Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Virguth marched steadily across the battlefield, his warriors keeping pace behind him in a loose, confident stride. Each step brought him closer to the clash of battle, the sound of screams and steel filling the air. His cold eyes scanned the front lines, drawn inevitably to the scene of carnage unfolding where the spirit carriers waged their horrifying assault.

The carriers fought like nothing human. Virguth watched as one of them, pierced by a spear through the stomach, pulled himself closer along the shaft with grotesque strength, slashing his blade across the throat of the soldier holding it.

He shuddered at the sight, no matter how many times he witnessed it, the result was always the same.

Pure disgust.

Another stumbled forward, his chest cleaved open by a sword, blood oozing out toward his belly, yet somehow managed to swing his weapon in a wild arc, taking down two more men before collapsing mid-strike.

The imperial line struggled to kill those men who felt no pain nor fear , the discipline of their soldiers wavered in the face of the such monster, as they may have worked against humans, but those things weren’t that anymore. Even gutted or dismembered, they continued their assault, their bodies only failing them after they’d expended every ounce of life.

Virguth’s jaw tightened as his gaze shifted to two carriers that instead of focusing on the enemy, had turned on each other. One drove his sword into the other’s side, while his opponent, weaponless, sank his teeth into the attacker’s neck with feral savagery. The two collapsed together in a heap of bloody, twitching limbs, their gruesome struggle leaving even the seasoned warriors nearby momentarily stunned. It was not a detached case, as in their frenzy the carriers could not distinguish friends from foes, something that they tried to issue by extending their lines as much as they could so that each man could face only enemies without have friends closer.

It was always like this, Virguth thought, his stomach knotting despite himself. No matter how many times he witnessed it, the spirit carriers sickened him. They were revered among the tribes, symbols of their unbroken connection to the brutal will of their ancestors, but to Virguth, they were a disgusting sight.

Were their ancestors truly this brutal? Virguth wondered, his face grim. Had the bloodline they worshipped always been this monstrous, or had centuries of hardship and exile into the spirit world warped them into what they were now?

Virguth tightened his grip on his axe as he marched, his face masking his inner fear and disgust , as deep inside, his stomach churned with revulsion. Watching the spirit carriers die—or refuse to die—always reminded him of the abyss that lurked within his people.

I’d rather gut myself with this axe, he thought, his mind unflinching in its resolve, than end up like that. To die with dignity and purpose was one thing; to be reduced to a mindless beast, a puppet of violence, was something else entirely.

Despite his disgust, he couldn’t deny the carriers’ effectiveness. They did the job they were meant to do, horrifying and breaking the enemy’s spirit. Their sacrifice ensured that the imperial soldiers, no matter how disciplined, were left shaken and vulnerable.

Ahead, the imperial lines finally managed to kill the last of the spirit carriers, but the victory rang hollow. Virguth could see the toll it had taken on them. Probably even the most hardened veterans stood in stunned silence, their weapons trembling slightly in their hands as they stared at the carnage around them.

The air between the two armies was heavy, the moment stretching taut. But the tribesman lines were closing in now, marching steadily toward their prey. Virguth could see the imperials forcing themselves to recompose, officers shouting hoarse orders to rally their men. Shields were raised again, and the wall of spears steadied itself for the impending clash, which finally came.

The clash of the two sides erupted with a thunderous roar as the tribesmen smashed into the imperial lines. The first wave of axes came down like hammers, splintering shields and ringing against the iron rims. The disciplined imperials held their formation, their shields interlocking into a protective wall, but every strike from the tribesmen tested their resolve.

Axes bit into wood and metal, some finding purchase in flesh. An imperial soldier grunted in pain as a tribesman’s axe head cleaved through his shield and buried itself into his shoulder. He crumpled to the ground, only for another soldier to step forward and fill the gap, thrusting his spear into the tribesman’s exposed chest, killing him and teaching why pushing too much was never a good idea.

Behind the front line, other tribesmen pushed forward relentlessly, hacking and battering against the shield wall, determined to break it. The imperials countered with spear thrusts, darting between shield gaps to impale their attackers. One tribesman roared as a spear punched through his stomach, blood bubbling at his lips.

Nearby, a tribesman swung his axe in wide arcs, forcing the footman against him to duck and parry desperately with his sword, which he had taken up letting down his spear. Finally, the imperial found an opening, driving his blade through the tribesman’s thigh. The giant fell to one knee, but before the imperial could finish the job, another tribesman struck him from the side, cutting him down.

Amidst the chaos, an imperial officer barked orders, his voice rising above the din. His men adjusted their shields, bracing themselves as more tribesmen hurled themselves into the fray. The tribesmen fought with ferocity, their wild, uncoordinated attacks clashing against the calculated discipline of the imperials.

Virguth waded into the fray with his massive axe, the weight of the weapon seeming as natural in his hands as a feather to a bird. His first swing caught an imperial soldier square in the chest, cleaving through shield and mail as if they were parchment. The man crumpled with a gasp, his life spilling out onto the ground. Virguth turned, his fur-lined cloak whipping in the air, to meet the thrust of a spear aimed for his ribs. With a roar, he parried it with the haft of his axe, stepped forward, and smashed the weapon’s blunt end into the soldier’s face, shattering his jaw.

To his left, a tribesman grappled with an imperial officer, both men locked in a desperate struggle. Virguth ended it swiftly, his axe descending to split the officer’s skull in two. Blood sprayed across his face, and Virguth grinned, wiping it off with his forearm as he surveyed the chaotic battlefield.

”This,” he laughed aloud, his voice cutting through the din of war, ”this is how a warrior should live!”

He surged forward again, swinging his axe in a wide arc. The sheer force of the blow sent two imperial shields flying, the men behind them staggering back in terror. One tried to raise his sword to strike, but Virguth was faster, burying his axe deep into the soldier’s side before closing on the other.

The scream was short-lived.

As he fought, Virguth’s sharp eyes caught sight of the battlefield’s heart. The imperial center was buckling. Not by brute force, but by the relentless pressure of numbers. The tribesmen swarmed like a tide, each warrior replacing the one who fell. Virguth could see gaps forming in the enemy line, soldiers glancing nervously over their shoulders for support that wasn’t there.

He chuckled to himself, reveling in the thought. ”The center will break soon,” he murmured, his voice low but pleased.

He knew the men around him—his warriors—were emboldened. They had tasted blood and craved more, and their eyes gleamed with a hunger not just for battle but for something greater. Steel.

The weapons of the imperial soldiers ahead were coveted, sharper and stronger than the battered and dull axes and swords the tribes had carried since the conquest of Sarlan. Virguth knew that most of the spoils from that campaign had gone to Geowulf’s tribes, leaving his own warriors yearning, he was the one with the most numbers and the strongest warrior, so none could take the meat that he had bitten.

Here, they saw their chance. Every imperial soldier felled was not just a victory but an opportunity to arm themselves with the finest tools of war.

”Push forward!” Virguth bellowed, his voice a rallying cry. ”Take their steel, take their lives! Leave nothing for the crows but broken men and empty hands!”

Virguth fought with ferocity, but his thoughts wandered beyond the immediate bloodshed. Each swing of his axe, each soldier felled, was more than an act of survival—it was a step closer to the glory he sought.

As this battle was not just a fight but a proving ground.

Victory here would be his foundation, a cornerstone upon which he could build his reputation. He could feel it in his bones—the path to greatness opened before him, one paved with steel, blood, and fire.

Geowulf’s shadow loomed large over all the tribes, and Virguth knew well that it would linger long after the man’s death. The Great Knotur had done the impossible: uniting a good portion of the fractious tribes, conquering Sarlan, and carving out a legacy that no warrior, not even Virguth, could hope to surpass.

The man’s name would echo through generations, celebrated in songs and stories as the one who achieved what their ancestors only dreamed of, a warm land for their people.

Yet Virguth saw opportunity in that shadow. Geowulf would not live forever, and when he fell, the title of Great Knotur would be vacant. Virguth’s own tribe, one of the strongest among the three, made him a natural contender. But strength alone wouldn’t secure the mantle—he would need prestige, allies, and the love of the people. That required victories, ones grand enough to stir hearts and solidify loyalties. This battle, with its spectacle of blood and valor, offered just such a chance.

Still, he knew better than to delude himself. Even if he earned the title, he would never eclipse Geowulf’s legacy. That conquest was a singular feat, a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. Virguth’s own father had been foolish enough to challenge Geowulf, and the memory still churned his stomach.

What had his father expected? Even if he had slain Geowulf, the act would have tainted him forever. Killing the man who had unified the tribes would have marked him not as a hero but as a villain, a usurper who tore apart what had only just been forged. There would have been no love, no songs of triumph—only the bitter taste of hatred from his own people.Where he looked for approval , he would only face scorn.

No, Virguth thought, shaking his head as he cleaved through another soldier. My path is clearer than his. I will not repeat his mistakes. he vowed as he resumed his real battle.