Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Ahead of the green plain, warmed by the gentle kiss of sunlight and brushed with flowers swaying in the breeze, the great beasts of Yarzat advanced.

First came the Prince’s Right, their ordered ranks surging forward like the head of a spear that would pierce any armor. The centre and the left were soon to follow, led by Shahab and Xanthios , respectively.

The speech Alpheo had given them still clung to the air, heavy and electric. It had struck not only the ears but the marrow of his soldiers.

The old memories, of Oizenian raiders torching homes, of stolen harvests and slain kin, rose in every breast, mingled with stories carried by refugees who had fled with nothing but their grief.

Their war of conquest suddendly started to become a war of rightful revenge.

From the southern line, the banners surged forward, black and white cloths snapping in the wind like the wings of dueling falcons. The men who bore them wore the same stark colors, until it seemed the whole host was a living emblem of contrast,light and darkness locked together, advancing as one to engulf the whole world.

To the north, the enemy stood waiting.

On the Yarzat right flank, the enemy was little more than a silver-gray mirage in the distance, faceless and still. Yet even at that range, the sunlight caught on the tips of their lances, scattering a glinting promise of death.

To the men of Yarzat, it was enough; they marched toward that shimmer as if it were a beacon, not a threat, toward the glory they believed was their duty to claim.

Across the plain, the drums of the Black Stripes began their work, calling the army into the slow, grim cadence of war accompanying their march.

Tutum—tutum—tutum.

The beat was relentless, and with every strike the boots of three thousand men struck the earth in answer, shaking the soil, making the flowers tremble. Each step pressed forward the ambition of the man who led them, the Fox of Yarzat, whose will sought not a single battle, but the shaping of the world itself.

Above them, crows circled as if already drawn by the scent of what was to come. Far behind, the campfires of the camp thinned into drifting smoke, marking the point of no return. In front, the gap between armies shrank with every heartbeat, the drums growing louder, the rhythm no longer a march, but a summons to the killing ground.

They drew closer until the enemy’s formations began to take on shape and detail. Most of the men in those ranks were veterans of one campaign or two; few had served since the first battle of Aracina. Those few were officers, and in their eyes, there was the familiarity of men who knew exactly what awaited them, some had even fought in those same formations they would soon face.

The Oizenian host stood like a hedgehog cornered by a predator, its iron shell locked tight against intrusion. From every side jutted the spearpoints of long pikes, the front bristling in a level line, then climbing in a slope upward until the highest ranks loomed above the rest, like the teeth of some vast beast gaping to devour all before it.

The legionaries of Yarzat fixed their gaze on that iron block, scarcely noticing the world around them.

They did not see the wildflowers crushed beneath their boots, nor the delicate insects fleeing in confusion before the tide of men.

They did not hear the whisper of the breeze in the grass or feel the gentle warmth of the sun. Beauty was trampled without a thought, as a tornado tramples the homes of creatures whose only crime is to live in its path.

Ahead of them, their only thought was on how to make their enemy pay.

That was the way of nature and the truth of war, that waited for nothing that could soothe his hearalds.

To the right, a river wound its way across the plain, a thing of peace in gentler times, feeding plants, sheltering fish, glinting under daylight. Now it was bent to the work of slaughter, its banks and bed forming a natural bulwark to shield the Oizenian line.

Sorza had used his two years well to master his new weapon.

The pike formation, clearly vulnerable on its flanks, was now anchored by nature itself. The river secured the wings, forcing the fight to be met head-on, where his soldiers could wield their weapons to the fullest effect. Making so that every path of approach was a funnel for death.

They had placed their faith in this formation, certain it would shatter even the most famed soldiers who dared approach.

They had drilled for months, learning how to keep the foe at bay, their long pikes thrusting from behind a living wall of spearpoints. In training, no enemy could close the distance, each advance ended with the intruder skewered before he could strike. The forest of their companions’ weapons was the surest shield they had ever known.

That certainty had hardened into pride. Even now, as the black-and-white tide of Yarzat marched steadily toward them.

The sight of veterans of many victories crawled from certain defeats, stirred only a brief flutter of doubt.

The Fox’s reputation was great, yes, but reputations could be broken. Many of them believed they would be the ones to break it.

They were wrong.

It was of such moments that the legend of the Peasant Prince took root. For it was not they who had forced Alpheo to fight upon this ground. It was Alpheo who had allowed them to meet him here.

And soon they were to learn the difference of that.

The Oizenians’ lines seemed to wait to receive the lesson ,the ranks behind craned their necks to keep the formation tight, the weight of steel helmets and the glare of the sun pressing heavily on their brows.

In the foremost line, a few soldiers began to squint, their eyes narrowing against the shimmering haze of the plain. One nudged the man beside him with a sharp elbow puzzled at the sight in front of him.

”Tell me I’m not seeing this,” he muttered.

Another leaned forward, peering past the forest of pikes. ”Are they—by the Gods—are they carrying... ladders?”

A ripple of confusion moved down the row.

Further back, among the mounted lords overseeing the pike blocks, one silver-bearded commander snorted so loudly it turned heads. ”Ha! Look at them! The Fox must think we’ve built him a wall to climb!”

Another lord, red-faced and broad-bellied, added with a grin, ”Or perhaps they’ve come to change our roof before we fight. How thoughtful!”

That earned a round of chuckles from their retainers, short, barking laughs that clinked against their breastplates. Some slapped each other on the shoulders, shaking their heads at the sight.

The laughter coming from behind proved to be contagious, as it was soon picked up from the soldiers on the front, welcoming anything that could distract them from the anxiety they felt at the approaching enemy.

Of course, their laughter would not last long.

Still, the mocking voices from across the field carried far on the wind, reaching the ears of the advancing Yarzat soldiers.

The men bearing the ladders, feeling the awkward burdens swaying on their shoulders, felt the sting of humiliation at once. Their jaws tightened, eyes hardening, as of course no one liked to be laughed at.

Especially not those who were accustomed to honor and respect...

”Those fucking bastards...” one man growled, his hands straining against the rough wood as he kept his side of the ladder steady above his head.

”We’ll see how they laugh when they see this,” another muttered, forcing a grin to mask his anger. His shield was strapped across his back, both hands gripping the ladder’s weight.

They had been forced to march without their javelins to carry the cumbersome things, and they knew they looked absurd, men going to war as though to mend a farmer’s roof.

”Let them laugh now,” a third soldier said darkly. ”They’ll weep soon enough.”

While the rank-and-file comforted themselves with the thought of revenge, their officers were less forgiving. The laughter across the field was not merely aimed at the ladders, it was aimed at their prince, and that was reason enough to intervene, for such insults could not be allowed to pass unanswered.

”Soldiers of the First Primogenia!” roared a sub-centurio, his voice cutting through the tramp of boots. His face was red, from a fury that burned hotter than the noon summer sun. ”You hear them laugh? You hear them mock the standard of Yarzat? You hear them mock our prince?”

The men looked up, eyes snapping toward him.

”Remember this,” the officer snarled. ”Remember it when they beg for their lives. Remember it when their arrogance is lying in the mud, choking on its own blood. Pay them back for every sneer, every jeer, every insult they’ve dared to throw at you this day. Today we make no prisoners!

Let their laughter end beneath your swords, and let no man forget the price of mocking our great Prince!”

A growl of assent rippled through the ranks , as other variety of the same speech spread throughout the line, each bearing different words with equal meanings that could have been summed up by such simple words, but to which they had to exhort themselves to their very best.

Make sure to kill them all.