36. Making of iron and fire

The morning sun had barely begun to cut through the cool mist when the sharp clang of iron against iron echoed through the makeshift camp. The rhythm was steady—slow at first, then growing with the precision of a blacksmith's heartbeat. The newly recruited smiths, tailors, and laborers were no longer the soft-handed peasants they once were. Under Krishan's sharp commands and Harsh's unyielding discipline, they had become something else.

They were no longer crafting tools for farmers.

They were forging instruments of war.

---

Krishan walked the length of the forge, his sleeves rolled up, thick forearms streaked with soot and sweat. He slammed his hammer down on a length of heated iron, the metal flattening into the shape of a spearhead. The glow of the forge illuminated his scarred face, his eyes narrow and sharp.

"Put more heat to it!" he barked at a young boy manning the bellows. "You're softening the iron, not boiling rice!"

The boy flinched but threw his weight against the wooden lever. Flames roared higher, licking at the iron. Sparks scattered across the dirt floor.

The blacksmith nodded approvingly and turned to Harsh, who stood near the entrance, observing the operation. His arms were crossed, his eyes sharp, but there was something else in them—a faint, calculating gleam.

"How many more can you make by nightfall?" Harsh asked, voice low but firm.

Krishan grunted, wiping the sweat from his brow with a blackened cloth. "If the fires hold and the boys keep their hands steady... forty. Maybe fifty."

"Not enough."

Krishan's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in defiance. "I'll give you more men, it won't change the iron's temper. You want quality, or do you want shoddy blades that snap after the first cut?"

Harsh's gaze didn't waver. "I want both," he replied simply.

Krishan stared at him for a long moment before grunting in frustration. "You'll need more fuel. More coal. And more hands at the bellows."

Harsh turned to Bhairav, who stood nearby, arms folded, watching the exchange.

"Double the bellows. I want the fires hot enough to melt stone," Harsh ordered.

Bhairav's lips curved into a grim smirk. "Twice the bellows means twice the heat. Your smiths will burn their arms off by midday."

Harsh's eyes were cold. "Then let them. I want every hand that isn't holding a spear working iron by nightfall."

Bhairav nodded slowly, his eyes glimmering with faint admiration. "Done."

Without another word, he turned and barked orders at the waiting men, sending groups of them into the forest to haul in more firewood and coal. Others were sent to gather water from the nearby stream to cool the iron.

The forge was no longer just a place of craft.

It was a furnace where war itself was being born.

---

By midday, the first batch of newly forged spears was laid out in neat rows on long wooden racks. The iron tips gleamed faintly in the pale sunlight, sharp and deadly. They were not decorative pieces—there was nothing elegant or ceremonial about them. They were blunt, functional, and cruelly practical.

Harsh stood before the weapons, testing the weight of one in his hand. He ran his thumb lightly along the edge of the blade, satisfied when it nicked his skin with the slightest pressure.

"They'll do," he murmured.

Nearby, the men who had fought alongside him in the previous battle gathered, their hands still stiff and blistered from the clash, their faces still lined with dirt and blood. These were no longer mere villagers. They were hardened by battle—rough, weary, but sharper for it.

He turned to the line of men who had taken up arms. His eyes swept over them.

"You've fought with sticks and broken plow blades," he said coldly, lifting one of the newly forged spears and holding it before them. "Now you'll fight with iron."

He stepped forward and drove the butt of the spear into the dirt at his feet.

"Pick them up," he ordered.

The men hesitated only a moment before moving forward. One by one, they took the spears in their hands, testing the weight, their eyes glimmering with a strange mix of awe and resolve.

And then, the drills began.

---

Bhairav oversaw the formations, his sharp voice cutting through the early afternoon air.

"Shields up!" he roared, pacing the line of men as they formed their ranks.

The villagers, now soldiers, snapped into position. Their movements were still uneven, clumsy at times, but improving. The harsh training of the last few weeks had begun to show in their stances—the way their feet braced in the dirt, the way they held their shields tighter against their bodies, leaving no gaps.

Harsh stood near the edge of the field, observing in silence. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes hard and calculating.

But he knew drills would only take them so far.

He turned to Vira, who watched the training with her arms loosely folded, her eyes sharp. She had grown more accustomed to the sight of men training in rows—more accepting of Harsh's methods.

He approached her quietly, his voice low.

"Tomorrow, I'll take them into the forest."

She turned toward him, her brow furrowing slightly. "For what?"

His eyes were cold.

"To hunt."

She stared at him for a moment before realization dawned in her eyes.

"You're going to make them kill."

He nodded. "Wild boars. Wolves. Anything with blood in its veins." His voice was steel. "I need them to feel it—the weight of a dying body. The iron in their hands splitting flesh. The warmth of blood on their skin."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face. She didn't argue.

She knew he was right.

---

The next morning, the villagers-turned-soldiers were led deep into the forest, spears in hand. The woods were thick with damp, low-hanging fog, and the scent of wet leaves clung to the air.

Harsh moved at the front of the group, silent and steady, his eyes scanning the undergrowth. Bhairav walked at his side, holding a long spear tipped with steel.

The first sign of movement came from the underbrush—a sudden rustle of leaves. One of the men flinched, his grip tightening on his spear.

A wild boar burst from the foliage.

Its eyes were black and savage, its tusks glinting in the faint light. The beast was large—far larger than many of the men expected. Its muscular body tore through the underbrush as it charged.

"Hold your ground!" Harsh barked sharply.

The boar lunged at one of the men, and for a brief moment, the villager's courage broke. His grip faltered, and he stumbled back, his spear dipping.

Harsh's eyes flashed.

Without hesitation, he moved. His own spear shot forward, driving into the boar's thick neck. The iron sank deep, and the beast let out a guttural, gurgling screech. Blood sprayed over his arm, warm and slick.

He held the spear firm as the boar thrashed violently, its hooves kicking up dirt and leaves. The animal let out one last guttural cry before it fell still.

The forest was silent.

Harsh slowly pulled his spear from the beast's throat, its tip slick with dark blood. He turned to the men, his voice cold and unyielding.

"That," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness, "is what it feels like."

He shoved the spear into the hands of the nearest man.

"Now you do it."

The man's hands were trembling slightly, but he tightened his grip.

And so, the hunt continued.

By nightfall, the once-fearful villagers returned with bloodied hands and iron-coated blades. Their eyes were sharper. Their hands steadier.

They had been farmers.

Now, they were soldiers.

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