[Three weeks into the march. Evening]
Three weeks. Twenty-one days of grass and sky and the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels.
The camp sprawled ahead—fires, voices, the clatter of tools being stowed for the night. I walked through it, 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. Stone base, leather bellows, nothing fancy. But it worked.
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's garbage for the weight we're hauling."
I watched him work for another moment. The glow. The rhythm. The quiet fury in every strike.
"How are the apprentices?"
"Complaining." A faint smile cracked through the soot. "But learning. Maeglin shows promise. If we ever get proper ore, he'll surpass me."
"Good. We'll need more smiths."
Eol grunted and returned to his hammering.
The healers' tent glowed ahead—firelight through canvas.
{Image: The Rhûn Steppes}
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same evening. Healers' tent]
Lómiel wrapped a sprained ankle with methodical precision. Mireth ground herbs in steady circular motions, pestle against stone.
"How many today?" I crouched beside Lómiel's work table.
"Six." She didn't look up. "Sprains, mostly. Loading the wagons wrong. One fever—child, five years old. The march is wearing her down."
"Will she recover?"
Lómiel's hands paused. Just for a heartbeat. "She should. But we're exposed to new plants now. New air."
"Let me know if it worsens."
"We will."
Outside, the camp sprawled in its organized chaos. Voices drifting. Children laughing somewhere despite everything.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same evening. 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 cover. No walls. No forest to hide the weak behind.
If orcs caught us in the open, individual skill wouldn't save us. Not against numbers.
On Earth, I'd read about wars won by discipline over heroics. Lines that held when heroes would've broken. Ranks that stepped forward when men fell. Units that moved as one body because they had no choice.
Didn't have steel. Didn't have horses or siege engines or any of the tools that made Rome an empire.
But I had time.
And people willing to learn.
We needed a core that could take a charge without shattering. Shields locked. Spears leveled. A heavy line—the fist that Rome used to conquer the world.
And since no one else knew how to build it, I would.
I found Angrod near the perimeter, checking the scouts' rotation.
He straightened as I approached, reading my face. "Chief."
"Find Celestia, now."
He didn't ask why. Just nodded and moved.
We met by the wagons minutes later, away from listening ears. Celestia arrived last, mud on her boots, that calm predator's focus already sharpening when she saw my expression.
"We can't rely on forest tactics anymore." I kept my voice low. "If we get caught in the open, we die."
No one argued. They'd all seen the steppes. 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. "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."
"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." I gestured. "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. "I can get you names."
"Good. Then we do it properly—you 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?"
"Then tomorrow you and I start pulling people."
By nightfall, the list existed. By midnight, the word had spread—quiet, controlled, undeniable.
The Chief was building a line.
Two hundred Avari—men and women, young and not-so-young—standing in the grass with full packs, practice shields, and wooden spear hafts.
Waiting for me to turn them into something we'd never been at Cuiviénen.
An army.
A bad one at first.
But a growing one.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Next morning. Training ground]
"LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT!"
The Chief's voice cracked like a whip.
Vertalas—warrior since the first orc raid, hunter for twenty years before that—gritted his teeth and fought to stay in step.
Tried.
Failed.
Nearly tripped over Kalentin's heel.
"AGAIN!"
They started over. Two hundred Avari attempting to march 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.
"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.
Four hours. The crowd that had gathered to watch—laughing at first—drifted away. Too boring. Too repetitive.
"Again," the Chief said.
They went again.
Their legs trembled. Blisters formed. Shoulders screamed from holding shields at impossible angles.
The Chief called a halt.
"Better." Just that. "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]
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 dance.
"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 to 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. The Rhûn Steppes]
[The morning. Camp]
The next day, I called an early halt.
"We rest here!" My voice carried across the column. "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 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.
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, yes. But improving every single day."
The warriors straightened. Not much. But enough.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Three months into the march]
[Selas POV]
The training had to expand.
Two hundred warriors wasn't enough. Not even close to enough.
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 announced without preamble.
Angrod leaned forward, sharp eyes gleaming. "How many?"
"Everyone capable of holding a spear. Which means recruitment. Training that goes beyond what we've been doing."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
"Mandatory?" One of the Lindar elders, voice carefully neutral.
"Encouraged," I paused. "But yes—every able-bodied Avari should know basic formation combat. For their own protection as much as ours."
"And who decides 'fighting age'?" Angrod pressed.
"We do, together." 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, not where tradition says they should go."
"Heavy and light infantry." Thoron nodded slowly, understanding.
"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. One of the few female clan heads, voice carrying 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."
That got reactions. Surprise from some. Approval from others.
"There's more." I continued before they could argue. "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.
"Military organization," Angrod said.
"Military system. Something that can grow as we grow."
More silence. Heavier this time.
"It's a good plan." Thoron broke the quiet. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow. We start tomorrow."
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Four months into the march. Expanded training]
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 wanted to learn how to fight as one.
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. And more and more often, I caught myself watching him: how he anticipated corrections, tightened gaps before they opened.
While I was thinking about 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!"
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 6.1]