Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

In his life, Valen had taken part in three battles before this one.

The first, as a sword-for-hire in Arkawatt’s dusty war, when they were little more than wolves leashed to a beggar prince’s coin.

The second, a desperate ambush fought a Decurio, striking down the would-be usurper uncle of the Princess, a man who grasped for the throne only to be crowned king of worms beneath the roots of a fig tree, as it was usual for the burial of member of the Yarzat royal family.

The third, at the Bleeding Plains, where he served as a sub-centurio in what would be the crowning battle of the star of Yarzat.

In all of them, the enemy had fought in lines. Disciplined. Predictable. Clashes of steel and spear that at least looked clean, even as the dirt soaked in blood and the deads mounted up.

This? There were no cleanliness in it.

The Duskwindai came like storms. No lines. No rhythm. Just thunder and chaos in human shape. They howled and roared, charging his unmoving front as if sheer fury could crack iron and bone.

It didn’t.

Some barreled in full speed and slammed weapons, shoulders, even bare fists into the shield wall, expecting it to buckle.

It didn’t.

Their breath left them in shocked grunts as they realized too late that they weren’t striking one man, but a wall of eight, shoulder to shoulder, shields locked like jaws. Others leapt high, axes raised, thinking they’d cleave down through leather and flesh, only for their strikes to ricochet off iron-rimmed shields, reverberating back into their wrists and arms like hitting stone.

Savagery could carry a man far. But not through discipline. And certainly not through iron and order.

When the charge broke, when the initial shock failed and the Duskwindai first ranks stumbled from the impact, they met their second, far crueler lesson.

The wall moved.

Not with steps. With death.

From the tight gaps between the shields, the spears lunged, quick, brutal jabs aimed not for the chest but for the neck, the groin, the stomach. The soft places. Iron blades cut deep into boiled leather, and through it. Most had no mail to stop it. And the force behind each thrust wasn’t a man, but one of steel, that material they so greedily desired , but not in the way it was being given.

The front line of the Duskwindai faltered. Instinct pulled them back a step, just enough to land their boots on the feet of the men behind. Shouts rose behind them. Angry. Confused.

Names were called, craven , cowards , dishonorable.

They tried to stop themselves from stumbling, but it was too late. The men behind, thinking they were stalling, shoved them forward. That fatal push cost them their stance. Their balance. Their lives.

And so the Yarzat spears punched into reeling bodies, dragging them down like fish on a line.

The sight ahead might’ve stirred pride in Valen on any other day.

But he had no time for pride. Not when every breath was taken through grit teeth, not when the air itself reeked of copper and sweat, and not when he was too busy surviving to savor victory.

Warhorses were glorious things. Tall, thunder-footed, muscled like gods. They made lesser men flinch, gave steel height, and turned a simple strike into something like divine judgment.

Valen rode one now, and the enemy hated him for it.

Swlick.

His sword found flesh. A Duskwindai, wild-eyed and half-naked, came barreling toward him with an axe raised to split him from the shoulder down. He never got the chance.

Valen’s blade came in a rising arc, slicing through collarbone and deep into the chest. The man dropped to his knees with a sound like wet rope hitting stone, clutching at the split mess where his shoulder used to be, writhing like a caught eel on a butcher’s slab.

Valen spared him no pity. No pause.

He felt a jolt. A sudden, dumb impact on his side, like someone had rammed him with a log. He turned to find a man staring back in confusion. The blow hadn’t worked. The man’s axe had bounced off Valen’s breastplate like it struck a cathedral wall.

His eyes widened. Just in time for one of Valen’s guards to introduce a mace to his face.

The crunch was wet. Satisfying.

One eye popped free of its socket and dangled down his cheek like a fruit off the vine waiting for grabbing.

The body stood for a heartbeat longer before folding in on itself, crumpling at the knees.

”Apologies, commander,” the guard grunted, yanking his mace free with a twist from the bashed skull of the man.

Valen didn’t answer. No time. Already spurring forward for the next kill.

The problem was simple.

For every one he cut down, two more surged up to take the corpse’s place. They wanted him. His helm gleamed. His armor flashed. He was on a horse, wearing steel and command like a damn crown. In a field of blood and shit, he was unmistakable. A symbol. A prize.

He could have shouted that he was their commander, and it would still have been less effective.

The Duskwindai in response surged toward him like fire toward dry grass, screaming for glory in a language choked by bloodlust.

If he turned back now, if he even looked like he meant to retreat, he’d damn the morale of his men. He’d shatter the spine of his army. They’d say the commander ran. And the field would be lost.

So he didn’t run. He didn’t even flinch as dozens came towards him.

He stood tall in the saddle, sword wet and heavy, visor down. The thirty elite guards around him fought like demons, steel flashing, blood spraying, formation tight. A human fortress around their general. They hacked down anything that came too close. Spears shattered on shields. Blades bit into necks. Limbs flew. The ground beneath the horses turned slick with mud and viscera.

Still they came.

Still they screamed for his head.

And still he stood.

Because this was where he belonged. Not behind tents. Not drawing maps in ink. But here, smeared in red, bathed in breathless fury, wearing courage like armor.

We’re holding, Valen realized, a flicker of satisfaction flickering through the haze of steel and blood. The Duskwindai were breaking on their shields like waves on rock. All fury, no form. Their wild roars were no match for discipline honed in fire. His men held the line, pushed them back, cut them down. Strength of arms. Discipline. Order. It was working.

But victory, like war, was a fickle thing.

His red cloak snapped around him in the wind, a flare of crimson in the grey-black maelstrom of smoke and blood. He turned, just a glance, and the warmth of triumph curdled , like milk under the sun.

As it appeared that quantity had a quality all its own.

Because behind him, the left, the same flank that had disobeyed him, that had charged too soon, too far, was now being driven back. When the engagement started, their position was farther than any other; now they were overtaken by both the centre and the right.

They were being pushed not by tactics. Not by clever maneuver. Just... weight.

There were too many. The Duskwindai came like a sea, and no matter how many you gutted, more surged forward, howling, hacking, hungry for blood.

Another strike slammed into his side, yanking him back to the now.Valen twisted, countered, and his sword found the man’s throat. The Duskwindai fell, gurgling, his axe clattering uselessly beside him.

But Valen wasn’t looking at the corpse.

His eyes had lifted. And locked.

And in the roiling chaos, he saw him.

A mountain of a man. A shadow made flesh. Towering, broad as two men across, with a long shirt of dark, oiled chainmail that glinted dully beneath the filth. No leather scraps or bone charms on him. No wild hair or painted skin. Just death, draped in iron and storm.

In each hand, an axe, long-hafted, blood-slick, notched but deadly and more importantly of steel.

He spun them like toys, sweeping arcs of destruction. Valen watched as one of the Chorsi warriors lunged at him, brave and stupid. The axe caught him mid-leap—crack—cleaving through bone, spine, and heart in one swing.

The man folded in half around the blade before being kicked free like meat off a skewer.

Another soldier tried to flank him.

Another mistake.

The second axe came in low, bit through knee and thigh. The scream didn’t last long. The big man didn’t let it.

He moved like a god of war, inevitable. Each step thundered. Each blow was a death sentence. Around him, warriors parted, either afraid or smart enough not to die pointlessly. Where others flailed, he executed.

It didn’t take a tactician to know who the monster was. The chainmail alone marked him, thick iron rings oiled and soot-darkened. No common brute wore armor like that. No random warrior carved through trained men like wheat in the wind.

He was the chieftain.

Valen’s eyes tracked away form the giant to the worst part of the battefield. The Chorsi who’d disobeyed the plan were paying the price, courage giving way to panic, discipline to chaos. The left flank would be the first to break. He could see it unraveling in real time, like a gut being pulled through a wound.

And if it breaks... everything goes with it.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t panic. He was no coward. Valen had bled on three battlefields before this one. He’d watched better men die than most soldiers would ever meet. But courage wasn’t throwing yourself into a meat grinder.

Charging that war-chief now, through dozens of roaring, axe-maddened Duskwindai, wouldn’t be heroism. It would be suicide. And the battle would be lost with him.

No. There was another way.

He turned his head. One of his guards was gripping his reins, a heavy javelin resting against his leg and saddle. The haft was worn smooth with age, the iron point dark with pitch and rust.

Valen stared at it. His mind went quiet.

It’s been years.

Years since he’d last thrown a javelin. Since the front lines of the White Army, back when he was just a name in the ledger and not a governor. Back then, he’d had a sharp arm. A killer’s aim. No fancy plate, no horse. Just his own body and the spear in his hand.

But the memory lived. The motion was still there. In his bones. In his blood.

He took the javelin from him without a word. The man said nothing, looked at the direction his commander was pointing and just nodded once, hard.

Valen stood in his stirrups. Let the chaos ring around him. The air was heavy with smoke and iron and the screaming of the dying. He squinted through the haze, found the mountain of a man again, still swinging, still cleaving, turning warriors into ruin.

There you are, he thought.

The battlefield didn’t need words now. It needed certainty.

And the war-chief was far, but not far enough to make a good throw vain.

It was all or nothing.