The wind shifted two nights after the Hollowmere raid.Colder now, carrying a scent Garran knew too well — men. Horse. Oiled steel. Fire.
The kind of stink that meant an army on the march.
From the half-rebuilt tower, Garran watched the southern tree line. The hills beyond lay black and heavy under the moon. But he could see the flicker of torches now, dozens of them, weaving through the mist like carrion lights.
"They're coming," Jorik muttered at his side. His face was smeared with ash, a new scar across one cheek. "And not just a foraging party this time."
"No," Garran said quietly. "That's him."
Ser Kestrel Harrowmont had come to finish what his lackeys couldn't.
By dawn, the enemy's numbers were clear.
Three hundred men.Bannered under crimson ravens.Mail and spear, with siege ladders and a pair of battered field scorpions mounted on carts.
Professional soldiers. Harrowmont's house guard and sellblades hired from the southern cities. They moved like men used to killing.
Garran gathered his captains at the courtyard fire. The air stank of pitch and wet leather.
"Three hundred," Mera said grimly. "We've maybe seventy sound men."
Dannic snorted. "Good odds, if you squint."
Jorik grinned, though his eyes were hard. "Better than we had at Darrow's Ford. And we left a pile of corpses there too."
Garran said nothing for a moment, staring at the crackling flames.
Then he spoke.
"We hold. No parley. No terms."
The others nodded.
"There'll be blood," Dannic said.
"There always is," Garran answered.
The siege began at midday.
Harrowmont's men surrounded the holdfast, the crimson banners rippling above their lines. A single rider approached under truce, a young knight with a hawk nose and gold-trimmed cloak.
He reined in at the palisade.
"By Ser Kestrel's word, Thornholt is forfeit. Lay down your arms and be granted mercy. Resist, and you will be buried beneath your own walls."
The Black Harp lined the ramparts, crossbows cocked.
Garran stepped forward.
"Tell your lord," he called, "that mercy left this land the day he raised his sword."
And with that, he raised one hand.
A bolt took the messenger in the throat.
The man toppled from his horse.The war began.
The first assault slammed against the gate.
Ladders to the walls, scorpions hurling stones. Men in crimson cloaks surged forward, spears bristling. Thornholt's defenders fought like men with nothing left to lose because they didn't.
Jorik split skulls with his axe, bellowing curses. Mera loosed arrows from atop the tower, her face pale and cold. Dannic manned the oil casks, sending fire pouring down over the attackers.
Garran moved where the fight was thickest, sword and dagger working in brutal tandem.
A ladder rose. He kicked it away.
A soldier clambered the breach — Garran drove a dagger into his eye.
The wall shook under the scorpion's assault, but the mud-choked ground slowed the enemy's siege engines.
They'd underestimated Thornholt's teeth.
By nightfall, bodies piled at the base of the walls.
The enemy pulled back to tend their wounded. Fires burned bright across the field.
Inside, the Black Harp bled and limped. Thirty dead. Half the rest wounded. Supplies dwindling.
But Thornholt still held.
In the ruined hall, Garran gathered his survivors.
"We broke them today," he said. His voice was hoarse, his left arm bound with cloth. "Tomorrow, they'll come again. And the day after. But they'll leave these hills knowing one truth"
He raised his sword, slick with old blood.
"No man takes Thornholt and lives."
The battered men cheered. Not loud, but fierce.
This was their war now.