38. Lords of Ash and Blood

The morning after the battle dawned slowly, casting a weak and bloodless light over the charred field. Smoke still drifted from the remnants of the enemy's supply wagons, and the stench of burnt flesh clung to the air. The corpses were already bloating, flies buzzing thick around them. The blood-soaked earth was black beneath the scattered corpses, the mud turned slick with death.

Harsh stood at the edge of the field, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was smeared with dried blood—not all of it his own. The bruises on his knuckles had darkened overnight, and a thin cut along his jaw stung every time he clenched his teeth.

But he hardly noticed.

His eyes scanned the battlefield with a sharp, calculating coldness. The bodies were being stripped of weapons and armor, and his men, grim and silent, worked with methodical efficiency. Bloodstained hands pried steel from stiff fingers. Swords, spears, and pieces of chainmail were piled in neat rows.

Harsh's gaze lingered on the corpses of the noblemen's soldiers.

Some of them were little more than conscripts—men who had been forced to fight. Their hands were still bound in death around shoddy, rusted swords. Their faces were pale and slack, their eyes vacant.

But he felt nothing for them.

No sorrow.

No remorse.

Only certainty.

---

Bhairav approached, his arms streaked with dried blood, his beard stiff with grime. His armor was still splattered with filth from the battle, and his knuckles were raw where he had crushed the faces of men with his shield.

"They fought harder than I expected," he muttered, glancing at the pile of dead. "But they still broke."

Harsh didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the battlefield, watching his men gather the spoils of war.

Bhairav's lips curled faintly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "You're not pleased."

Harsh's voice was low, steady. "No. I'm not."

Bhairav turned slightly, frowning. "We won." He gestured to the field with a short, sharp movement. "We have iron and blood to spare. Their soldiers are broken, their lords scattered. You should be smiling."

Harsh's eyes were hard. Cold.

"We won a battle," he said evenly. "Not the war."

Bhairav's eyes narrowed slightly. He studied Harsh for a moment, then slowly nodded. There was no need to press the matter. He could see it in his commander's eyes—the distant, calculating steel. Harsh was no longer satisfied with mere survival.

He was building something greater.

And he was already planning the next step.

---

Later that evening, Harsh walked alone through the makeshift camp. Fires flickered low and dim, their light casting jagged shadows on the bloodied faces of the resting men. The injured lay beneath tattered blankets, their wounds bound with rough linen. The healthy sat nearby, sharpening their blades or eating in silence.

As he walked, a few of the men rose stiffly to their feet, their eyes lowering in respect. They did not kneel—not anymore. He had forbidden it. But they bowed their heads or saluted with silent reverence, fists pressed lightly against their chests.

Not with the worship of broken men.

But with the loyalty of soldiers.

He came to the edge of the camp, where the bodies of the fallen lay in rough, shallow graves. The villagers had dug through the hard-packed dirt with trembling hands, burying their own with quiet reverence.

The enemy dead had been given no such dignity. Their corpses were heaped in a mass grave, nameless and forgotten.

Harsh stood before the grave, his arms loose at his sides. The evening wind tugged at his cloak, carrying the faint, bitter scent of burning wood and rot.

For a long time, he simply stared.

Then, slowly, he knelt.

His fingers curled into the cold dirt. He pressed his palm against the blood-soaked earth. His eyes were sharp, distant.

And he whispered.

"I won't forget."

The words were not for the dead soldiers.

They were for himself.

---

The next morning, Harsh sat at the head of a crude wooden table inside the makeshift command tent. The battered banner of his growing force hung loosely behind him, its fabric torn and streaked with blood.

Krishan, Bhairav, and Vira stood before him, their expressions solemn.

On the table lay a pile of weapons stripped from the enemy's corpses. Swords, axes, and spears of fine steel. Mixed in with the blades were heavy leather coin pouches, their contents spilling onto the rough wooden surface.

Silver.

And gold.

Bhairav let out a low whistle, his eyes narrowing slightly. "They were carrying more wealth than I expected," he muttered. He ran his fingers lightly over the edges of the coins. "Fools must have thought they'd be celebrating victory with their paymasters by now."

Krishan's eyes were on the blades. His lips curled in a faint sneer. "Their iron is finer than ours," he growled. "Better steel. Better temper. Our smiths should take their measure."

Harsh's gaze was on the gold.

His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table, his eyes calculating.

With this wealth, he could strengthen the forge. He could pay for more smiths. He could buy iron, coal, and better equipment.

But that wasn't what he was thinking.

No.

He was thinking of something far greater.

He turned slowly to Vira, who stood silently at the edge of the table, her eyes sharp and watchful.

"How far is the nearest river port?" he asked quietly.

Vira's eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. She knew immediately what he was asking.

"Two days' ride," she replied. "Why?"

Harsh's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Because this isn't enough," he said, his voice hard. "We'll need more than iron."

Vira's eyes sharpened. She tilted her head slightly, watching him. "You want trade," she guessed.

He nodded slowly.

She took a step forward, her voice lowering slightly. "If you move too quickly, the noblemen will know you're building something bigger than a peasant rebellion," she warned. "You'll draw too much attention."

He met her eyes with calm, steely resolve.

"Let them look," he murmured. "I want them to see me coming."

---

By mid-afternoon, the surviving men had assembled in the center of the field. Their makeshift armor was still streaked with dried blood. Their faces were hollow with exhaustion. Their hands were raw and stiff from gripping spears.

But their eyes burned.

Harsh stood before them, his bloodied cloak heavy on his shoulders. He met their eyes one by one, holding their gaze.

Then, he slowly drew his sword.

Without a word, he stepped forward.

The crowd parted slightly as he made his way to a large, blackened iron cauldron filled with water. The surface of the water was slick with blood and soot.

He reached down, slowly running the blade through the water. The blood washed away in red tendrils, dissolving into the blackness.

And then he turned back to the men.

One by one, they came forward.

He dipped his sword in the cauldron and placed the flat of the blade against their shoulders.

A baptism of iron.

A promise of fire.

When the last man knelt, Harsh placed the blade lightly on his shoulder.

And he spoke only two words.

"Rise, soldier."

The man rose.

The others followed.

And Harsh knew.

They were no longer farmers.

They were no longer villagers.

They were an army.

And they were his.

---