The effectiveness of Oakhaven's defense hinged entirely on Staff Sergeant Rodriguez's ability to instill basic combat discipline in the militia. Her methods, however, were proving a direct threat to Commander Harl's authority, a conflict Deacon could no longer ignore.
The morning drill was a spectacle of escalating tension. Rodriguez (Renna) had broken the militia into fireteams, or what she called "Trios." She was teaching them the essential mantra of modern infantry: 'Move, Shoot, Communicate.'
"Shield, you watch the flank! Spear, you watch the front! Reserve, you watch the Shield's back! You only look at the two people next to you! You trust them with your life!" Rodriguez roared, her voice tearing through the usual sluggishness of the civilian drills.
Harl, observing the scene, was livid. He marched up to Rodriguez, pointing at a trio of farmers who were struggling with the synchronized movement.
"Woman! You break my formation! That man is a spearman; he must stand in the center line! You are ruining the discipline of the block!"
Rodriguez, now fully immersed in her S-3 role, faced him without a trace of deference. "Your 'block,' Commander, is a single, slow target for the Goblins' main force. My trios can move, fall back, and cover each other. They won't stand to be butchered."
"Silence! I am the Commander here! I lead the Watch!" Harl shouted.
"You lead them to the butcher block, Commander," Rodriguez shot back, her tone sharp and utterly professional. "They need to live, not stand in a pretty line."
The entire militia stopped, staring at the confrontation. Harl raised his hand to strike Renna—a common medieval reprimand.
The Public Humiliation
Deacon, who had been watching from the ramparts, knew this was the moment. He had to publicly and irrevocably cement Rodriguez's authority, even if it meant destroying Harl's pride.
He rode his horse straight onto the training grounds, the animal's hooves churning the mud.
"Halt!" Deacon's voice was a whip-crack that stopped Harl mid-swing.
He dismounted and walked between the two commanders.
"Commander Harl," Deacon said, his voice quiet and deadly. "I gave you two days to train the militia. They look like a pile of damp rags. I gave Renna two hours, and she has given them the cohesion of stone. You argue with a woman who is teaching them to survive!"
Deacon grabbed a nearby spear and tossed it to Harl. "You believe in the massed block? Fine. I want you to run your formation against her trio. Renna, select two others."
Rodriguez immediately chose the woman with the axe and the recovered man she had previously helped.
"Harl, I want you to charge them. Your best battle cry. Your best formation."
Harl, humiliated and desperate, rounded up five of his most loyal spearman. "We will show you noble tactics, My Lord!"
Harl charged, relying on the weight of the line. The result was instantaneous and brutal.
Rodriguez's trio did not meet the charge. They melted away. The woman with the axe (the 'Reserve') stepped back as the shieldman (the 'Shield') took the initial impact. Rodriguez (the 'Spear') used her axe to hook the lead Spearman's leg, bringing him down, shattering Harl's formation. Before Harl could recover, the Shield darted forward and slammed his shield edge into Harl's gut.
Harl collapsed in the mud, winded and disgraced. The entire militia stared in stunned silence.
Deacon stood over the groaning Commander. "Harl, your tactics ensure you die in a line. Renna's tactics ensure the line lives to fight another day."
He offered his hand to Renna, ignoring the mud on her clothes. "Staff Sergeant Rodriguez is now the Supreme Field Tactician of Oakhaven. She is in charge of all combat training and deployment. Her word is the Castellan's word. Commander Harl, you are reduced to the Quartermaster of the militia. You focus on inventory, food, and ensuring every man has a sharp weapon. You will not argue with her orders again."
Harl, defeated, could only nod. The command inversion on the field was now absolute and public. .
The New Commander
Rodriguez—now the undisputed tactical authority—pulled Deacon aside, her eyes blazing with hard-won satisfaction.
"Sir, the training is working. They are responding to the fireteam concept. But they are still light on weapons. I need to know where the incendiaries are coming from—I need to integrate them into the fireteam doctrine, not just rely on the rooftop artillery."
"They are coming, Renna. They are Project Grog. They will be delivered to the Old Brewery tonight, and you will retrieve them with Balthasar. You will train the trios in their use—they are shock weapons, not throwing axes. Maximum fear, minimum exposure."
Rodriguez absorbed the mission. "Understood, Sir. I need to be sure. Will they detonate?"
"They will make a loud noise and a terrible flash," Deacon assured her, avoiding any technical guarantee. "It will buy your trios the two seconds they need to transition from the shield wall to the retreat. That is all we need."
He looked toward the Blackwood. The sun was setting, marking the end of the first crucial day of preparation. Twenty-four hours remained. The siege was imminent, and the Major's strategic dissent was the next obstacle he had to face.