Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

”I’m done with soldiering.”

The words slipped out like a confession, barely louder than the creak of armor against wood. The man leaned into the palisade, his breath fogging in the cold air. His fingers—calloused, revealing it to be the hand of a farmer—tapped restlessly against the timber.

He hated being as a soldier; still, when the lord had ordered for the levy to assemble, he was among the unlucky ones to be chosen, so whether he wanted to or not, he was to serve, it was either that or the rope.

”Marching. Bleeding. Taking orders.” He spat into the dirt. ”Not for me. When this shithole falls, I’m going home. Finding something... quieter.”

His companion chuckled, rolling his shoulders against the night’s bite. ”Yeah? I only came for the loot. Once we crack this city open—”

A sound like tearing silk split the dark .

Then the sky turned to iron.

Javelins fell in a black rain, their barbed tips glinting once before they struck. The soldier’s eyes had just enough time to widen—just enough—before one punched through his chest, shredding mail like parchment. The impact lifted him off his feet, slamming him back. A wet, ragged gasp tore from his lips. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his chest, as his life slowly flew away.

Beside him, his friend staggered. A shaft jutted from his gut, the steel buried deep. The pain was a living thing—white-hot, gnawing, wrong and too soon —but death wouldn’t come yet. Not kindly. Not fast.

Fingers shaking, he clawed at his belt and found the horn.

Every breath was fire. Every heartbeat a betrayal.

But he raised the instrument to his lips.

The note that tore free was ragged, wavering—a dying man’s voice given to the night. It shuddered through the camp, a sound that was neither plea nor warning, but both.

Then his legs gave out.

He crumpled onto his back, the horn rolling from his grasp. Above him, the stars stared down, cold and indifferent. The wood beneath him grew slick, warm. His breath hitched. Slowed.

Home.

The word flickered in his mind, soft as a guttering candle.

He would never see it again.

No hearthfire. No laughter. No woman’s arms waiting in the dark. Just the taste of copper, the weight of the earth calling him down.

A final shudder. A silence.

And the night drank him in without a sound.

------------------

Jarza exhaled sharply, his breath a plume of fire in the frigid air as the dying wail of the horn dissolved into the night.

His fingers locked around the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening, his blood a drumbeat of war in his veins. The alarm had been raised—but it was already too late.

”GO!”

His roar cleaved the darkness like an axe through bone.

In an instant, the shadows erupted into motion. Dozens of ladders surged forward, borne by men whose eyes gleamed with the promise of slaughter and the prize that went with it. Their boots hammered the earth in unison, a thunderous rhythm punctuated by the clatter of mail and the hungry rasp of steel being drawn. The first wave hit the palisade like a storm tide, ladders slamming against timber with a splintering crash, iron hooks biting deep into the wood.

No hesitation. No mercy, no fear or death as they climbed.

Boots pounded up the rungs, relentless, each step a defiance of death. The first man to crest the parapet vaulted over in a flash of snarling teeth and bared steel.

The Oizenian sentry, unlucky enough to be there, barely turned before a blade opened his throat, silencing him with a wet gurgle. Another guard reeled back, sword half-drawn, only to be driven over the edge with a brutal shove from a shield—his scream cut short by the crunch of bone on hard earth below , quickly followed by moans of pain.

The attackers poured over the wall like a river breaching a dam, a tide of iron and fury crashing into the camp.

”ENEMY ATTACK!”

”TO ARMS! TO FUCKING ARMS!”

The shouts tore through the night, raw with panic, but they were too few, too late. Most of the Oizenians still lay tangled in their bedrolls, sluggish with sleep, their minds struggling to parse the distant clamor of steel and dying men. Some stirred, blinking into the darkness, fingers fumbling for weapons. Others—those seasoned by war—were already rolling to their feet, but by then, the enemy was inside, their blades already slick, their boots already planted on bloodied ground.

The attackers did not pause.

They moved like wolves among sheep, their weapons carving through the few sentries who had mustered near the gate. One Oizenian managed to free his blade—only for it to be dashed aside with a shield , quickly followed by a mace that split his skull with a swing.

Another turned to run, but a javelin took him between the shoulders, lifting him off his feet before dumping him facedown in the dirt, his last breath a silent plea.

The way was clear.

And beyond it—the camp lay vulnerable, its heart exposed.

They almost gave chase, advancing to take advantage of the night , lulled by the lack of resistance, but of course discipline steered their desires

”THE GATE!” one of the attackers from outside shouted at their comrades within, wishing to take part in the fun ”OPEN THE GATE!”

Two men rushed forward ,while the rest went their merry way to kill the unprepared Oizenians , their hands seizing the thick wooden beam barring the entrance. They heaved, muscles straining, teeth gritted against the weight. With a groaning creak, the beam came loose and was cast aside.

The great doors of the Oizenian camp swung open.

And outside, waiting in the darkness, stood the full might of Alpheo’s forces, ready to cause havoc upon the enemies of their prince.

Fifteen hundred warriors, their steel glinting under the cold moonlight, their faces set craving for blood

Jarza grinned, teeth flashing in the dark

”Forward men! Kill the invaders! Bring about the Prince’s will”

The men didn’t need to be told twice.

The night exploded with the sound of pounding boots and the deafening roar of men surging forward.

The army rushed through the gates like a tide breaking through a shattered dam, trampling the corpses of the fallen, maces and hammers raised high.

The Oizenian camp, once quiet beneath the stars, was now a battlefield drenched in steel and screams.

The tired soldiers had been caught in their sleep, but men of war did not need long to understand when death was at their doorstep.

Outside the tents, warriors scrambled to arm themselves. Most had only managed to throw chainmail over their linen tunics, the cold steel biting against their bare skin. Helms were clutched in shaking hands, straps left unbuckled, forgotten in the chaos.

Bare feet pressed into the dirt, and hands fumbled with spears , maces and swords as the screams of their comrades filled the air.

Among them, a knight—though some would struggle to call him one at this moment—stood amidst the growing storm. There was no time for plate, no time to saddle his horse, no time for anything but action. His tabard clung to him, damp with sweat, his legs bare but for breeches. Yet still, he roared, his voice cutting through the madness.

”FORM A LINE! HOLD TOGETHER!”

Beside him, a page no older than fourteen raised a small banner, the sigil of his house fluttering weakly in the night wind. It was a simple thing, barely visible against the darkness, but it was enough.

Men—whether they hailed from the towns with allegiances to one lord or the other instinctively obeyed. They moved without thinking, drawn like moths to a flame, gathering around the banner, their shields locking together in shaky unison.

Warriors who had been sleeping moments before now stood back-to-back, their weapons clutched in shaking hands, their eyes wide with the animal understanding that to stand alone was to die. They formed ragged circles and half-formed shield walls, their formations as uneven as their breathing, their armor half-fastened and their feet bare against the frozen earth.

At the camp’s entrance, the slaughter was absolute.

Men died with their swords still sheathed, cut down before they could even raise their hands in defense. But deeper in the camp, where the first wave of attackers had not yet reached, the defenders had precious seconds—just enough time to gather their wits and their weapons, to plant their feet and prepare to meet death head-on.

The lines they formed were pitiful things, trembling like leaves in a storm. Spears wavered in white-knuckled grips, their points dipping and rising with each panicked breath. Chainmail hung loose from shoulders, the cold steel biting into bare skin where straps had been left undone. Helmets dangled from belts, forgotten in the rush, their owners too focused on the encroaching darkness to remember the protection they offered. Eyes darted between comrades, searching for courage and finding only the same terror reflected back at them.

Then—

The darkness moved.

From the void between torches, they came—the White Army’s vanguard, their advance as silent as a grave being filled. No war cries split the night. No drums marked their steps. Only the steady, rhythmic thud of a thousand boots striking the earth in perfect unison, a sound like a coffin being dragged through wet clay.

At their front marched the Black Stripes, their black-and-white woolen front making them seem less like men and more like a single, monstrous entity—a many-limbed nightmare of polished steel and hunger.

Jarza rode behind them, his lips peeled back from his teeth in an expression too vicious to be called a smile.

The Oizenian levies froze.

Where moments before there had been desperate bravado, now there was only the cold grip of terror. Bowels turned to water beneath armor. Spear shafts trembled under the pressure of clenching fingers. Shields tilted at drunken angles as knees threatened to buckle. This was no frenzied charge of farmers—this was the inexorable approach of doom itself, patient and utterly indifferent to the men standing in its path.

Yet the true horror was not what marched toward them—

—but what stirred at their right, unseen and unchecked, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting victims.