Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

What had begun as a one-sided slaughter in favor of the rebels had now transformed into a fierce battle. The two sides clashed with a thunderous roar, their lines colliding like tidal waves crashing against a rocky shore.

Men locked shields with their comrades, forming a wall as they pushed forward with thier weapons. Spears darted above the enemy’s shields in deadly downward arcs or thrust, aiming for exposed throats and faces. Each thrust was swift and precise, immediately followed by a retreat to the safety of their shield wall. Soldiers moved with disciplined precision, their shields rising to protect their bodies as they reset their stances, readying for the next deadly exchange.

The battlefield was a chaotic symphony of grunts, cries, and the sharp clang of steel meeting steel, as neither side yielded ground easily. The once fluid momentum of the rebels had now met the proper battle they never expected, and as a consequence the rebel lines began to falter, their center buckling under the assault of the prince’s soldiers.

The once-bold ranks of the rebellion, scattered and disorganized, struggled to maintain their footing against the formations pressing forward. The shield walls of the prince’s men advanced like a tide, each thrust of their spears claiming another life, each push forcing the rebels further back.

Cries of anguish and desperation filled the air as the rebels fell in droves, their courage fading as their comrades collapsed around them. Blood slicked the ground beneath their feet, and the acrid smell of sweat and steel mingled with the stench of death.

”This is for my village, you damned traitors!” roared a man as he drove his spear forward, the point sinking into a rebel’s unprotected side,reminiscing about the flames eating his home as the steel-end of the spears reached closer and closer to the organs.

”You’ll pay for starving our children, filth!” another bellowed while cutting down a man

”We’’ll go after your family next, as you did with ours!” sneered a soldier, slamming his shield into an opponent and sending them sprawling before finishing them off with a precise thrust, relishing at the sight of the people that had burnt his family’s field to the ground.

All of them were soldiers that were recently recruited by Arnold after receiving the newest batch of equipment from his father. All of them had a thing in common and they were destituted from the raids of the same men that they were fighting right now, hence their ferocity was only enhanced as they came face to face with the rebels.

One of these one, wielding a spear thrusted forward with practiced efficiency, the point slipping between the ribs of a rebel who had overextended his swing and was unfortunately not among the lucky one chosen to wear a chainmail. The rebel gasped, blood frothing at his lips, as the spear was yanked free with a sickening squelch.

”Is that all you’ve got? I’ve seen farmers fight better than this!” he then shouted as he went on in search of his next victim

’’Oh Gods!Mercy!’’ a rebel instead shouted as a soldier kept him down into the ground with a foot pressing down his chest, before striking down at his head.

It was clear which side was having the best.

The rebels tried fighting back desperately, but their lack of discipline showed as they had no coordination with each other, more suited to hunt down villagers than to fight in a proper battle.

Until then they had not met any resistance as they went raiding, as such their style of fighting resembled more back-alley fighting than battling in formation.

One rebel, the perfect example of that, swung wildly with a club, hoping to break through the shield in front of him, only to have a spear thrust pierce his thigh. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the wound, before an axeman stepped forward to finish him with a swift downward chop to the neck, ending his life on the spot.

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Gerric’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled back from the fray, his once-bold confidence now eroding under the weight of the battle. The sharp clang of steel and the anguished cries of the wounded filled his ears, each sound chipping away at the resolve he had barely managed to hold onto. His eyes darted across the battlefield, taking in the horrifying tableau before him.

The ground was strewn with bodies, some still and lifeless, others writhing in agony. Rebels he had led just minutes ago now lay broken, their blood soaking into the churned earth. A young boy barely of thirteen clutched at a gaping wound in his side, his trembling hand reaching out as if to grasp something—anything. Gerric couldn’t bring himself to meet the boy’s pleading gaze.

His hands trembled as he gripped the sword slick with blood, his knuckles white against the hilt. But as he looked around, the truth became inescapable. This wasn’t a battle; it was a slaughter, and they were losing.

A deep, gnawing fear clawed at his chest, making it hard to breathe. Gerric was no soldier. He wasn’t a seasoned warrior hardened by years of combat. He was just a man—stronger than most, perhaps, but that strength now felt meaningless amidst the chaos and death.

The spear thrusts and axe blows that fell on his comrades seemed almost mechanical, unstoppable. He turned his gaze to the prince’s soldiers, their grim faces set with determination, their shield wall an impenetrable barrier. Gerric felt his grip falter, his sword lowering almost involuntarily.

Without a word, Gerric turned on his heel pushing between the soldier attempting to run.

His heart pounded in his chest as his legs carried him away from the battlefield, alone.

He couldn’t bring himself to call out an order or even look back. All he could think about was escape, the primal urge to survive drowning out everything else.

His flight did not go unnoticed. Some rebels recognised him ,seeing their leader fleeing and, already wavering, felt their remaining resolve crumble. One by one, they broke from the fight, dropping their weapons and fleeing after him. The retreat turned into a chaotic rout, the rebels scattering in all directions like leaves before the wind.

The prince’s soldiers jeered and roared as the enemy disintegrated. ”Run, cowards!” one shouted, raising his spear triumphantly as he gave chase.

”Is this your rebellion? Scurrying like rats!” bellowed another, his voice heavy with mockery.

And so the field was left to the soldiers, who pressed forward to cut down the stragglers. Gerric’s force had been reduced to a panicked, disorganized mob, fleeing for their lives as the prince’s men tightened their grip on the battlefield.

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The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the camp as Lord Cretio walked through the aftermath of the battle. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and burnt wood, mingling with the rising smoke from countless fires.

Despite the dead bodies , the mood within the camp was buoyant . Soldiers moved with a spring in their step, their laughter ringing out across the field like echoes of victory.

Ahead, a group of men hauled bodies toward the trenches. Two of them carried a corpse, one gripping the arms and the other the legs, swinging it casually before heaving it onto a growing pile just beyond the trench. The motion was almost jovial, punctuated by jests exchanged between the men.

”Think this one’s lighter than the last in the pockets?” one joked, earning a round of laughter.

”Doesn’t matter they are all poor, still he’ll burn the same!” quipped another, drawing more guffaws as they turned back for another body.

Lord Cretio watched them for a moment, his expression impassive.

Morale was high, the kind of morale only a victory could bring.

Cretio’s boots crunched against the churned earth as he made his way toward the main tent . He had just received the report of the battlefield and was ready to deliver it to Arnold

The guards flanking the entrance to the prince’s tent snapped to attention as he approached, their polished chainmail gleaming in the morning sun.

”My lord” one greeted him with a slight nod.

Cretio acknowledged them with the barest tilt of his head, brushing past without slowing. He had no time for pleasantries.

Inside, the tent the air was much cooler, heavy with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. At the center, seated at a sturdy wooden table laden with food, was lord Arnold. His armor had been removed, and he sat in a simple tunic, his cloak draped across the back of his chair.

The prince looked up from his meal as Cretio entered, his expression calm but his sharp eyes missing nothing. He held a slice of bread in one hand, a knife in the other, cutting into a chunk of salted meat on his plate.

”Ah, Lord Cretio,” Arnold said, his tone neutral as he gestured toward the seat opposite him. ”You’re up early.”

Cretio inclined his head in greeting, his hand tightening slightly on the report. ”Your Grace,” he replied, his voice steady as he stepped closer. He laid the folded parchment on the table with deliberate care, his gaze meeting the prince’s.

”I’ve brought the report from last night’s engagement,” he said, his tone as composed as always ”Our losses amount to 110 dead and 210 wounded. As for the attackers, while we cannot confirm their full numbers, the dead left on the field suggest they suffered no fewer than two hundred casualties.”

Lord Cretio inclined his head respectfully, his expression thoughtful as he addressed the prince. ”Your foresight proved invaluable, Your Grace,” he said, his tone carrying genuine admiration. ”Had you not ordered the soldiers to sleep in their armor, the infantry would have been taking by surprise and the cavalry wouldn’t have been ready in time to pursue the rebels who fled the camp”

What the lord said was in fact true, for while the infantry was clashing against the rebels the cavalry who could certainly not charge directly, given that their allies were on their way, instead decided to move around the camp and hit the rear.

However before that could happen the rebels routed after just a few minutes of fighting . And so as the infantry pressed their retreat, the cavalry who had just executed a roundabout maneuver, swinging wide around the camp saw that the flank of the rebels was wide open to ravanging , and so with a quick charge on their flank in the open field, they completely scattered the remnants of the rebel’s forces claiming complete victory , as most of the enemy were either killed outright or taken captive

Arnold nodded slowly, spearing a piece of meat with his knife and bringing it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as if weighing the report against the broader situation.

After swallowing, he spoke, his voice calm ”They’ve taken a bloody nose, no doubt,” he said, gesturing with the knife as if punctuating his words. ”But they still have plenty of men up on those hills, and their defenses are solid. This was a skirmish, not the endgame.”

And as if uncosciously nodding , the lord couldn’t help but move his eyes on the direction where the enemy was currently camped, waiting for the prince’s army to come to them.