Ashtik: The Champion of Black

          There was peace in the trees; quiet in grasses and comfort in the rain. Ashtik sat alone in the woods, her legs crossed and her eyes shut. She focused on her breath, and the breeze it created. She imagined it catching a leaf as it fell. She imagined the journey a single breath would take around the forest. How it would wrap around the trees and rustle each individual blade of grass.  

She wrapped her hand around the leather-bound shaft of her iron wood spear. Instinct came before senses. She felt it before she heard it. It trod too heavily to be a deer, but too randomly to be a wolf. She did not open her eyes, nor did she shift at all, as it approached.  

It wasn’t afraid of her. It seemed curious. It sniffed at her neck but didn’t nip. She could smell it now. The rain had dampened its fur. It was prey to other animals and kept its scent subtle. She didn’t keep its interest for long. It sniffed and snorted before walking past.  

She ripped her spear through the air and found its jugular. She rounded with a dirk and slammed it down through the eye and into the brain. It died in an instant. 

It was larger than she had realised, an elk of some stature. Its antlers spanned much too heavily for his head. He must have been ready to shed them.  

She had planned to hunt deep into the dawn, but this prize would be enough on its own. She rigged a rope around it and dragged the carcass behind her. Her father would have carried it over his shoulders, but she was barely half his size, and this creature was almost thrice hers. 

Silken shadows stretched across the silverwood trees. The gentle stars twinkled through the black canopy while the firebugs danced along the bush beaten path. 

“Tebea?” A man's voice called in the distance. “Vero ad mahi.” She couldn’t parse the meaning, but it sounded conversational.  
“Tebea!” A second voice said, seemingly in protest.  
Ash dropped her prey on the path and snuck closer to the distant men. She prowled as though hunting some predator. Her footfalls were as close to silent as any human could achieve. Her eyes scanned each step before it was made as to avoid twigs and crunchy leaves. She came upon a thick brush and saw the torchlight on the other side. She parted some of the leaves and the men came into view.  

The first was a brute, all meat and mean. He bore more scars than hairs and his massive belly – well muscled as he was – barely fit beneath the cobbled plate cuirass. He carried a war spike; a two-handed sharpened steel hammer of kinds, designed to pierce even the thickest of armour.  
Beside, and a metre beneath him, stood the second man. Scrawny and scruffy. He dyed his thick and tangled beard a vibrant green; though he too had no hair on his scalp. He strapped an assortment of dirks and daggers to his strange bodice. A chipped and rusty shortsword dangled from his hip without a scabbard to shield it from the elements. 

Half a dozen others backed them, all equally dishevelled and all bearing what must have been scavenged gear. The men bore the same colours, green and blue stripes crossing over their clothes and shields. They were clearly some faction or troop. Though they seemed jovial enough, they were blatantly men of ill repute. She doubted they would take too kindly to her.  

Ash returned to her felled prey and snuck back along the trail, covering her tracks as best she could despite the massive elk she held in tow.  

---

          The sun crested at last as she came upon the clearing. She wasted little time in stowing the elk away in the skinning hut behind Tilak's hillock. She bound it to the table and left for the village.  

“Caro!” She called as she reached the gate. He jolted from his post and looked out to her as she ran towards him. He spun the chain that raised the village gate to allow her in, but she stopped short, pointing out to the forest. “Caro! There were men in the forest.” She panted. 
“Armed?” He asked as his gaze rose to the obscured horizon. He seemed to lap over the treeline as to weed out any ambushing archers. 
“Aye. Their gear looked scavenged.” She said, still trying to gather her breath. 
“Bandits, then. Probably picked from corpses.” Carolet suggested. He peeled his eyes from the trees and looked behind him into the village. “Boy!” He called.  

A scruffy young man, around Evara’s age, popped his dirty face around the gate. His roughly shaven head retained small patches of matt black hair and his first attempts at a moustache garnered him no favour with the local girls. 

“Fetch the Elder.” Carolet ordered. “Sai-Weleg, can you patrol the wall for now?” The boy dashed away dutifully.  
“You want me to man the wall?” Ash questioned.  
“Just until the Elder can send for the Baron.” He assured. Ashtik hesitantly nodded and climbed the ladder behind him. She took up the bow resting on the gatehouse and set her sight to the treeline.  

“Ser Carolet?” The Elder groaned as he limped his way towards the gate. 
“Temujin, you need to send for the Baron.” Caro shouted from beneath the wall.  
“Is there a problem?” The old man questioned in his ever-raspy way. 
“The Sai-Weleg spotted bandits in the woods.” Carolet reported.   
“How many?” The Elder asked. 
“At least eight, sir.” Ash called from atop of the alure. “Though there could be a dozen more within the woods.” 

“Ashtik?” The Elder nearly gasped. “I hadn’t seen you. My apologies.” His eyes lingered on her hand. On the mark it bore so proudly now. He hadn’t seen it yet, nor had he seen the gauntlet that covered it. His blatant unease reminded her of it, of how unusual it was. Once Ash had subdued it, she no longer feared it. She barely even acknowledged it. It held as much space in her mind as the single freckle above her lip.  

She matched his gaze and looked at her hand. The gauntlet was barely worthy of the name. It reached no further than her knuckles and left a gap in her palm to expose the mark. It was pure black steel, though light as air. She had tried to remove it once but gave in quickly. It was a second skin now. As much a part of her as her hair and nails.  

“Elder?” Caro urged. He broke the old man’s attention and grounded him in the situation. 
“Of course,” the Elder nodded. “I will send a white raven to the keep.”  

Carolet patted his old friend on the shoulder before turning to Ash.  

“In the meantime, we will need to conscript some fighters!” Caro shouted up to her. 
“What can I do, ser?” Ash offered. 
“Hold the wall until I return. I’ll gather the smith’s sons and the tell the bowyer to get to work.” Caro left without further regard. It seemed the danger lit a fire within him. He walked with an energy and purpose he had lacked since his long-forgotten youth.  

Hours passed alone. The village seemed to take an edge. Nobody left the walls, nor did anybody approach. The miller’s daughter, who would have usually returned to the mill by now, lingered in the market with a clear lack of purpose. She wasn’t alone in her lingering. The children that would have been off into the woods on any other day must have been banned from doing so.  

A man crested the horizon. He trod alone with a hand cart behind him. She couldn’t see any weapons, and he wore thick flowing robes rather than armour. It seemed strange that a group of bandits would have allowed such an easy target to pass. He strolled, unencumbered, down the winding paths towards the clearing.  

“Who goes there?” She called from behind the gate. The man raised a hand to her, as if to salute. He stopped his cart just before he reached the still closed gate.  
“Avante, white hair,” the man called. “They call me Torris. I have wares to trade.” He spoke with a thick rasp, like a man who’d spent his life shouting over crowds and partying in Vamish smoke dens.  
“A trader?” Ash suspiciously mumbled. She jumped over the wall and landed next to his cart, spear in hand. The gate was shut before them, but she could climb over and open it should she choose to. “You didn’t come upon any bandits?” 
“Bandits? In Maester Veil?” The trader questioned.  
“Aye, or at least we believe so.” Ash said as she poked through his cart. 
“Should I be worried, guardswoman?”  
“Not at all. The village Elder has sent for the Baron already. His forces should dispatch any foes within the half-week.”  
“I see...” His cloth gloved hand tugged at his rough spun hood as he seemed to ponder what she said. “Be you the only guard against these bandits? So young are you and - not to doubt you – but you seem somewhat undersized for a stalwart,” the man called Torris timidly said. 
“I assure you, tradesman, these walls will prove stalwart enough for the both of us. I hope they are sufficiently sized for you, at least.” She coldly snapped.  

His cart proved somewhat impressive. An assortment of Oaranic goods, Ishran jewels and Vamish silks. A box held within it a series of scrolls, written in some southern tongue that Evara may be interested in.  

“I do not mean to offend, guardswoman. All I meant was in my travels, most villages this small only had one or two guards. Do you have a fellow?” He asked as he bowed his head. Ash pulled away from the cart and looked him over one more time. His lips were cracked, almost to the point of bleeding. She saw no hair falling from his hood, though he bore his face proudly and blatantly.  
“In truth, I am no guard, but a huntress. The guardsman, Ser Carolet, is off gathering a larger force in case of an attack.”  
“Ser Carolet? A knight?” He mumbled. “Thank you, white-hair. This has given me a measure of comfort.” The man grinned through his cracked lips. His smile bore his blackened teeth, and his face wrinkled uncomfortably.  

“Sai-Weleg!” A man cried from within the walls. “Bandit!” He called. She gripped her spear and poked her head through the gate as to get a view of the man. The only man in the village smaller than her came bounding, with his finger pointed behind her. “He’s the bandit!” Vamet called, but he was too late. 

The black toothed man rounded on Ash. A blade drew from beneath the cart and plunged towards her. All she could manage was to fall backwards, away from him. She collapsed against the metal bars of the gate as the sword slashed an inch from her chest. He dragged the blade down and slashed again. He was savage, and much stronger than he had looked.  

Ash managed to swipe the flat of his blade with the shaft of her spear. It sent him off balance and afforded her the time to move away from him. He was fast and strong, but unskilled. She managed to dive and dodge away from each of his strikes, but she never managed one of her own. He kept her on the backfoot the entire time. She managed a single thrust, and just caught his elbow with the side of her spear tip. It was a mistake; he wrapped his arm around the shaft and dragged her closer, holding his blade out to impale her. She rolled again, this time to his side, though without her weapon to keep him at bay, his savage attacks kept getting closer and closer.  

She ducked a horizontal slash. She stepped aside as he swung the blade around to split her in half. She even managed to strike him in the jaw when he overextended his thrust. It did naught more than anger him.  

He had thrown her spear too far for her to recover, though she still had one option. She had to get close. 

“Stand still!” He roared. A thrust came then. She grabbed the cross guard and pulled herself within an inch of the man. She had no time for thought, only instinct and muscle memory. She pictured a raging wolf tearing at her, and she pictured her dirk slitting its throat. Only, this wasn’t a wolf; this was a man, and he knew to avoid the dirk. 

She clipped his neck but failed to secure the deadly blow. He pulled her in closer and smashed his head against hers. The world turned white for an instant, and then the ground raced up to smash into her.  

She heard him grunt and growl like a feral beast, but he didn’t strike. He clung to his neck and staunched the profuse bleeding. “You bitch!” He gurgled as he fell to one knee. She jumped at the chance, pulling her dirk from the mud and diving at him.  

She struck again and again. His cloak tore and the armour it disguised burst into a mound of blood and viscera. She plunged the dirk down with a wild precision. It may have looked like random slaughter, but she knew what she was doing. First, she slipped his ribs and opened his lungs. Then, she dragged right until she felt the heart burst beneath her. Then she shattered his sternum and slit his throat. She crushed his sword bearing arm beneath her boot. Then the begging gave way to screaming, and the screaming gave way to gurgling, and the gurgling; silence. 

She had never killed a man; she should be sad, or sorry, or scared? She wasn’t. The mound that had been a man made her feel nothing; and that made her feel like a monster. She hated how calm she was. She hated how steady her hands were. She was disgusted that she had so accurately cut each of his vital organs. She hated that she stopped as soon as he stopped moving. She hated that it wasn’t passionate, but calculated.

---

          The rains began. Warm and gentle. She watched it roll from his corpse. She watched the blood saturate the mud. She followed a tear of blood as it dripped from his face. She didn’t move when his hand started twitching. She knew he was dead, that his hand danced only as the spirits dragged him to the devoid. Her eyes fell from his hand to her own. One was red and soaked in him. The other was black and consumed in steel. The gauntlet seemed to have spread. It covered all but her fingertips and wrist. Would it continue to grow, to consume her, even after she supposedly subdued it? She wondered if the death had been what strengthened it. If her patron goden or goddess was some kind of deity of death. She hoped not, she would rather the goddess that sprouts fruit.  

“Ashtik?” Caro called. The gate rose very slightly and slammed shut behind him as he ran through the newly muddy field. She hadn’t realised how far the fight had taken her. She must have been halfway to the treeline. She remained sat beside his corpse, fascinated by it for a moment. The enchantment broke when the final act of all men came to be, and the smell of sullied armour forced her to gag. 

“Ashtik!” Caro called again. The old knight panted his way across the hilly field in his heavy steel armour.  
“I’m okay, Caro.” She grunted. She didn’t realise it was a lie until she stood. Her legs were worthless and collapsed beneath her. The dizziness, the risen blood, the loathing; but most of all, the fucking smell. It struck her harder than the supposed trader had. She released the day into the mud beneath her. Chunks of rabbit and potato, ox beef and fresh grief. It all poured out as she hunched on all fours.  

She felt a kind hand pat her back, though he didn’t think to hold her hair from the mess. “Let it out, lass. It's just the fear leaving you.” Caro whispered. Once the worst of it stopped, he took her weight into his shoulder and helped her away from the dead bandit.  
“He was a scout.” Ashtik muttered.  
“Then it is fortunate you stopped him from reporting back.” Caro comforted. 
“I- I didn’t...” she stammered. “I didn’t know. Vamet... The trader told me.” Ash could barely speak through her fresh exhaustion.  
“But you stopped him. Be proud of that.” 

Proud wasn’t the word. Something other, something more fateful. It felt... Right. 

The Elder checked her over but found only the cut on her forehead from where he had struck. He made no attempt to hide where his true interests lay. He took her hand into his and fussed over the gauntlet. He pointed to her covered knuckles and said, “It spread?”  
“Yes. After he died; or during the fight, I’m not sure.” 
“I feared it would,” he admitted. 
“What does this make me? The Champion of death?”  
“No, not that... It cannot be my place to tell you any more than that.” 
“Then who will?” 
“The Conclave, I believe. Though they will not welcome you.” 
“The Conclave? That’s half a world away! Why would the high priests care about me?” 

The Elder paced back and forth. Each step stressed a wooden plank beneath him. He held the same scroll he had read the night she gained the mark. 

“Elder!” She demanded. 
          “You are a Champion, Ashtik. Of that, there can be no doubt. There are many gods out there, and all have a champion of their own. You are none of theirs.”  
“Then who? Which god seeks to claim me? Which god do I have to defy?”  
“Defy?” He repeated in shock.  
          “The gods of the Conclave, the patrons of these ‘champions’, are not my gods. I will not bow to them simply because they wish it. I am a huntress, a danger, not a plaything.” 
“You risk much, Ashtik. The gods can be kind and generous; or they can be petty and cruel. If the power they offer you does not temp; they may seek to coerce you through less sweet means,” he was worried and made it apparent in his eyes. He knew her to be making a mistake and though the words failed him, his eyes pled endlessly for her to reconsider. 
“Better they kill me as I fight, than let them control me as their pawn.” 

Ser Carolet re-entered the room, blade in hand. “Temujin,” he panted. “They’re here.”  

They were closer to a hundred than the dozen she had supposed. Green and blue stripes filled the field as the small horde marched closer. They set up camp on the hill track leading to the village while a wooden palanquin carried over the mud. Four men carried it on their well armoured backs. They must have been the bosses. Where their fellows wore rags and scraps, they wore shining ring mail and leather-bound scale. They each bore weapons of war, not combat. The front most stowed a massive pike, fit for the heaviest of cavalry charges. Behind him was the man Ash had spotted in the woods. His massive war pick rested on his shoulder while the palanquin lay on the other. The other men carried a halberd each.  

The smith and his sons manned the walls, crossbows in hand, while Caro and Ash stood behind the gate. 

“Stop there!” Carolet ordered to the approaching men. 
“The Duke shan’t stand in mud before you, ser knight.” The foremost man called. He spoke with a heavy accent; one she couldn’t place but precluded his ability to pronounce the letter ‘m’ as anything but a ‘v’.  
“Your duke shall face a quarrel should he come any closer.” Carolet replied. 
“Hold gentlemen.” A voice called from within the wooden box. His accent seemed lesser compared to the others, though it was still blatant. “Ser knight! We simply wish to parley. Would stain this rite with blood?” He remained within, though slid a window open.  

“We may parley from here, though know we are unwilling to accept your surrender.” Carolet blustered.  

The bandits turned aside and knelt in the mud. The door slid open and out came an inappropriately ostentatious man. He bore a garish pink chest plate and colossal war sword. The man himself was somewhat below average in stature, and Ash doubted he could so much as raise the weapon let alone swing it.  

“Be that my man?” He called as he sullied his boots in the blood and shit of the dead bandit. 
“Your man, and your first corpse. We’ll grant you many more before we surrender our lives.” Caro replied. 
“There is no need for this, Ser knight. We needn’t come to blows. My men seek plunder, not death.” The Duke, as he had been called, toed at the hand of his disembowelled fellow. 
“We have no plunder for you. We are a humble village, rich only in community and love.” Caro said. The Duke laughed at that, and Ash was half tempted to join him. 
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” the Duke laughed. “Keep your community. I want your grain.”  
“It is the cusp of winter, to do so would be the same as falling upon your blades.” Caro protested. 
“No, it would be giving away your grain. Falling upon a blade is much more painful, as I fear you are soon to learn.” He turned to his palanquin and made away without another word. 

Carolet turned to the Elder and the two old men stood in fearful silence. “How long will the Baron be?” Carolet asked. 
“Too long, I fear.” The Elder said with his gaze distant. 
“Then we hold for as long as we can. Gather every abled body man and put them to the wall.” Caro said with a false determination.  
“I do not believe it would matter. This battle is not our own.” The Elder whispered, just loud enough for Ash to hear. She walked closer to the two men as her gaze met the Elders. 

“I need to get my family.” Ash said. 
“I already have,” Caro replied, patting her on the shoulder. “They reside in the fletchers.” 
“My father will want to fight.” She worried. 
“Yes, he does; and he will have to.” 
“I don’t want him to, he’s not strong enough.” 

“Then,” The Elder interrupted. “He shall not.” His pensive glare penetrated her. It stripped the gauntlet from her hand and obsessed over the black abyss below. 
“Temujin? We need every man. He is a hunter; he must fight.” Caro protested. 
“It is not our decision, old friend.” He said, unwavering in his assault on Ash’s hand. 
“No? You’re the village Elder, I’m the village sheriff. Whose decision could it possibly be?” The old knight wondered. He noticed the Elder’s gaze and followed it along to Ashtik’s palm. “Temujin?” He uttered. 

“We must abide the will of our Champion.” The Elder humbly bowed.  
“Champion?” Carolet repeated, almost in disgust, as he witnessed the old man bow before the teenage girl.  
          “This is not a coincidence, Ashtik. Your patron has sent these men. This battle is yours.” 
“Temujin, she’s a child – and certainly no Champion – this is madness. You cannot give her rein.” Caro protested, moving to the Elder and forcing him out of his bow. He placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder as he forced his gaze. 
          “Aye, she is young, but she is chosen for this. We must trust in her; and failing that, the gods.”  
          “I trust in steel, and the men carrying it. Gods will do us no favours; she has no divine weapon, no power over men. I will lead this defence as best it can be led.” 
          “The Champion will win this day, Carolet. Not us.” 

“Hang on!” Ash shouted. “I don’t know how to lead a defence. Caro is an experienced soldier; I'm not even convinced that I am this Champion.”  
“Hence this day comes. Be it a lesson, or an origin, this day may well define you.” The Elder took her gauntlet into his hands and squoze. It was strange that she could feel him doing so, even through the solid steel. “Be brave, Ashtik. You may not be your god’s champion for now; but you have to be ours.” 
“This is madness, Temujin.” Caro huffed as he turned back to the wall. He knew arguing would be pointless, that the Elder had the last word in all things. 
“Carolet, wait,” the Elder meekly ordered. “What would your plan be? How would we survive this?”  

Carolet didn’t face them. He barely acknowledged them as he stopped in place. 

“They have thirty men for each one of ours, trained and blood-soaked. My plan wasn’t to win,” he whispered, his voice full of fate and memory. “My plan was to die well.”

---

          She marched before her impenetrable army. Her insatiable vanguard. Her eternal militia. All eight of them. The smith had four sons, all as tall and toned as any young man hope to be. None were as old as Ash, though all overlooked her. The other men were; a miner, a gouty baker, the foreign merchant and the old knight.  

“It's not enough fighters.” Ash grumbled to the old knight. 
“No,” He agreed. “But it's all we have.” 
“What about the women?” Ash asked. 
“The women?” Carolet repeated. 
“Yeah, there must be at least ten more women of fighting age.” 
“Women aren’t safe in battle.” Caro awkwardly protested, fully aware of who he spoke to. 
“Nobody's safe in battle, it's a bloody battle. Women are in no more danger than men.” Ash grunted. 
“Yes... You are.” Caro sighed. “A man may face his death, be it quick or slow, but they will not be so merciful to the women.” 

“They will face that same fate if we lose. The men will all die, and the women will face their ‘mercy’. Should they be denied the right to fight?” She asked. 

“It would make no difference in the end. Fight or no, they are simply too many and we are simply too weak.” 

“But we don’t need to beat them, we simply need to hold out until the Baron arrives.”  
“That could be two days. The walls won’t hold.” 
“Then we let them fall and put our faith elsewhere.” Ash turned from the line up and looked out to her village; the hillocks and the houses set into them. 
“Elsewhere?” He asked, trying to match her gaze but finding nothing of note. 

A thought found Ash, fleeting and almost silly but one that clung to her mind.  

“Tunnels,” she muttered. “We dig out tunnels.” 
“And flee?” Caro guessed. 
“And attack.” Ash corrected. 
“We haven’t the time to dig out any great network. They will attack tonight at the latest.”  

“Sai-Weleg, I may have a suggestion.” Vamet bowed from his place in the lineup. 
“By all means.” Ash said, her mind still focused on some far-flung plan. 
“Well, it is simply that, within my modest remaining stocks, I have a measure of infernal powder. I would be willing to donate it to your cause.” He said in his ever-elegant sales tone. 
“Infernal powder?” Ash questioned. 
“Indeed. Yellow and foul as the hells for which they are named. Not to mention, noxious as it comes.” Vamet bowed. 
“Noxious?” Ash dumbly asked. 
“Is this not the word? I apologise, I know I am inadept in your tongue.” Vamet apologised. 

“It is the right word, master Vamet.” A little voice giggled from behind her. “She just has a bare grasp of her own language.”  

Ash turned to meet little steel eyes. Her sister stood there, no longer in her dresses or frills. She wore huntress’ garb. Leather padded armour, barely fitting on her tiny frame. A quiver of quarrels strapped to her thigh and a light crossbow slung over her back. She was ready for war. 

“Ev?” Ash questioned. “What are you doing here?”  
“Fighting for my life.” She said with an innocent smile. 
“No.” Ash quickly cut off. She stormed over to the young girl. “You’re fourteen, Ev, you aren’t going to fight.” 

“She can’t fight?” Carolet said in a strange tone. “Your father can’t fight. What about your mother? Why do you expect everyone else to fight and sacrifice their families when you won’t do the same?”  

“I am fighting,” Ash insisted. “But she’s too young.” 
“What about him?” Carolet pointed to the line of men. The furthest of them, the smith’s youngest son, looked at her with a hopeful shine. He masked his smile well, but it was blatant in his stance – and fidgety bounce – that he was excited. “He’s not a year older than her. Is he to die, but not her?” 
“You said it yourself; she’s in more danger.” Ash protested, subtly moving closer to Caro.  
“And you said it yourself; it doesn’t matter.” 

“Ash!” Evara shouted as Ashtik instinctively squared up to the old knight. She stepped between the two and looked to Caro. “Our father cannot fight. The cancer has spread too far, he will be useless.” She said, and it was final. Then she turned to Ash, with a hand on her shoulder; pushing her back. “I am here to fight, with or without your permission, but I offer more than a few bolts from my crossbow.” She shoved Ash back half a pace before storming over to Vamet. 

          “Your infernal powder, it is what we call phoenix ash.”  
“What?” Carolet gasped. She ignored him and turned to the eldest of the smith’s sons. 
“How much peat and pitch do you have?” She demanded. 
          “I... Err...” 
“Child, it’s a war crime!” Carolet protested. 
“It’s a crime because it works.” Evara protested. 
“It’s a crime because its evil. You don’t know what that stuff does.” He persisted. 
          “Yes, I do.”
          “No, you don’t. You might have read of the alchemy and its effects; but war fire sticks to the flesh. It melts the eyes. It boils your blood while you still stand and scream. It burns the air from within your lungs. It is evil.” 
“You have faced this before?” Ash asked. 
“Yes... My liege used it to win a losing battle. It is the reason I left the life. It is the reason I came here.” He spoke with shame, with regret. He spoke as though his answer was half a truth he had sworn to himself never to speak. 
“And your liege... Was he tried for his crime?” Ash mercilessly pressed. 
“I-” he stammered. He wanted to lie, to stop her; instead, his shoulders slumped and his eyes filled with dread. “No, he was made a king.” 

Ash made up her mind. She stood to Evara’s back. “You can make this war fire?” Ash asked.  
“We have all the ingredients. It will not be as potent as the real stuff, but we can substitute the cave salt easily enough.” Evara answered. 

“You will not forget this action, Evara. Not so long as you live.” Carolet seethed. 
“But she will live to regret it. That is more than your ‘noble’ path offers her.” Ash snapped. She dismissed him back to the lineup and turned her imperious gaze to the eldest smith. 
          “As she said, smith. How much peat and pitch?”  
“Much, white hair. Twelve kein at least.” He answered in a tone much too timid for a man of his size.  
          “Is that enough, Ev?” 
“Plenty. I will get to work. Tell the big one to bring the barrels to the Elder’s house.” She said, already bouncing away to her new laboratory.  

“How does she know of war fire?” Carolet whispered once the younger was out of earshot.  
“It must have been in one of her scrolls.” The thought disquieted her mind from its strategizing. The idea that she had unknowingly given her ward the recipe to a war crime was not one she cherished. “It doesn’t matter right now.” Ash shook her head as to rid her mind of the burdensome thought.  

“Very well.” Caro nodded. “What is your plan?” 

Ash moved to the middle of the men and stood as tall as she could, despite her dispositional disadvantage.  

“Gentlemen, we have an opportunity. I have, for each man, a task. Miner, I need you to dig some tunnels between homes. Do it quickly and do it well.” She paused for a moment as to let him begin. He remained where he stood, unaware she wanted him to go. Ser Carolet was kind enough to push him onward and the miner got to his task. 
“Baker. I need you to tear down the village. Gather all of the wood and stone you can and bring it to the Elder’s home.” She said, pausing again. He half stepped but wasn’t sure she wanted him gone yet. He looked her in the eyes for permission, but she avoided his, instead nodding him away. 
“Vamet. Unless you have any more tools for us...” She paused again.  
“I’m afraid not, unless you intend to win the day through well-seasoned meals.” Vamet uncomfortably laughed. 
          “Very well. Then, I ask that you speak with the women of fighting age. Convince them to fight with us.” 
“You ask me to do this? I am a stranger here.” Vamet protested. 
“You are more charming as a stranger than I as a neighbour. Convince them, I beg you.” She said. It took no more than that and he was off, already practicing his sales voice and flirting face. 
“Smiths.” She continued. “Take the wood and stone from the village and build a new wall within the village. Surround the Elder’s home and make it sturdy.” She ordered. “Oh and get Evara the barrels.” She awkwardly finished.  
“Aye.” The eldest said. He gathered his brothers and they all marched to work. 

“And of me, ‘Champion’?” Carolet asked with a suppressed hint of disapproval. 
“I would ask your advice, Caro.” She meekly said.  
“My advice would be to stop this course of action,” Ash grunted in disappointment at his words, though Carolet heeded her as much as Ash heeded him. “Maybe the Temujin was right. Maybe this is a day sent by the gods. A lesson... Or a choice.” He continued. 
“A choice?” Ash repeated. 
          “Corruption, or death. The gods offer you death, a release from their servitude and a good path to be a good woman. Or they offer you victory, and all the blood that comes from it.”  
“So, I can be a slave or a corpse?” Ash sighed. 
“You can be a hero, or you can live. If this war flame is the first choice you make as a holy Champion, what will you look like when you come into your full Championship?” 
“I’d look alive.” Ash mocked. 
          “I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

“Look.” Ashtik groaned. “I need your advice, not your philosophy.”  
“Then I am here to advice, my good lady.” He sardonically said. She ignored his tone and got to her plan. 
“Where will they attack?” She asked. 
“Everywhere.” He answered, though he caught the truth of her question after a half second. “The main gate.” He corrected. “They are arrogant and out for blood.” 
“Will they climb the walls?” She asked.  
“If we man them. They will face our challenges gladly.” 
“So, if we man the gate wall. They will climb over instead of breaking the gate?” 
“I believe so.” 

She looked at the gate. Its rusty old bars had stood for nearly a century. Each rivet was original, there from the days of the first villager. It was the first thing she could remember of the village. It was so unnatural. So man-made. The villagers lived in holed in hills, ate from the nameless forest and walked among barefoot grasses. Then there was this massive mound of forged iron that held the world at bay. It dripped with grease and oil even in the middle of a rainstorm. It had rained none-stop all day, yet if she ran a finger across it, her finger wouldn’t have a drop of water on it; only a layer of black oil. She always imagined a single spark would set the entire wall alight, though Evara had told her that it was a different kind of oil that could be lit... An infernal kind. The kind Evara was brewing at this very moment. 

She always imagined a single spark would set the entire wall alight...  

“Then we burn the wall.” She whispered. 
“We what?” Caro coughed. “The wall is our only advantage. We can’t burn it!” 
“But if we lose the wall; when we lose the wall. If we cover it in your war fire, how long would it burn for?” She pondered. 
“A long... long while.” He whispered, a hint of hope finding him. 
          “A day?” 
          “Or more...” 
“Then we douse the walls, and light them as they cross.” She said. 
“Then we retreat to Temujin’s house. Hold them back for however long we need.” He even seemed to smile, though it lacked much lustre. His new hope was tempered with a lifetime of agony and disappointment. He couldn’t muster the vigour and excitement of youth, of inexperience.  

“Then we must work quickly and hope the gods are on our side.” He whispered.