Four young men followed Arlan into the back hills with pitchforks and captured blades, struggling to keep pace on the narrow path. He did not wait for them; torchlight marked the clearing ahead.
Morton lay face down in the mud with blood running from a cut across his forehead, his grey hair matted with rain and dirt. A guard had one boot against his back and a fist twisted into his grey hair; broken bottles and shattered glass were scattered around him, their contents mixing with rainwater and earth.
Raymond Weil stood beyond the wreckage; twelve armored guards surrounded him; two Blacktooth men who had stayed out of the attack on FireStorm stood among them with black-tusk markings on their faces and stone axes in hand.
"You actually came," Raymond said. His earlier caution had vanished now that he believed numbers and an ambush had restored the proper order of things. "Drop the sword, Ashenblade. Your steward was caught smuggling, and I have witnesses to your dealings with mountain raiders."
One of the Blacktooth men barked something in the rough speech of the mountains and lifted his axe. Arlan looked at Morton. The old steward was breathing. Arlan drew one of the hardened throwing spears from his back and threw while Raymond was still speaking.
The guard nearest him carried a hardwood shield; the steel point punched through the shield, crossed the man's body, and drove him backward into an oak hard enough to pin him there. Raymond stopped talking. The clearing went silent around him; Arlan was already closing the distance.
Two guards stepped forward together; one cut high while the other tried to block Arlan's line with a shield. Arlan shifted around the shield edge, let the high sword pass, and cut the first man's throat before the second could turn; a thrust beneath the shield rim dropped the other.
The four men from FireStorm reached the clearing behind him with a shout. They were still frightened enough that their voices cracked, but they had followed Arlan into a trap they could plainly see, and that willingness kept Raymond's men from simply surrounding him while he fought.
Their arrival did not make the fight even, but it made the guards uncertain about where to look. Arlan used that.
Raymond's men had armor and steel, but most were collection guards accustomed to intimidating farmers and merchants rather than holding formation against a skilled attacker. Once three men fell in moments, the rest began fighting separately; Arlan moved from one opening to the next.
A guard lunged too far; Arlan parried just enough to divert the point and cut across the throat; another tried to seize him from behind and caught a reverse thrust under the arm. A third raised a sword over one of FireStorm's young men, and Arlan crossed the space between them before the blow landed.
Within half a minute, eight of Raymond's twelve guards were down. The speed was not magic and did not make their armor irrelevant; it came from men breaking formation, attacking one at a time, and giving Arlan repeated openings at the neck, underarm, and inner thigh where their protection failed. Michael's old habits recognized those mistakes before Arlan consciously named them.
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The remaining four broke. They threw away weapons and ran for the trees, only to find the young men of FireStorm closing with pitchforks and the path too narrow to pass without turning their backs. They surrendered in the mud rather than test whether the villagers would stab them anyway.
The two Blacktooth men tried to reach Arlan together; one lost an arm to a backhand cut. The other took Arlan's boot in the chest, staggered, and died when the hand-and-a-half sword entered beneath his ribs; Raymond let his sword fall.
"Mercy." The word came out before Arlan reached him. Raymond dropped to his knees. "It was Elton. Lord Elton ordered it."
Arlan stopped the point at his throat. "Ordered what?"
Raymond's answer came in pieces; the ambush was meant to kill Morton, seize the goods, and place Blacktooth men at the scene. A report was already prepared accusing Arlan of colluding with raiders, attacking a lawful patrol, and preparing rebellion on the border. With that accusation established, Elton Caron could claim justification for taking FireStorm and hanging its heir.
"The papers," Arlan said. Raymond stared at him. Arlan pressed the blade just enough to open the skin beneath his jaw. Raymond reached into his tunic with shaking hands.
Arlan took two rolls of parchment from him; one contained instructions from Elton to Raymond. The other was the prepared accusation meant for Storm's End, complete with testimony arranged before the supposed crime had even occurred.
The written evidence mattered more than Raymond's fear; a frightened confession could be denied as soon as Raymond stood behind Nightsong's walls. Orders bearing names, seals, and a report written before the alleged crime gave Storm's End something that could be read without trusting Arlan's account.
"Please," Raymond said. "I have money. I can give you names. Kill me and Nightsong will send men by sunrise."
"I'm not killing you." Relief crossed Raymond's face too quickly.
"You are more useful alive." The relief vanished. Two villagers bound him with hemp rope and gagged him. The four surviving guards were disarmed and held under watch while Arlan went to Morton.
The steward's pulse was weak but steady; the head wound had bled heavily, yet Arlan found no fracture beneath his fingers. He lifted Morton himself and carried him back toward FireStorm while the others brought Raymond and the prisoners.
The prisoners were brought back alive except for the men killed in the clearing. FireStorm had almost no proper cells, so the surviving guards were disarmed, tied under watch, and separated from Raymond while Arlan kept the two parchments dry near the hearth.
Morton woke after dawn, after the bleeding had finally slowed. He opened his eyes to find Arlan beside the bed and immediately tried to sit up. "The goods—"
"Broken."
Morton's face crumpled. "My lord, I failed you."
"You were ambushed by twelve armed guards and two raiders."
"The money we needed—"
"Can be earned again." Arlan placed Lady Ellyn's silver brooch into the steward's hand. Morton stared at it.
"You are part of House Ashenblade," Arlan said. "Not a tool I trade for coin." The old man's fingers closed around the brooch. For once, Morton had no answer ready.
Outside the room, Raymond Weil sat bound beneath guard while the parchments taken from his clothing dried beside the hearth. Four captured guards sat separately with their hands tied, useful as witnesses but not trusted enough to speak freely with their former master. FireStorm still owed a debt it could not pay, its crop was ash, and its best attempt to reach the black market had ended in blood.
But Elton Caron had finally made a mistake that could be carried to someone stronger than Nightsong.
That evening, Arlan ordered the village assembled. Raymond remained bound in full view, no longer the polished collector who had ground FireStorm's receipts into mud, while the documents taken from him rested inside the hall where rain and frightened hands could not destroy them.