Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

”BREAK THEM!” Clio roared as his axe swung down, biting deep into the collarbone of an Oizen soldier. The man let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with pain, but the axe had lodged itself into bone. Clio grunted, trying to yank the weapon free, but the effort was fruitless. Without hesitation, he slammed his boot into the dying man’s chest, kicking him and taking the axe buried in his flesh away as the soldier crumpled to the ground, motionless.

All around him, the battlefield was a chaotic mess of steel, blood, and cries of agony. Men screamed as they fell, their bodies torn apart by swords, axes, and maces. It was carnage—but mostly in their favor. The Oizen infantry, under-equipped and under-trained, were crumbling beneath the pressure of Alpheo’s more experienced and equipped men. The advantage of better weapons and armor was painfully clear. The ground was littered with Oizen dead, while Alpheo’s soldiers pressed forward, bloodied but still standing strong.

Yet despite their overwhelming strength, the easy rout they had expected never came. It had been nearly two hours of brutal, relentless combat, and still the enemy clung to their positions. The Oizens were giving way, slowly and steadily, but they hadn’t broken in the way Clio had anticipated.

”Is their greed of loot really this strong?” Clio muttered under his breath, cleaving through another enemy soldie. The man’s spear thrust came too slowly, and Clio easily batted it aside with his shield before driving his axe into the man’s chest. The blade sank deep, and the soldier crumpled to the ground with a final, wheezing breath.

Clio’s frustration mounted as he glanced across the field. The Oizens were faltering, yet they still refused to collapse entirely. The battle dragged on, longer than it should have, longer than any of them had wanted.

”REFORM THE LINE AND PUSH!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield, blood and saliva staining his beard. His men responded immediately. They regrouped, shields locking together in a solid wall as they reformed their lines with practiced precision as Alpheo had teached them . Clio moved among them, watching as they steadied themselves.

”On my mark !” he shouted, hefting his shield and pulling his axe in the air . The men stood ready, grim-faced and blood-soaked, waiting for his signal.

”NOW!” Clio roared, and like a tide crashing against the shore, the line surged forward again. Steel met flesh as they charged in unison, breaking into the wavering ranks of the Oizens with sheer, unrelenting force.

Clio could feel the bloodlust rising in his men as they pushed forward with renewed vigor. Their faces were smeared with blood and dirt, their eyes wild with the adrenaline of battle. They shouted taunts at the enemy, trying to break their spirits as much as their bodies.

”You will die here, bastards!” one soldier spat, his voice hoarse

”Leave your head to me!” another roared, grinning through blood-soaked teeth as he cut down an Oizen soldier, his weapon dripping crimson.

The sight of Alpheo’s battle-hardened soldiers, covered in the blood of their foes, was a terrifying one. Some of the men were practically unrecognizable beneath their armor, their faces streaked with gore and dirt. They looked like demons, not men, as they advanced. Some of them, in their frenzy, simply let out primal screams, spittle flying as they charged, their weapons raised high. The psychological toll on the Oizen infantry was immediate. Many of the green soldiers took unconscious steps back, their fear palpable as they saw the ferocity before them.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Clio saw one of his comrades turn around suddenly, a wide grin breaking out across his face. ”Reinforcements!” the man shouted, waving his arm wildly. ”They’re coming! Help is on the way!”

Clio’s heart leapt at the words. He spun around, his bloodied sword still raised, and saw it for himself: a line of long spears glinting in the sunlight, their polished heads reflecting the chaos of the battlefield. The reinforcements were charging towards them, the dust from their advance rising like a cloud behind them. His chest swelled with relief.

”Help has arrived!” Clio bellowed, his voice filled with raw excitement. He turned back to the enemy, swinging his axe in a wide arc and slicing through another Oizen soldier. The man dropped with a groan, his blood mixing with the already-soaked ground. ”Push them back!” Clio roared. ”We’ve got them now!”

The Oizen soldiers, desperate to stop the incoming reinforcements, scrambled to intercept Asag’s men. Their lines were thin, worn down by the hours of fighting, but still, they rushed forward, shields raised and spears ready, trying to form a line . Their commanders shouted at them to hold firm, to stop the enemy’s advance, but their voices wavered as the tide of battle seemed to turn against them.

As they charged, the air suddenly whistled with the deadly sound of javelins flying through the sky, as the men that still held on their last javelins threw them . A full volley, sharp and accurate, cut through the Oizen lines with brutal precision. Men cried out as the projectiles pierced through leather, some falling instantly as the javelins found throats, chests, and exposed limbs. Shields did little to stop the force of the throw, many made useless under the impact as javelins stuck onto them . The once somewhat orderly ranks of Oizen soldiers broke, bodies collapsing to the ground, their comrades stumbling over them in shock.

Before they could even regroup, Asag’s men were upon them.

Long spears, polished and deadly, thrust forward in perfect coordination. The Oizen, ill-equipped and out of formation, struggled to match the precision of the attack. The spears cut through the ragged lines, finding flesh and armor with devastating efficiency. The enemy’s disjointed defense stood no chance. Some tried to push back, but the long reach of the spears denied them any chance of a counterattack. Those that did not have spears went towards the flanks with hammers or swords doing their own job at killing the enemy.

The Oizen soldiers, pressed from both the front and flanked on the sides, found themselves overwhelmed. Panic set in, their desperation mounting as they realized they were losing control. Those in the front line were skewered on the points of Asag’s spears, while those in the middle found themselves trapped between two waves of death. The weight of the battle crushed them.

It was in the back ranks, however, where the breaking point came. As the Oizen soldiers saw their comrades fall and the relentless pressure of the flanks closing in, fear overwhelmed them. One man, eyes wide with terror, threw his shield to the ground and ran. That was all it took. The sight of someone fleeing sparked chaos, and within moments, others followed. Shields were cast aside, spears dropped as men turned and began to rout, their fear contagious.

The line collapsed entirely. What started as a few men fleeing soon spread like wildfire. Soldiers trampled over one another in their haste to escape the slaughter, the once-organized force now nothing more than a panicked mob.

”Run!” someone screamed from the back ranks, and with that, the Oizen forces broke. Asag’s men, spears still at the ready, advanced relentlessly, their formation holding strong as they cut down any who lagged behind. The army was now in full retreat, their banners falling as they scattered across the battlefield, leaving behind the dead and dying while the lords that were leading them immediately used their horses to retreat as soon as they saw the battle turning around .

It was a sight Clio had longed to see—the moment of victory.

A fierce grin spread across his blood-smeared face, and without hesitation, he let out a primal scream that echoed across the battlefield.

”PURSUE THEM!” he roared, his voice hoarse from the hours of shouting. ”But don’t go too far! Keep the formation tight!”

His men, exhilarated by the sight of the fleeing enemy, responded with a deafening cheer. Some of the veterans grinned knowingly, while the newer recruits simply quickly formed up to follow Clio’s lead. He himself wasted no time, surging forward with long, powerful strides, his axe at the ready. He moved like a man possessed, determined to capitalize on the enemy’s retreat.

This was Clio’s first real taste of battle, and he had performed far better than he ever imagined. His initial nerves had long since evaporated, replaced by bloodlust. With each swing of his axe, he had felt more at ease, the rhythm of battle coming to him naturally.

As they pursued the fleeing Oizen soldiers, Clio kept his pace controlled, just as he had ordered. He knew the dangers of letting his men get too carried away—least they fall into a trap. The enemy was in disarray, but they could regroup or have reinforcements waiting.

He swung his axe into the back of a fleeing soldier, the blade sinking deep into the man’s spine before he kicked the body aside, barely breaking his stride. Around him, his men were cutting down the stragglers, their war cries mingling with the desperate screams of the retreating enemy.

The battle was won