Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 200

Chapter 200: Steel and blood(3) Chapter 200: Steel and blood(3) Mavius shifted uneasily in his saddle, his leg twitching against the stirrup as he scanned the battlefield, the clash of steel and cries of men filling the air.

His gaze hardened as he weighed his options, the decision clawing at his mind.

He muttered to himself, a low, strained voice barely audible under the cacophony of battle around him.

Cutting my losses now might be the only sensible choice.

I still hold the Fingers… no one can dislodge me from there.

I could return, regroup-press south again when the time is ripe, under better conditions.

His fingers tightened around his reins, jaw clenched as he considered the grim reality.

This is my advantage to keep…

as long as my forces live to fight another day, that advantage is mine.

He looked out over in front of his men, seeing the push and pull of the fighting, feeling the precarious balance of victory slipping away as behind him in a clash he could not see lied his possible defeat But if I let the entire army die here…His brow furrowed as he thought of the consequences-a sudden, bitter surge of uncertainty settling in his chest.

If I let them fall, there’s no telling what might happen.

Will the garrison left in the Fingers resist?Will the other lords raise another army the next season?Still willing to follow a loser?

With another twitch of his leg, he gave a low hiss of frustration,what was he to do?

Mavius gritted his teeth, his gaze flicking between the clashing lines and the dust rising from distant skirmishes.

A frustrated thought bubbled to the surface, almost like a whispered accusation.

“Why in the hell did that mad bastard of a father love war so much?” he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

He couldn’t understand it-the thrill his father always seemed to find in the chaos, in the constant risk of ruin, in the raw edge of life and death that hovered over each command.

To him, the weight of it all was sickening-a pressure bearing down with each decision, a thousand ways to make one fatal misstep.

The very idea that one wrong call here-one poorly timed retreat or advance-could see his forces shattered, his army broken, even his own life ended in the rush of blood and steel.

His father had reveled in that feeling, as if it were a game with lives as pieces.

Mavius shook his head, disgusted.

“What was there to like?” he murmured bitterly.

“One twist of fate, one wrong move, and the whole thing falls apart… or worse, I’m dead along with it.” Just as Mavius wrestled with indecision, fate made its call for him.

 A messenger galloped up, his face pale with urgency, barely bringing his horse to a halt before blurting, “Your Grace!

Lord Aron is calling for more reinforcements-his lines are being pushed back!” Mavius’s eyes darkened, his expression snapping into a scowl.

“Reinforcements?” he barked.

“He’s got all the damned reserves we had left!” The messenger recoiled under the weight of Mavius’s fury, gripping the reins tightly as if to brace himself against the blow of his liege’s frustration.

A tense silence fell between them, thickening the air.

Then, after a long, ragged breath, Mavius steadied himself, the harsh lines of his expression settling as grim clarity took hold.

“It’s time to cut our losses,” he muttered, more to himself than the shaken rider.

Mavius turned sharply to the messenger, his tone clipped and unyielding.

“Go to Lord Aron.

Tell him I am calling for a full retreat.

He is to hold back the enemy forces at the rear for as long as he can.

We’ll cover the withdrawal.Tell him the safety of the army is in his hand ” The messenger nodded briskly, spinning his horse around and speeding back toward the chaos of the battlefield.

Mavius then turned to the line of knights waiting near him, his eyes assessing each with swift decisiveness.

He singled out three.

“You and you ” he commanded, pointing to each one in turn, “take word to the commanders on both flanks.

Order them to fall back in good order” As good as they can, he added in his mind .

The knights snapped to attention, each one offering a salute before breaking off to deliver his orders to the wings of the retreating army.

As they rode off into the thick of the smoke, Mavius felt a hollow stillness settle over him.

He glanced upward, the chill of the decision still in his gut.

A flock of ravens circled overhead, their harsh cries echoing across the field ————– Marthio narrowed his gaze as he observed the distant enemy lines beginning to falter, then shift, inch by inch, backward.

A flicker of realization dawned in his mind as he watched their disorganized withdrawal-Tyros’s plan had worked.

His boy had won the day, Mavius’s army was pulling back, and Marthio knew with absolute certainty that this was no feigned retreat as the enemy commander had an enemy at his back.

A fierce, satisfied grin crossed Marthio’s face as he lifted his fist high.

His voice thundered over the clash of metal and the pounding hooves, a rallying call that surged through his own lines.

“They’re falling back!

Advance!

Pursue them-press them as they break!” The men at his command surged forward, their morale bolstered by the sight of the retreating enemy.

Marthio’s heart beat strong in his chest as he led them onward, knowing that Mavius’s forces had nowhere left to run, and that this battle was now his to win.

With Marthio’s command, the entire infantry surged forward, a wave of steel and determination bearing down on the retreating enemy.

A sea of men raised their weapons, their pace quickening from a determined march into an all-out charge.

Dust rose beneath their boots, thickening the air, while battle cries echoed across the field, drowning out the distant clangor of weapons still clashing at the flanks.

As the fleeing enemy soldiers glanced over their shoulders, panic set in their eyes.

Like hounds after quarry, Marthio’s soldiers closed the distance, swords and spears raised, pressing every advantage to break the enemy’s already fragile resolve.

For hours they had been fighting and now that they had the opportunity to release all the stress accumulated during the battle, they pounced ahead like lions “After them!

Don’t let the cowards breathe!”  “Run, you bastards!

Not so brave now, are you?” “Send ’em to the crows!” As the retreat turned chaotic, the slowest among Mavius’s soldiers were the ones to be cut down.

One footman tripped on uneven ground.

He scrambled to his feet, but a pursuing spear from Marthio’s ranks pierced his back before he could take another step, sending him face-first into the dirt.

Nearby, another soldier, clutching his side where he’d already taken a glancing blow, stumbled.

He looked over his shoulder, desperation in his eyes, just as a sword flashed, catching him across the neck in a spray of red.

He crumpled with barely a cry.

Another young recruit, who lived all his life in a small village, before being enlisted as the army passed through his home, with fear stamped across his face tried to climb over a pile of his fallen comrades, only for an enemy axeman to grab him by the shoulder and pull him back down.

The young man’s scream was cut short as the axe struck down .

The slow, the wounded, and the exhausted were left behind, easy prey for Marthio’s relentless soldiers, who cut down each straggler with merciless efficiency, their cheers mixing with the groans and screams of those who could not escape.

Even the footmen that surrendered were not spared, for as as soon as they threw the weapons down, a swing of the enemy’s soldiers made them realize how maybe it would have been better, if they had just kept running instead.

On the far right, the cavalry battle was finally drawing to a close as the order for a retreat arrived to them too .

Hooves thundered across the field as the clash of armored clibanarii and hired riders waned, the last embers of resistance snuffed out.

For nearly half an hour, Marthio’s cavalry chased their enemy counterparts across the plains.

The two forces clashed, withdrew, and surged forward in a violent dance as armored clibanarii pressed against hired riders, each maneuvering to outflank the other, trying to buy time for their comrades behind them .

Hooves thundered across the battlefield, and the air was thick with the clang of steel and the grunts of exertion.

Then, in a brief lull, Marthio’s lead riders looked back and caught sight of the distant infantry lines, where Mavius’s forces had begun a full retreat.

Murmurs of confusion passed among the mounted soldiers, the realization settling like a spark igniting dry tinder-the enemy was abandoning the field.

From the front of the cavalry lines,the commander rose high in his saddle, his voice booming like thunder over the tumult of battle.

He was Commander Severian Cassian, head of the imperial clibanarii, ” Soldiers of House Cassian!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the din of chaos.

“Look yonder!

The enemy falters!

They’re running!

To the infantry, we ride!

Show them no mercy!” The cavalry responded with a surge of energy, their spirits ignited by Severian’s commanding presence.

His words were a clarion call, resonating deep within their hearts as they rallied around him, driven by a shared purpose.

“We shall cut them down where they stand!

For the glory of the empire and the honor of our house, charge!” Without hesitation, Marthio’s cavalry wheeled their horses, abandoning the pursuit of the enemy riders and charging at full speed toward the retreating infantry.

Hooves pounded as they raced back across the plain, determination etched into their faces as they closed in on Mavius’s fleeing foot soldiers.

The riders spurred their mounts on, eager to catch the slower infantrymen, weapons poised as they bore down with the relentless force of a wave crashing ashore.

The rebel’s riders, who at that point had been buying time for their comrades behind to escape, decided to call it a day and leave the footmen to their fate as they used the opportunity to turn tail and return to a safe haven.

And so the day was won , the nobles sitting in the capital would declare.

And so the day was lost , the nobles fleeing to the Fingers would instead lament on that fateful day.

As what could have been a decisive end for the senseless conflict that plagued what once was called ‘The Giant of the East ‘, instead became the spark that stoked the still-burning fire of civil war.

For as the sun lowered to the horizon, it became clear that each clash, each fallen soldier, only served to dig deeper into the hole their empire was falling into, as brother fought against brother, spilling the same blood into the uncaring ground.(IMAGE OF BATTLE IN COMMENTS)