Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Following Jarza’s sharp whistle, two riders broke away from the ranks and galloped forward into the open field, banners streaming behind them. Each man held his head high, but one rode with an extra burden: the banner of House Herculia, a rich crimson flag emblazoned with a silver lion.

As they reached the middle of the field, the rider with the banner lifted it high into the sky, letting it unfurl proudly one last time. With a quick, defiant flick, he threw it onto the ground, the flag fluttering down like a fallen predator. The second rider, holding a burning torch, approached the fallen banner and cast the flame onto it, igniting the fabric instantly. Flames licked up the edges, blackening the lion as it began to curl and shrivel.

Then, to make the display complete, both men dismounted, and with an exaggerated mockery, one of them stepped forward, turned his back on the burning emblem, and unbuckled his belt. He took aim and, as the fire continued its consuming work, let loose a stream of piss upon the charred banner. The two riders remounted, leaving the burned and desecrated banner smoldering on the ground as they trotted back to their ranks, grins of satisfaction on their faces.

Alpheo watched from afar as the two riders returned to their positions, their dark satisfaction radiating even from the distance. The Herculians had witnessed the whole display—the flaming banner, the utter desecration—and though Alpheo couldn’t hear their outcry, he could see the immediate response ripple through the opposing ranks.

A moment later, the Herculians began to stir, their lines shuffling and then surging forward as their commanders barked orders. The entire army began to advance in a furious tide, the prince’s rage unmistakable, pushing them forward in a vengeful march.

Alpheo’s lips curved into a smirk. ”Works every time,” he muttered to himself, keeping his gaze fixed on the oncoming wave. The prince’s pride and fury had been stoked as he’d hoped; the insult had struck true, forcing Lechlian’s hand.

It was either charging after bearing the insult , or be laughed as a coward for doing nothing as the honor of his entire dinasty was burnt and literally pissed on by lesser men. And as it could be seen the prince of Herculia chose the first.

Alpheo took a steadying breath as he finally absorbed the sight of the full Herculian force marching against him. Even with his own flank bolstered by the largest share of his troops, they still seemed but a thin line against the rolling wave of men advancing across the plain. Hundreds of armored figures glinted under the morning light, each step of the enemy seemingly doubling their numbers as dust rose in their wake, thickening the horizon.

He felt the weight of it—the sheer, daunting scale of the force that now bore down on them. But he had already given the orders. Every detail had been set in motion, each maneuver weighed and placed. All he could do now was stand firm and see it through.

Clenching his jaw, Alpheo forced himself to stay calm, pushing any second guesses from his mind. The enemy he was fighting were not using starved peasants, as even though his troops were better trained and equipped, many of his scouts reported for , at least the front lines, to be wearing chainmail and helmets.

Alpheo squinted, eyes narrowed against the glare as he tried to gauge the advancing enemy’s distance, 400 meters?350?

Judging the right moment would be critical. Lost in calculation, he was abruptly yanked from his thoughts by a sharp shout behind him, followed by the unmistakable, bone-rattling sound of something massive slicing through the air coupled with the shouts of Pontius.

He didn’t need to look back to know what it was. Pontius had already given the order to loose the first onager. Alpheo’s gaze darted up just in time to catch the heavy boulder sailing in a high, deliberate arc, its shadow growing smaller as it soared toward the enemy ranks. The stone seemed almost graceful, weightless in flight—but he knew the devastation it would bring when it landed.

300 apparently, Alpheo thought as he watched the cruesome spectacle that would soon reach his eyes.

The air trembled as ten massive boulders arced through the sky, their dull shadows sweeping across the battlefield below. For a breathless moment, all was silent, the soldiers frozen in their ranks as they watched the inevitable descent. Then, with a sickening series of cracks and thuds, the boulders slammed into the enemy formation.

The impact was brutal. Men were thrown like ragdolls, crushed beneath tons of stone. Dust and blood misted the air, the red droplets catching the morning light as screams began to echo across the plain. Bodies lay twisted and broken, armor splintered and shields smashed to splinters. Those who survived scrambled to close ranks, their eyes wide with fear and shock.

The onager’s strike hadn’t torn through the ranks with devastating casualties, but what it lacked in numbers, it delivered in raw horror. Soldiers who had stood steady moments before were now rooted in place, staring in shock at the splattered remains of their comrades, their bodies crushed into the dirt. Here and there, men gagged at the sight, some dropping their weapons, hands shaking, as by the end of the day they were still peasants.

A few tried to keep their composure, but most could only stand and watch, trembling as the smell of blood and pulverized earth filled the air. Some soldiers lost all control, wetting themselves, at the sight of their comrades’ torso squashed onto red paste.

Alpheo allowed a faint smile to flicker over his face as he watched the enemy ranks waver. For a moment, satisfaction filled him—but only for a moment. His gaze sharpened, and he turned to Ratto, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. ”Sound the blow!” he ordered.

Ratto gave a quick nod, lifting the horn to his lips. A deep, reverberating call echoed across the field, low and resonant, demanding movement. At the signal, Jarza’s voice rang out, barking commands with practiced ease.

”Forward! Advance en-charge!”

In perfect unity, the soldiers surged ahead like wolves. Clad in their striking surcoats of black and white stripes, they moved like a singular wave, shields lifted high, axes and maces gleaming in the pale morning light as to the enemy if felt like death itself was charging against them . Feet thundered across the ground as they closed the distance, the air thick with the collective roar of men’s steps emboldened by greed and the promise of victory.

The White Company’s archers, stationed in the empty stretch between the two flanks, , seized the moment of disorder rippling through the Herculeian line. They drew their arrows, each man sighting down the shaft with practiced precision before releasing.

The air filled with a whistling storm of arrows, black and sleek against the pale sky. They arced high, then descended with deadly accuracy into the disrupted ranks of Herculean soldiers. As the scattered men scrambled to form a cohesive shield wall, the arrows found every weakness: slipping between unclosed gaps, embedding in exposed limbs, and splintering the hastily-raised defenses.

The impacts were brutal. Men staggered back, some falling outright, clutching at bloody wounds as arrows found purchase through thin armor or slipped beneath raised shields. The Herculeian line wavered further, the initial chaos from the artillery strikes now compounded by the relentless rain of arrows.

In his fury, the Herculeian prince, Lechlian, had sent his infantry surging forward in haste, blinded by the sting of Alpheo’s insult and the deliberate desecration of his banner. The men marched ahead without the critical support of their archers, who lagged behind, caught unprepared by the hasty advance order.

The infantry of Alpheo’s royal army meanwhile advanced steadily, a tide of disciplined silence moving across the plain. Their faces were set, expressions hardened and eyes fixed forward in unison. Alpheo had drilled his private soldiers to perfection, training them to march without shouts or clamor—only the steady, rhythmic thunder of boots striking the earth. Something that he went proud of

The silence stretched ominously, each step amplifying the tension as they neared the Herculeian line. It was a soundless storm, a muted roar, each soldier holding his place and movement with unwavering precision. Alpheo’s mind flashed to Cicero’s words: In battle, there is no sound as deafening or scaring as the silence of legionary lines.

The Herculeians watched with growing unease, their lines trembling as Alpheo’s forces, draped in stark surcoats of white and black, bore down on them. They moved as one entity, every man seamlessly connected to the next, no voices, no raised weapons, only the merciless, wordless promise of what was to come, making their charge thousands of time more scary than the biggest roars that hundreds of man could muster.

The armies finally collided with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath their feet. Shields crashed into shields, the brutal sound ringing out as the front lines of Alpheo’s soldiers smashed into the Herculeians with unstoppable force. Spears splintered on impact, and maces swung down with bone-crushing strength, breaking through armor and driving men to the ground.

The Herculeian front, less organized and reeling from the constant volley of arrows, wavered under the sheer force of the charge. Every gap in their line became a deadly weakness, filled by Alpheo’s soldiers who pressed in, striking with disciplined ferocity. Finally allowing the various Herculeain lords to see how strong the pillars of Jasmine’s rules truly were, steady and hard as tempered steel, something that they would learn at their own displeasure.