The first light of dawn revealed two opposing armies assembled on the valley floor. The lesser of the two armies numbering no more than three hundred had taken a defensive position on the higher ground. Though lower in number, every one of the men sported wooden armor and carried three wooden spears, a long one in hand and two short throwing spears.

The opposing army, which numbered more than a thousand men had them surrounded on three sides. The men in this army were fully naked except for a fur loincloth that went up to their knees, fastened with a leather belt.

Each one carried a short spear with a bone tip and a bow made of bone hung over their shoulders, with five bone arrows in the quiver tied to their loincloth belt.

They were taller and more muscular than their shorter counterparts in wooden armor. Their bodies were painted white in intricate patterns, contrasting their ebony skin.

The more painted a man the closer to the front lines and higher up the pecking order he would be. The men in the vanguard had the highest density of painted patterns, marking them as the elite. Standing in front of the army was a young man, his young muscular frame bereft of any paint.

With his distinct loincloth and with a lion headdress upon his head, he clearly stood out from the rest. Despite his youth, he was no less tall or muscular than the more mature warriors behind him. To his side was a bear of a man, almost fully painted in white.

“By the ancestors, there is more wood gathered here than all the tribes ever owned in their entire existence,” the young warrior remarked, observing the enemy up ahead.

The large man beside him bellowed in laughter. “They look more like trees and less like men,” he spoke in derision.

“Atleast they die fighting, unlike the cowards we faced earlier this season,” the young man chuckled.

“True enough, my prince,” the big man spoke with a smile on his painted face. “Should we shower them in pain?” he asked, his smile turning into a wicked grin.

“Nah…With our advantage in numbers we should be able to crush them head-on, and conserve our precious arrows in the process,” the prince countered, speaking with confidence.

“Suits me fine. I do like my battles up close and personal.” The big man was ecstatic at the proposition. “Ahh… the joy of ending a man’s life as you get to witness the terror on his face before the light in his eyes fades away. It is all so very… satisfying.”

The prince raised his spear and bellowed a massive roar and his army replied in kind, the very ground trembling at the ferocity of their battle cry, which rang throughout the valley.

After the noise had died down, the prince performed an instructive gesture with his raised spear and the army began reforming itself, splitting in two, separating the truly elite from the rest. Warriors in the front half removed their bows and quiver and placed them on the ground, which was carried away by men who moved to form the rear half.

When the prince noticed the formations were complete, he raised his spear and roared once more before he charged, his men following behind.

Days later….

Two naked men bound by rope were being dragged by painted warriors through an army camp, with tents made of animal hide and held using a mix of bone and wood. Behind them, the victoriously returning soldiers were being greeted with a cheer by their loved ones.

They were headed towards the massive tent in the center of the camp and came to a halt in front of its entrance, stopped in place by two painted warriors guarding it. Voices could be heard coming from inside the tent.

“Is this the end, big brother?” asked one of the two bound men. Both men were covered in dried blood and dirt, looking humiliated and beaten.

“I… I am sorry, brother. I failed you, I failed my people. I… I,” The other bound man sobbed as words evaded him. “I swore to protect everyone or die trying, but look at me now, still alive while my people suffer a fate worse than death. I… I am a disgrace,” he continued, before slumping even further to the ground. The men escorting them just ignored the two.

The younger brother crouched next to the broken man and spoke, “What are you talking about? No! You are not a disgrace, big brother. Everyone knows you are the reason that we even stood a chance against the Venti.

We definitely caught the enemy off guard with our ambush, and if it wasn’t for the Venti throwing device we could have… I mean, how could have we known about these contraptions?” The younger brother vented his frustration, clenching his fist till his knuckles turned pale.

A moment passed in silence between the two men before a loud angry voice from inside the tent broke it and both men were dragged inside, the tent flaps parting, revealing a circular room. A man sat majestically on a large decorated wooden chair opposite the entrance to the tent.

His large muscular ebony frame remained unblemished by paint and he sported a luxurious fur loincloth fastened by a leather belt decorated with bone carvings. He wore an exquisitely carved bone necklace and two armed bands of similar material, the bones used in these accessories looking eerily human.

On one side of the room was the prince, lying flat on bedding made of animal fur. He was writhing in pain and sweating profusely, the wound on his left thigh vomiting pus and blood.

Three naked women sat surrounding him, two wiping his sweat and nursing him, while the other just looked horrified at the sight before her, tears streaming from her eyes. Tall and built athletically, she was covered in the same white paint as the men.

As they entered, the two brothers recognized the fully painted warrior standing beside the seated man, their eyes widening at first, then jaw’s clenching and teeth gritting in anger. The man had killed a lot of their people even after they had already surrendered.

Their brief bout of anger ended when they received a swift kick to the back of their knees and they went down in front of the seated man, heads low and held down by their two escorts.

“This is the leader of the woodmen, my lord,” the painted warrior said, pointing at the elder brother.

The Venti lord observed the two kneeling in front of him with a stoic expression on his face, and for a brief moment, silence reigned inside the tent. He glanced at the two one at a time, the expression on his face changing to pity and then disgust and finally settling on anger after a quick glance at his injured son.

“Braga?!” He growled, his anger showing clearly.

“Yes? My lord,” Braga’s voice trembled, his eyes lowering at his masters petrifying gaze.

“Were you just implying to me that men as pitiful as these two managed to injure my son, my eldest son, a warrior of prodigious talent unseen in generations.”

“Well… Umm… As I said before, my lord, they look weak and by all means, they are, but they are a crafty lot. Also, lord, they did attack us from behind like cowards. I assure you, the prince fought as valiantly as ever, but these woodmen fight in groups and they surrounded him like a pack of mangy dogs, but even then the prince fought them off easily. Even when they managed to land a lucky hit on him, he seemed unfazed and slaughtered them all like sheep.” Braga explained fumblingly, praising the prince as always.

After hearing about the ambush, and the cunning displayed by his enemies in battle, the Venti lord looked at two brothers again, his expression of anger and disgust morphing into a one of curiosity with a hint of newfound admiration.

He turned his head towards Braga again but snapped it back to look at the enemy leader as the man mumbled something in a language unknown to the Venti. One of the Venti warriors standing behind was about to strike the man, but a hand gesture from the Venti Lord stopped him.

“Braga,” The Lord spoke.

“Yes, Lord?” Braga replied.

“Get the translator.”

“But, my lord, he…” Braga tried to protest.

“Now!” The Lord demanded forcefully, gazing straight into Braga’s eyes. He froze and before long hurried out of the tent and returned moments later with an elderly woman.

“He is begging us to spare his people, my lord. He says he would pay any price, even his life in exchange,” the woman translated.

The lord chuckled a little after hearing that. “Tell him that everything that belongs to him is already mine. His sons will be my slave soldiers and his daughters, my concubines.”

When the elder woman translated the words in the language of the woodsmen, both brothers looked up at the Venti lord, eyes wide, full of terror.

‘I have to do something. I… This cannot be the end. This cannot be my people’s fate,’ the elder brother thought, panic and desperation consuming his mind. He looked around and found Braga standing on one side of the room, a satisfied smirk on his painted face, and beside him was the elderly woman. He looked to the other side, the prince lay surrounded by the Venti women.

He remembered seeing the young boy fighting and ordering his men to target him. He had never seen anyone so fierce in battle, it was a shame the boy would die, as his wound didn’t seem to be healing. Yellow gore seemed to be seeping out of the wound and the prince sweated profoundly. Then it struck him, a ray of hope.

“I can save your son. I can heal him,” he blurted out. The elderly woman’s eyes widened at that and she stood stationary for a moment before translating it. After hearing from the woman, the Venti lord looked at the man in careful consideration, his brow furrowed.

One of the women sitting near the prince who was weeping, snapped her head to look towards the elderly woman and then at the man kneeling on the ground. She got up and slowly started walking towards the Venti lord.

“And what makes you think my son needs saving? I don’t need the help of weaklings, puny wounds like these won’t stop my son,” the Venti lord said confidently, but there was a hint of doubt mixed within.

The painted woman was now standing behind the chair at a side, observing the kneeling men. “And what can you wood dwellers provide us with? That we, the Great Venti don’t already possess.” The Venti lord looked questioningly at the elder brother.

“Your son is not going to heal from a wound like that. I think you already know that nothing you do can save his life, but I can.”

“Insolent worm, you dare?… How…” Braga growled but was quieted off by the Venti Lord with a gesture.

“And what would you ask in return for this help?” The Lord asked.

“Your word that you would spare my people from enslavement and you will let them go free,” the woodman replied.

“You ask for a lot, Woodling. What makes you think I value my son so much as to yield to your demands? I have two more sons to replace him and I can make many more if necessary.” The Lord stated.

The woman standing behind him placed a hand on one of his shoulders and squeezed a little. She looked at him pleadingly, her eyes still wet from before. The Venti lord looked at her for a moment before quickly shifting his head to look at the woodsman.

“I believe he is your eldest, and as a father, I know the first child is special. I will save him, just let my people go,” the woodsman reminded.

“Ahrr… Very well, save my son.” The lord conceded.

“I’ll require all the equipment your men took from me.” The woodsman requested.

“Braga, get this man his belongings,” his master commanded.

Braga left and returned soon after with all the armor and equipment of the woodsman leader, tightly wrapped in animal hide. He then freed the woodsman by cutting the ropes binding him, and then the elder woodsman untied the package and removed a waterskin.

“Make your son drink the water from this, it will heal him.” The woodsman held out the waterskin in front of the Venti lord.

“Brother don’t, that water belongs to our people, we cannot give it away. These people cannot be trusted with it, the…” the younger woodsman was protesting, but was cut off as the elder spoke. “We have no other choice, brother. It’s this or slavery.”

“Is that it? I swear on my ancestors… if this is some trick…” the venti lord was warning, when the woman behind him swiftly walked forward and snatched the waterskin from the woodsman and started walking towards the prince, surprising everyone in the room. Kneeling beside him, she uncorked the container and slowly poured the water into the prince’s mouth, raising his head slightly to make sure he didn’t choke.

The two other women moved to make space for her, halting their activity. Both Braga and the Venti lord came over to stand near the prince, observing as he slowly gulped the liquid. The elderly woman joined them, curious about the situation.

The woodsman looked over with bated breath, but remained kneeling in place, observed carefully by their two escorts. Silence befell the room for a couple of brief moments before anyone spoke again.

“Nothing, a trick afterall…” Braga spoke but abruptly stopped.

“By all the ancestors, the wound is closing up. It’s a miracle,” the elderly woman spoke in astonishment a few moments later, eyes wide in shock. The Venti lord returned and sat back in his chair, Braga and the elderly woman following along and now standing beside him.

“Looks like it worked,” the Venti lord spoke, addressing the elder woodsman.

“I kept my end of the bargain,” the woodsman said.

“And so will I,” the Venti lord replied. “I am curious though, this water of yours, how much more do you have? I will need it all.”

“That was everything we had.”

“Nonsense, just hand it all to me and I'll let your people live.” The Venti lord threatened.

“But it is the truth, and you promised to uphold your end of the bargain and let my people go. You can’t do this… Please…Please, just let them go,” The woodsman pleaded.

“I AM keeping my promise. I won’t enslave your people and I’ll set them free, however, I made no promise to let them live afterwards.” The Venti lord smirked. “Now, you will tell me everything about this water of yours.”