ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

Morton continued speaking while the pale blue interface hung in Arlan’s vision. When Arlan turned his head, the pane moved with him. No light from it touched the walls, and the steward’s eyes never followed it. Whatever the thing was, Morton could not see it.

”My lord?”

”Quiet.” Arlan studied the interface. It resembled a small exchange group rather than any spell or vision the memories of this body recognized, and one member portrait was active: a broad, heavily bearded dwarf standing before a forge.

[Larry — Dwarven Blacksmith]

The other portraits were dark and locked, their details hidden behind insufficient permissions, and a single notice sat beneath the group name.

[Myriad Realms Forging. Fair prices for all. Payment on delivery. Quality tied to title. No credit.]

Arlan had survived too long in his first life to trust a gift merely because it arrived at the right moment, and he read what the interface offered before touching anything else, then he opened Larry’s available goods. The first listing answered the need that had triggered the system.

[Common Quality · Standard Hand-and-a-Half Sword]

[Material: High-carbon steel. Sharpened edge.]

[Center of gravity optimized for one-handed or two-handed grip.]

[Compatible with host combat techniques.]

[Price: 2 silver stags.]

Exactly two. Arlan remembered Morton sewing those coins into the lining of his clothes before the failed ride toward Nightsong; they were the last silver immediately available to House Ashenblade and the whole price of the one useful item before him.

He did not spend long weighing the choice.

”Exchange.”

[Order confirmed.]

[2 silver stags deducted.]

[Item will be delivered immediately.]

Cold weight settled into his right hand, and Morton recoiled so sharply that his shoulder struck the wall.

A hand-and-a-half sword rested in Arlan’s grip, and the blade was bright steel without ornament, close to three feet in length, with a straight crossguard and a cowhide-wrapped hilt; its polished edge caught the dim tallow light without any glow of its own.

Arlan tested the balance with a small turn of the wrist, and the point followed cleanly.

He shifted to a two-handed grip, then back to one hand. The center of gravity sat slightly forward of the guard, close to what Michael had preferred in his old life; there was no drag, no looseness in the hilt, and no visible flaw in the edge.

For the first time since waking, Arlan possessed a tool he trusted, and Morton stared from the sword to Arlan’s empty hand and back again, and his mouth opened once without sound.

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”My lord... where did that come from?” Arlan ignored the question for the moment and made one short cut through empty air, and the blade answered exactly as expected, clean and quick enough that the weakness in his arm did not have to compensate for bad balance.

Then the first shout came from outside. A coarse voice carried through the rain, followed by laughter and the uneven beat of approaching horses. Arlan looked at Morton. ”Get everyone inside. Bar the hall. No one comes out unless I call.” The steward hesitated only a moment before hurrying for the door.

Arlan followed, and the villagers were already moving through the yard; women clutched children beneath cloaks. An old man dragged a bench toward the hall with the help of a boy, and one of the wounded survivors leaned on a pitchfork because his leg would not bear his weight alone.

The sight of Arlan carrying a clean steel sword drew stares, but there was no time for questions.

”Inside,” he ordered. ”All of you.” A heavy blow struck the outer gate. The timber groaned. Arlan moved beneath the porch outside the stone hall and watched rain collect in the yard; mud covered most of the open ground, but the earth nearer the wall was firmer from years of foot traffic.

The gate shook again. His fever-weakened body would not endure a prolonged fight. He could not afford to trade strength against strength, chase men through the village, or let the raiders spread around him.

Behind him, Morton pushed the last child through the hall entrance, and the villagers crowded inside, holding pitchforks, kitchen knives, and whatever else they had carried from their homes.

”My lord!” Morton called.

”Bar it.”

The old man’s expression twisted. ”Come inside with us.”

”Bar it.” Morton obeyed. The door closed. On the other side, women held children close while the wounded men kept pitchforks and broken weapons near the shutter gaps. Morton remained with them, unable to do more than trust the order Arlan had given. Wood scraped against stone as the beam dropped into place. Arlan slowed his breathing.

The sword hung low at his right side, and he listened to the blows against the gate, counting the intervals between them while his eyes measured the space between the entrance and the porch. Every inhale pulled against his bruised chest, but the hand holding the sword remained steady.

The third strike split the gate bar, and the doors crashed inward; rain swept through with the first raider.

The man was broad and nearly bare-chested beneath pieces of animal hide, with three old scars crossing his face and a chipped axe in his hand; dried dark blood marked the weapon, and he kicked through the broken gate and looked toward the hall where the villagers had hidden.

”Kill the men!” he shouted in rough Common Tongue. ”The women—” Arlan stepped forward. The man had committed his attention to the building and his weight to the advance, and the axe remained low. Arlan thrust. The point entered the throat beneath the jaw.

He felt resistance through the hilt, then a sudden release, and Arlan turned his wrist and pulled the sword free as blood burst across the man’s chest and spattered his face, and the raider dropped the axe and collapsed backward into the mud.

Scarcely a heartbeat had passed between the raider entering the yard and falling. Seven men remained beyond the gate. For a moment they stood motionless, and the villagers behind Arlan had gone completely silent.

Then two raiders came at him together with stone-tipped spears while the others began to spread along the yard. Arlan gave them half a step, letting the first point pass close to his ribs while the second scraped the stone wall.

His sword snapped down across one wooden shaft, and the steel bit through; before the man could recover, Arlan drove the point into his eye.

The second spearman dropped his weapon and dragged a rusted knife from his belt, and he cut toward Arlan’s neck with the kind of broad swing that depended on the target retreating, and Arlan moved the other way. He ducked beneath the blade and stepped inside the man’s reach.

A thrust between the ribs reached the heart, and the raider stiffened, then sagged against the sword, and Arlan withdrew and turned; five men had closed around him from the sides. The villagers behind the barred hall could see little more than blood, rain, and moving shadows through the shutter gaps. Morton stood among them with a pitchfork, while wounded men gripped whatever tools they had been given and waited for the door to fail if Arlan did.

Arlan could hear someone stifle a cry, and the five raiders raised their weapons and came on together.

Arlan did not look back, and the next few seconds would decide whether that surprise mattered.