75. Anvil of Rebellion
The night was restless, heavy with foreboding silence.
The wind, once gentle and familiar, now howled through the hills, carrying with it the cold scent of iron and blood.
The campfires flickered in the distance, their flames trembling in the dark.
The villagers-turned-soldiers lay by their fires, some sharpening blades, others offering silent prayers to gods who had long forsaken them.
But Harsh didn't pray.
He stood alone on the ridge, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the distant horizon with hard, unyielding eyes.
Beneath the ashen moon, he could see the faint glow of torches moving in the distance—the noble forces were marching.
Their approach was slow but deliberate, a dark wave crawling across the land.
---
At the edge of the camp, the village elders sat in silence, their faces drawn with worry.
The women of the village, who once braided their daughters' hair and sang lullabies, now fitted their sons with armor.
An old woman with silver hair tied a leather vambrace around her grandson's wrist.
Her hands trembled slightly, but her eyes were steady.
The boy—no more than fourteen—stood tall, his jaw set.
In his small hands, he clutched a short sword, its blade too heavy for his young arms.
He wobbled slightly as he lifted it, but his grandmother smiled softly and kissed his forehead.
"You're stronger than your father," she whispered, though her voice caught.
"He would be proud."
The boy said nothing.
He simply nodded and marched off, his young frame swallowed by the torchlight.
---
Harsh moved through the camp, his eyes scanning the faces of his people.
He paused by the blacksmith, where Viram and his apprentices hammered out the last of the blades.
The forge burned hot, its flames licking the iron with hungry tongues.
The anvil rang with each strike, sharp and unforgiving.
"Are the blades ready?" Harsh asked, his voice sharp but calm.
Viram nodded grimly, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Every man and boy has a blade. Even the women."
He glanced at Harsh, his eyes wary.
"But not all of them will know how to use them."
Harsh rested a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder.
His grip was firm, unyielding.
"Then they'll learn with blood."
---
As midnight fell, Harsh gathered his commanders in the stone hall.
The crude map of the region was spread across the table, illuminated by a single lantern.
Ishani stood to his right, her arms crossed, her dagger flashing in the firelight.
Her eyes were cold but calculating.
Viram and Ravi sat beside her, their faces grim with anticipation.
Across from them, a dozen rebel leaders—men who had once been farmers, herdsmen, and masons—leaned over the map with steely resolve.
---
"The eastern force will reach the valley by dawn," Ishani said, pointing to the narrow pass.
"Two thousand men. Heavily armored. Their cavalry will lead the charge."
Her fingers traced the route, her nails tapping softly against the parchment.
"The western nobles will follow by noon," Viram added.
"We'll be flanked."
Harsh's eyes narrowed.
He studied the map, his gaze sharp and calculating.
"We won't let it come to that," he said, his voice calm but unwavering.
"We'll crush the eastern nobles before the western army arrives."
He pointed to the narrow valley, where the eastern force would march.
"We'll use the terrain to our advantage. The valley will funnel them. We'll box them in."
---
Ishani raised a brow, her arms crossing tightly.
"And what of the western force? You'll leave the flank unguarded?"
Harsh's lips pressed into a thin line.
He turned to Viram, his eyes sharp and decisive.
"We'll bait the western force," Harsh said.
"Let them think they have the advantage. We'll scatter smaller units—seventy men—throughout the hills. They'll harass their supply lines, slow them down."
He tapped the map firmly, marking the supply routes with quick, decisive strokes.
"When the western force arrives, they'll find themselves starving, disoriented, and weakened. Then we hit them."
---
When the first light of morning bled into the sky, the villagers were ready.
Harsh rode at the front, his horse draped in battered armor, the metal scratched and worn.
He wore no noble colors, no sigil, no banner.
Only darkened leather armor, stained with the blood of a hundred battles.
Behind him, the villagers stood in formation—no longer farmers, no longer peasants.
They were soldiers now, their eyes hard and unyielding.
The eastern nobles appeared on the horizon, their bannered ranks stretching for miles.
Their armor glimmered beneath the morning sun, and their cavalry moved with brutal precision.
---
As the eastern nobles charged, the earth trembled beneath the thundering hooves.
The steel of their lances gleamed, a glimmering line of death.
Harsh stood unflinching, his eyes cold and sharp.
He raised his sword, and his voice rang out.
"Hold! Shields tight!"
The villagers held the line, their shields interlocked, forming a solid wall of iron and wood.
The noble cavalry slammed into them, and for a moment, the world became fire and blood.
Blades tore through flesh, and the ground turned slick with blood.
---
Harsh moved swiftly, his sword cutting through the chaos.
He drove his blade through the throat of a nobleman, the gurgling scream lost in the madness.
The blood sprayed hot across his face, but he didn't blink.
With a sharp spin, he drove his boot into the chest of another rider, toppling him from his mount.
The man screamed as he fell, but Harsh was already moving, his blade slicing clean through bone and muscle.
---
The villagers fought like demons, their fury unleashed.
Ishani led a flanking maneuver, her daggers flashing in the sunlight.
She moved through the chaos like a shadow, her blades flashing red.
Every strike was quick, precise, and deadly.
Viram fought beside her, his hammer crashing into skulls, shattering bone and iron alike.
He roared with fury, his bloodied arms covered in soot and sweat.
The eastern nobles faltered, their ranks breaking.
The villagers surged forward, driving them back.
---
As the sun set over the battlefield, Harsh stood alone, surrounded by the fallen.
The dead lay in heaps, the blood soaking the earth.
The villagers, bruised and bloodied, stood beside him, their faces grim but victorious.
He looked at his people—his army—and knew.
They were no longer villagers.
They were no longer prey.
They were the Iron Covenant.
And the nobles would fall before them.
---