ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

The smell of distilled liquor still hung over the courtyard when fear returned to FireStorm. Everyone knew the Blacktooth band by reputation, and men wearing those black tusk marks had already cost House Ashenblade its lord and most of its fighting strength.

Women pulled children close while the three wounded survivors of Ser Edwyn’s last defense reached for pitchforks despite splinted limbs. Arlan ignored the panic spreading around the still and kept his attention on the sentry.

”How are they placed?”

”They hold the main road, my lord, and men are watching the path behind the mountain as well.” The young man fought to steady his breathing. ”At least forty. Stone axes, blades, and some bows.”

FireStorm could put perhaps seven people on their feet with weapons, three of them already injured. Against forty raiders accustomed to killing for plunder, the difference in numbers required no explanation. Morton stepped in front of Arlan before anyone else could speak. ”There is another way.”

The old steward gripped one of the remaining rusted swords. ”An abandoned mine lies in the cliffs behind the village, and a passage through it opens beyond the rear slope. The entrance is hidden from the main road, and I can still lead you through before they close that route.”

The mine had appeared in Arlan’s inherited memories only as an abandoned working, one of the few resources FireStorm possessed but no longer exploited. Morton was not inventing a fantasy of escape; the passage genuinely offered a way past part of the encirclement.

”And the rest of you?”

Morton’s eyes reddened, but his answer came without hesitation. ”We hold the gate and buy you as much time as we can.”

Several villagers behind him nodded despite the fear on their faces. Their willingness was not confidence in the odds; most understood perfectly well that holding the gate against forty raiders would probably mean dying there. A few of the younger men even lowered themselves to their knees, one doing so awkwardly because his leg was still bandaged from the previous fighting.

”Our lives were saved by you,” Morton said. ”If one of us must survive this, it should be the head of House Ashenblade.”

Arlan looked across the people gathered around him. When Arlan had first risen from his sickbed, they had been a village waiting to be stripped by raiders; now they were willing to trade what remained of their lives for his escape.

Michael Watson had never possessed anything comparable. His old profession rewarded solitude because attachments created leverage, but Arlan Ashenblade had inherited land, a name, and people who expected protection in exchange for their loyalty. That obligation ran in both directions.

”Everyone stand.” Morton remained on one knee for a moment longer.

”Stand,” Arlan repeated. The old steward obeyed, and the others followed him upright.

”I am the head of House Ashenblade, and I will not leave FireStorm while the people under my protection stay behind to die.” Arlan let that settle before turning toward the stone hall. ”We defend here.”

Morton started to object again, but Arlan was already giving orders.

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”Women, children, and the elderly go into the hall. Board the windows and leave only narrow openings. Keep hay and firewood behind the main door; if the entrance is forced and there is no other choice, burn the approach rather than let them rush through.”

He turned to the men who could still carry weapons. ”Two at the side entrance, three at the rear windows, and two near the main gate with me.”

The defenders exchanged uneasy glances. Two were barely more than boys, while the others looked toward Morton as though the steward might produce an easier plan. He did not.

”Defend only,” Arlan continued. ”Do not chase anyone outside the walls, and do not open a door without my order. If they remain outside, you remain behind cover.”

The side entrance needed only enough men to stop a sudden breach. Arlan wanted every defender behind stone or timber until the attackers committed themselves, because seven frightened villagers could not afford the kind of open fight the Blacktooth band preferred. The rear windows mattered because the raiders had already occupied the mountain path, while the main gate remained the likeliest place for a direct assault.

”Understood,” the men answered. Their voices were not steady, but they moved. The courtyard changed within minutes. Boards crossed windows, stone bars were dragged into place, and the few bows, arrows, stone spears, pitchforks, and usable blades were distributed among people who had little experience using them.

Bundles of hay and firewood were stacked where Arlan had ordered, not because the hall was meant to burn, but because a forced doorway could be turned into a barrier of flame if the alternative was letting dozens of raiders pour through at once.

Morton worked faster than his age suggested, directing families into the hall and checking the defenders’ positions. Arlan watched long enough to be certain his instructions were understood, then returned to the old steel sword that had belonged to Ser Edwyn.

The rusted blade still carried the stag mark that the Forging Group had valued earlier. Arlan opened the interface, selected [List Item], and allowed the system to take it.

[Item listed successfully.]

[1 silver stag received.]

[Current Account Balance: 1.5 silver stags.]

The old sword disappeared from his hand. Morton did not see the exchange happen, but Arlan felt the balance change inside the interface exactly as it had when the half silver stag was deposited. House Ashenblade had surrendered one of the few objects tied directly to Ser Edwyn’s service, but the exchange gave Arlan purchasing power while forty raiders were closing around the holding.

He opened Larry’s private chat. ”One and a half silver stags. Give me the best option for a group fight.”

The answer came quickly. ”Four Common-quality hardened throwing spears with steel heads, one silver stag. For the remaining half, I’ll add Dwarven Fire Oil; it ignites on contact and works well when too many bastards stand together.”

”Yes.”

The balance fell to zero as four short spears appeared at Arlan’s feet. Their hardwood shafts were smooth enough not to tear the hand during a release and appropriately weighted for throwing, while narrow steel heads caught what remained of the daylight. Larry had described them as capable of punching through layered beast hide, which gave Arlan a reliable ranged option against men who expected only crude village bows.

A small ceramic bottle appeared beside them, sealed with a wooden stopper. Arlan lifted it carefully and heard thick liquid move inside; even through the seal, a sharp oily smell reached him.

He did not test the fire oil. A substance sold specifically for setting groups of enemies alight did not belong beside thatch, timber, children, and FireStorm’s remaining food.

Arlan secured the bottle beneath his clothes, fastened the throwing spears where he could reach them, and left the hand-and-a-half sword at his side. Daylight failed behind the Red Mountains.

Wind moved through the thatch and across the low wall while the last barricades were finished. By the time Morton returned from checking the hall, Arlan could hear movement beyond the village: feet on wet ground, low voices, and weapons knocking against one another.

”Everyone is in place,” Morton said. Arlan nodded and listened.

A horn sounded from the darkness beyond FireStorm, one long and harsh note that silenced every voice inside the hall. The raiders of the Red Mountains used three blasts before a sack, a demand to surrender before they came through the walls. A second blast followed, then a third. No one inside FireStorm answered the horn.

Torches appeared beyond the gate. Dozens of them. The Blacktooth band had arrived.