Chapter 9: A Call to Arms

Dawn broke with a muted glow, the sky painted in soft hues of violet and gold. A thin mist clung to the dirt paths of Stonehill, swirling around the wooden cottages like ghosts reluctant to leave. The air was crisp, the silence of the early morning disturbed only by the distant bleating of sheep and the creak of wagon wheels.

Dikun Silver stood at the village square, his cloak draped over his shoulders. The longsword he had acquired from the blacksmith rested at his hip, the weight of the steel now familiar. Harlon was by his side, the grizzled swordsman tightening the leather straps of his own weathered armor.

"You've got the look of a man who's done this before," Harlon remarked without turning.

"I have," Dikun answered, though the truth was complicated. His experience in Bannerlord granted him knowledge of tactics, formations, and the weight of command. But this? This was real. Blood spilled here didn't fade into pixels. Every choice had weight.

And now, with Jorvik looming as a threat, the time for choices had come.

"We'll need more men," Dikun said, his voice low. "Two against twenty won't end well."

Harlon smirked. "Aye. But convincing men to fight a bandit lord isn't like offering them a free meal."

Dikun's jaw tightened. He was well aware of the risks. Peasants weren't warriors. Most had never held a sword, let alone faced a charging foe. But not all men were born into the fields. Some had lost family to Jorvik's raids. Others had fled the constant chaos of war. Fear lingered in their hearts — but so did resentment.

"All I need is a spark. One to light the fire."

---

The Village Awakens

As the sun crested the hills, villagers emerged from their homes. Men and women alike went about their tasks, tending livestock and gathering water from the well. Dikun waited, watching the hesitant glances they cast his way. Rumors had spread quickly. The stranger who had slain Jorvik's men was no longer just a traveler.

He was something else now.

"People of Stonehill!" Dikun's voice rang out, strong and unwavering. Heads turned, eyes filled with curiosity and doubt. Harlon stood silently at his side, arms crossed.

"You know why I'm here," Dikun continued. "Jorvik has painted a target on my back — but he won't stop there. He never does."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Fear lingered beneath their breath.

"Your village is not the first he's raided, and it won't be the last. Every coin he steals, every life he takes — it strengthens his grip. But he is not invincible."

Dikun's voice lowered, steady and commanding. "He is a man. A man who bleeds like any other. And I intend to prove it."

"How?" a voice called from the crowd. It was an older man, his hands calloused from years of labor. "You've seen what Jorvik's done. He's no simple thief. You think two men can stand against him?"

"No," Dikun answered, his eyes sweeping the crowd. "But we can."

The words struck. Dikun saw it — the flicker of uncertainty, the fear battling against the spark of defiance.

"I won't ask you to fight without reason. I offer you a choice. Stand with me, and we end Jorvik's reign of terror. Or wait for his shadow to return — and pray he leaves your families alive."

A heavy silence fell. The weight of it pressed down like an invisible hand.

Then, slowly, a figure stepped forward. A younger man, lean and sharp-eyed. He wore the patched leather of a hunter, a bow slung across his back.

"My brother died to Jorvik's men," the hunter said. "If you mean to stop him, then I'll stand with you."

A ripple of murmurs followed. Another voice rose — a woman this time, her braided hair streaked with silver. "I've no sword arm. But I know how to tend the wounded. If your fight brings blood, I'll do what I can."

One by one, others followed. Farmers, traders, and laborers. Not soldiers — but people willing to stand.

Dikun nodded, the knot in his chest loosening. It wasn't an army. Not yet. But it was a beginning.

---

Training the Untrained

By midday, the village square had transformed. Makeshift training dummies of straw and wood stood in a loose formation. Dikun had seen it countless times in Bannerlord — the early stages of building a militia. But theory and practice were two very different things.

"Form up!" Harlon barked, his voice cutting through the chatter. The volunteers shuffled into place, most gripping wooden spears and axes with visible uncertainty. Some had brought rusty swords, others little more than farming tools.

Dikun stepped forward, his gaze firm. "Fighting is not about strength alone. It's about control. Discipline. Fear will strike you, but it's what you do with that fear that matters."

He demonstrated the basics — how to hold a spear, the importance of a shield wall, the weight of a proper strike. Harlon joined him, correcting stances with gruff words and sharp gestures. For many, the movements were awkward, the fear of failure evident.

But some showed promise.

The hunter moved with practiced ease, his bowstring taut as he loosed an arrow straight into a makeshift target. A burly woodcutter swung his axe with enough force to cleave through straw and wood alike. Others stumbled, but not without determination.

Hours passed. Dikun's voice grew hoarse with commands, but he pressed on. Every corrected mistake, every drilled movement — it was progress. And progress meant survival.

By nightfall, the villagers were exhausted, their hands blistered and muscles aching. But something had shifted. Where once there was fear, now there was resolve.

"Rest," Dikun ordered. "We'll continue tomorrow."

A murmur of agreement followed as the volunteers dispersed. Harlon clapped Dikun on the shoulder, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"They're rough," he admitted. "But there's fight in them. More than I expected."

Dikun nodded. "They'll need it."

Because soon, the storm would come.

And Dikun Silver would be ready.