And then the first wave of villagers hit. Axes and kitchen knives. Different sorts to what the Yarmdon used. These were tools for farming – the Yarmdon axes were made for war. But within an instant, those innocent farming tools were rendered the same. There was a sudden rush of blood, as the weapons found flesh, and they cast their innocence aside.
Energy had filled their bodies, in the same way it had with Greeves. That rush of exhilaration and adrenaline, enough to cancel out even the fear. And then their shoulders hit the wooden wall constructed by giants… And it crumbled, as though made of dust.
There was no greater feeling than that for men of a villager's background. To have the strong fall so easily to your hand. For there to be no resistance where they had expected a mountain of it. As soon as the wall shattered in front of them, they were hit by a wave of euphoria, a true battle aura, as they were tricked into thinking that they were far stronger than they were.
And, in truth, because of the trick, indeed they were. They fought with the vigour and valour of trained soldiers, and the recklessness of the Yarmdon. Their arms did not hesitate. Their blades went to work immediately.
The Yarmdon had been stunned by the force of a two hundred and fifty man charge – of which they felt the entirety, as their shield wall failed to reduce any of its momentum. They made for easy pickings now, even for men far weaker.
One more felt a pitchfork driven into his gut. He looked down to see a man half his size wielding in it. He grunted, as blood came pouring from his mouth, and his thick hand found the shaft.
"Weak…" He grumbled, as he tried to pull the pitchfork out. Even with one hand, he easily overpowered the villager. But where there was one villager, there were many. A woman came streaming to help the man, as the first flicker of doubt passed through his eyes. Her knife burrowed its way into the man's chest. He grunted again, but did not shift.
"So weak…" He said, reaching for the woman with his thick palm.
Two more men came streaming after them. One wielded his axe, and he chopped at the Yarmdon's leg just as he would lumber. Finally, the man buckled, and fell flat on his back. The other finished him off with a strike of his own, putting his hammer to good use, he shattered the man's skull with it.
In a stream of bloodshed, the villagers erased that small party of Yarmdon stragglers from the battlefield. The force of their charge had just been enough. Everything had just been enough.
Had they slowed any earlier, or had they lacked even the slightest portion more of strength, then the Yarmdon's resistance might have been able to find a foothold, enough to mount a retaliation, and even out the number of casualties.
As it was now, only a handful of villagers died in that first charge, and nearly forty Yarmdon lay dead because of it. Their battle cries rang out into the air, as they finished off the rest of the Yarmdon, and they felt fresh blood blotch their skin.
The feeling of that first victory could not have been sweeter. They'd charged into battle half-expecting not to be able to slay a single man. That was why they'd given up hope in the first place – they'd thought they stood absolutely no chance. And here they were, as if Gods, having flattened their foe – or at least a portion of them – with such horrifying ease that it startled them.
Their eyes grew crazed from the bloodlust. It was a wild feeling to the new. To walk that tightrope between life and death, to be stood on the same rope with another man, and to emerge victorious in single combat. It was a feeling of glory that went right down to their animal roots. The feeling of the victor, of the strong. A feeling that approached that of immortality.
Greeves himself had been thoroughly blooded on that first charge. The man was cunning. He went where the risk was lowest, and the opportunity was highest. A group of villagers surrounded a Yarmdon, after the shield wall had collapsed. Greeves came up upon the man's back, and slid his sword straight through the back of the man's ribs and into his heart.
He'd stepped away immediately after that. He'd seen just how quickly the giants could retaliate, and just how sturdy they were, no matter the wound that was inflicted.
The man tried to turn upon him, but his legs got tangled up beneath him. Even as hardy as the Yarmdon were, they couldn't last long after having their heart pierced.
Greeves took that knowledge seriously. He darted about the battlefield, slaying a handful of foes with that same tactic. He'd approach from their blind spot, and pierce the enemy through the heart. As cowardly as any warrior might call his tactic, Greeves demonstrated the value of a cunning man with it. For every Yarmdon that resisted, they'd needed five men to overcome it.
That, or one cunning man, bold enough to get behind them, and pierce them from their blind spot.
Weaker – and less fit – even than the average villager, Greeves was able to quickly find his place on the battlefield.
Nila's bow was considerably more compassionate than Greeves' sword. She kept a keen eye out, as the villagers fought, and then she sent an arrow speeding off wherever anyone was in immediate danger. Her arrows always hit home, every single time, and the enemy could hardly even twitch after they landed, for she aimed each one through the eye.
With a few slight corrections like that, the villagers were rendered into a weapon that was closer to a shard of glass – sharp and deadly, yet fragile. Even as Jok watched his men be overcome in such a manner, he felt nothing. No immediate dread, no fear. If there was one thing that unnerved him… It would be that boy.