[Three weeks into the March. Evening. The Rhûn Steppes]
[Selas POV]
Three weeks. Twenty-one days of grass and sky and the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels.
The column stretched behind me for nearly a league, one hundred wagons in paired rows, flanked by warriors on foot, families walking between the carts, children darting from one group to another with the restless energy of creatures who had not yet learned that the world was dangerous.
The camp sprawled ahead. Fires, voices, the clatter of tools being stowed for the night. I walked through it the way I walked through it every evening, eyes catching on details. Who limped. Who moved too slow. Who'd stopped smiling three days ago and hadn't started again.
Eol's forge glowed near the center. Portable. Stone base, leather bellows, nothing fancy. But it worked, and it had worked every night since we left Cuiviénen, and it would work every night until we stopped walking or Eol's heart stopped beating, whichever came last.
Hammer-blows rang steady as I approached. He didn't look up.
"Wagon axle." Sparks flew with each strike. "Third one this week."
I crouched beside him. The metal glowed cherry-red, soft enough to bend under each blow. "Can you fix it?"
"Fixed it twice already." He wiped soot across his forehead, smearing it worse. "Keeps splitting. This bronze is garbage for the weight we're hauling."
I watched him work for another moment. The quiet fury in every strike that was Eol's version of prayer.
"How are the apprentices?"
"Complaining." A faint smile cracked through the soot. "But learning. Tavor shows promise."
"Good. We'll need more smiths than we have."
Eol grunted and returned to his hammering. Conversation over. With Eol, you learned to read the end of a sentence by the angle of his shoulders.
{Image: The Rhûn Steppes}
[Same evening. Healers' tent]
[Selas POV]
The healers' tent glowed ahead, firelight through canvas.
"How many today?" I crouched beside Mireth's work table. She was grinding herbs in steady circular motions, pestle against stone, while Lómiel wrapped a sprained ankle on the cot behind her.
"Six." Mireth didn't look up. "Sprains, mostly. People loading the wagons wrong, lifting with their backs instead of their legs. One fever. A child, five years old. The march is wearing her down."
"Will she recover?"
Mireth's hands paused. Just for a heartbeat. "She should. But we're exposed to new plants now. New water. New air. Things our bodies have never encountered."
That was as close to admitting fear as Mireth ever came.
"Let me know if it worsens."
"We will."
Outside, the camp sprawled in its organized chaos. Voices drifting. Children laughing somewhere, despite everything. The smell of cooking fires and dried meat and crushed grass, which was the smell of the March.
[Same evening. Camp's edge]
[Selas POV]
The same thought kept circling back, sharper each time it returned.
We were two thousand souls on open ground. Wagons. Children. Healers who couldn't fight.
Not an army. Families with spears.
At Cuiviénen, we'd survived as hunters. See first, strike first, vanish into trees that didn't exist out here.
On these steppes, there was nowhere to vanish. No walls. No forest to hide the weak behind. Just grass in every direction and a sky so vast it made you feel like an insect on a dinner plate.
If orcs caught us in the open, individual skill wouldn't save us. Not against numbers. Not long-term. A hundred skilled warriors, each fighting alone, could be surrounded, isolated, and pulled down one by one. I'd read enough history to know that.
On Earth, I'd read about wars won by discipline over heroics. Lines that held when heroes would have broken. Ranks that stepped forward when men fell. Units that moved as one body.
I didn't have steel. Didn't have horses or siege engines or any of the tools that made Rome what Rome was.
But I had time. And people willing to learn. And the knowledge of how it was supposed to work, which was more than any commander in this world had ever possessed.
We needed a core that could take a charge without shattering.
Shields locked. Spears leveled. A heavy line, the fist that conquered the ancient world in my memories.
And since no one else knew how to build it, I would.
I found Celestia near the perimeter, checking the scouts' rotation with Angrod. She looked up as I approached, reading my face the way she always did, quickly and accurately.
"Walk with me," I said.
We moved to the wagons, away from listening ears. Angrod followed without being asked.
"We can't rely on forest tactics anymore." I kept my voice low. "If we get caught in the open, we die. Every one of us."
No one argued. They'd both been watching the steppes. They'd felt how exposed we were every waking moment.
"I'm starting formation training. A shield line. A core that holds while everyone else moves around it."
Celestia's mouth tightened. Not disagreement. Calculation. "How many?"
"Two hundred to start. Not pulled at random. I want people who can handle weight, heat, and exhaustion. Who won't break the first time someone shoves into them shoulder-to-shoulder."
Her brow furrowed. "We don't have time to test everyone individually."
"You do." I met her eyes. "You and Angrod know who's steady. Who shows up for night watches without complaining. Who doesn't fold when the work turns ugly."
Angrod nodded slowly. "You want veterans."
"And the right build. Strong backs. Strong legs. People who can carry weight for hours and still think straight when things get bloody."
Celestia crossed her arms. "Volunteers or assignments?"
"Volunteers first. We're not breaking families apart by force unless we have to." I paused. "But I want names. Tonight."
She exhaled through her nose. Reluctant acceptance, the kind that came from understanding the necessity even when you didn't love the method. "I can get you names."
"Good. Talk to them before dawn. Quietly. One by one if needed. Make it clear what it is and what it costs."
Angrod looked at the wagons, then back. "And if we don't get enough volunteers?"
"Then you and I start pulling people."
By nightfall, the list existed.
The Chief was building a line.
[Next morning. Training ground]
[Vertalas POV]
"Left! Right! Left! Right!"
The Chief's voice cracked like a whip across the steppe.
Vertalas gritted his teeth and fought to stay in step. He was a warrior. Had been a warrior since the first orc raid at Cuiviénen, a hunter for twenty years before that. He knew how to fight. He knew how to track, how to kill, how to move through forest and over stone without making a sound.
He did not know how to march.
Tried. Failed. Nearly tripped over Kalentin's heel.
"Again!"
They started over. Two hundred Avari attempting to walk in formation while carrying full packs and practice weapons. Half stumbled. A quarter fell out of step completely. One went down hard, face-first in the grass.
He came up spitting dirt, eyes bright with fury.
The Chief didn't even pause.
"Again!"
Laughter from the watching crowd of non-combatants. Children mostly, pointing and giggling at the warriors who'd suddenly become clowns. Vertalas's face burned. He was a veteran. And here he was, stumbling over flat ground because his left foot couldn't figure out what his right foot was doing.
"I hate this," Kalentin muttered beside him. "We know how to fight. Why do we need to march like some kind of dance troupe?"
"Because the Chief says so."
"But—"
"Silence in the ranks!"
Two hours in, Kalentin's legs started shaking. He locked his knees, gritted his teeth, kept the shield up.
Three hours. Someone stumbled out of line, retching into the grass. Nobody stopped.
Four hours. The crowd that had gathered to watch, laughing at first, drifted away. Too boring. The same movements, over and over, until the muscles burned and the mind went blank and the body just did what it was told.
The Chief called a halt.
"Better." Just that. One word. "Tomorrow, we do it again. And the day after. Until you can do it in your sleep."
Groans.
But no one argued.
Too tired to argue.
[That night. Vertalas's fire]
[Vertalas POV]
Kalentin collapsed beside the fire, face still flushed with exertion and humiliation. "I hate this. Marching in step. Like we're in some damn dance troupe."
"It's not dancing." Vertalas poked the fire with a stick, watching sparks spiral upward. "It's discipline."
"It's stupid."
Silence stretched between them. Vertalas watched the flames.
"You saw the scout reports," he said finally. "The orcs."
"So?"
"Thousands. Maybe more." He kept his eyes on the fire. "If we'd stayed at Cuiviénen, they would've come for us eventually. And we'd have fought them the old way. Each warrior alone or in small groups, trusting skill and speed."
"And we'd have won."
"Maybe." Vertalas looked at his friend. "Or maybe they'd have buried us in corpses. Ever think about that? What happens when a hundred orcs swarm one great warrior? He kills ten. Twenty. Then they drag him down anyway."
Kalentin was quiet.
"The Chief explained it to me once." Vertalas held up his hand, fingers spread. Then made a fist. "Asked which hits harder."
Understanding flickered in Kalentin's eyes.
"The fist."
"The fist." Vertalas nodded. "That's what we're becoming. Not five fingers fighting separately. One fist hitting together."
They sat in silence, watching the fire eat through wood.
Tomorrow, they'd drill again. And the day after.
[Two months into the March. Camp]
[Selas POV]
I called an early halt.
"We rest here. Today and tomorrow both. You've earned it."
Surprised murmurs. Hopeful glances.
"Five weeks of hard marching." I gestured toward the training warriors, the ones I'd been drilling since the column left Cuiviénen, the first true core of what would become our shield wall. "Look at them."
Two hundred Avari stood in something approaching formation. Still clumsy. Still rough around the edges.
But recognizable as a unit.
"Five weeks ago, they couldn't march ten paces without tripping over each other. Now?" I let myself smile. "Now they move as one. Still learning. But improving every single day."
The warriors straightened. Not much. But enough.
[Three months into the March. Council tent]
[Selas POV]
The training had to expand.
Two hundred warriors wasn't enough. Not even close.
I needed a real army. Which meant structure. Organization. A system that could grow beyond me personally commanding every warrior in every fight.
The Council of Elders gathered in the command tent, representatives from all thirty-three founding clans, faces lit by firelight and lampglow.
"We need more warriors," I said without preamble.
Angrod leaned forward. "How many?"
"Everyone capable of holding a spear. Which means recruitment. Training that goes well beyond what we've been doing."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
"Mandatory?" One of the Lindar elders, voice carefully neutral.
"Encouraged. But yes, every able-bodied Avari should know basic formation combat. For their own protection as much as ours."
"And who decides fighting age?" Celestia asked.
"We do." I gestured around the chamber. "Some Avari are natural warriors. Tall, strong, built for the shield wall. Others are better as scouts. Archers. We place people where they'll be most effective."
"So some hold the line, and some move around it," Thoron said, nodding slowly.
"Exactly. Heavy infantry forms the core, the fist. Light infantry supports with arrows, skirmishing, reconnaissance." I met their eyes. "Two different roles. Both necessary."
"And women?" Írissë asked. Her voice carried an edge that dared me to give the wrong answer.
"Anyone capable of holding a weapon and following orders. I don't care about gender. I care about competence."
"There's more." I continued before the arguments could begin. "We need ranks. Leadership structure. Units of ten led by decurions. Five units make a half-century under a centurion. Two half-centuries make a full century."
Silence as comprehension dawned.
Celestia leaned back. "You're building a chain of command."
"A military system. Something that can grow as we grow. Something that functions even when I'm not standing in the middle of it giving orders."
More silence. Heavier this time.
"It's a good plan." Thoron broke the quiet. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow."
[Four months into the March. Expanded training]
[Selas POV]
And somehow it worked.
I'd expected maybe a hundred additional volunteers. I got three hundred.
They came from every age and walk of life. Everyone who'd watched the first two hundred drill for weeks and had gone from laughing to admiring to wanting in.
Everyone who'd heard the scout reports about orc movements to the north and east and understood, in the quiet part of their mind that did the math without being asked, what those numbers meant.
The original two hundred became squad leaders overnight, each taking a handful of new recruits and grinding them into shape through endless repetition of the basics.
Vertalas stood out among them. Quiet, methodical, already thinking in formations instead of individuals.
{ image: Vertalas }
He didn't correct mistakes the way I did, with volume. He corrected them by moving to the weak point, standing beside the warrior who was struggling, and doing the movement correctly until the other one matched him.
No words. No shouting. Just presence and repetition.
More and more often, I caught myself watching him. How he anticipated corrections before I made them. How he tightened gaps before they opened. How the warriors around him stood straighter without being told, because something in his bearing demanded it.
While I was noticing him, the training never stopped.
"Shield up! Not at your waist. At your face!"
"Left foot first! Together! As one!"
"If your neighbor falls, you step forward! You fill the gap! You hold the line!"
Commands. Clashing practice weapons. The rhythmic thud of hundreds of feet marching in increasingly synchronized step.
The sound of an army being born, ugly and clumsy and slow, but real.
[End of Chapter 14]
GLOSSARY
MILITARY EVOLUTION
The Shield Wall (The Line) — The foundational heavy-infantry formation of the Avari: overlapping shields, controlled spear thrusts, and disciplined spacing. Built to survive open-ground engagements where skirmishing and individual combat fail.
Heavy and Light Infantry — Two complementary arms. Heavy infantry forms and holds the line. Light infantry scouts, screens flanks, skirmishes, and pursues fleeing enemies.
COMMAND AND RANKS
Decurion — Squad leader commanding ten warriors. The first rank of authority in the Avari army. Close enough to correct posture, spacing, and panic in real time.
Half-Century — A formation of five squads (~50 warriors). A maneuver element that can wheel, reinforce a flank, or detach without breaking the main line.
Centurion — Commander of a century (two half-centuries, ~100 warriors). The first rank designed to function independently of Selas's direct oversight.
Century — The basic operational unit: 100 warriors, two half-centuries, commanded by a centurion.
CHARACTERS
Vertalas — Warrior since the first orc raid at Cuiviénen. Quiet, methodical, with a natural instinct for formation tactics. Emerges as the most capable tactical mind among the Avari fighters.
Kalentin — Vertalas's friend and fellow warrior. Vocal skeptic of formation training who comes to understand its purpose.
Yalinim — Tatyar warrior. Sharp-eyed, disciplined, already thinking ahead during drills. Vertalas's closest lieutenant.