Chapter 4: The Battle at Riverbend

The morning mist hung low over the valley, shrouding the distant sound of rushing water. The Riverbend Crossing awaited — a narrow strip of shallows where the rebels had fortified their defenses. From the southern bank, black banners fluttered defiantly, marking the enemy's hold.

Dikun Silver stood with his squad, adjusting the straps of his leather cuirass. The tension in the air was palpable. Soldiers murmured quiet prayers, the clinking of armor and weapons a steady rhythm.

"Think they'll let us cross without a fuss?" Joran asked, his usual grin absent.

"Not a chance," Dikun replied, tightening his grip on his sword.

Ahead, Lieutenant Varlen addressed the gathered ranks. His voice, steady and cold, echoed through the morning air.

"The rebels are prepared, but so are we. This river will not hold us. We take the crossing, break their line, and end this."

A chorus of gruff affirmations followed.

"Shield-bearers to the front. Archers behind. Move swiftly. Do not falter."

The command was clear. Dikun and his fellow Privates were to lead the charge — the expendable vanguard. But no man spoke of it. It was the way of war.

"Stay close," Dikun murmured to Joran. "We move together."

Joran nodded. "Always."

---

The Charge Begins

The horns blared.

Dikun's heart pounded as the first ranks surged forward. The ground trembled beneath the weight of hundreds of boots. As they approached the water's edge, the rebels' response came swiftly — a volley of arrows streaked across the sky.

"Shields up!" someone roared.

Dikun raised his shield just as the arrows struck. The dull thud of wood and metal rang in his ears. Around him, men fell, clutching at wounds or sinking beneath the river's surface.

"Keep moving!" Lieutenant Varlen's voice bellowed.

The shallows were treacherous. Water reached Dikun's knees, the current pulling at him with every step. The enemy awaited on the far shore, their spears bristling.

A rebel arrow grazed Dikun's shoulder, the sharp sting drawing blood. But he pressed on, the rush of battle pushing him forward. Beside him, Joran fought to keep his footing, his shield battered by incoming projectiles.

"Almost there!" Joran shouted, his voice barely audible above the chaos.

Dikun could see the rebel line now — a wall of ragged fighters, their eyes burning with defiance. The river ran red, but the soldiers of the king's army would not be denied.

---

The Clash

The first clash of steel erupted as the soldiers met the rebel line. Dikun drove his shoulder into the nearest enemy, his sword thrusting forward. The rebel fell, his cry lost beneath the din of war.

"Hold the line!" Dikun shouted, though he had no rank to give orders.

Yet his comrades rallied. Shield locked against shield, they pushed forward. Every strike was met with another. The air was thick with sweat, blood, and smoke.

Joran fought beside him, his sword dancing with deadly precision. Eron held the line to Dikun's left, his stoic determination unwavering. Tomas stumbled but quickly found his footing, his fear tempered by the will to survive.

A rebel cornet, clad in dented plate, charged toward Dikun with a jagged axe. Dikun braced, blocking the swing with his shield. The force nearly sent him sprawling, but he held firm. In a swift counter, his sword struck true, the rebel collapsing in a heap.

But there was no time to linger. The battle raged on.

---

The Moment of Leadership

Amidst the chaos, a cry pierced the air.

"Lieutenant Varlen is down!"

Dikun's gaze shot toward the source. Varlen lay slumped near the riverbank, blood pooling beneath him. The command had faltered.

The soldiers hesitated, the momentum of the charge wavering. The rebels saw their chance, pressing forward with renewed fury.

"We're losing ground!" Joran shouted.

Dikun felt the weight of the moment. Fear clawed at him, but so did resolve. He could see it in the eyes of his comrades — they needed direction.

"Form up!" Dikun roared, his voice cutting through the noise. "Shields together! Hold the line!"

For a moment, no one moved. Then, like a spark catching flame, the soldiers obeyed. Shields locked. Spears thrust forward. The rebel advance broke against the renewed formation.

"Push!" Dikun commanded, his voice steady. "We drive them back!"

And they did. Step by step, the rebels faltered. Dikun fought with everything he had, his sword an extension of his will. The tide of battle shifted.

By the time the sun began its descent, the rebels were routed. The river ran clear once more, stained only by the memory of blood.

---

Recognition Without Reward

The survivors gathered that evening. The wounded were tended to, their moans a solemn reminder of the cost of victory. Among them, Lieutenant Varlen lay pale, his breathing shallow.

Sergeant Deren approached Dikun, his expression unreadable.

"You stepped in when others froze," Deren said gruffly. "Kept the line from breaking. That saved lives."

Dikun met his gaze. "I only did what was needed."

The sergeant nodded. "That's more than most can say."

But there was no promise of promotion. No title to mark the moment. Dikun remained a Private — a soldier in the ranks. Yet within him, something had shifted. The respect of his comrades, the strength he found in the heat of battle — that was worth more than any rank.

As the stars emerged above the battlefield, Joran clapped him on the shoulder.

"You've got the makings of a leader, Dikun," he said with a grin. "Even if the officers are too blind to see it."

Dikun offered a small smile. "One battle at a time."

And so, he marched onward — a soldier still, but with the spirit of something greater.

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To be continued in Chapter 5: Shadows of the Past