Chapter 14: Training the Storm - Part 1
POV: Corwyn Darke
Dawn came cold and merciless.
I stood in the training yard as the first light broke, watching sixty-five soldiers assemble in ragged lines. Rykker's men had integrated surprisingly well with our original guard—shared meals and shared drills broke down barriers faster than any forced camaraderie.
"Today we learn to fight as one!" Ser Gareth's voice carried across the yard. "Yesterday you were farmers, miners, individual soldiers. Today you become a unit. A weapon. A wall that does not break!"
[ MILITARY TRAINING INITIATED ]
[ CURRENT FORCE EFFECTIVENESS: 6/10 ]
[ TARGET EFFECTIVENESS: 8/10 ]
[ TIME AVAILABLE: 12 DAYS ]
The System tracked progress in cold numbers, but the reality was flesh and blood. Men who'd never held formation stumbled through basic maneuvers. Veterans who'd fought alone for years struggled to subordinate individual instinct to collective movement.
I joined them.
Not as commander—as soldier. I took my place in the shield line, wooden practice shield heavy on my arm, and drilled alongside men who had nothing but their willingness to learn.
"My lord, you shouldn't—" Gareth began.
"I should." I locked my shield with the man beside me—Willem, the miner who'd become a foreman. "If I ask them to hold formation under pressure, I need to know what that feels like."
We drilled until my arms burned. Then we drilled more.
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
The lord was full of surprises.
Gareth had trained soldiers for twenty years, served under five different commanders, and fought in more skirmishes than he could count. He'd never seen a noble take his place in the shield line.
"Most lords think battle is for lesser men. They watch from horseback, issue orders, claim the glory."
Lord Corwyn was different. He sweated with the common soldiers. He ate the same rations. He took the same bruises from practice weapons and laughed them off.
And his tactical knowledge was extraordinary.
"The shield wall is our foundation," he explained during a water break, soldiers gathered around. "But it's not enough to stand still and absorb attacks. We need depth—multiple lines that can rotate. Front line fights for five minutes, then peels back while the second line moves forward. Fresh fighters replace exhausted ones. The enemy never gets a chance to wear us down."
Simple concept. Revolutionary execution.
"Where did you learn this?" Gareth asked afterward, when they were alone.
"Essos." The familiar answer, delivered with the familiar slight smile. "Different cultures develop different methods. I've been reading extensively."
"Reading. Right."
Gareth didn't believe it—no book taught the instinctive understanding of combat psychology that Lord Corwyn displayed. But he'd stopped questioning the source of his lord's knowledge. Results mattered more than origins.
"The men are improving," Gareth admitted. "Another week and they might actually hold under pressure."
"They'll hold." Lord Corwyn's voice held certainty that seemed almost mad given the circumstances. "Because they have something worth fighting for."
POV: Corwyn Darke
Day five brought the first real test.
I'd arranged a mock battle—half our forces defending a makeshift barrier while the other half attacked. The defenders used the formations we'd drilled; the attackers used traditional individual combat.
The results were illuminating.
[ COMBAT SIMULATION RESULTS ]
[ DEFENDERS (FORMATION): 73% SURVIVAL ]
[ ATTACKERS (INDIVIDUAL): 41% SURVIVAL ]
[ TACTICAL ADVANTAGE: CONFIRMED ]
The defending line held against charges that should have broken them. Men who'd been farmers a month ago locked shields and pushed back against veterans. The formation absorbed impact that would have shattered individual fighters.
"Again!" I called. "Switch sides!"
When the defenders became attackers, they initially struggled—their discipline fighting against the chaotic aggression traditional combat required. But even then, their cohesion provided advantages. Units that moved together flanked isolated fighters. Groups that maintained spacing created kill zones.
Gareth watched with growing wonder. "This is... different."
"This is how you beat superior numbers." I wiped sweat from my face, grinning despite the exhaustion. "Professional sellswords train to fight as individuals, each man competing for glory and plunder. Our men fight as a unit. When their chaos meets our order, order wins."
"You've done this before. Led men in battle."
The question caught me off guard. "No. Never."
"Then how—"
"Because I've studied." I clapped his shoulder, moving past the question. "And because I have you to handle what I can't. You're the veteran, Gareth. I'm just the planner."
He didn't look convinced. But he let it go.
POV: Mira Waters
The household adapted to war footing with surprising efficiency.
Mira coordinated logistics while the men trained—food supplies, medical preparations, evacuation routes for non-combatants. She'd learned long ago that battles were won and lost before the first sword was drawn, in the unglamorous work of supply and preparation.
Lord Corwyn found her in the kitchens, reviewing inventory with the cook.
"How are we?"
"Supplies for three weeks of siege. Medical supplies for fifty casualties." Mira consulted her notes. "Evacuation routes established for the mining families. If the battle goes wrong, they can reach the hills within an hour."
"Good." He leaned against the doorframe, looking more tired than she'd ever seen him. The training was taking its toll—on everyone, but on him especially. He pushed himself as hard as any soldier, then spent nights reviewing plans and contingencies.
"My lord... you should rest."
"I'll rest when Darklyn's sellswords are dead or fleeing." A brief smile softened the harsh words. "But thank you for caring."
"It's my job to care." Mira hesitated, then added: "The servants are talking. They say you're different from other lords. They say you actually give a damn whether they live or die."
"I do."
"They know." She met his eyes. "That's why they'll fight for you. Not because you order them to—because you've earned it."
Something flickered across his face—gratitude, maybe, or the weight of responsibility. Then he straightened, the mask of command sliding back into place.
"Make sure the medical supplies include poppy for the wounded. And Mira—whatever happens in the battle, protect the household first. Don't wait for orders."
"As you say, my lord."
He left. Mira returned to her inventory, trying not to think about what was coming.
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