Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Pasha Mamud bit down a curse as he spurred his horse forward, the powerful animal snorting and kicking up dust beneath its hooves. Behind him rode sixty of his Sipahi guards, their lamellar armor glinting in the fading sunlight. Despite their orderly formation, their grim faces betrayed the truth: the battle had been lost. The banner of the Sultanate, once proudly billowing above the ranks of Azania’s army, had fallen amidst the chaos, with its bearer unknown whetever alive or dead .

Mamud’s thoughts seethed with fury as he pushed his mount harder. Fool, he snarled inwardly, the word echoing like a drumbeat in his mind. That pompous fool. We had the strength, the numbers. We had the ground. And still, he squandered it, by putting that fool of his brother in command of the right...

The battle had begun well enough—or so it had seemed. The Sultan, in his arrogance, had positioned the army with their backs to a shallow ridge.Initially, both armies stood on the opposite side of the river, and given that none of the two would march through it and contend with the river on their backs, they stood on a standoff for a few hours, until the horse King retreated a few hundreds of steps, inviting the Sultan’s army to pass through unmolested, which they did.

Those bastards had thousands of horses and the horse tribes were known to have no discipline; we needed to just maintain our positions until night fell and then attack their camp at night.It would have been slaughtered and instead we gave battle...

The azanian infantry, disciplined and resolute, stood firm against the tide of the horse lords. Arrows rained down from Azanian archers stationed in the rear, their volleys turning the open plains into a deadly gauntlet for the enemy’s charging horsemen. For nearly two hours, the lines had held. Shields braced, spears leveled, and discipline unwavering.

But then came the disaster.

The horse lords had feigned weakness on their right flank, retreating just enough to tempt the Sultan’s cavalry into pursuit. The right wing of Azania’s forces led by the sultan’s brother —eager but a poor leader —had taken the bait. Mamud had shouted himself hoarse, when he had heard of that, everybody knew that one should never pursuite a horse lord . He had watched helplessly as the Sultan’s cavalry, abandoning their positions, surged after the retreating enemy.

It was a trap, and a simple one at that.

As the Azanian cavalry pursued deeper into the plains, the horse lords’ retreat turned into a swift, encircling ambush. A fresh wave of mounted warriors swept in from hidden positions, slamming into the Azanian right flank. Worse still, with the right exposed, the horse lords launched a devastating charge straight into the rear of the main Azanian line, their riders cutting down archers and scattering reserves like chaff before a storm.

Now, Mamud galloped through the remnants of what had once been a proud army, the stench of blood and burnt flesh heavy in the air. He had to save himself, he needed to stay alive, not for a simple desire to not die, but because he knew the danger his house would be in with his death, especially given the current situation.

He tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles whitening. The Sultan’s flag fell, no doubt of it, he thought bitterly. If he survived, it would only be by sheer luck—and even then, he’d deserve to face the wrath of the nobles for this debacle.

His Sipahi guards followed silently as their liege cursed his sultan in his mind. Pasha Mamud knew his survival depended on swift action, as he did not know whetever the sultan survived or not.

The fate of the Sultan would dictate the course of the entire Sultanate—and his own future.

If the Sultan lives, he thought grimly, then we’ll have no choice but to rally the remnants of the army. Another campaign will be necessary, no matter the cost. We cannot let the Horse King rampage through our lands unopposed as what they needed now was to show strength . The notion filled him with a mix of dread and reluctant determination. Reassembling another army meant more levies, more gold, and more risk. The Sultan’s authority, though damaged, could still pull the fractured nobility together for one last effort.

But if the Sultan had fallen...

Mamud’s lips pressed into a hard line. Then there will be no stopping the Horse King. He’ll sweep south like a storm, burning villages , conquering cities and enslaving our people. The Sultanate will fall to chaos, not from his blade alone but from our own.

Civil war is inevitable.

Mamud cursed under his breath. The Sultan’s death would fracture the realm into feuding factions, each faction raising their banners in pursuit of the throne by putting a puppet of their choice. Without a unifying figure, the nation would collapse into bloodshed, leaving no one to oppose the Horse King.

Still, Mamud felt a small flicker of solace amidst the chaos of his thoughts: At least my nephew is safe. The boy, the son of the Sultan and his sister, was currently under his protection, safely getting educated in his fiefdom far from the capital. Mamud allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. If he were in the palace, that Priest-bitch would have killed him by now. She wouldn’t hesitate to clear the path for her own spawn to take the throne, be it a boy or a girl.

The Pasha’s face darkened at the thought of Shuaa, the High Priestess. She was dangerous, wielding not just her influence as a religious figure but also the favor of the Sultan, who had been bewitched by her beauty and cunning, worse her predictions , even though she did not have one for two years, she was till a problem . Even now, Mamud wasn’t sure whom the Sultan had named as his heir—his nephew, a legitimate son of royal blood, or the newborn, the product of the Sultan’s union with Shuaa.

It doesn’t matter, Mamud thought grimly. If the Sultan is dead, her brat will claim the throne, and theeunuchs, making use of howunsteadyd her power is will rally to her in exchange for more influence . The nobles will never accept it to bow to cockless grown child, and war will tear the Sultanate apart.

Pasha Mamud had already set his plans into motion as soon as defeat came into view , even as his horse thundered down the dirt road, flanked by the steel-clad Sipahi guards. A messenger had been dispatched hours earlier, racing toward his fiefdom with urgent orders for his son. The message was simple: rally the levies, arm every man capable of bearing a blade, and prepare the banners for war. Mamud had no intention of being caught unprepared be it if he was to march in war or in a civil one.

The one who moves first takes the advantage, Mamud thought grimly. And I’ll be damned if I sit idly by while the Priest-bitch , her spawn and those cockless eggs seize the throne.

He clenched the reins tightly, his knuckles whitening. His mind churned with thoughts of strategy and ambition, but the shadow of inevitability loomed large. This will not end with mere words or threats. Either she and her brat die... or I do.

It was an ugly situation, but Mamud had never been one to shy away from cold truths. If Shuaa secured the throne for her son, she would not hesitate to eliminate any opposition, and Mamud, as the uncle of a rival claimant, would be at the top of her list.

I have no choice but to act decisively. His son, still green but capable, would oversee the assembling of his forces. Levies would be raised from his fief, words sent to their allies who would certainly not wish for a return of a Priest-Sultan , bolstered by his household troops would march toward the capital , and Mamud would return to his lands as quickly as possible to lead them.

As Pasha Mamud rode on, the irony of it all gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Just three years ago, the Empire of Romelia , the eternal rivals of Azania, had lost their Great Imperator in battle.

That death had plunged their empire into chaos, splitting alliances and igniting a vicious civil war that left them fractured—easy prey for Azanian invasions, which however they never made use of given the time was never right . Now, the wheel had turned, and the Sultanate was poised to suffer the same fate. If the Sultan truly lay dead, Azania would not be spared the bloody reckoning that followed.

The thunder of hooves on the dusty road matched the storm brewing in Mamud’s mind. He spat bitterly into the wind. How quickly the mighty crumble, one year it is Romelia the other is Azania .

They had thought that glory would follow , and yet, here they were. The Horse King had outmaneuvered the Sultan, turning what should have been a decisive victory into a slaughter. Perhaps we all should have listened to the priestess when we had the chance, Mamud thought grimly even though admitting it was like a dagger in his guts, his lips curling in bitter self-reproach. But it was too late for regrets now. The cost of their arrogance was measured in blood, and the balance had yet to be paid in full.

Azania was walking the same road that Romelia was walking on....