Tormund Ironbraid's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Tormund Ironbraid crouched in the wet ferns and watched a horned puffkin nibble moss. The little creature swung its curved horns, fat and slow. His stomach growled. He had eaten nothing since his clan scattered from the stronghold three days past, when their enemies broke the gates and drove his people into the wilds. Now he hunted alone. A chief with no hall, no fire, no people to lead. He raised his spear. A branch cracked behind him. The puffkin bolted. Tormund spun, spear ready, and found three of his own clansmen standing among the trees. Their faces were smeared with mud. One carried a child on his back. Their eyes were empty, the eyes of people who had stopped hoping. "Tormund," the eldest whispered. "We thought you dead." "Not yet." He lowered the spear. His chest tightened. Three. Only three, from a clan of two hundred. "Where are the rest?" "Scattered. Everyone ran a different way. We hide by day. We walk by night." The man's voice shook. "By the next moon there will be no clan left to find." Tormund knew he was right. Fear was pulling his people apart faster than any enemy could. Hunger and cold would finish the work. He had spent three days thinking only of his own belly. That shamed him now. He made his choice. "Then we give them a reason to stop running." The clansmen stared. Tormund pointed at the ridge above them, where smoke would carry for miles. "Fire. A big one. Our people know the old signal. Three fires means the chief calls them home." "The enemy will see it too," the eldest said. "Let them see." Tormund gripped the man's shoulder. "A hidden clan is already dead. I would rather burn one bright night than fade in the dark." They climbed the ridge together. Tormund found a wide flat stone and they piled dry wood upon it. He struck sparks until the flame caught and grew. Then a second fire. Then a third. The three blazes roared against the dark sky. Smoke rose in three straight columns. Tormund stood between the fires and waited. The child slept. The clansmen watched the treeline, hands on their knives. Hours passed. Nothing moved. Then a shape stepped from the trees. A woman, thin and ragged, leading two others by the hand. Behind her came four more. Then a family. Then a dozen. They came out of the wilds one by one, drawn to the light like moths, their faces lifting when they saw him standing there. By dawn, sixty of his people ringed the fires. Not two hundred. But sixty was a clan. Sixty was a start. Tormund looked at the ragged crowd, at the hope returning to their faces. They were together now. And together, they would need somewhere to go. He turned his eyes north, toward the stronghold his enemies still held.