Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 199

Chapter 199: Steel and blood(1) Chapter 199: Steel and blood(1) Mavius sat astride his warhorse at the rear of the formation, his gaze piercing through the chaos ahead, trying to glean some sense from the turmoil of clashing armor and dust.

His position in the reserve allowed him the vantage to observe the battle’s flow, yet today, despite the disciplined lines and calculated movements, he struggled to read the unfolding action clearly.

Frustration lining his brow, Mavius turned to Lord Aron, who sat steadfast at his side.

“What do you make of it,my lord ?

I cannot even distinguish a break on the line from a rout, like this ” Lord Aron leaned slightly forward, studying the distant infantry ranks as dust rose from the battlefield, obscuring the view.

“Your Grace,” he replied calmly, “the fight only began scarcely an hour ago.

Even with their movements, it is unlikely much has shifted yet.

If changes are occurring, they will still be subtle.

Too soon for the chaos to settle.” Mavius scowled, his eyes returning to the field, picking out pockets of movement.

He had not expected to feel so blind, yet the dust, the roar, and the endless figures melding in battle gave him nothing but frustration.

But he kept his composure; though his hands gripped the reins tightly, his knuckles paled under the mail of his gloves.

Did my father really love war so much?What is there to like?

Mavius squinted at the battlefield, his brow drawn in deep contemplation as he studied the enemy formation.

“Look there,” he said, a glint of impatience flickering in his eyes.

“The lake may pins down their left flank, but the right…

it’s wide open.

They’ve left it practically exposed.

If only our cavalry weren’t tied up with theirs, we could crush them here and now.” Lord Aron shifted in his saddle, his gaze following Mavius’ pointed finger toward the unguarded edge of the enemy formation.

‘The same could be said for ours ‘ Lord Aron wanted to say but refrained.

He was silent for a moment, calculating the distance and terrain.

“Indeed, Your Grace, it may be exposed,” Aron agreed, “but it’s a long reach.

It would take our reserve infantry at least twenty minutes to reach the enemy’s flank, maybe more.” Mavius grunted, his eyes still narrowed on the opportunity ahead.

“Yes…

but if they did reach them, they could prove decisive,” he mused, a glint of conviction beginning to replace his earlier frustration.

“They could be the nail that finally drives our victory home.” Lord Aron nodded while thinking that their emperor was too rash “In theory, yes.

If we timed it right, they could tip the scales.

We would need to commit quickly, though, before the enemy has a chance to adjust their formation, and even then we do not know if they will really be that effective.” Mavius’ eyes sparked with renewed focus, his impatience giving way to determination.

“Then we may have no choice but to test that theory, Aron.

” Mavius set his jaw, his decision made.

“We will take one thousand five hundred men and hit their right flank,” he commanded, his voice firm and unyielding.

Without pause, he turned to Lord Mereth, his gaze hard as steel.

“Lord Mereth,” he said, his tone carrying both the weight of command and expectation.

“You’ll shall be the one to lead them.

Take this moment, and don’t let it slip away.” Lord Mereth straightened, his expression shifting from surprise to deep pride.

“Your Grace,” he replied, bowing his head slightly.

“It is an honor to serve at your command.” Mavius gave a curt nod, watching as Mereth spurred his horse forward, turning his steed to the back of the army , where the soldiers stood in reserve, waiting for their chance to enter the battlefield.

——- Marthio’s gaze moved across the battlefield, and a faint cloud of dust rose on the far horizon, twisting and growing with each passing moment.

His eyes narrowed, assessing the formation within the haze.

They are attempting to flank us, Marthio realized as he quickly racked his brain to think about how man men would be proper to be used to stop them.

After some seconds of hesitation, he turned sharply to his trusted aid that had followed him through many wars  “Vrivio,” he barked, his voice urgent yet steady.

“Take half of our reserve force-move immediately to our right and stop their advance.

Do anything in your power to stop them; otherwise we risk collapse on the flank even before my son has the time to do his part of the plan.” Vrivio’s eyes gleamed with understanding, and he nodded, determination set in his jaw.

“It will be done, Lord Marthio,” he replied, gripping his sword tightly.

He raised his hand, signaling to his men, who quickly fell into formation behind him, ready to intercept the incoming threat, as, differently from Mavius’s composition, he had his reserve forces divided between the center and the right, as the left was given enough men to resist a simple infantry charge.  Mavius’s forces moved swiftly, skirting around the battlefield in a tight formation as they angled toward the vulnerable far-right flank of Marthio’s line.

Dust billowed around them as they charged, creating a cloud that seemed to pulse with the thunder of boots and the glint of drawn blades.

At their back, Lord Mereth spurred his horse on, the crest of his helm visible as he urged his men forward, swords raised, their voices rolling across the field in a fierce battle cry.

But Marthio’s counter move was already in motion.

Vrivio’s detachment surged forward, soldiers in steady columns meeting the advancing force with precision and grim resolve.

As the two forces clashed, Vrivio’s men formed a wall of shields, halting the momentum of Mavius’s assault and sending ripples of resistance through the enemy line.

The clang of steel on steel filled the air, each blow accompanied by shouts and cries as Vrivio’s troops drove their spears and swords into the ranks of Mereth’s charging force, refusing to yield even an inch of ground.

Truth be told, both forces were not as well-equipped as the first ranks battling each other, as the second-rate troops, mostly those that were enlisted on the way from the various villages they encountered, were kept in reserve used only to reinforce lines thought to be buckling under pression .

Vrivio’s men met the oncoming charge with grit rather than grandeur.

The soldiers held tight to their positions, gripping shields and standing in formation.

Many in Mavius’s ranks were no better trained , their hastily donned armor and mix of weaponry being given too soon after recruitment as they had little time to prepare, creating a fight that looked more like a brawl than a military confrontation.  In the middle of the battle a soldier with a jagged-edged axe squared off against a farmer drafted just days before, who clutched a mace with all he had.

The soldier swung with everything he could, forcing the farmer back with each strike.

But the farmer, fear giving way to fury, let out a guttural yell and charged forward, surprising the veteran by slamming the club down onto his shoulder with a crack that echoed over the field.

The veteran stumbled, his weapon dropping from his grip, and the farmer followed through, bashing him again and again until the older man fell silent.

Elsewhere, two men wrestled over in the ground, their hands and faces dirty and sweaty as they pushed and shoved, each determined to gain the upper hand.

One finally managed to twist the blade free and ram it, hilt-first, into his opponent’s gut, forcing him to reel backward.

He didn’t pause as he repeated the motion this time hilt-last.

—————— The clang of metal and the cries of soldiers echoed across the plains, carried by the wind like a grim symphony as Marthio tried to make sense of what was happening, he could however see his flanking force being stopped by the enemy’s reinforcement.  So much for that plan, Mavius thought as he clicked his tongue.

Suddenly however , the pounding of hooves thundered behind him, a swift rhythm cutting through the din.

Mavius’s grip tightened on his reins, and he turned sharply to see a dust-covered rider pulling his horse to a hasty stop just in front of him.

The rider’s expression was grim, his voice barely steady as he delivered his message.

“Your Grace,” he gasped, still catching his breath.

“The reserve troops… they’ve spotted enemy forces approaching from behind.” For a moment, Mavius’ mind did not register the information , then when it did, he thought about the chance the information was wrong, and when all that failed he finally and truly understood the weight of what he has just been told.

Lord Aron spat a curse his face twisted in incredulity .

“What in the blazes have the scouts been doing?” he growled, looking out over the plains, vast and open with barely a rise or tree to obscure the view.

“How could they let an entire force sneak up on us?

This is no terrain for ambushes!” Mavius’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and urgency, and his voice cut through Aron’s grumbling like steel, as fear was creeping his way inside the young ruler.

“Enough, lord Aron.

Take whatever reserves we have left and intercept them.

Stop them from closing in on our rear at any cost.” Lord Aron, momentarily thrown by the intensity of Mavius’s command, nodded briskly, his expression hardening with resolve.

“Understood, Your Grace.” He turned his horse and called out to the nearest captains, his voice ringing with authority as he moved to gather what remaining reserves could be spared, rallying them quickly to counter the unexpected threat approaching from behind.

Mavius watched them ride off, his jaw set.

This was a risk he hadn’t anticipated, and now every move would be a gamble.  For a moment, Mavius’s gaze lingered on the chaos of the battlefield, and the thought crossed his mind like a shadow-perhaps it would be wiser to call it a day.

To pull back while he still had an army intact, to avoid risking a complete rout.

He weighed the idea, feeling the weight of each soldier’s life and the strength of his army hanging in the balance.

If he ordered a retreat now, he might salvage enough to fight another day.

But a second thought nagged at him, a stubborn ember of pride and ambition refusing to die.

This was his moment, his chance to prove his right to the throne.

To retreat now might look like weakness to those watching, and word would travel fast across the empire.

The enemy still stood before him, stretched and battered, perhaps just as weary as his own forces.

With a deep breath, he clenched his jaw and decided to wait.

Just a little longer.

Perhaps the tide would shift; perhaps one last push could bring the breakthrough he needed.

He would watch the field closely, giving fate a bit more time to favor him.

——— Tyros rode at the head of his forces, a mad gleam in his eye as he urged his horse forward.

Behind him, a wild mix of hardened men followed-bandits turned soldiers, toughened by survival and eager for blood, and the disciplined ranks of the mercenary company his father had spared no expense to hire.  As Tyros charged, his soldiers followed in a chaotic yet fierce advance, their cries filling the air, a roar of defiance against the disciplined line they hurtled toward.

Dust billowed in their wake, and Tyros could feel the pounding of hooves reverberate through him, matching the quickening of his pulse.

Ahead, the reserve forces of Mavius braced for impact, hastily forming a line against this unexpected surge.

Yet when the clash came they were unprepared for Tyros’s forces brutal onslaught.

The clash was a violent storm of iron and flesh-spears splintered, shields cracked, and men on both sides shouted and groaned as chaos erupted.

Tyros’s men, crude but relentless, fought with wild abandon, cutting into the ranks of Mavius’s reserves with the raw energy of men used to taking what they could get by force.

Tyros himself was at the front as he leaned forward on his horse, gripping the reins with one hand while his sword hung poised in the other.

His eyes locked onto a footman who was attempting to fend him off, a rugged soldier clad in chainmail, eyes glinting with grim determination.

The man braced his spear, aiming it at Tyros, who maneuvered his horse to the side, before deflected the pointed steel with his sword .

With a fierce grin, Tyros swung his sword down toward the man’s shoulder, but the chainmail absorbed much of the impact, the blade hitting with a dull thud that reverberated through the metal links.

The force, however, dislocated the footman’s shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain while stumbling to keep his footing as his spear dropped from his grasp.

Tyros didn’t let up.

With a swift twist of his wrist, he angled his sword again and delivered a quick, lethal swing.

This time, the blade cut into the man’s neck just below his helm, slipping between the helmet and chainmail.

Blood sprayed from the wound as the man crumpled to his knees, his body giving out as Tyros pulled his sword free.

Around Tyros, the fighting became a whirlwind of violence.

Each clash of swords, the guttural cries of men, and the metallic taste of blood heightened his senses.

He turned to see another of his men grappling with a foot soldier, wrestling for control of the sword.

To the left of the brave lord, a burly bandit-turned-soldier was locked in a struggle with one of Mavius’s reserve men.

The soldier had a spear, jabbing at his opponent’s shield, but the bandit only laughed, ducking under a thrust before closing the distance.

With a grunt, he then used the rim of his shield to slam the man off balance, then brought down his mace in a brutal arc, crushing the helmet and felling the man instantly.

Tyros could feel the tide of the battle shifting, his soldiers fighting with a furious tenacity that drove them forward.

“Keep pressing!” Tyros shouted, his voice ringing above the chaos.

“They falter!

Show them no mercy!” His men, emboldened by his words and the sight of their commanders fighting valiantly at the head of the battle , pushed them harder than any word could , using their momentum to cause as much damage as possible