Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 198

Chapter 198: Kin’s blood(2) Chapter 198: Kin’s blood(2) The two armies collided with a thunderous roar, the earth itself seeming to tremble beneath the weight of thousands of armored men slamming into one another.

Shields clashed against shields, a chorus of metal scraping, bashing, and breaking as the front ranks pushed forward with grim determination.

Swords rose and fell in brutal rhythm, each strike seeking a gap in the enemy’s defenses.

Men staggered, grappled, and fought fiercely in the narrow space between the lines, sweat and blood mixing on their faces as they heaved against their opponents.

Spears thrust forward from behind the shields, punching through gaps in armor or trying to simply smash through their chains .

Every inch of ground was contested, and in the midst of the turmoil, the lines swayed, holding strong but only by sheer force of will as both sides locked in a deadly embrace.

 A soldier in Mavius’ ranks, barely old enough to grow a beard who tried his luck in war ,thrusted his spear in desperation, managing to pierce through the links of the enemy’s chainmail and pierce his guts, much to the surprise of both of them.

And so his young mind, influenced by a life lived in what he regarded as a ‘boring’ peace finally truly took in the horrors of war that he had so much idealized in his own short life.  And so with an apology that he did not know if it was referred to the dying man or to the gods, he moved forward.  Not far off, a grizzled veteran that fought in the catastrophe of Arlania, the battle that saw their emperor fall in the sand, parried a strike aimed at his neck, knocking his opponent’s blade wide before stepping in close and driving his blade in the enemy’s eyes.

The soldier crumpled, screaming, and the veteran moved forward after slicing his throat, giving him the only mercy an enemy could give another.

From his vantage point, Marthio gazed over the chaotic, brutal clash below, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the battlefield.

The plains stretched wide and flat beneath the overcast sky, offering no hiding places, no shelter-only an unbroken expanse where every movement was laid bare.

Even the dust clouds kicked up by the cavalry on the distant right flank were visible, a rolling haze of earth and grit that marked the violent dance of mounted warriors.

Through the dust, he could see the silhouettes of armored clibanarii locked in battle, their heavy, gleaming armor flashing in brief, brutal exchanges as they clashed with opposing riders.  The scale of the cavalry engagement was staggering, with at least 2,000 mounted soldiers colliding in waves of fierce combat, surging forward , flanking , retreating and charging again.

Clibanarii fought clibanarii, the weight of their armor seeming to intensify each impact, while lighter mounted-mercenary riders darted around, attempting to find an opening in the iron-clad wall.

Marthio turned abruptly, his gaze hardening as he caught sight of a nearby messenger.

“Go to the archers,” he commanded, his tone sharp “Tell them to put down their bows and take up their close weapons.

I want them in the melee-now!” The messenger nodded swiftly, darting off toward the rear lines where the archers, having loosed nearly every arrow in their quivers, had begun to form up with uncertainty.

At the word of Marthio’s command, they exchanged quick, steely glances, a ripple of determination tightening their expressions as they readied themselves for the brutal close combat awaiting them.

One by one, the archers sheathed their bows, dropping them to the ground where quivers already lay empty, and reached for the weapons strapped at their sides.

Some gripped the rough hilts of short swords; others hefted daggers and maces, their hands tightening around the crude, brutal metal.

Without hesitation, they surged forward to join the fray, falling in alongside the infantry, their disciplined lines now breaking apart into a swirling, brutal melee.  “All we must do is maintain our ground,” he thought, his gaze fixed on the chaotic struggle before him.

The true blade that would cut off their enemy, was his son.The battle teetered on a knife’s edge, and all they had to do was hold, as it was not their job to decide the outcome.

Marthio’s thoughts turned to his eldest son, a man who had always been as wild and unpredictable as the sea, yet as captivating as its waves.

He’s mad, always has been, Marthio reflected, a faint smile tracing his lips despite the chaos before him.

And perhaps that madness will serve us all yet.

But a pang of reality struck, a heavier thought settling in his chest.

I’m growing old.

The realization wounded him more deeply than he’d care to admit, an acknowledgment no denial could change.

Just the effort to stay upright on his horse, bearing the full weight of armor, had become a battle in itself.

Is this the sign that it’s time to hang up my cloak?

he wondered, feeling the ache in his shoulders.

I’ve taught them all I could, poured my soul into shaping them.

Two out of three sons grew into men of honor-that is more than I could have hoped for.

A quiet satisfaction tempered the sorrow in his heart; he felt, in a way, that he’d done well as a father, fulfilled the duties that truly mattered.

He cast his gaze over the melee before him, the clash of swords and cries of men filling the air, and wondered how many more of these battles he had left in him.

How many more times can I bear the weight of this armor, this command?

It was a question that echoed in his mind as he gripped the reins, feeling the relentless march of time weigh heavily against him.

For now, he was here, leading them, but he felt the sands slipping through his fingers-one fight at a time.

For now he just wondered about his son —————— “Row, you bastards !” The shout cut through the slap of waves and the grunts of men pulling at their oars.

Tyros stood at the helm of the small fisherman’s ship, braced against the wind as it whipped at his face, filling his lungs with salt and his heart with fire.

Around him, twenty-four men strained at the oars, muscles taut and faces set with a mixture of determination and fear.

Behind them stretched a ragtag fleet of one hundred and nineteen ships all small fishing vesseal , each one packed to the brim with men just as hungry for fortune-and just as reckless.

Tyros grinned, his teeth flashing white against his skin, his eyes fierce with the thrill of the the lake and the scent of battle on the horizon.

He took a step forward, planting his feet wide as he bellowed again, his voice fierce enough to stir even the most weary to one last surge of effort.

“Row for glory!

For coins!

For whatever gods-damned thing you want-just row!” The men groaned and redoubled their efforts, their backs bending, muscles rippling as they rowed.

Tyros’ smile spread wide across his face, the glint in his eyes hard and eager.

Through lands and seas, he thought, I will bear steel, and the world will remember my name, did the song go like this?

The boats surged forward, slicing through the lake’s choppy surface as the winds caught the sails they’d stitched and hammered together, each plank crafted in haste but held strong by their determination.

Hundreds of hands had worked relentlessly to build this fleet.

In only a week,they brought together 120 small ships to sail across the lake.

If I was not a noble, I would have made a carreer on ship-building.

Throwing the funny thought aside, Tyros finally began, his voice low and steady as he sang, each word catching in the salty air, “Through lands and seas, I will bear steel, and the world will remember my name…” A few voices took it up, repeating his words with quiet strength, as this was a popular imperial navy song, that anyone living in a city with a port would certainly had learnt.

One by one, more men joined in, their voices mingling and swelling like the waves around them.

Soon, the whole ship was singing, their words rhythmic, matching the rowing strokes.

Tyros grinned, his eyes bright as he threw his head back and let the melody grow louder.

He raised his fist, waving it in time with the beat as he led the chant, each line flowing from him to his men and back again.

“Through lands and seas, I will bear steel, And the world will remember my name!

Through storm and squall, through blood and flame, We carve our fate, we earn our fame!

No chains can bind, no walls withstand, The fire fierce within our hand.

With every strike, with every scar, We forge our path, we sail afar.

In shadow’s grip, we do not yield, Our hearts are fire, our souls a shield.

The tempest calls, the thunder cries, And still we march, with fearless eyes.

Through storm and squall, through blood and flame, We carve our fate, we earn our fame!” The men roared the final line, Tyros shouting along with them as the ship rocked with the force of their voices.

The lake’s surface rippled beneath their boat, the chant carrying over the water to the fleet behind them as Tyros sang on, his smile fierce with the thrill of the march toward glory.

Tyros, standing at the bow, led the chorus with a raucous laugh, his grin as wild as the winds that whipped over the water.

As the far shore grew closer, the men’s spirits rose even higher.

They rowed harder, their laughter echoing across the water, each stroke of the oar bringing them nearer to their landing.

Tyros, swinging his head with the beat of the chant, called out phrases between verses, urging them onward.

“Row, for victory!

Row, for glory!

Row, for your pockets heavy with coing!” he shouted, and his men cheered, some joining his laughter, others singing louder, every one of them as fiery and eager as their leader.

The shoreline loomed, and in the last throes of their chant, their voices reached a fever pitch.

Tyros’ smile only grew as he watched the distant figures on the shore.

Soon, the men who had followed him from boat to boat would be stepping foot on enemy land, steel drawn, and songs of battle still ringing in their ears.

The men he was given were barely nameable as soldiers, a group of bandits and mercenaries, who would be tasked to decide the fate of two monarchs.If he was not to lead them forward himself, he would find the situation truly ironic, yet as the winds whipped on his face one simple thought came to Tyros’ mind.

Isn’t this truly living the moment?