Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 231

Chapter 231: Battle of the herding plains(2) Chapter 231: Battle of the herding plains(2) Egil stood with one foot braced against the saddle, the other steady in the stirrup, surveying the battlefield with a calm, practiced eye.

In the distance, he spotted the ominous shimmer of the enemy’s heavy cavalry advancing, their polished armor and lance tips gleaming like silver under the midday sun.Arrogant in their charge as they could be, he sighed, and got ready for the showdown “Alright, boys,” he shouted, his voice cutting through the sounds of clashing metal and battle cries from his left, “it’s time to go.

Let’s show them what we’re made of!” In a single motion, Egil swung fully into the saddle, and his men did the same.

They kicked their horses into motion, surging forward across the plain.

The open land gave them a clear view of the chaos unfurling across the battlefield: the enemy infantry pushing forward in ragged lines, the smoke of distant fires rising, and, just in time, he saw Alpheo’s artillery boulders crashing down upon the Herculeian infantry, scattering men and shattering ranks.

Egil let out a bark of laughter at the brutal sight, but his amusement quickly faded as his gaze sharpened, focusing on the task ahead.

He knew how much Alpheo was counting on him today-every movement, every charge would need to be exact if they were to survive this outnumbered battle.

Egil and his 150 light riders thundered across the open plain, the wind whipping through their faces, hooves pounding in rhythm as they charged toward the enemy’s formidable heavy cavalry.

Across the field, the enemy horsemen loomed like an iron wall-nearly two hundred strong, a column of armored knights eager to clash, their lances lowered, glinting like steel spikes.

As they closed the distance, Egil raised his sword high above his head, his eyes narrowed with focus.

Then, in one swift motion, he lifted himself into his stirrups, balancing with ease even as his horse galloped at full speed.

The enemy line was close enough now that he could see their helmets.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Egil swung his sword to the right.

Instantly, his formation obeyed, veering sharply in that direction, their lighter horses nimbly adjusting to the sudden maneuver.

The heavy cavalry, bent on meeting the charge head-on, tried to follow, their steeds heaving to change direction and keep pace.  The heavy cavalry thundered after Egil’s riders, their armor glinting under the sun, lances outstretched as they pursued the nimble horsemen.

Egil, with practiced ease, twisted around in his saddle to look back at the pursuing column.  ”JAVELINS” He shouted with the strongest voice he could muster.

Heeding the order the light riders closest to the pursuing cavalry reached down to their sides, each one pulling free a javelin.

The air buzzed with the anticipation of battle as they aimed, their practiced arms steady even at a gallop.

Then, one after another, they hurled their javelins backward, the iron tips cutting through the air with deadly purpose.

The javelins streaked toward the heavy riders, catching them mid-charge.

The heavy cavalry pressed on, undeterred, driving their powerful mounts forward with relentless focus, champions of the code of chivalry and honor, never to show you back to the enemy and to fight with relentless grit.

In smooth, fluid motions, more of Egil’s men drew their javelins and cast them with deadly accuracy into the charging mass.

The air filled with the sharp whistling of projectiles slicing through the wind, letting fate decide where they would fall.

A javelin struck a horse squarely in the chest, the beast rearing with a strangled whinny before collapsing, throwing its rider forward into the path of his comrades.

Another rider screamed as a javelin found its mark on his upper limb, driving through his shoulder and sending him crashing sideways from his saddle.

The chaos rippled through the heavy cavalry line.

Horses stumbled, tripping over their fallen comrades or veering off course as wounded animals thrashed in the dust.

Some riders tried to shield themselves, ducking low, but others, less fortunate, felt the cold bite of iron as javelins skewered them cleanly or threw them off the saddle.

The light riders laughed and jeered as they darted in and out of range, tossing javelins and taunts with equal ease.

“Come on, you lumbering tin cans!” one rider shouted, tossing his javelin into a thick knot of heavily-armored cavalry.

“Too slow!

” “Did you think you’d catch us by now?

My grandmother rides faster than you!”  “Is that armor to keep you safe or just to keep you upright?

Looks like you’re already falling over!” Egil himself leaned back in the saddle, flashing a wolfish grin.

“Come on, Herculeians!

I thought you were warriors!

But all I see are donkeys struggling under a load!” He laughed, his taunt carried across the field as his riders echoed his words, the mocking cries only fueling the frustration of their opponents.

The light riders’ laughter rang out with each javelin they flung, chipping away at both the Herculeians’ armor and their pride.

Taunts and jeers filled the air, each insult driving the heavy riders into a deeper rage, spurring them to charge harder even as their ranks thinned under the relentless rain of javelins.

 Yet each time they seemed to be closing in, Egil’s riders would pull ahead, leading them farther and farther from the main battle.

Egil cast a quick glance over his shoulder, a sly smile spreading across his face as he saw the enemy drawing deeper into the trap.

His riders expertly maintained their distance, darting just out of reach but always keeping the heavy cavalry’s attention fixed on them.

Little by little, Egil’s troop was luring the Herculeian horsemen farther across the plains, away from the clash of infantry and archers where Alpheo’s battle lines held firm.

—————– Across the battlefield, the clash of infantry had erupted into brutal, close-quarters fighting.

Shields smashed into shields, and the air was thick with grunts and the sharp clang of metal against metal as swords, maces, and axes bit into armor and flesh alike.

Alpheo’s heavy infantry pressed into the Herculeian lines like a battering ram, each soldier armored in chainmail and breastplates that gleamed dully under the battle-scarred sky.

Every step forward was another foot taken, another line breached as they steadily cut their way into the heart of the enemy ranks.

A Herculeian spearman braced himself, spear tip aimed at the advancing mass, but an infantryman of Alpheo’s White Company closed the distance too quickly, deflecting the spear with his shield before bringing his heavy mace down in a crushing blow.

The Herculeian crumpled to the ground, his armor dented from the impact.

The Black Stripes’ soldier wasted no time, stepping over the fallen enemy and pressing forward, keeping the momentum of the advance.

Elsewhere in the line, a Herculeian soldier thrust his spear desperately toward one of Alpheo’s men, only to see it slide off the reinforced leg armor, barely slowing the man’s advance.

With a quick pivot, the armored warrior brought his axe down in a sweeping motion, cleaving through the spear’s shaft and forcing the Herculeian back.

As the enemy stumbled, the White Company soldier delivered a swift, upward blow with the edge of his shield, sending his opponent sprawling.

The sheer weight and resilience of Alpheo’s infantry began to fracture the Herculeian line, creating small gaps that widened with each relentless push.

Here, a mace crashed down onto a helm, crumpling it with a grim finality; there, an axe found its mark, severing a spear-wielding enemy’s defense and ending his struggle in an instant.

The Herculeians, armed with long spears trained to fight in shield formation would normally never allow for the enemy to reach so deep onto the line,yet the barrage from the enemy onager, together with the sudden charge of the enemy infantry, completely made any advantage they could have null as their initial formation had been completely shattered before the fighting even started..

Now the same weaponry and style of combat that would have allowed them to keep the enemy at a distance, now made cause them to struggle in close quarters where their weapons became liabilities, clumsy and ineffective against the crushing force of the White Company’s assault.

As Alpheo’s soldiers advanced, they shouted taunts that echoed above the clash of metal and the cries of battle, their voices filled with grim amusement and raw energy: “Is that all you’ve got, Herculeians?

I’ve seen lambs put up a better fight!” A soldiers shouted as he shouted at the uncosciously retreating enemy “Come on, cowards!

My grandmother swings a spear harder than that!” “You’re already dead-you just haven’t hit the ground yet!” Another jeered as he smashed his mace onto his opponent’s chin shattering his jaw.

“Where’s that spine of yours, Herculeians?

Left it back in your homes, didn’t you?Don’t worry I ‘ll help you find it…”  ———————– Jarza stood on a small rise, his keen eyes scanning the battlefield below.

Alpheo’s heavy infantry had broken into the enemy’s front lines, carving into their ranks like a hot knife.

He could see Herculeian soldiers staggering under the relentless assault, faltering in places, but even so, their sheer numbers were holding Alpheo’s troops from fully routing them.

The enemy line bent but refused to break.

That was not good, as Alpheo’s entire strategy relied on a quick breakthrough on their flank…

For a moment, Jarza assessed the situation.

They were close-close to tipping the scale entirely, but they needed one final push to seal it.

His eyes narrowed, a decision forming quickly.

Turning, Jarza raised his voice and barked at a nearby messenger.

“Tell the second infantry corps to join the fight!

I want them moving in now-let’s see what those green recruits of Asag are worth!” The messenger nodded sharply and took off at a sprint, weaving through the throng of soldiers until he vanished toward the waiting reserve lines.

Jarza watched him go, feeling the tension rise in his chest as he looked back at the clash below.

Time to see if the money Alpheo spent on those new shiny things are worth the silver, Jarza thougth as he would finally come to see how those halberds would fare on a real battlefield.

Jarza’s gaze sharpened as he spotted the two hundred fresh soldiers advancing from the rear lines, clearly seeing a man on horse on their back pushing them forward.

These men, part of the second infantry corps, were armored just like their veteran counterparts, their mail and plate gleaming in the sunlight.

But where their comrades wielded shields and one-handed weapons, these soldiers carried long halberds-an addition Alpheo had specifically chosen to cut through the enemy’s flanks once the initial charge stalled.

The halberds, with their long reach and devastating power, were designed to carve through the chaos of battle, betting twice on ferocity at the cost of discipline and order.

Something that could prove to be the key to bring into reality the strategy that Alpheo had envisioned for the battle.