Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 229

Chapter 229: Face to face Chapter 229: Face to face Alpheo’s army stood in disciplined rows across the broad, open plain-a force of 1,900 soldiers stretched in ranks, their armor and weapons catching the early light.

Shields gleamed, and men formed a bristling line, poised as if part of a single, breathing creature.

Behind the front line, archers positioned themselves, checking their bows and exchanging quiet words, while Alpheo’s cavalry held firm on the flanks, their horses snorting and shifting with the anticipation of the charge to come.

To the far right of the battlefield lay the deserted village of Valdarr, its empty houses and abandoned fields casting a silent, haunting presence over the scene.

Once a thriving settlement, Valdarr had been raided by Egil’s forces a week prior; its people were now huddled within the walls of Arduronaven, anxiously awaiting the outcome of the coming clash.  As Alpheo watched the horizon, the Herculian army began to emerge over the plain in a vast, shifting line-a sea of steel and color stretching wide across the landscape.

Banners flapped above the mass of soldiers, bearing the symbols of Herculia’s noble houses, vibrant and proud against the morning sky.

Rows of.

infantry marched in disciplined ranks, flanked by squadrons of heavily armored cavalry, their polished armor glinting like mirrors in the sunlight.

Alpheo could feel his men’s tension rising, quiet murmurs spreading among the younger, unseasoned troops as they took in the sight of the imposing force before them.

He felt the stirrings of his own worry but held himself steady, face unmoving, as he gripped the reins of his horse.

He knew the weight of his position-a general had to be a stone.

“Hold fast,” he muttered to himself, schooling his expression into calm resolve.

Every breath, every gesture, every steady word he spoke would shape the courage of his men.

Alpheo knew his plan, and he had trained himself to be unreadable.

In a way, Alpheo envied Jarza, Asag, and Egil.

Their faith in him was so unwavering that they seemed to view victory as the only possible outcome.

Ever since they’d joined his side, they’d known nothing but success, witnessing his rise from a slave to the prince of a state in mere months.

To them, his presence alone seemed to guarantee triumph; the idea of defeat simply did not exist in their minds.

But Alpheo knew better.

He remembered the many times they’d come close to losing it all-moments that haunted him, close calls only he fully understood.

Alpheo had arranged his forces into three distinct divisions.

He positioned himself on the left flank, Shahab commanded the center, and Lord Damaris took charge of the right.

Forced by both strategy and politics, Alpheo had to hand over a third of his forces to Damaris; the lord had contributed two hundred soldiers, making him one of the more significant backers of this campaign.

Alpheo split his seasoned White Army, placing two-thirds under his own command and giving the remaining third to Shahab, while the left was bolstered with the assorted troops from the various lords who had sent their third and fourth sons to fulfill their feudal obligations.

His own division was the most numerous and, crucially, the best trained and equipped.

Alpheo intended to utilize a classic hammer-and-anvil tactic, putting the weight of his forces on the left to serve as the hammer while Shahab and Damaris’ men would form the anvil, holding the enemy in place.

Usually such thing required the use of cavalry as hammer, unfortunately the only thing Alpheo planned to use the cavalry for was to waste time.

As such this arrangement relied on the ability of his own troops to break through an entire flank and sweep around, pressing their advantage on one side with sheer force.

Alpheo knew that victory hinged on one decisive, brutal strike-one powerful enough to collapse the enemy’s left flank entirely.

There was no room for hesitation, no second chances.

To pull off this gambit, he would have to commit every ounce of strength and skill at his disposal, throwing the full weight of his best soldiers, his finest tactics, and his own daring leadership into that single point of attack His gaze swept over the hardened ranks of the White Army, his own warriors who’d proven their mettle time and again, and he felt a glimmer of resolve.

The left flank was the key, and he was ready to throw every last resource he had into smashing it open, gambling on speed, precision, and overwhelming force to break the Herculians before they had the chance to understand what hit them.

Across the open field, a lone rider emerged, the white flag of truce held high, fluttering against the wind.

He moved forward with a measured pace, his gaze fixed on the banners of Yarzat and the White Army, the royal crest unmistakable against the white field marked by two diagonal black stripes.

As he drew closer, he reined in his horse, momentarily stunned by the sight of the army before him.

The soldiers of the White Army stood shoulder to shoulder, a seemingly impenetrable wall, their armor gleaming in the morning sun.

Each soldier wore the same shade, every helm and plate coordinated in darkened steel, creating an imposing, unified appearance.

The army looked less like a gathering of men and more like a single, relentless force-a wall of iron prepared to answer any threat.

The rider took a steadying breath, reminded by their solemn gaze that he was not among allies.

He lifted his flag higher, letting know that he came in peace.

and waited for the summons that would allow him to approach further.

———- These things are as useless as priests in a brothel, Alpheo thought to himself, spurring his horse forward.

Behind him rode Jarza, Asag, and eight of his guards, each one bearing the polished armor and colors of the White Army.

His hopes for this parlay were nonexistent; he had agreed to it only for the chance to finally see the face of the man he’d soon be fighting.

As they advanced, Alpheo caught sight of the opposing party approaching-a small contingent of riders bearing the colors of Herculia.

When he reached a point midway between the two armies, he reined in his horse, signaling his guards to halt a few paces behind.

Alpheo sat straight, his gaze steady, observing the enemy riders who now drew closer.  At the front of the opposing party rode a middle-aged man with a face that seemed carved from stone, stern yet radiating a pride that bordered on arrogance.

His beard was thick and full, dark brown with hints of gray, framing a mouth set in a hard line.

His hair was cut short in a blunt bowl shape, giving him an air that was both precise and somewhat austere.

The man’s gaze settled on Alpheo, taking him in with a lingering, almost appraising look.

For a moment, there was silence as they sized each other up.

Then, slowly, a small, knowing smile crept across the man’s face, as though he saw something in Alpheo that amused him.

“So,” he began, his voice thick with derision, “this is the so-called ‘prince’ of Yarzat.

I must admit, I expected… well, someone with a little more bearing.

A bit more experience, maybe.

You are a bit short even ” He paused, letting his eyes drift over Alpheo’s face with feigned pity.

“Though, I suppose that’s what you get when lowborn dogs are handed titles.

Pretending to be a prince doesn’t make it so.” Alpheo’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, watching Lechlian’s sneer with cold, measuring eyes.

“Tell me, boy,” Lechlian continued with a chuckle, “what’s it like to play prince after slaying one?

How does it feel to be a little nobody masquerading as something grand?” He leaned forward on his horse.

“I wonder, does your wife enjoy knowing she married beneath her?

Or did she just open her legs for the first cur that wagged his tail her way?” Alpheo’s face hardened, a flicker of anger tightening his grip on the reins, but his voice was calm, almost cold.

“Bold words for a man who cowers behind walls and send insults delivered by his servants ” Alpheo replied, meeting Lechlian’s sneer with a razor-sharp glare.

“A prince hiding like a rat-now, that’s something worth mocking.

Are you so frightened that you need to puff yourself up with insults?

Or are you simply as hollow as your words?I saw more action in one year that you craven saw in ten” Lechlian’s smile faded, his expression darkening.

But Alpheo went on, unyielding.

“And as for my wife, you’d do well to keep your mouth shut.

Her honor’s worth more than your title, or any claim you can make.” He glanced around, voice rising as he met the eyes of Lechlian’s men with cold disdain.

“And as for pretending, let’s see who’s still standing after this battle.

I wonder if these fine soldiers will follow a ‘prince’ who can barely stand the sight of blood, you see the men behind me?

They would follow me to the gods’ hells and back, can you say that same for yours?” Lechlian’s eyes flashed with rage, but Alpheo’s gaze was unwavering.

“Save your breath, Lechlian,” Alpheo added with quiet menace.

“Soon enough, the field will decide which of us is a true prince-and which is just another man whose mouth writes checks his sword can’t cash.

I am no prophet, but I can see that by sundown you will have an army no more and you shall run back at court defeated…” Lechlian’s face twisted with disdain as he leaned back in his saddle, his voice clipped and mocking.

“Enjoy this little display while it lasts.

The battlefield won’t care about your bravado, nor will it have mercy on pretenders like you.

You’re outmatched.

And when your army is dust, no title or banner will save you.” Alpheo let a slow, mocking smirk creep across his face, his gaze sharp with disdain.

“Outmatched?

By you?” He tilted his head, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“After I drive your face into the mud, Lechlian, I may just ride straight to Herculia myself.

Perhaps your wife should know what it feels like to have a real victor in her bed.

Though,” he paused, his smirk widening, “I may have to wait in line, given how often she entertains her other…

guests, I am sure that right now her bed is more crowded than a tavern.” Lechlian’s face flushed red, his expression contorting with barely contained fury as he gripped the reins tighter, knuckles white.

His mouth opened, but whatever words he was about to spit out vanished as Alpheo met his glare with cold defiance.

Without another word, Alpheo spat on the ground between them, turning sharply on his horse.

As he rode off, his shoulders square and head high, he didn’t look back-knowing full well his words had left Lechlian seething, his rage as palpable as the stinging autumn air.

It went better than I thought, Alpheo commented in his mind as he rode back to his army, the clinking of armor and the steady drum of hooves the only sounds breaking the tense silence.  Once they arrived , he turned to Jarza, his eyes steely and his voice low.

“Go ahead.

Set it in motion.In case the parlay wasn’t enough ” Jarza met his gaze with a confident nod, his face unreadable but his eyes glinting with determination.

Without a word, he turned in his saddle and gave a sharp, piercing whistle that cut through the chill air.