He'd been building up glory for a while, even more than Kursak. Jok had expected a breakthrough a year ago, for the amount of glory that he'd built up. He'd measured his victories against the other warriors of the Third Blessing, and the achievements that they'd wracked up, and he'd thought that he far exceeded them.
But often, it was one great victory that was needed to shatter the Boundary, and propel one forward. Gorm had a better sense for it than most. If he supposed that Jok could break through to his Third Blessing off this, then it was all but certain.
"Finally..." Jok murmured, clenching his fist. At eighteen, to get the Second Blessing was already the feat of a genius, and they praised him as such, all those people back home. But for Jok, that achievement had come far too easily. He knew he could go further, he desired it more than anything. If... at that same age of eighteen, he passed through and got his Third Blessing, then what would people say?
He shuddered to think. His future would be all but set.
"So this is my destiny... To think, in a village in the middle of nowhere, I'd find a little monster like you," he said, his eyes fixed on the boy. "Then so be it. I will crush you. Your strength will become my strength."
He would make his way towards his Third Blessing, and he would do it with as few losses of life as possible. With him on his Third Blessing, and Gorm so developed on his Fourth, there was no enemy that could stand in their way. No future premonition of darkness that could result in tragedy for them.
"Brother Kursak, I will honour you with this," he said, as he gave one last glance at the troops in front of him, and prepared his mind for battle.
A hundred and fifty men under his command, the enemy had around two hundred and fifty. But those numbers meant nothing to Jok. They meant nothing to any military man. Even from the way those villagers were organized after their charge, it spoke to their lack of training, their lack of discipline.
"You lot..." He said, his voice hoarse and raspy. Now that he spoke, he realized just how dry his mouth was.
Greeves tossed him a canteen of water from within his coat. "Drink. You look like shit. And we're in shit. They're all planning to pick us off with those bows of theirs, aye? What are ya meant to do when the enemy does that?
Surely the army has taught you some tricks?"
Beam grabbed the bottle and drank eagerly. It took him a few moments to process Greeves' words. As he heard them, he looked around for Tolsey. "...Looks like Tolsey didn't make it," he said at last.
A raised eyebrow met his words. "That blonde noble with the beard? Can't say I've seen him. Nor do I want to see him. I can tell by looking at ya that you're exhausted lad, but this is it. This is all of us.
Two hundred and fifty villagers, and you. That's all there is. If you can't get us out of this, no one can."
"At least give him a few moments to recover," Loriel protested. "Look at the state of him."
"We don't have a few moments," Greeves cut her off mercilessly. "Another minute, at most, and they're going to fill us full of arrows. I ain't no soldier, or warrior, but I can tell you confidently that standing out on the open field under a hail of arrows? That marks us dead."
Beam was no leader. He didn't understand the expectancy with which the three of them looked at him. The villagers had begun looking their way too. Their battle lust was beginning to fade, and they saw the merciless approach of the Yarmdon troops. More than they had just killed, and each of them was ready to deliver death from a distance.