Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Standing atop his horse, Alpheo watched the tide of men move across the plains , eight thousand and five hundred soldiers.This was the most he had ever seen, except for Gratios’ army.

Of course, that was yet; one day he would lead an army bigger than that. But for now, that hill he would trudge on looked like a mountain.

From where he stood, it looked like the earth itself was stirring, flashes of steel, banners rippling, the rhythmic clatter of armor and tools merging into a steady, purposeful hum.

He had seen armies before, countless times as he would do in the future, but never would he feel this....feeling ever again.

The first, after all was the most memorable.

The plain stretched out endlessly. It was a beautiful field , and that, in truth, was the shame. Too flat, too open. A hilly terrain would’ve served him better; nothing soured a charge like an uneven slope. But one couldn’t have everything. The gods , not that he believed in that polytheistic nonsense they drilled down his throat, had given him a river on the right flank, a gift he would not waste, and a wide enough field to shape his defense as he pleased.

The enemy would come from the center and put all on the west, their numbers swelling probably close to twice his own. He could already see it in his mind: the banners, the dust clouds, the thunder of hooves.

It would not be an easy fight. But it would be his fight.

After all, the left flank, the one that would bear the brunt of the assault with the possibility fo flanking, belonged to him.

”How are our men?” Alpheo asked, not turning around. The crunch of heavy boots on soil told him all he needed to know.

”Good. Excited.” The voice came from behind, low and amused. Jarza. He had guessed right.... ”They’re putting up the camp for the whole army. Haven’t complained half as much as I thought they would at four times their usual work. I guess a month resting at the Eternal City pricked their pride’s cock enough to pump them up.There is some meaning in being here after all.... I have a good feeling about it”

Alpheo allowed himself the faintest smile. ”I didn’t take you for an optimist.”

Jarza laughed, his helmet tucked under his arm, the wind brushing through his grizzled hair. ”I ain’t. Just got a feeling, that’s all.”

”A feeling?”

”Yeah.” He tilted his head toward the distant line of soldiers digging trenches and raising pikes. ”We’ve bled from the northern coast to the heart of the continent, crossed mountains, deserts, and gods know how many plains. And here we are , standing shoulder to shoulder under a broken eagle that barely remembers how to fly. There’s got to be a reason for that.From Arlania to Yarzat, isn’t that our saying? Well ain’t Romelia in between?” He smiled before looking up, squinting at the pale sky, as if searching for faces in the clouds peering down at them.

Did he believe it was providence guiding them forward?

Alpheo followed his gaze for a moment, saying nothing. He envied that kind of faith , the unshakable belief that all their struggles meant something, that fate, or gods, or destiny had guided them here.

But Alpheo knew better. No gods had blessed their march. No invisible hand had guided them through fire and blood. Everything they were, everything they had , it was built with their sweat, their scars, and their will.

Much more impressive and yet less reassuring.There was something anxious to know that all depended on you alone.

Jarza turned back to him with a lopsided grin. ”It can’t all be for nothing, right? Wouldn’t make any damn sense otherwise to bring us here only to let us fall.”

He may have not agreed , but damn if that smile wasn’t contagious. Alpheo found himself sharing one despite it all.

”Do our men feel the same?” he asked.

”I’d say they’ve got more faith in you than in the gods above,” Jarza replied, chuckling. ”They think there’s a reason you’re called Invictus.”

Alpheo looked out over the plain once more. All of them alive, all of them trusting him to keep them that way.

Undefeated.

Of course there was a reason for that ,he simply hadn’t met his match yet. He hoped this time wouldn’t be that one.

He straightened in the saddle, the sunlight catching on the gilded edge of his armor. Somewhere beyond that horizon, an army twice his size was marching to meet them

He found no fear of that.

This was not the future. The Whore Prince was not his equal; he had no equals, he would not lose to him.This was his field.

”The enemy’s strength will be in their clibanarii.”

The word soared in the air like a dark bird ,memories flickered behind Alpheo’s eyes: steel hooves, red-steel-tipped lances, and the ground shaking under a tide of armored horsemen. The clibanarii were the pride of Romelia, men and beasts encased in iron, a charging fortress that could turn battle lines into mulch.

Alpheo’s tone was calm, though. Controlled. ”It is fortunate for us,” he continued, ”that the Romelians in their wisdom decided to trade discipline for grandeur. Their emperors grew too fond of parade horses and jeweled saddles. Their infantry suffered for it. So, if we can hold their cavalry, even just hold them, our men on foot will win us the day.”

Jarza grunted, half-smiling. ”Good thing you made up with Egil, then.”

Alpheo allowed himself a small nod. ”A very good thing.Missed his jests really...you are all a bunch of prude monks.”

Egil and his his hounds were the spearhead, the hammer, and the feet of his army, they were the reason why after a battle, the enemy lost enormous casualties both from steel and desertion.

He knew how to incur fear in the hearts of a retreating enemy....

And they would be the key to this battle.

”The river will guard our left,” Alpheo continued after a shared chuckle at the jest, gesturing toward the blue shimmer slicing through the horizon, ”and our right will be fortified. That means only one direction remains , forward.”

He looked to Jarza, his eyes gleaming. ”As we always did. Only forward.”

A beat of silence passed between them, as they knew that ”forward” had always meant through blood.

”If we break them before their cavalry breaks ours,” Alpheo said, his voice low but sure, ”the day will be ours. But if our riders fall first...”

He didn’t need to finish.

Jarza frowned. ”You think the other flanks will keep up?”

”No.”

The answer came without hesitation or reprieve.

”They’ll feel the pressure long before we do,” Alpheo went on. ”They’re brave enough but bravery without purpose is nothing. They’ll be outnumbered, outmatched, and afraid. We, on the other hand...” He looked out over the thousands of men that days ago had been laboring under the midday sun, digging, hauling, hammering, sweat and dust turning the air golden. ”...we have discipline. And purpose. And that will have to be enough.”

Jarza followed his gaze.

”That’s why all this racket,” Alpheo said. ”The trenches, the spikes, the ditches , we’re making the ground itself fight for us. If victory can’t be found in ideas, then it will be found in the dirt. If it is not in the abstract, we find meaning, it is in the physical plane. You put too much trust in the divine friend...”

They knew the enemy’s cavalry outnumbered them. They knew the odds, the risks, the sheer brutality that was coming. But when had that ever stopped them?

Alpheo straightened in his saddle, his gaze fixed on the far horizon where the enemy banners would soon rise. ”Lucky enough, they are men,” he said softly. ”And men can be killed.”

He looked over his shoulder at his soldiers , his own. They too were simply men...

”So we climb again. Like we always have. One hill more, one battle more. Until there are no more left to climb and we are on the peak.”

He smiled then , a small, grim thing, as if it knew of the blood that would be shed.

”Not that it needs telling, it is in our nature after all.”

The two held each other gaze, finding relief in the other’s confidence.

Then came the sound.

It started faintly, like distant thunder rolling over the flatlands ,a rhythm that only soldiers recognized instantly: hooves. And fast at that.

Alpheo turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun. A plume of dust rose far down the road, cutting a line across the plain. And through that veil of ochre, he saw it , a figure on horseback, riding as if the furies themselves were behind him.

Before the man even came into clear view, Alpheo knew.

The glint of blond hair, catching the sunlight like a blade’s edge, told him all he needed.

He did not need to hear his friend’s voice, or see the look on his face, to understand what that gallop meant. When Egil rode like that, there was only ever one reason.

Scouting was his duty when not in battle.

It was to begin.