Chapter 10: A Silence Before the Storm
Blackhold Keep lay still beneath the dull, iron-gray sky. Snow flurries danced on the wind, coating the stone battlements in a fine white powder. It was the sort of morning that made the frontier feel truly distant from the heart of the Empire—quiet, cold, and forgotten. But inside the keep, war was already whispering.
Lorien stood at the high window of his command chamber, his arms crossed behind his back. From this vantage, he could see across the outer yard to the drilling fields where the Ashen Vanguard moved in disciplined formation. Columns turned, lines reformed, officers barked crisp orders. There was none of the sloppiness one might expect from provincial levies. These were soldiers forged by fire and hunger.
He did not turn as Commander Vekar entered the room.
"They returned just past dawn," Vekar said. "The Emberborn. All of them. And they brought names."
Lorien inclined his head slightly. "Let's hear them."
Vekar handed him a narrow scroll of gray parchment. Lorien unrolled it, eyes scanning each entry with a stillness that belied the shift in his posture. His fingers clenched slightly by the fourth name.
"Noblemen, merchants, even one border quartermaster. All in open contact with the Burned-Tooth tribes. Supply routes exposed, troop strengths offered, coin exchanged."
"And the Emberborn confirmed this?" Lorien asked.
"They left no doubt. Three confessions in full. Six caches of encoded documents seized. One trader spoke freely—boasted of his connections to Vaeron's man in Cliffhold."
Lorien exhaled slowly. "So the capital reaches even here. Or thinks it does."
Vekar nodded grimly. "We have proof of treason."
The fire in Lorien's hearth crackled as he turned back toward the room. Maps were scattered across the central table, with carved markers denoting fortresses, supply routes, and known barbarian territories. He reached for one of the markers—a black iron fang symbolizing the Burned-Tooth—and shifted it a league west of Greywatch.
"Tell Reniad to prepare the Emberborn again. No executions yet. Let the prisoners see their cells. Let word of their betrayal drift back to Cliffhold and Thornvale before we act."
"You want to draw them out," Vekar guessed.
"I want to see who runs. And who hides."
---
The council chamber at Blackhold was smaller than its imperial counterpart in Vael'Zareth, but far more functional. No mosaics, no gold filigree. Just stone, iron, and war maps. There, Lorien addressed his inner circle.
Marshal Roen, tall and weather-lined, laid out a new report. "Scouts report increased movement among the Talgiri. Banners seen near the forked ridge. Not warbands, but something organized. A tribal muster, perhaps."
"How many?" Lorien asked.
"Ten thousand, maybe more. Not just warriors. Entire villages on the move."
"Which means they march with intent," Lorien murmured. He looked to Lady Neri, his quartermaster-general. "Supplies?"
"Enough for a three-week campaign if we ration steel and dried meat," she answered briskly. "But we can't afford to stretch to Greywatch and Stonehollow both unless we secure a new grain supply."
"Then secure it. Offer trade incentives to the hill clans near the southern pass. Or conscript their wagons if they refuse."
Neri gave a curt nod. "It will be done."
Lorien studied the table again. The tribes were consolidating. That only happened under duress—or leadership. The last time a tribal high warlord had risen, five provinces had burned before the Border Armies intervened.
But the Border Armies no longer answered to him. They answered to Rhovan.
And they would not come north.
---
By twilight, the Ashen Vanguard was on the march.
Drums sounded low and steady across the courtyard. Rank after rank of armored infantry moved with mechanical precision, their black tabards marked with the sigil of the burning tower. Behind them, siege teams rolled forward catapults and tower carts refitted for icy terrain. Engineers followed close, shouting adjustments in clipped Imperial.
At the head of the column, Lorien rode in silence. His black steed snorted clouds into the winter air. Behind him came Vekar, Roen, and a dozen Emberborn in gray and ash.
As they reached the outskirts of Blackhold, a courier rode hard from the east, cloak snapping like a whip. He reined in beside Lorien, breath steaming.
"My lord," the man gasped. "Signal fires from the Greywatch ridge. Two plumes. The Talgiri have breached the western basin."
Lorien said nothing for a long moment. Then: "Let them come."
He raised a hand. The vanguard halted.
"We strike the ridge by nightfall."
Roen frowned. "Night fighting in this terrain will cost us men."
"It will cost them more," Lorien said. "They believe the pass is unguarded. Let them believe."
He turned in the saddle. "Emberborn. Break off and circle north. I want their flank disrupted an hour before our main strike. Use smoke, noise, confusion. Draw them toward the chasm."
The gray-cloaked warriors melted into the snow without a word.
---
By the time the Ashen Vanguard reached the ridge, the sky had gone indigo. Fires dotted the basin below. Tribal torches. Cooking pits. Loose, complacent. They thought the ridge was still abandoned.
It was not.
Lorien gave the order.
Ropes flung down the northern cliff edge. Vanguards scaled the slope like shadows, war-axes and spears gripped tight. On the ridge, archers drew in silence, their arrows black-fletched.
Then the drums began.
It was a low cadence, barely audible above the wind. But the tribes heard it.
And too late.
Ashen steel rained from above. Arrows tore through tents and warriors alike. Screams split the night. Then came the charge.
Lorien led it himself.
Black armor crashing through the torchlight. His blade was bare, his eyes lit with cold fire. The first tribal spear shattered on his gauntlet. The second never landed. His sword plunged through the throat of a chieftain in painted furs.
The basin turned red.
Above, the Emberborn ignited smoke flares. Confusion rippled through the Talgiri ranks. War cries faltered. Horses spooked. And then the cliffside traps triggered—logs, rockfalls, oil traps ignited by sparkstones.
By dawn, the basin was ash.
Lorien stood atop the ridge, watching the final pockets of resistance break and flee into the eastern woods.
Vekar joined him, blood on his blade.
"Your orders, Warden?"
Lorien didn't answer at first. Then: "Hold this ground. Build a watchfort on the ridge. Triple the pickets. The next wave won't be so blind."
"And the prisoners?"
Lorien glanced back. Dozens of half-naked tribesmen lay bound in the snow, their faces hollow with terror.
"Send half to Stonehollow. Interrogate the rest. I want names. Titles. Who gave the order to march."
He looked east, to the horizon.
"And send word to Thornvale. Tell them the Warden holds the pass."