If you see grammatical and spelling errors, or even plot holes and inconsistencies with the main plot don't hesitate to inform me.
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They gathered beneath the cheerful blue sky, with little wind being caught up near the soil and the stink of fear thick in the air.
Edric moved among them, his future actions having the potential to either allow the survival of his village or its complete destruction.
The mountain clans of the Vale—while decent warriors of their own right— couldn't be allowed to overwhelm the feeble minds of the inexperienced men that composed his temporary force.
However, other factors, such as the backround noise, the crying of men, women and children alike and the accusatory fingers of those that blamed him for leading the small group of farmers into a dead end made it hard for him—or anyone for that matter—to rein in the discipline necessary to confront the imminent force of mountain men.
Fuck. He cursed inwardly.
Dividing their small force into even smaller parts was the only remedy he could think of.
After... brainstorming, Edric decided it would be wise to divide the men into three distinct groups. Two of these would be led and motivated by the two most experienced—and only experienced—soldiers in the village, the veterans of the Ninepenny kings.
Those veterans, notibly a certain Igor, another farmer that had been levied alongside his father during the Blackfyre's fifth rebellion. The other was without the shadow of a doubt his father who had even conserved his battle axe from those tumultuous times.
Igor would lead roughly fifty men and teenagers. The occasional women who was brave enough also integrated their ranks in attempt to bolster their forces against the enemy. His father took command over an equally small amount of men. Their goal wasn't to use their strategic prowess—as they were mere foot soldiers back in their day—but to encourage their followers, motivate them.
Some men shook so hard they couldn't hold their weapons. One lad, no older than twelve, pissed himself. Another man shit where he stood, his eyes wide, teeth chattering.
Others stared blankly, trapped between terror and disbelief. They weren't soldiers. They were farmers, laborers, and boys who'd never held a blade meant to kill.
"Steady!" Edric barked, walking the line. "You break now, and you die! You hold—just hold—and we'll make the bastards pay tenfold the lives they will take from us today."
They heard the mountain men arrive before they saw them. Nonetheless Edric continued his speech.
"Fight! Fight hard! Be strong! Don't fight for glory or other useless idiocy! Fight for your lives, for the lives of your wives, of your husbands, your fathers and mothers, For your sons and daughters!"
Edric pointed into the distance with his armored finger, which saw the arrival of the adversary.
"Look at these clans that are mocking us. They think of us as easy pickings, but we're not and they will break before us!"
Laughter, sharp and cruel, echoing off the slopes. A ragged chorus of jeers and howls onky growing louder as they grew closer.
"They prey on us because we seem weak!"
"BUT ARE WE WEAK!?" He suddenly yelled, the deepness of his voice and the current situation working hand in hand to turn him into a mythical figure.
This time, only Igor and his Father yelled back, with unwavering conviction.
"NO!"
He tried again.
"ARE WE WEAK!?"
This time more joined answered, seeking to convince themselves of their strength and/or mimick their appointed leader.
"NO!!"
Edric, still unconvinced, attempted a newer, more direct and more invigorating speech.
"ARE YOU SURE OF YOURSELVES!?!? WE HOLD THE BLOOD OF THE VALE!!!! WE ARE PROUD MEN OF STONEHAVEN!!!! SO I ASK YOU AGAIN!!! ARE. WE. WEAK!!!"
"NO!!!"
This time booming of their cries ressembled war drums, cementing their resolve.
"GOOD!! I WANT SOME MOUNTAIN MAN STEW TONIGHT!!!!"
"AYE!!!"
And then they arrived—
"FORWARD!" came the cries of the clansmen who neared sloped.
They charged, barreling up the hill in a disorganized wave, snarling with bloodlust. But the slope slowed them. Their boots slipped in the earth. Their formation fell apart as they climbed.
Edric watched. Waited. His knuckles clenched white on the shaft of Unmaker.
They reached the halfway mark.
"Now!" he roared, voice like a crack of thunder. "Charge!"
The villagers surged forward, gravity on their side. Downhill, into the disarray.
The clash was brutal. Momentum carried them straight into the mountain men's front. Pitchforks found soft bellies. Hammers cracked skulls. Axes tore through wild flesh. The hill that had slowed the enemy now turned against them.
Steel and iron clashed. Blood sprayed upon the slope. Men screamed, slipped, died.
For a moment, the Village's brave men seemed to be on the winning side of the battle, but the right flank was faltering.
Edric turned—having smashed his fair share of heads and chests—before he saw his father fight a big man with a horned helmet, who was taller than his own shoulder. His eyes landed on the duel right as his father took an axe into his chest. The man, strong as an ox with seemingly unlimited vitality, fell, his life ending heroically.
The chieftain of their enemy it seemed. He was tall and broad, had smashed through the line like a bull, and was barking orders.
The right began to collapse.
Seeing no one else could take command, Edric ran, bellowing orders, dragging men hesitant men back into line, grabbing an axe from the dirt and thrusting it into a shaking boy's hands. He rallied the right and center under one cry, shoving forward, hammering a path through broken bodies and mud. Blood splashed his arms, his face.
Then he saw him again—the chieftain, axe red, dragging a weeping teen off his feet before slamming the blade into the boy's neck.
Edric's wrath surged and he charged with a vengeful spirit.
The two clashed briefly. The chieftain roared, swinging low aiming at joints.
"Come here you armored coward!" he yelled challengingly. Edric twisted, keeping his distance and using his armor to shrug of the occasional strike, he drove the spiked end of his hammer up under the man's arm. He screamed, staggered, but didn't fall.
"Argh! Fucking shite, I'll carve your lungs!" he exlamed boldly.
But it was for nought. The invulnerable mountain that was Edric brought down The Unmaker with a cry of rage.
One blow. Then another. The steel head of the warhammer crushed ribs, pulped flesh. With a final scream, he brought it down on the man's chest. The chieftain's body collapsed inward like a rotted tree.
The thundering sounds of a fast moving force rumbled across the uneven fields
Hooves.
Neighing!
They are here!!! Edric realised.
"Take courage!! He yelled. "The knights of the Vale are coming. Lord Arryn didn't abandon his loyal servants. We are saved!!!" The smith announced.
From behind the ridge, Riders of the Vale thundered into view, gleaming in steel, descending like judgment.
The mountain men turned—too late.
The riders smashed into their rear. Lances impaled. Swords fell. Chaos turned to slaughter.
The mountain men broke, fleeing in all directions. But there was nowhere to run.
Some villagers wept. Others dropped to their knees, stunned and shaking.
Edric dropped too, not from exhaustion, but something heavier. He clasped his hands, stained with blood, and whispered to the dirt:
"Praise the Mother. Praise her mercy." he shouted.
In his mind however he was thanking the god that had tken him into this world
He stood slowly, body sore, soul scraped raw. Across the churned battlefield, he saw his other father figure. Torman. Still standing.
He ran to him and pulled him in.
"We did it!" he said, voice thick with blood and dust. "We fucking did it!"
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I don't know how I managed to stay consistent for 5 days (its not much for some but for me its huge lol)