37. The bloodied field

The sun had not yet risen when the first horns blew. The low, mournful call rolled over the hills, cutting through the damp morning air and sending a shiver through the men still drowsing by their campfires. Their eyes snapped open, their hands fumbling for spears and shields, their breath suddenly sharp with the cold realization that the day of blood had come.

Harsh was already awake.

He stood near the edge of the camp, arms crossed over his chest, watching the mist curl through the trees. His eyes were sharp, clear—no longer the uncertain eyes of a man torn between two worlds. There was still conflict in him, yes, but it had grown quieter. He was beginning to understand that he could no longer afford to second-guess himself.

Beside him, Bhairav leaned against the haft of his spear, silent but watchful. He had seen the same thing. The shift in Harsh's bearing. The subtle way his shoulders no longer sagged with uncertainty. The way his eyes no longer searched for answers he didn't have.

There was no hesitation in him anymore.

There was only iron.

---

The villagers—no, the soldiers—assembled in ranks as Harsh had drilled them. The clumsy stances of weeks before were gone. They stood with their shields pressed together, their spears angled in tight, deadly rows. Their backs were straight. Their eyes were steady.

They were no longer peasants holding blades.

They were an army.

Harsh walked slowly along the front line, his sharp gaze meeting the eyes of every man who would stand with him this day.

There were no cheers, no grand declarations of victory. He did not need them.

Instead, he drew his sword with deliberate slowness. The morning light caught the steel as he lifted it high, his voice low but commanding.

"You are no longer farmers," he said, his voice carrying across the still air. "You are no longer beggars."

He pointed the sword toward the horizon, where the enemy's banners would soon appear.

"You are iron. You are fire. And today, you will make this land remember your name."

The men tightened their grips on their spears. Their jaws clenched. Their eyes narrowed with determination.

Bhairav stepped up beside him, leaning slightly closer. His voice was a low murmur.

"Good speech," he grunted. "No frills. I liked it."

Harsh's lips curled faintly. "I didn't say it for you."

---

The enemy came with banners raised high. Their sigils of gold and scarlet streamed in the morning wind. Mercenaries in mismatched armor marched alongside the local noblemen's conscripted soldiers. Unlike Harsh's men, they were better equipped—thick shields, reinforced chainmail, and seasoned cavalrymen riding armored horses.

But they did not know fear.

Not yet.

Harsh stood at the front, his sword lowered, waiting. He did not call for his men to charge. He did not let their bloodthirst carry them forward prematurely.

He waited.

His eyes narrowed, calculating the distance.

And then, at the perfect moment, his voice rang out, sharp and clear.

"Loose!"

From the forest's edge, the first volley of javelins soared into the sky. They arced through the morning light, descending with brutal precision. The iron-tipped spears drove through the lines of approaching cavalry, piercing necks and thighs. Horses screamed and bucked violently, throwing their riders.

But Harsh did not wait for the volley to finish.

He turned sharply to Bhairav and shouted, "Shields up! Close ranks!"

The men obeyed instantly. They moved with swift discipline, shields locking together with a sharp clang. Their spears jutted out in a jagged wall of iron points.

The enemy riders, their ranks thrown into disarray by the javelins, now charged into the waiting wall of iron.

And the slaughter began.

The first wave of cavalry met the spears with a sickening crunch. Horses impaled themselves on the iron points, screaming in pain. Riders were thrown violently from their saddles, their bodies slamming into the shield wall.

But the villagers-turned-soldiers did not break.

They did not falter.

They held.

The second wave came moments later—this time on foot. The enemy soldiers surged forward, hacking at the shield wall with swords and axes.

Harsh's voice rang out again.

"Push!"

The line surged forward as one. The soldiers braced their legs and slammed into the enemy ranks with brutal force, driving their shields into their opponents' chests. Iron clashed against iron. Blood spattered the dirt.

Harsh fought at the front, his sword a blur. His twice-strong arms cut through enemy flesh with ease. His blade drove through leather armor and split bone. Blood sprayed over his arms, warm and wet, but he did not stop.

To his right, Bhairav smashed his shield into a man's face, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch. The man staggered backward, only for Bhairav's spear to drive through his gut a heartbeat later.

But it was the villagers who made Harsh's blood burn with fierce pride.

Men who had once trembled at the thought of violence now fought with the raw ferocity of wolves. They used their spears not as tools, but as weapons of war. They thrust with lethal precision, aiming for throats, armpits, and bellies—every weak point they had been taught.

One by one, the enemy ranks faltered.

---

The battle was no longer clean lines and precise formations. It had devolved into chaos. Small groups broke off from the main line, hacking and slashing at each other in the mud. The earth was thick with blood, turning the once-dry soil into dark, slick sludge.

Harsh's eyes were sharp, unyielding. He moved like a man possessed. He cut down one soldier, then another, his blade flashing.

But even as he fought, he saw something else—something deeper.

The men beside him were no longer just fighting to survive.

They were fighting for him.

He saw it in the way they protected his flanks, the way they glanced at him for reassurance, the way they pressed forward with renewed determination whenever he roared his orders.

They did not just see him as a leader anymore.

They saw him as something greater.

As a symbol.

A banner of defiance.

---

The enemy, once so sure of their victory, began to crumble. The noblemen's soldiers—mercenaries and conscripts both—began to break and flee. Some threw down their weapons and ran. Others were cut down as they turned their backs.

Bhairav, his armor streaked with blood, stood atop the carcass of a slain horse, spear in hand. His voice roared through the chaos.

"Don't let them run!" he bellowed. "No mercy!"

The villagers-turned-soldiers chased down the fleeing men.

There were no prisoners.

There was only blood.

---

When the last enemy had fallen, the field was silent save for the rasp of labored breathing and the crackle of burning wreckage. The ground was thick with blood and bodies.

Harsh stood at the center of it all, his sword slick with gore, his chest heaving. His eyes swept over the field—over the men who still stood, over the bodies of those who did not.

And then, slowly, he sheathed his sword.

The surviving villagers, bloodied and weary, turned to him.

There were no cheers.

No roars of triumph.

Only silence.

But Harsh saw the way they looked at him now—the way their eyes burned with something that was not gratitude, but devotion.

He met their gazes and spoke only two words.

"Bury them."

Without question, the men obeyed.

And as the sun set over the blood-soaked field, Harsh knew that he had not simply won a battle.

He had made them his.

---