Chapter 10: Shadows on the Horizon

The days passed swiftly. From the first light of dawn until the sun dipped below the distant hills, Dikun drilled the villagers relentlessly. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in determination. The dirt paths of Stonehill became training grounds, the air thick with the sound of clashing wood and the shouted commands of Harlon.

"Again!" Dikun barked, watching as the makeshift militia raised their wooden shields in a staggered line. "Hold the formation!"

The volunteers strained under the weight of their borrowed gear, sweat dripping from their brows. But they did not break.

Among them, the hunter — Eryk — stood out. His bow rarely missed its mark, and his sharp eyes often spotted flaws in the others' movements. The burly woodcutter, Gorin, wielded his axe like it was an extension of his own body, though Dikun constantly reminded him that brute strength meant little without control.

The village healer, Mira, proved equally invaluable. With practiced hands, she treated the blisters and bruises the men earned from their training. She rarely spoke, but her presence brought comfort.

"They're improving," Harlon muttered, watching as Gorin effortlessly split a training dummy in half. "Slowly."

Dikun nodded, though concern lingered beneath his steady gaze. Time was not on their side. Jorvik's scouts would come eventually — and when they did, Stonehill would have to be ready.

---

The First Signs

It was on the fifth day that the inevitable arrived.

The village had barely stirred when Eryk's voice rang through the streets.

"Riders!"

Dikun was already at the edge of the village when he spotted them — three figures on horseback, cloaked in dark leathers. They did not bear the banners of a noble house. These were not messengers.

They were scouts.

"Jorvik's eyes," Harlon growled, gripping the hilt of his sword. "No doubt."

Dikun's mind raced. Killing them now would prevent word from spreading, but it could also confirm Jorvik's suspicions. The alternative — letting them return — would give the bandit leader the confidence to strike.

"We wait," Dikun decided, lowering Harlon's eager hand. "We watch."

The scouts rode slowly, their eyes scanning the village with predatory intent. One of them, a scarred man with a jagged smile, locked eyes with Dikun from across the square. He said nothing, but the silent message was clear.

Jorvik knows.

Moments later, the riders turned and galloped away, disappearing into the distant hills.

Harlon spat to the side. "They'll be back. And not alone."

Dikun nodded. "Then we'll be ready."

---

A Village United

The news of the scouts spread quickly. Fear seeped into the air, thick as smoke. But fear alone would not break the village. Not this time.

That evening, Dikun gathered the villagers once more. The square was packed, men and women alike standing shoulder to shoulder. Some clutched makeshift weapons. Others clung to their children, their faces etched with worry.

Dikun's voice rang clear, steady despite the unease that loomed.

"Jorvik knows we stand against him. His men will come. Not tomorrow, perhaps not the next day. But they will come."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"But listen to me," Dikun continued, his gaze unwavering. "This village has stood for generations. Your fathers and mothers built these homes with their own hands. You've toiled in these fields, raised your children beneath these skies. Stonehill is not just a place. It is a testament to your strength."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"And strength is what will see us through."

Eryk stepped forward, bow in hand. "We fight for our families. For those Jorvik has taken from us."

Gorin's voice rumbled next. "For our home."

Mira nodded firmly. "For those who cannot fight."

Dikun's heart swelled. He had come to this world with only the knowledge of a game. But now, he stood among people — real people — who chose to stand beside him.

"We are no longer just farmers and traders," Dikun declared. "We are a shield. And when Jorvik's shadow falls upon us, we will not break."

The roar that followed shook the night.

---

Preparations for War

With resolve hardened, Dikun wasted no time. The villagers worked tirelessly under his direction, reinforcing the outskirts of Stonehill. Wooden barricades lined the entrances, sharpened stakes driven into the earth. Old carts and broken wagons were repurposed into makeshift defenses.

Eryk led a small band of hunters to the forest, crafting traps and scouting for any signs of Jorvik's movements. Harlon drilled the militia relentlessly, ensuring the men understood the fundamentals of combat — how to hold a shield, how to strike without losing balance, how to stand firm in the face of a charge.

"Your shield is your life," Harlon growled. "Drop it, and you're dead."

And through it all, Dikun watched. He adjusted tactics, corrected stances, and made decisions with unwavering resolve. Every choice mattered. Every moment counted.

But the burden was heavy. In the quiet hours of the night, when the fires had dimmed and the villagers rested, Dikun often found himself alone. Memories of the countless battles he had fought in Bannerlord flashed through his mind. Victory had always been a matter of strategy and timing.

But there was no restart in this world. No save files.

Failure here meant death.

---

The Storm Approaches

On the seventh day, the storm came.

Eryk was the first to spot them. A column of riders, banners of tattered black fluttering in the wind. Dust rose from the dry earth as the warband approached. At their head rode a figure clad in dark leather, his face obscured beneath a horned helm.

Jorvik.

The village bells rang. Dikun stood at the barricades, his heart steady. Behind him, the militia formed ranks, their shields locked together. The hunters lined the rooftops, bows drawn. Mira and the other villagers who could not fight stood further back, ready to tend to the wounded.

Jorvik's warband halted just beyond the barricades. The horned helm tilted upward, revealing a scarred, twisted grin. His voice, when it came, was like gravel.

"You should have run, stranger."

Dikun stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the dying light.

"This is our home," he answered. "And we will not run."

The battle for Stonehill had begun.