ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

The first rockfall struck behind the leading raiders.

Before the stones fell, more men were already disappearing into the spike pits at the front; loose soil collapsed under their combined weight. The sharpened stakes below did not kill everyone immediately, and the screams from wounded men created the first hesitation in the ranks behind them, and that hesitation was exactly when the road needed to close.

Ropes snapped free, and wedges came loose. Boulders rolled from both cliffs and crashed into the entrance with enough force to shake dust from the pines; men who had been trying to avoid the spike pits turned and found the road behind them closing under stone. ”Trap!” The warning came too late to matter.

More than three hundred bodies filled a valley path never meant for that many men at once, and the front could not advance cleanly because of the pits. The rear could not retreat through the rockfall; shouting spread faster than orders.

The new Bloodhand chief raised his steel sword and tried to force men forward; Arlan waited until the column compressed around the middle section. His hand dropped again, and the second set of ropes was cut.

The middle fall broke sight lines as well as crushing men beneath it. The rear group could no longer see what commands the chief shouted at the front, while the forward section heard only echoes and the impacts of arrows; a force assembled from several clans needed visible leadership to remain one body; the valley turned it back into separate crowds.

Another mass of boulders came down between the forward group and the larger body behind it; stone struck men as well as road. When the dust cleared enough to see, the raiders had been divided into separate pockets that could barely communicate over screams and echoing rock.

Wayne raised his bow. ”Loose!” Arrows fell from both sides.

Wayne ordered controlled volleys rather than allowing every bowman to empty his quiver in panic, and heavy crossbows were used against men with the best shields and steel. Ordinary bows targeted exposed bodies. After each volley, men shifted positions so return arrows from below could not simply aim at the last flash of movement.

FireStorm’s men had the high ground, prepared positions, and targets packed tightly enough that even the less experienced archers did not need heroic accuracy; the first volleys struck men in shoulders, chests, throats, and faces. Raiders lifted hide shields where they had them, and most had nothing large enough to cover against fire from above.

They tried climbing, and the cliffs punished them for it. Hands found roots that tore free; boots slipped on loose stone. Men who reached exposed ledges met crossbow bolts and spear points from guards waiting behind cover.

Arlan moved along the concealed line instead of remaining at one firing position; he watched for any section of the trap failing under pressure. The pits at the entrance still held, and the first rock barrier had shifted but remained closed. The middle fall divided the valley exactly as planned.

Only then did he signal the deepest group, and clay pots shattered on the valley floor. The smell of high-proof spirit rose through blood and dust; raiders looked down at the liquid splashing over boots and furs without understanding what it meant.

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Fire arrows descended a heartbeat later; flame ran across the ground.

The first ignition did not engulf the whole valley at once, and fire raced along the largest pools, caught dry fur and brush, then joined separate patches as men kicked burning spirit across the packed floor. Smoke rose quickly and turned the deeper pocket into a place where panic killed almost as efficiently as flame.

Arlan watched the wind; if it shifted hard toward the cliff positions, he was prepared to stop the fire attack and pull men back. It held down-valley instead.

Red Sun Flame caught faster than ordinary spilled ale and carried fire through cloth, hair, and dry leather, and men nearest the first ignition points tried to beat the flames away with their hands. Others collided with them while attempting to escape, spreading burning spirit farther through the packed group.

The valley became bright enough for Wayne to see faces below.

”Keep arrows on the climbers,” Arlan ordered. ”Don’t waste shots on men already trapped by fire.” The forward section broke first.

Its men had the clearest view of the spike pits and the worst view of what remained behind them; those nearest the front tried dragging bodies over the trapped ground to make a bridge. Arrows forced them back before the attempt became organized, and others began calling out that they had been lied to about FireStorm being empty. That accusation spread backward through the trapped groups and weakened whatever authority the new chief still possessed over the other clans trapped beside him.

Roughly a hundred men near the entrance had not been caught inside the worst of the flames, and they could see the burning mass behind them, the pits ahead, and guards above. Weapons began hitting the ground; one man knelt. Then another.

Soon dozens were shouting surrender in broken Common Tongue; Arlan waited before accepting it. A surrender offered while men still held axes and stood mixed together could become another rush the moment guards approached.

”Weapons away from the body,” he called down. ”Hands on your heads. Anyone holding steel when our men descend is treated as fighting.” The instruction had to be repeated through interpreters and gestures, but enough understood.

Axes, spears, and swords accumulated in the mud; Arlan looked toward Wayne. ”Forty down. Three-man groups. Shields first.”

Ropes already fixed to the cliff allowed the guards to descend in controlled groups; the moment they reached the valley floor they formed compact shield-and-spear teams rather than spreading among the prisoners. The few raiders who tried to exploit the movement died quickly.

One rushed a descending guard before the shield group had fully formed and was pinned by two spear points, and another threw a knife from his knees and was struck down before he reached for a second weapon. The examples were enough; men who truly surrendered were disarmed, searched, and moved away from loose weapons rather than cut down with the fighters.

Most stayed on their knees; the fire farther down the valley began to consume its own fuel and break into separate patches. Smoke gathered beneath the cliff walls, and Arlan covered his mouth with cloth before descending. The ground below was slick with mud, blood, and spilled spirit.

A burning raider staggered from the smoke with a sword raised, and Wayne moved to intercept. Arlan reached the man first; one thrust entered the throat. Arlan withdrew immediately and stepped away from the burning clothes rather than allow the body to collapse against him.

”Clear the living from the smoke,” he said. ”Prisoners too. I want witnesses, not corpses from suffocation.” The guards began separating surrendered men from the dead; the ambush had done what it was designed to do.

Now came the part that carelessness could still ruin. Wayne bound prisoners in separate groups while other men marked the grain sacks, lowland steel, branded animals, and every token or tally found among the dead. Each object kept the place and witnesses of its recovery; a single convenient pile would be easier to dismiss than a trail whose pieces had been recorded before anyone knew which would matter.