52. Flames of Defiance
The wind swept across the plains with a chill that clung to the bone. The early morning mist drifted lazily over the encampment, making the silhouettes of the makeshift watchtowers appear like looming specters. The faint light of the rising sun barely pierced the thick veil of fog.
But beneath the haze, Harsh's men moved with practiced discipline.
The once-clumsy farmers were now swift in their routine—strapping leather bracers over their forearms, adjusting their crude armor, and methodically sharpening their blades. The ring of whetstones against steel filled the air, a steady song of preparation.
Beyond the camp, far in the distance, the first hints of trouble were already beginning to stir.
---
The riders came at dawn.
They moved swiftly through the forest under the cover of darkness—two dozen mounted warriors, their armor light but gleaming faintly in the dim light. Their horses' hooves thudded softly against the damp earth, their breaths steaming in the morning chill.
The noble raiders wore no banners, no sigils. This was not a formal attack.
This was a test.
The lead rider, a grizzled man with a scar cutting across his cheek, raised his hand. His men halted.
He glanced over his shoulder at the others.
"Stay low. Strike fast. Burn everything you see."
His voice was a low, guttural growl.
No battle cries. No mercy.
They urged their horses forward again, silent and deadly, moving toward the outer edge of Harsh's encampment.
---
On the eastern perimeter, near the newly constructed wooden palisade, one of Harsh's sentries stood with his back to the forest, rubbing his hands together for warmth. His spear was planted in the dirt beside him, its tip dull with rust.
He yawned softly, the night's cold making his eyes heavy.
He didn't hear the riders until it was too late.
The first arrow cut through the fog, embedding itself in his throat. He staggered, choking on his own blood, his eyes wide with shock.
A second arrow struck the man beside him, piercing his chest.
The sentries toppled before they could raise the alarm.
But one of them—clutching the arrow lodged in his shoulder—managed to stumble backward. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, blood slicking his tunic.
He turned and sprinted toward the camp, his legs barely carrying him.
And then he screamed.
"Riders!"
His voice cracked with desperation.
"Riders!"
The camp came alive with shouts and the clang of steel.
---
Harsh was in the midst of speaking with Bharat and Ravi when the alarm rang out.
His head snapped toward the sound of the watchman's cry.
He didn't hesitate.
Without a word, he drew his sword and sprinted toward the front line.
The moment he reached the palisade, he could see the riders emerging from the mist. Their armor glinted in the faint morning light, and their eyes were cold with purpose.
The first wave struck the outer defenses with savage speed. The horses trampled through the newly dug trenches, kicking up soil and splintered stakes.
Harsh didn't wait for his men to organize.
He leapt onto the closest horse, grabbing its bridle with one hand and driving his blade into the rider's chest with the other.
The man grunted, his eyes going wide as the sword plunged through his ribs.
Harsh tore the blade free and shoved the man from the saddle.
Without pausing, he kicked the horse into a full gallop, charging straight into the next wave of attackers.
---
Bharat bellowed orders, his voice raw with command.
"Hold the line! Shields up!"
The freedmen responded swiftly, forming a crude wall of shields. The riders slammed into them, but the wall held.
The ground shook with the impact, men screaming as swords clashed and hooves trampled the earth.
Ravi's archers fired from the hilltops, their arrows raining down on the mounted warriors.
One rider fell from his saddle, an arrow buried deep in his throat. Another cried out as a shaft pierced his leg, causing his horse to rear violently.
But the nobles were not mere mercenaries.
They fought with ruthless precision.
A rider broke through the shield wall, his sword flashing as he cut down one of the freedmen. The man crumpled, his blood splattering the dirt.
Another noble swung his mace, shattering a young man's jaw with a single blow.
The freedman fell, screaming.
For a moment, the line wavered.
But then Harsh was among them.
He drove his horse into the enemy ranks, his sword flashing with merciless efficiency.
One rider lunged at him with a spear. Harsh deflected the strike with his bracer, grabbing the shaft and snapping it with his bare hands.
The rider's eyes widened in shock.
Harsh thrust his sword into the man's chest and kicked his body from the saddle.
Blood sprayed across his face, but he didn't stop.
His movements were swift and fluid, almost inhuman in their precision.
His twice-strong body allowed him to swing harder, move faster.
The next rider came at him with a heavy axe. Harsh sidestepped at the last moment, seizing the man's wrist and twisting with bone-snapping force. The axe fell from the rider's hand as he screamed.
Harsh drove his sword through the man's gut, the blade bursting from his back.
The freedmen, emboldened by the sight of Harsh cutting through the enemy like a force of nature, surged forward with renewed fury.
The shield wall held.
And then it advanced.
---
By the time the last of the nobles' raiders fled into the forest, the ground was littered with bodies.
The freedmen stood among the fallen, blood splattered on their faces and armor. Their hands were trembling, but their eyes were steady.
Harsh dismounted, his breathing heavy. His sword was slick with blood, and his knuckles were raw from the fight.
Bharat staggered toward him, blood streaming from a shallow gash on his temple.
"They're retreating," he rasped, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
Harsh nodded faintly.
But he knew this was only the beginning.
The nobles had sent only a small force.
The next time, they would send more.
---
That evening, Harsh walked among the wounded.
He crouched beside a young man whose arm had been nearly severed by a noble's sword. The man's face was pale, his breath shallow.
Harsh removed his cloak and pressed it against the wound, staunching the bleeding.
The man's eyes fluttered open.
"You fought well," Harsh murmured softly.
The man's eyes glistened faintly. His lips trembled.
"I-I was afraid," he whispered.
Harsh's voice was firm but steady.
"Everyone is afraid," he said softly. "Only fools claim otherwise."
The man stared at him for a long moment.
And then he nodded weakly.
His fingers clutched Harsh's cloak as though it were a lifeline.
And in that moment, Harsh knew:
They were no longer peasants fighting for their survival.
They were soldiers fighting for their freedom.
---