Chapter 7: The Rebel Stronghold
The sky was still dark when Dikun Silver stood at the edge of the camp, the cool air biting against his skin. Around him, the chosen squad gathered, adjusting their gear in silence. Though none spoke it aloud, the tension was palpable. Today's mission was unlike the others — no large-scale battle, no walls of soldiers clashing. This was a precise strike, a test of both courage and cunning.
Sergeant Deren approached, his expression stern. "The rebels are holed up in the hills, half a day's march from here. We estimate fifty, perhaps more. They'll be guarding the supply caches they seized from the last convoy. Your goal is simple — cripple their operations, retrieve what you can, and ensure they don't rise again."
Dikun nodded. "Understood, Sergeant."
Deren's eyes narrowed. "And Silver… if you lose control of the situation, you pull back. No heroics. I'll not waste good men for reckless ambition."
"I won't forget," Dikun assured him.
"Good." The sergeant gave him one last look before stepping aside. "Now go."
---
The March to the Hills
The squad moved swiftly, keeping low beneath the fading cover of night. Dikun took the lead, with Joran and Eron flanking him. Behind them, Tomas, Larn, Bren, and Osric maintained a disciplined formation. Despite the gravity of the task, Joran couldn't resist breaking the silence.
"You ever think we'd be out here?" he muttered. "One step from sneaking into a rebel den, like some storybook heroes?"
"If this were a story," Dikun replied, "the hero would have a plan that didn't involve getting us all killed."
Joran grinned. "Good thing we're not the heroes. Just soldiers."
Eron, ever stoic, nodded in agreement. "No glory in this. Just survival."
Hours passed. The landscape shifted from open fields to rocky inclines. The foothills loomed ahead, their jagged peaks casting long shadows. Dikun signaled for the squad to halt, raising his hand. They crouched low, concealed behind a thicket.
"There," he whispered.
A plume of smoke twisted into the sky. Just beyond a ridge, the rebel camp sprawled. Makeshift tents clustered in loose formations, with wooden carts loaded with stolen supplies. Guards patrolled lazily, their attention waning.
"Reckless," Eron observed. "They think they're safe."
"They won't for long," Dikun replied.
---
The Plan Unfolds
Dikun's eyes scanned the camp. The rebels were vulnerable — complacent. But a direct attack would be foolish. The element of surprise was their greatest weapon.
"We split into two groups," Dikun began, keeping his voice low. "Joran, Tomas, and Osric — circle east and disable their supply wagons. Burn them if you must. Without supplies, they'll scatter."
"And you?" Joran asked.
"Eron, Larn, Bren, and I will handle the guards at the west. We'll draw their attention while you strike."
Joran nodded. "We'll be quick."
Dikun clasped his friend's shoulder. "Watch yourself."
"You too, Corporal," Joran replied with a grin.
Though the title wasn't yet his, the words stirred something within Dikun.
---
The Strike Begins
The rebels never saw it coming.
Dikun's group moved like shadows, blades drawn, their footsteps muffled by the dirt. As a lone guard passed, Dikun's hand clamped over the man's mouth. The dagger found its mark — swift and silent. The rebel crumpled without a sound.
The others followed suit, striking down guards one by one. The camp remained unaware, the flicker of campfires masking the danger that crept within.
Then came the signal — a plume of black smoke rising from the east. Joran had done his part. The rebels erupted into chaos, shouts filling the air.
"Attack!" one cried.
Dikun seized the moment. "Forward!"
His squad surged ahead. Blades clashed, arrows loosed from the shadows. The rebels scrambled, their disarray spreading like wildfire. Dikun's sword struck true, his movements fluid and precise. Every swing was calculated, every step purposeful.
A rebel lunged from the side, but Eron intercepted, his axe cleaving through the air. Tomas, reckless but fierce, drove his spear into the heart of another. Larn and Bren fought with determination, their fear replaced by the instinct to survive.
The battle was brutal. Blood stained the dirt. Dikun's arms ached, but he pressed on, the weight of command fueling him.
"Fall back!" one of the rebels screamed. "We're overwhelmed!"
And just like that, the tide turned.
The survivors fled into the hills, their stolen supplies reduced to smoldering ash. Dikun watched as the last of them disappeared into the shadows. The rebel threat had been dealt a crushing blow.
---
The Aftermath
The squad regrouped at the edge of the ruined camp. The bodies of the fallen littered the ground, a grim reminder of the price of rebellion. Yet among the soldiers, there was no cheer. Only exhaustion.
Joran wiped the sweat from his brow, a satisfied grin breaking through his weariness. "Well, that was a mess."
"But a successful one," Eron added.
Dikun nodded. "We did what we had to. The king's supply lines are safe."
They returned to camp by nightfall, their report delivered to Sergeant Deren. The grizzled officer listened in silence, then gave a simple nod of approval.
"You did well," Deren said. "Word will reach the commanders. But don't get comfortable, Silver."
"I won't, Sergeant," Dikun replied.
But even as he spoke, he couldn't ignore the quiet pride that stirred within him. He had led his men through the fire and emerged victorious. For now, that was enough.
To be continued in Chapter 8: Shadows of the Past