ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

FireStorm’s small column left at speed.

Autumn wind cut across the road and flattened the yellowing grass; the twenty-eight men behind Arlan were not a knightly host. Several had been farmers weeks earlier, and some rode with the stiff posture of men who preferred fighting on foot; those without horses kept pace on the shorter track while mounted men checked ahead and returned rather than leaving the column stretched thin.

No one turned back.

Arlan kept the pace below the point where the footmen would arrive already exhausted; a column that reached the pass ten minutes earlier but could not hold a shield was useless. Twice he stopped them long enough to drink, and twice Wayne sent riders back along the trail to make certain no second force had appeared behind them.

Wayne rode beside Arlan for the first mile. ”If they really have two hundred, they’ll try to surround us before the pass.”

”Then we don’t give them open ground.”

”And if they already hold the narrow road?”

”We find out before committing the whole line.” Arlan sent two scouts ahead at intervals and kept the rest close enough to support each other. Separated groups would be easy to surround.

By afternoon they reached broken country beneath the northern slopes; the road narrowed between rising ground and thick trees. Loose stone covered one side of the approach; old pines crowded the other, and the pass could turn two hundred men into a much smaller front.

That was the first useful thing Arlan had seen all day.

The road itself was barely wide enough for six men abreast where old rain had eaten at the western edge; tree roots made the eastern slope difficult for anyone carrying a heavy shield. Loose stones underfoot would punish a downhill rush once bodies began pressing from behind, and Arlan walked the ground rather than trusting what it had looked like from the saddle.

He marked three points with his eye: where bows could fire without striking the shield line, where wounded men could be dragged clear, and where a retreat would have to turn if the front broke, and planning for failure did not invite it. It prevented surprise from owning the moment.

***

Far away in Nightsong, Elton Caron listened to a subordinate report that Arlan had ridden north with fewer than thirty men; Gareth leaned over the table. ”Bloodhand has seven men for every one of his.”

”Numbers only matter if they reach him at once,” Elton said.

”They will. Their chief swore it.”

Elton swirled the wine in his cup. ”If Arlan dies at the pass, we move afterward under the excuse of restoring order. FireStorm will need a lawful hand before refugees start murdering each other over grain.” The subordinate bowed. ”And the workshops?”

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”Preserve them if possible. The glass secrets and distillery are worth more intact.”

Gareth smiled. ”You think the mountain men will leave anything intact?”

”I think they understand that a second payment depends on obedience.”

***

At North Mountain Pass, Arlan found the first sign that obedience had been expensive; iron flashed between trees. Then more.

Men emerged from the forest in groups until the northern slope seemed to be shedding them, and some wore Bloodhand markings. Others belonged to smaller mountain bands; their clothing was still rough fur and scavenged leather, but the equipment among them was better than it should have been: iron axes, steel spearheads, swords that had not spent twenty years rusting in a hut.

Wayne exhaled through his teeth. ”Elton emptied a smithy for them.”

”Or several.”

The raiders spread where the road allowed and compressed where it did not; at their head came a thick-bearded man carrying a massive spiked club. He pushed through the front rank until he could see Arlan clearly. ”Ashenblade!” The Common Tongue in his mouth was coarse but understandable.

”Lord Elton give food! Give land! Give women! Kill you, FireStorm ours!” The men behind him roared.

Wayne glanced sideways. ”That is unusually considerate testimony.” Arlan studied the ground rather than the speaker.

The road narrowed sharply twenty paces ahead; east of it, tree roots and a steep rise would make a mass charge awkward. West, loose stones and a shallow drop would punish men who tried to spread too quickly, and the raiders had numbers, but they were moving with the confidence of men promised an undefended village rather than a difficult fight.

”Shields front,” Arlan ordered. ”Bows behind. No one leaves the road to chase.”

The twelve trained guards formed the center; supporting men filled the second rank and edges with spears and bows. The line looked pitifully small against the bodies gathering under the trees, and several men swallowed. None stepped away.

Wayne moved down the line checking shield overlap by hand, and a farmer near the western edge had tied his grip too tightly around a borrowed spear; the captain loosened his fingers and told him to breathe before the shaft became slick with sweat. Another man whispered a prayer to the Seven and then planted his rear foot where Arlan indicated.

Arlan rode forward just far enough to judge the distance, then dismounted. The narrow ground left little room to turn a horse once men closed from both sides.

He handed the reins back and drew his sword, and the Bloodhand leader lifted the spiked club and shouted again about Elton’s reward. Two hundred voices answered; the front ranks began moving. Wayne raised one hand to the archers.

”Hold,” Arlan said. The raiders accelerated, iron and stone striking against shields as they tested their grips. Behind him, his men waited with their weapons ready.

”Nobody fires until I give the word.” The distance closed. Thirty paces. Twenty-five; the Bloodhand chief broke into a run, and the men behind him surged forward in a mass that could no longer stop cleanly.

Arlan lowered his blade toward the approaching line.

The first rank behind the chief was close enough now that Arlan could distinguish faces beneath smeared paint, and some carried Caron-made steel too clean for the mountains; others had food sacks tied behind their belts, provisions supplied for a march rather than scavenged on the way. Elton had not merely pointed men south; he had equipped an expedition.

Wayne lowered his raised hand a fraction, waiting for Arlan’s signal; the archers drew to the ear. Shields settled into the earth.

For one heartbeat the whole pass seemed to narrow to the distance between the two lines, and Arlan felt the familiar weight of the sword, the drag of wind against his sleeve, and the vibration of men running over hard ground. Everything else became secondary; behind him, Wayne gave one final order to keep the second rank from crowding the shields when the impact came. The instruction passed down the line in low voices rather than a shout, and every man heard it and settled his fighting stance firmly.

Then Arlan moved first; none of the twenty-eight men behind him broke formation. They had come knowing the odds, and the narrow pass was the only advantage Arlan could give them against so many bodies.