Chapter 9 – The Voice Beneath the Ash
Blackhold Keep still smoked from the battle. Though the fires had long since died down, a haze of scorched timber and bloodied iron clung to the walls. Lorien stood on the battlements, silent, his cloak whipping in the cold northern wind. Below, the Ashen Vanguard moved with practiced precision, clearing the last of the barbarian dead from the trenchworks. The night had not claimed as many of his as he feared.
"Casualties?" he asked without turning.
Ser Caldus stepped beside him, helm tucked under one arm. His face was caked with dirt and sweat. "Seventy-nine dead. A hundred thirty-six wounded. Most will recover. We broke their forward lines and drove the survivors into the river gorge."
Lorien gave a slow nod. "The Emberborn?"
"All returned," Caldus replied. "Not one scratch on them, gods help me."
"There are no gods in Wesid," Lorien said. "Just men clever enough to shape the world, and men too dull to see it happening."
Caldus said nothing. He had long since stopped trying to divine the mind of the bastard prince. The battle had been a blood-letting, not a siege. The barbarian horde had come fast, far sooner than expected. A probe, perhaps. Or a test of strength. Either way, they had underestimated Lorien's defenses—and paid for it.
From the eastern watchtower, a horn blew once. Short, sharp. A summons from the Emberborn.
Lorien turned and descended the steps, boots clicking on the frost-laced stone. In the courtyard below, six of the Emberborn waited in formation. Each wore a dark mask of blackened steel, their bodies wrapped in duskweave cloaks that shimmered faintly when they moved. At their center stood the one called Veyne—a lithe figure, indistinct and dangerous, who bowed low at Lorien's approach.
"Their camp was five miles northeast," Veyne said. "Three hundred strong, no real discipline. They've pulled back beyond the River Holt. But they've left runners. Messengers."
"South or east?" Lorien asked.
"South," Veyne replied. "Toward the other tribes."
A pause.
"How long until the tribes unify?"
"They won't," Veyne said. "Not properly. Not without a king. But they'll come in waves. One after another. Their shamans saw fire atop the keep last night. They'll think it an omen."
"It was an omen," Lorien said softly. "Just not for them."
He turned to Caldus. "Pull three companies from the southern ridge. I want Thornvale reinforced within the day."
Caldus blinked. "That's nearly a two-day ride—"
"Then you'll ride through the night. Send mounted scouts. Thornvale is our bottleneck. If we lose it, Blackhold stands alone."
The knight saluted and moved to carry out the order. Lorien watched him go, then motioned for Veyne to walk with him.
They passed through the inner gates, past forges still warm from last night's smelting, past field surgeons sorting the wounded by torchlight. The keep had not fallen. That mattered. Word would spread.
"Did you kill the messengers?" Lorien asked.
"No," Veyne said. "We let them run."
Lorien turned his head.
"Fear travels faster than corpses," Veyne explained. "They'll tell tales of shadows in the woods, of soldiers who did not bleed. The tribes will wonder if you're even mortal."
A faint smile curled at the edge of Lorien's mouth. "Good. Make sure they wonder louder."
They entered the war room. Maps littered the central table, and a fresh report sat atop a sealed bundle from the Ember Guard. Lorien opened it without ceremony. His uncle's seal broke like thin ice. Inside, a single line written in tight, neat script:
The Council grows restless. Rhovan has moved a division north under the guise of drills. — S.
Lorien's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened.
He tapped the map where Greywatch River Fort was marked, a black circle amid forested hills. "Veyne. How soon can the Emberborn place eyes beyond the ridge?"
"Within the week."
"Do it."
Another note came attached beneath the message: One of your brothers has begun inquiring into your whereabouts. The War Ministry will soon follow.
Lorien folded the parchment and dropped it into the brazier, watching as the fire devoured the words.
"Let them wonder," he murmured.
---
Two days later, the first snows fell.
Blackhold wore the frost like a crown, white atop its charred stone. At dawn, Lorien stood at the overlook above the valley pass, flanked by General Ser Harth and Marshal Linya of the Third Cohort. Both had bled at his side in last year's skirmishes. Both knew the frontier as well as he did.
"Three barbarian banners spotted at ridge rise," Linya said. "Likely remnants of the Hollowfangs. Maybe two hundred, no more. But they're testing us again."
"They want to see if the Emberborn are always watching," Ser Harth muttered. "They'll learn."
"No," Lorien said. "Let them approach. But not too close. I want their commander taken alive."
"Alive?"
"We need to know if they've begun coordinating across tribes. I don't care how many die to make it happen."
He looked toward the pines. Already, movement flickered at the edge of the woods. The northern wilds were stirring. In the distance, fires crackled, and the low sound of war drums began to beat.
Lorien's hands curled behind his back.
"This is not a rebellion. It's not a raid. It's the first knock at the gates."
He turned to his commanders.
"We're not opening them."
---
Three hours later, the battlefield was wet with crimson.
The Ashen Vanguard deployed in wedge formations across the ravine. Pike lines held the center while archers flanked the high ground. Lorien had insisted on disciplined spacing—ten men per rank, four deep, rotated every fifteen minutes to avoid exhaustion. It was brutal, efficient, and unorthodox.
The barbarians charged blindly, screaming in broken dialects, blades raised high. They crashed into the Vanguard's front like waves on stone—and shattered.
Lorien stood behind the second line, observing everything. His command tent sat unopened, a silent symbol: their leader stood with them.
Near the close of the second hour, one of the Emberborn returned from the flanking woods. Veyne again.
"We've captured a warcaller," she said, dragging a man half-naked and bound. His face was painted with ash and bone, a crude bear-tooth talisman strung around his neck.
Lorien studied him, then motioned to the side tent.
"Interrogate him. Gently."
Veyne raised an eyebrow.
"He needs to talk before he dies."
Within twenty minutes, the barbarian cracked.
"They're moving toward Thornvale," Veyne reported. "Two more tribes, the Snowhides and the Broken Throat. Five hundred each, maybe more."
"And the others?"
"Circling north. They believe a demon prince holds the keep. They've named you 'Ashwrought.' They think the fire of the sky obeys you."
Lorien didn't laugh. He simply nodded.
"Then let's give them more fire."
He walked to the command platform, raised his voice.
"All captains! Prepare to march. We strike first. We do not wait."
His voice carried across the stone yard.
"No more defense. No more delay. The Ashen Marches are ours now. Let them come. Let them die."