Chapter 15: Training the Storm - Part 2
POV: Corwyn Darke
The final night before battle came too quickly.
I walked the defensive positions as the last light faded, checking emplacements and speaking with soldiers. The narrow valley looked different in twilight—shadows pooling in the spaces between rocks, the hillsides becoming dark masses against the purple sky.
[ BATTLE PREPARATIONS: COMPLETE ]
[ FORCE DEPLOYMENT: OPTIMAL ]
[ TERRAIN ADVANTAGE: +40% ]
[ ESTIMATED VICTORY PROBABILITY: 67% ]
Sixty-seven percent. Better than I'd hoped when this started. But that meant a one-in-three chance of failure, of death, of everything I'd built crumbling to nothing.
The shield wall position anchored the valley's narrowest point—twenty men in the first line, fifteen in the second, ten in reserve. Archers held the hillsides, twenty total, with clear firing lanes and covered retreat routes. Lord Rykker commanded the right flank with his cavalry-capable fighters, ready to cut off any retreat.
And I held the center. With Ser Gareth at my side and the mobile reserve at my back.
"My lord." Edric appeared from the darkness, his young face tight with frustration he was trying to hide. "I've delivered your message to Maester Harlan. He understands his role."
"Good. And yours?"
"To protect him. To keep records. To stay out of the fighting." Edric couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his voice.
I turned to face him fully. "Edric, look at me."
He met my eyes reluctantly.
"You are fifteen years old. You have a mind for numbers and organization that I desperately need. If I die tomorrow—" I held up a hand when he tried to protest "—if I die tomorrow, someone has to carry on the work. The mining records, the agricultural data, the contracts and agreements. You know all of it. You're the continuity."
"I'd rather die fighting than—"
"Dying fighting is easy." My voice hardened. "Living to fight another day is hard. Building something that outlasts you is harder still. That's what I'm asking you to do."
Edric's jaw worked. But finally, slowly, he nodded.
"I understand, my lord."
"Good. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow will be long."
He left. I returned to my inspection, trying not to think about how young he was. How young they all were.
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
Sleep came hard that night.
Gareth lay in his tent, listening to the sounds of a camp preparing for battle—quiet conversations, the scrape of whetstones on steel, the occasional nervous laugh. He'd heard these sounds dozens of times before. They never got easier.
But this time was different.
He'd followed lords into battle before. Men who saw soldiers as numbers, who counted casualties like coins and mourned neither. Lords who took credit for victories and blamed others for defeats.
Lord Corwyn wasn't like them.
"He trains with us. Eats with us. Bleeds with us. He asks us to fight and die for him, and he's willing to do the same."
That kind of leadership was rare. Precious. Worth fighting for.
Gareth rose before dawn, strapping on his armor with practiced efficiency. The chainmail was heavy, familiar—an old friend that had saved his life more times than he could count. He checked his sword, his shield, his helmet. Everything in order.
Outside, the camp stirred. Men emerged from tents, faces pale in the pre-dawn light, checking equipment and finding their positions. The fear was palpable—but beneath it, something harder. Determination. Resolve.
Lord Corwyn appeared at the command position, fully armored, his face calm. He looked over the assembled soldiers and nodded once.
"Today we fight for our homes. Our families. Everything we've built." His voice carried clearly in the morning stillness. "They think we're farmers with pointed sticks. Let's show them what farmers can do when they fight for something real."
A ragged cheer rose from the ranks. Not thunderous—these weren't professional soldiers trained to roar on command. But genuine. Heartfelt.
"To positions. The enemy comes with the dawn."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The sellswords crested the hill as the sun broke the horizon.
One hundred and twelve men, armed and armored, spreading across the valley entrance like a dark tide. They moved with professional confidence—no formation, no discipline, just the swagger of men who expected easy slaughter.
[ ⚔️ BATTLE INITIATED ]
[ ENEMY FORCE: 112 COMBATANTS ]
[ FRIENDLY FORCE: 65 COMBATANTS ]
[ TACTICAL SITUATION: AMBUSH READY ]
I watched from behind the shield wall, heart pounding, as they approached. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.
"Wait. Wait for them to commit."
The sellsword captain—a scarred man in mismatched armor—raised his sword and shouted something I couldn't hear. His men broke into a run, expecting to slam into cowering defenders.
They found a wall.
"NOW!"
Gareth's roar split the morning. The shield line locked. Spears thrust forward through the gaps. And on the hillsides, twenty archers stood and drew.
Arrows hissed through the air. The first wave of sellswords went down—five, ten, more—their charge faltering as shafts punched through leather and flesh.
The survivors hit our shield wall like a wave hitting rocks. The impact was tremendous—I felt it through the ground—but the line held. Shields interlocked, spears stabbing, men who'd been farmers a month ago standing firm against professional killers.
"HOLD!" Gareth bellowed. "SECOND LINE READY!"
The sellswords pressed forward, trying to find gaps. Individual fighters breaking against collective resistance. Their numbers should have overwhelmed us, but the narrow valley negated their advantage—only so many men could fight at once, and our formation ensured they faced shields and spears rather than individual targets.
[ BATTLE PROGRESS ]
[ ENEMY CASUALTIES: 23 ]
[ FRIENDLY CASUALTIES: 7 ]
[ MORALE: HOLDING ]
"Rotation!" I shouted. "First line back! Second line forward!"
The maneuver we'd drilled a hundred times executed perfectly. The exhausted front line peeled away while fresh soldiers stepped forward, maintaining the shield wall without gap or hesitation. The sellswords, already off-balance, faced renewed resistance.
Their captain screamed orders—flanking maneuvers, concentrated attacks. But the hillside archers punished every attempt to spread out, and the narrow valley prevented any real encirclement.
"They're breaking."
I could see it in their body language. The confidence draining away, replaced by confusion and fear. They'd expected sheep. They'd found wolves.
"Rykker! Now!"
The signal triggered our final gambit. Lord Rykker's cavalry burst from concealment, sweeping around the enemy's exposed flank. Not a decisive charge—we didn't have enough horses for that—but enough to cut off retreat and create panic.
The sellsword line shattered.
Men who'd been fighting moments ago threw down weapons and raised hands. Others ran, only to meet Rykker's riders or the arrows of our hidden archers. The captain tried to rally his remaining forces, but a crossbow bolt took him through the throat.
[ ⚔️ BATTLE CONCLUDED ]
[ ENEMY CASUALTIES: 67 DEAD, 31 CAPTURED, 14 FLED ]
[ FRIENDLY CASUALTIES: 12 DEAD, 23 WOUNDED ]
[ RESULT: DECISIVE VICTORY ]
The cheering started somewhere in the shield wall and spread like wildfire. Men who'd never fought before embracing like brothers, shouting triumph at the sky, tears streaming down dirt-caked faces.
I stood amid the chaos, blood-splattered and exhausted, and allowed myself a single moment of pure, fierce satisfaction.
"We won."
Ser Gareth appeared at my side, his sword red to the hilt. "My lord. Your orders?"
"Secure the prisoners. Tend our wounded. And send word to the keep." I looked across the valley at the carnage we'd wrought. "House Darke holds the field."
The sun rose higher, burning away the morning mist. And somewhere to the east, Lord Bryen Darklyn was about to receive very bad news.
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