Brea looked toward the rear of the column. "Rodd's bad."
Tarn did not look happy about that. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that walking him the rest of the way is stupid."
Torren looked at the young man being held between two others. Rodd's breathing was tight, and his face had the wrong color around the mouth.
"How far is your camp?" Torren asked.
"Close," Tarn said.
"That is not a number."
"Less than an hour if men stop staring at you."
Brea looked at Tarn. "We should start here."
"No," Tarn said. "Not in the open. Not with packs spread out and wounded men standing around."
Torren did not like it, but Tarn was right enough to make arguing difficult. There were too many people, too many eyes, too much confusion. If he began here and something went wrong, half of them would see only the wrong part.
"Keep him upright," Torren said. "Don't let him lie flat. Loosen anything tight around his chest. Don't give him a drink if he's coughing like that."
Brea turned and repeated the orders louder. Her people listened faster to her than they would have listened to him.
Tarn pointed north with his chin. "You walk with us."
"To your camp?"
"Unless you want to sit here alone and wait for wolves."
Torren picked up his small pack. "I'll walk."
Two men fell in behind him. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to make the point.
...
The Red Smiths moved slowly.
They were tired, and they were carrying too much. Sacks of grain. Strips of cloth. Clay jars packed in rope. Bundles of dried herbs, some crushed from rough handling. A few small wooden boxes had been tied shut with cord. One was cracked open at the side, and Torren saw clean folded linen inside, cleaner than anything made in a mountain camp.
He looked at it for half a second too long.
Tarn noticed. "Eyes forward."
Torren looked forward.
The bronze blades stayed in his mind. Not many men carried them, and the ones who did moved like they knew everyone else was watching the metal. The swords were not pretty. Some were scratched. One had a nick near the edge. But they were shaped with intent: leaf blades, broad stabbing points, short handles wrapped in hide. They were not lowlander steel. They were not stolen castle swords. They were made by people who knew exactly what they were doing.
A younger Red Smith saw him looking again and grinned. "Dog wants a sword."
Torren said, "I don't have anything to trade for one."
The grin faded. He had expected denial or insult, not honesty.
Tarn glanced back. "You couldn't afford one anyway."
"I guessed."
"Good. Keep guessing."
Brea walked beside Rodd farther back, checking his breathing every few minutes. Each time she did, her mouth tightened. Torren wanted to tell them to move faster, but the wounded could not. He also wanted to ask where they had been. That would be stupid.
He asked something else instead. "How many are sick at your camp?"
Tarn did not answer.
Brea did. "Enough."
Tarn shot her a look.
She ignored it. "Bad breathing when we left. Fevers. Children too."
"How many children?"
"Three that I saw."
"That you saw?"
Red Smith faces closed around him.
Brea looked away. "Some families hide things until they can't."
That was familiar enough to make Torren tired.
A man near the sledges muttered, "Would've had what we needed if we'd reached the right room."
Tarn turned his head. "Shut up."
The man shut up.
Torren said nothing. The right room. Clean linen. Clay jars. Wrapped herbs. Too many wounded. This had not been a normal winter raid.
Tarn saw him thinking and did not like it. "Ask and I leave you on the path."
Torren looked at the ground ahead. "I wasn't asking."
"You were close."
"Yes."
Tarn gave a short grunt. "At least you know."
...
The Red Smith camp was hidden in red stone.
Torren saw the smoke first, thin and low, leaking from cracks in the rock rather than rising from open fires. Then came the shelters: low hide roofs tucked against stained boulders, reed screens, clay-lined pits, and shallow work hollows cut into the ground. There were tools everywhere, but not the kind a raiding clan usually left in sight. Stone hammers. Bone tongs. Clay molds stacked under hide covers. Small crucibles blackened by heat. A pair of hide bellows lay beside one cold hearth.
Cold.
That was what struck him.
There should have been noise here. Not loud like Howlers, not crowded like Moon Brothers, but some sound. Stone tapping. Air pumped into coals. People working red rock into something useful and secret.
Instead he heard coughing.
Tarn heard it too. His face did not change, but his pace quickened.
People came out to meet the returning column. Not cheering. Not even relieved. They counted the wounded first, then the bundles. A woman began crying when she saw one of the men being carried. Another slapped the shoulder of a boy with a bandaged head and told him he was an idiot for bleeding on good cloth.
Brea pushed past them. "Boil water. Now. Clean pot if we still have one."
A man said, "For who?"
"For Rodd, unless you want to ask his corpse later."
He ran.
Tarn pointed to a flat work hollow near the main hearth. "There."
Rodd was brought down carefully, propped against rolled hides. He tried to wave people off, but his hand barely lifted.
"I'm fine," he rasped.
Brea crouched in front of him. "You look like wet ash."
Rodd tried to laugh and coughed instead.
Torren moved closer, then stopped when two Red Smiths shifted in front of him.
Tarn snapped, "Move. If I wanted him dead, I wouldn't have dragged him here."
The men moved.
Before Torren could open his pack, someone struck a staff hard against stone.
Everyone near the hearth turned.
An old man stood at the edge of the hollow. He was thin, but not weak. His hair was tied back with red cord, and his hands were stained deeply from ore dust or old work. A carved staff rested in his grip, the top marked with a small weirwood face and red stone chips set into the wood.
Tree Speaker.
Tarn lowered his head slightly. Not much. Enough.
"Varr," he said.
The old man looked at Torren. "Who is this?"
"Painted Dog," Tarn said. "Came through Milk Snake side path."
Several Red Smiths reacted badly to that. Varr's eyes sharpened.
"Milk Snakes let someone through?"
"Just him."
"Why?"
Torren answered before Tarn could. "Their chief's brother was sick. The method helped him."
Varr looked at his small pack. "Method."
"Yes."
"Using red sap?"
"In drops."
"From Milk Snake trees?"
"Some of what I carry is from them. The first measure came from Painted Dog trees."
That made the old man's mouth tighten.
Brea stepped in. "Varr, Rodd is breathing badly."
"I can hear Rodd."
"Then hear him while he is alive."
The old man looked at her. "You always talk like you are the only one in a hurry."
"I usually am."
Tarn rubbed his forehead. "Enough. Varr, either look at the method or say no. But say it fast."
Varr came closer. He did not touch Torren's pack. "Open it."
Torren opened it on a clean hide Brea spread beside the hearth. Horn caps. Bitterleaf. Willow. Pine. Bone measure. Marked bowl. Harlon's bark strip. Varr crouched stiffly and examined each piece.
"This is Milk Snake marking."
"Yes."
"You trust it?"
"I trust the measure because I watched it made."
"That was not my question."
"No. I don't trust Milk Snakes. I trust the measure."
Varr gave him a long look. "That is less stupid."
Brea muttered, "High praise."
Varr picked up the horn cap and smelled it. "Too thin to be poison."
Torren said, "Too thin to be used alone."
The old man looked at him again. "Explain."
Torren did. Quickly. No speech, no story. Steam for bad breathing. Small drink only if the sick could swallow. Boiled water. Clean bowl. Less after vomiting, not more. Do not make the sap stronger because fear wanted it stronger.
Varr listened without interrupting.
When Torren finished, the old man looked at Rodd. "He should not drink."
"No," Torren said. "Steam first."
Brea looked at Varr. "You agree?"
"I agree that if we pour anything into him now, he may choke."
"That is agreeing."
"That is not the same thing."
"It is close enough."
The boiling water arrived in a blackened pot. Brea took it and set it near the hearth. Torren reached for the marked bowl, but Varr stopped him with a raised hand.
"This is our hearth," Varr said. "You show. I do."
Torren hesitated.
Tarn's eyes moved to him. "Problem?"
"No," Torren said. "That's better."
Varr seemed surprised by that.
Torren shifted aside and showed the measure clearly. Varr added pine. Then a small amount of sap-water. He did not overpour. That mattered. Brea held the cloth ready, watching Torren's hands for corrections. Tarn stood over them all, arms folded, bronze sword at his hip.
Rodd coughed again before the steam was even ready.
It was a bad cough. Men nearby looked away. Torren did not.
Varr positioned the bowl.
"Not too close," Torren said.
"I know."
"Leave air."
"I know."
Brea looked at Varr. "Let him correct you if needed."
Varr's face tightened, but he adjusted the cloth slightly. "There."
"Yes," Torren said.
Rodd breathed in the first steam and immediately tried to turn his head.
"Hold," Brea said.
Rodd rasped something rude.
Tarn stepped closer. "Breathe, boy."
Rodd obeyed badly at first, then better. The steam rose around his face. Pine cut through the smell of smoke, sweat, and ore dust.
No one called it a cure. No one said it would work.
For once, everyone had enough sense to stay quiet.
...
They did not give Rodd drink.
That was Varr's decision as much as Torren's, which made the Red Smiths accept it faster. They kept him upright and let him breathe through the steam until the bowl cooled. His breathing did not become good. It became less trapped. That was all.
Brea heard it and looked at Torren.
Torren shook his head slightly. Not too much. Not yet.
She understood.
Tarn did not miss the exchange. "Well?"
Torren said, "Wait."
"For what?"
"To see if it holds. To repeat it before he worsens. To check the others."
Tarn looked annoyed. "You always talk in more work."
"That is mostly what it is."
Varr stood slowly, using his staff. "He is right."
That made several people look at him.
The old man scowled. "Do not look pleased. I said he is right about work, not about everything."
Torren kept his face still.
Brea pointed toward the upper shelters. "Then you need to see the fever dens."
Tarn looked at Torren. "You go where I say. You touch nothing unless Varr or Brea tells you."
"Fine."
"And you ask no questions about our work."
Torren glanced once at the cold hearths, the molds, the red-stained stones. "Fine."
Varr did not believe him. "Curious boys make bad guests."
"I'll be a useful bad guest."
Brea snorted. "That may be enough."
Tarn gestured for two men to stay near Torren. Then he turned toward the returning column, already barking orders about unloading the bundles, separating wounded from sick, and keeping stolen cloth away from fevered hands until Brea checked it.
As they moved deeper into the camp, Torren saw more of what they had carried back. Grain. Cloth. Bitter herbs. Willow. Jars. Bandages. A small leather case with a broken clasp. One man tried to put it under a hide when Torren looked. Another cuffed him and said something about Tarn seeing.
Not a normal raid.
Not only villages.
Torren kept his mouth shut.
For now.
Behind him, Rodd breathed through cooling pine steam while the Red Smith Tree Speaker watched the bowl like it had insulted him personally and then proved partly useful. The camp had let Torren in, but not because it trusted him. It had let him in because men were coughing, the hearths were quiet, and whatever the Red Smiths had brought back from the north had not been enough.