A man with a bandaged head spat. "Clever Dog."
Tarn did not answer immediately.
Torren saw more now. The sacks were not just grain. One had a bitter smell even from where he stood. Herbs. Another bundle held clean cloth strips, better woven than anything most clans made. A cracked wooden box had small clay jars packed inside, each wrapped carefully. One sledge carried a dented bronze pot, several sealed packets, and a leather case that looked too fine to have come from a mountain shelter.
This had not been only a food raid.
Torren looked at the wounded again. "Lowlander villages?"
"Some," Tarn said.
"And something bigger."
Several men shifted.
Tarn's eyes hardened. "Ask less."
Torren held up one hand slightly. "Fine."
"No. Not fine. You stand alone on our path, coming from Milk Snake ground, looking at our blades and our bundles. You say cough. You say bitterleaf. You say method. That is a lot of words for a man with no knife."
Torren swallowed. His throat felt dry. "Then ask what matters."
Tarn looked him over. "Are you sick?"
"No."
"Fever?"
"No."
"Cough?"
"No."
"Blood?"
"No."
"Who waits behind you?"
"No one close."
"Lie."
"My group went back to Howler ground. I crossed Milk Snake ground alone. I left without guide."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because your bitterleaf call was already days old."
No one laughed this time.
Tarn looked toward the injured men, then back at Torren. "You think we waited for help?"
"No."
"Good."
"I think you went looking for it."
Tarn gave a short grunt. Not agreement. Not denial.
One of the men behind him said, "Tarn, we don't have time for this."
"No," Tarn said. "We don't."
A woman came forward from the column. She was older, with short grey hair and red-stained hands. A bronze awl was tucked into her belt. She looked at Torren's pack, not his face.
"You brought bitterleaf?" she asked.
"Some."
"Enough?"
"No."
"What did you bring then?"
"A method."
She looked at Tarn. "Let him talk."
Tarn did not look happy. "Brea."
"He has bitterleaf and says Milk Snakes finally opened their mouths. I want to know why."
Torren guessed she was the one who had asked for bitterleaf, or close to it. She had that look Edda got when sick people were nearby and men wasted time.
Tarn pointed to a flat red stone beside the path. "There. Talk."
Torren did not move. "Your wounded first?"
Tarn's eyes narrowed. "You giving orders now?"
"No. I'm asking if any have bad breathing. If they do, talking can wait."
Brea turned sharply toward the column. "Rodd?"
A young man near the rear answered, "Still breathing."
"That means nothing."
"He's still cursing."
"That means a little."
Tarn looked at Torren. "How fast does your method work?"
"It doesn't. Not like that."
"Then talking won't kill him faster."
"Maybe not."
"Sit."
Torren sat on the red stone.
Tarn remained standing.
Brea crouched in front of Torren and held out her hand. "Show me."
Torren opened the pack slowly. He laid out the horn caps, the bitterleaf, the willow, the pine, the clean bowl, the bone measure, and Harlon's bark strip. Brea watched closely. Tarn watched his hands. The bronze-sword men watched everything else.
When Torren lifted the horn cap, Brea sniffed once. "Sap?"
"Red sap, thinned. Not raw."
"From Milk Snake trees?"
"Yes."
Tarn made a rough sound. "They ignored us, then send tree water."
"They did not send me," Torren said. "They let me pass."
"That is not better."
"No."
That answer seemed to satisfy Tarn more than an excuse would have.
Brea picked up the bone measure. "How much?"
Torren showed her.
She frowned. "That little?"
"Yes."
"For bad cases?"
"Bad breathing gets steam first, not more sap."
Brea looked at him. "Say that again."
He did.
She nodded slowly. "That sounds like something learned by mistakes."
"It was."
Tarn looked toward the column again. The men were restless. Some wanted to keep moving. Some wanted to drop where they stood. The wounded wanted not to be watched. The healthy wanted the wounded to stop slowing them. Torren knew that look now. Every clan had its own skin, but sickness made the same bones show through.
"You have sick at your camp," Torren said.
Tarn looked back at him. "Yes."
"How many?"
"Too many."
"Bad breathing?"
Brea answered. "Seven when we left. Maybe more now."
"Children?"
"Three."
Torren looked down at the supplies laid out in front of him. "Then you need to start before reaching camp if anyone here is bad."
Tarn folded his arms. "You are alone. No old woman shouting. No big man standing behind you. No scout to pull you out. You understand that?"
"Yes."
"And if this is Milk Snake trick?"
"It isn't."
"Bad answer again."
Torren looked up at him. "If it were a trick, I would have come with more men or better lies."
Brea snorted.
Tarn stared at him for a moment, then gave a tired half-smile that did not reach his eyes. "That may be true."
A cough broke from the rear of the column. This one did not stop quickly. It went on long enough that men began looking away.
Brea stood. "Rodd."
Tarn cursed under his breath. "Bring him."
Two Red Smiths helped a young man forward. He had blood on his sleeve from a cut, but that was not the problem. His breathing was tight, and his lips had a faint grey tinge. He tried to wave the men off and failed.
Torren gathered the bowl and pine.
"I need boiling water," he said.
Tarn looked at the men around him. "You heard him."
No one moved for half a breath.
Then Brea snapped, "Boiling water, you deaf rocks."
That worked. Men moved.
Torren looked once more at Tarn's bronze sword as the chief shifted beside him. Tarn noticed.
"You still looking?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I've never seen a bronze sword made for use."
Tarn's hand rested on the hilt. "And?"
"It's not steel."
"No."
"Steel would beat it."
"Most times," Tarn said. "If the man holding steel knows what to do."
Torren nodded. "Still better than stone."
Tarn's mouth twitched. "Now you say something smart."
Brea called from near Rodd, "If you two are done admiring things that cut, the boy is still breathing badly."
Tarn looked annoyed. "She is always like that."
Torren picked up the bowl. "Good. Then people may live."
Tarn gave him a hard look, but did not argue.
The Red Smiths had come down from the northern ridge with stolen bundles, wounded men, and bronze at their belts. Torren still did not know where they had been, or why some of the packs looked like they had come from a place with a maester. He only knew one thing for certain.
Whatever they had done, it had not been enough.