ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

Torchlight spread through the pines before the last echo of the shouted order had died. Riders pushed between the trunks in disciplined files rather than the loose rush of hired swords, while more men followed on foot until the clearing was ringed with steel. Wayne counted quickly and stopped when the number passed a hundred.

At their head rode Auston Weil, the Rainwood tax officer whose name had become familiar around FireStorm for all the wrong reasons; iron studs covered his leather coat, a longsword rested bare across his thigh, and his face changed the moment he saw Rickard with Arlan’s point at his throat.

”Release my brother.” Auston’s voice carried cleanly through the trees. ”Do it now, Arlan Ashenblade, or none of you leaves this forest.”

The Caron men spread into a shallow crescent while he spoke; archers found lanes between the trunks, household spearmen closed the road behind the wagons, and four mounted knights moved to the front where they could charge without crossing one another. FireStorm’s men tightened their shield line rather than answering the threat.

Rickard found his courage almost as quickly as Auston’s soldiers found their positions, and blood still marked the shallow cut at his neck, yet he grinned around it and looked toward Brienne.

”You hear him?” he said. ”Put the sword down and beg before my brother decides to bury you beside that ugly Tarth brute.” Arlan pressed the point another fraction into his skin; Rickard stopped talking.

”Your brother chose a poor moment to become brave,” Arlan told Auston. ”Lord Renly’s ruling could hardly be plainer. House Caron was ordered to stop using taxes, patrols, and hired raiders to harass FireStorm. You have brought a hundred armed men onto a public road and surrounded a hereditary vassal under that ruling.”

Auston’s jaw hardened. ”You took my brother hostage. You attacked nobles and killed hired men on the road. Release him, and I will forget what happened here.”

”That is generous of you.”

Wayne reached into the document case strapped behind his saddle; Arlan had ordered copies made after learning how enthusiastically Nightsong misplaced inconvenient evidence; one bore the relevant portions of Raymond Weil’s confession and another reproduced Elton Caron’s written instructions from the earlier attempt to frame FireStorm.

”If you want Storm’s End to judge this,” Arlan said, ”we can save the argument for Lord Renly. If you want King’s Landing to judge whether Lord Elton may hire raiders, fabricate treason, and then send armed men after witnesses, I can arrange that as well.”

Wayne raised the copy high enough for Auston to recognize the seals and writing even if he could not read every line from horseback.

The effect reached the men behind him before it reached his mouth, and one knight glanced toward Auston. Another lowered his sword half an inch; men willing to enforce a local lord’s will were less eager to become named participants in a case that might travel beyond the marches.

Rickard saw the hesitation.

”Brother, kill him!” He twisted against the point at his throat as if shouting could make Auston less cautious. ”He’s bluffing. Kill the bastard and burn the papers.” Arlan struck him with the flat of the sword.

The blow landed behind Rickard’s ear; his eyes rolled upward, his knees failed, and he dropped from the saddle into the wet needles without completing the next insult. Arlan swung into his saddle. Auston lost what remained of his restraint. ”Take him!” Four knights charged.

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Wayne started forward, but Arlan lifted his free hand. ”Hold.”

The first pair came from either side, using the horses to force him to choose one line, and Arlan stayed mounted. The knight on his left cut down toward the shoulder while the other thrust for the ribs; Arlan turned his blade against the descending sword first, caught it near the strong of his own blade, and rolled the strike outward rather than meeting it square.

Steel rang once; the left knight’s wrist opened under the change in angle, and Arlan’s crossguard smashed into his knuckles before he could recover. His sword spun into the leaves, and Arlan reversed the motion. The flat of the blade struck the man’s breastplate hard enough to empty his lungs and pitch him backward from the saddle.

The second knight had already committed to the thrust, and Arlan leaned beyond the point, let it pass his ribs, and cut upward into the fastening at the man’s shoulder. Leather parted; a plate shifted loose, dragging the knight’s balance with it; Arlan drove the pommel into his temple while he tried to catch the slipping armor.

He fell without a sound; the last two reached him together.

One sword came high for the neck, and the other sought the belly beneath the first attack. Arlan gave them less movement than they expected: his shoulders turned, his hips stayed centered, and the hand-and-a-half sword passed between both blades in one compact beat; he struck one weapon aside with the strong of his blade and caught the second near the guard before either rider could draw back.

Both swords left their hands; Arlan’s horse reared under the sudden press of bodies. He let it, and the animal’s forelegs drove into the two approaching mounts, which shied apart in the cramped space between the trees. Their riders went down almost together, one striking a root with his shoulder and the other disappearing beneath his horse’s neck before rolling clear.

Six seconds had passed since the first knight moved, and four knights lay on the ground. Arlan had not advanced a horse-length; silence settled through the pines more effectively than any threat.

Auston stared at the men who had fallen for him; behind Arlan, Brienne leaned against her greatsword and studied the exchange with an attention that had nothing to do with spectacle. She had seen tourney-trained knights before, and what Arlan had used was smaller, uglier, and built around denying every unnecessary movement.

Arlan wiped the edge against Rickard’s cloak before returning the sword to its scabbard. ”Do you still want to try?”

Auston looked from the four fallen knights to Wayne’s shield line, then to the copied confession still held above the wagons, and anger remained. Confidence did not. ”Fall back,” he ordered.

The archers lowered their bows first, and spearmen opened the road by reluctant steps, and two men hurried forward to lift Rickard. Arlan allowed them to take him without bargaining; carrying a spoiled younger son through the mountains offered FireStorm no advantage worth the trouble.

Auston received his unconscious brother across another rider’s saddle. ”I will remember this.”

”Then remember all of it.”

Auston’s mouth tightened, and he turned his horse and led the detachment toward Rainwood, taking the wounded knights with him. Torchlight dwindled between the trees until the forest belonged again to wet earth, broken branches, and the men who remained; only then did Wayne let the shields separate.

Brienne approached Arlan before he could return to the wagons; blood had soaked the linen beneath her left arm and marked the edge of her waist where Rickard’s hidden dagger had caught her, but she still attempted a formal bow. ”You did not owe me that,” she said.

”No.” Her eyes lifted, surprised by the answer.

”Rickard cheated in a duel and then tried to kill you while his hired men crowded the road. I stopped him because leaving him to finish it would have been stupid.” Arlan glanced toward the blood on her armor. ”You can decide later whether that deserves gratitude. First you need the wound closed.”

Brienne held his gaze. ”I have spent most of my life hearing what a woman should not be. You were the first man here who saw what happened and did not make my sex the most important part of it.” She tightened both hands around the greatsword.

”I would follow you, if you will have me.” Arlan was about to answer when hoofbeats broke from the road behind them.

A FireStorm scout came through the pines at a gallop, nearly overrunning the first wagon before he dragged his horse to a stop; mud covered his cloak and panic had stripped ceremony from his voice.

”My lord! Nightsong has gathered six southern lords behind a new ban, and the cargo bound for Storm’s End has been seized, and Lord Elton has sent another petition ahead of you. He says FireStorm is harboring fugitives, gathering armed outlaws, and preparing rebellion.”

The clearing went still again; this time Brienne was the first person Arlan looked at.