Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 232

Chapter 232: Battle of the bleeding plains(3) Chapter 232: Battle of the bleeding plains(3) Across the battlefield, while Alpheo’s right flank surged forward with a relentless energy, pressing deeper into the enemy line with every charge, elsewhere the fight was far less decisive.

The center and right flanks struggled, held at bay by the Herculeian forces and barely managing to hold their ground.

Some units were pushed back in slow, grueling inches, while others fought to a tense standstill against the enemy’s sheer numbers and force.

Alpheo had committed all of his heavy cavalry to the right flank, giving them a crucial edge against the Herculeian forces and enabling them to hold their ground firmly.

Meanwhile, on the left, Egil’s light cavalry continued their relentless harassment of the Herculean heavy riders, drawing them farther and farther from the battlefield.

Darting in and out of range, they rained javelins down on the encumbered enemy horsemen, wounding mounts and men alike in a series of quick, evasive maneuvers.

This classic skirmisher tactic, perfected by light cavalry, left the Herculeian heavy riders increasingly scattered and weakened, their furious pursuit growing ever more futile as Egil’s men continued to bleed them dry in the open field.

On the Herculeian left flank, the commander lord Tavian Blackmar, scanned the battlefield with a watchful eye.

Noticing a sudden movement rippling through his flank, his brow creased.

Tavian’s jaw tightened as he noticed the enemy troops moving around the flank .

No one needed to tell him the danger of allowing them to complete the maneuver Among his knights, one stood taller, armor polished and face grim with determination.

“I’ll lead the charge, Commander,” he said, pounding a mailed fist over his chest.

Tavian gave a sharp nod, grateful for the confidence, though his eyes showed a hint of doubt as he glanced at the soldiers the knight would take with him.

“Very well, Sir Harwin ” he replied.

“You’ll have three hundred men with you, stop them with everything , further reinforcement are currently arriving , you just need to hold the line” With a grim smile, Sir Harwin saluted and turned, rallying the troops with swift, curt commands.

The young soldiers, though visibly anxious, gathered around him, and he raised his sword high, urging them forward.

Together, they began to march forward against a force armed with weapons they had never seen, they looked like spears and yet they resembled more axes than anything else.

Sir Harwin Flint rode at the head of his three hundred recruits, his horse’s hooves pounding the earth beneath them, a cloud of dust billowing up from the hastily assembled line.

The young knight’s heart beat in time with the march, each beat a step closer to his ambitions.

Harwin was a landed knight, with little to his name but a modest estate and the loyalty of a single village.

When the call to arms came, he had eagerly raised as many men as his lands could muster, seizing nearly every spare weapon his villagers possessed and pressing even the youngest into service.

To him, this campaign wasn’t only a duty to his lord; it was a chance-a single, fleeting opportunity to prove himself on a grand stage.

 Farmers, stablehands, and hunters now wore mismatched armor, some wearing chainmails other simple helmets, a third of the men he was leading were his.

The enemy’s flanking force, was right there-an opening to glory.

If he could stop them, if he could hold the line, it might be enough to elevate his name and earn the coveted title of baron.

Clutching the hilt of his sword tighter, he shouted over his shoulder, “Keep steady!

Follow my lead, and we’ll show them what strength lies in Herculeian blood!” With a final look at his men, Harwin raised his sword high and spurred his horse forward, leading the charge toward the advancing halberdiers, his mind set on the victory that could be within his grasp.

Sir Harwin urged his horse forward, charging with the thunderous roar of hooves behind him, his three hundred recruits close on his heels.

The ground between the two forces seemed to shrink in a heartbeat, and then, with a bone-jarring clash, the lines collided.

Steel crashed against steel, the dull thud of weapons meeting flesh filled the air, and cries of pain and fury erupted all around as the infantry of both sides smashed into each other in brutal melee.

Harwin fought like a man possessed, his sword flashing in wide, arcing slashes, his armor already splattered with grime and blood.

Each swing was fueled by the raw fire of his ambition, the will to carve his name into history.

He broke through the defenses of one soldier, his blade finding a seam in the armor, and with a fierce grunt, he drove it home, feeling the weapon sink deep.

A man coming from the right raised his halberd, aiming for Harwin’s chest.

But Harwin, in a fluid motion, struck iron against iron deflecting the lethal swing.Then he swung down hard, the momentum of his charge lending extra weight to his strike.

His blade cleaved into the shoulder of the halberdier, cutting deep through armor and flesh.

The man cried out as he fell, collapsing under his own weapon as Harwin’s horse reared and trampled forward.

Harwin’s horse danced beneath him, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of blood, and Harwin lifted his sword high, signaling his recruits forward.

His face was set in fierce determination, his heart pounding with the thrill of combat and the promise of glory.

“For honor and victory!” he bellowed, driving his horse deeper into the fray.

Sir Harwin fought like a man possessed, a whirlwind of steel and fury as he drove his horse through the thick of battle.

His sword flashed in wide arcs, cleaving through soldiers who dared approach him.

But amid the chaotic clash of blades and shouts, a sudden force slammed into his side-a halberd, its blunt end hitting him square in the ribs.

The blow knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping as pain shot through his chest.

For a heartbeat, he was stunned, wavering in his saddle, struggling to regain his breath.

Then, as if in a nightmare, he felt a powerful hand latch onto his arm, tugging him down from his horse.

Harwin’s grip on his sword faltered as he swung his arms wildly, desperation taking over.

His frantic swipes met only air, each move weaker than the last as his vision began to blur.

“Where are my men?” he thought, his mind clouded with confusion and anger.

As he looked around, he saw them-his recruits, the untrained villagers he had rallied for glory.

But instead of pressing forward, they were stumbling back.

In that single, brutal moment, it became clear: they were losing.  That final thought was shattered by a crushing impact.

A heavy strike from the back end of a halberd crashed into his helmet, the pickaxe-like pointy rod caving in the metal and sending an explosion of pain through his skull as he died instantly, with his last thought being that he had gone ahead too much and that he should have staid back.

————– The Herculeian line buckled as Alpheo’s fourth infantry corps tore through their ranks with relentless force.

Armed with halberds, these soldiers struck with brutal precision, swinging their weapons to shatter shields and hammer against armor.

With each wide arc, the heavy and wide steel would smash flesh and bone, and then, without pause, they would thrust forward, driving the spiked ends of their halberds into vulnerable spots.

Stomachs were pierced, throats were slashed open, and cries of pain erupted as the Herculeian troops faltered under the sheer force of the onslaught, as they would be honored as the first army to fall under this new regiment.

One soldier, wielding his halberd in a dance of elegance and death, spotted an enemy soldier lunging toward him with a spear.

He parried the thrust with a sharp, low swing, cracking the shaft of the spear.

Without hesitation, he followed up with a diagonal cut across the enemy’s chest, shattering armor and knocking the man back.

Before his opponent could collapse, he jabbed forward, driving the spike into the man’s exposed throat with deadly accuracy.

Nearby, another halberdier found himself surrounded by two Herculeians.

Pivoting swiftly, he swung his halberd in a sweeping arc, forcing them to step back.

As one charged in, he brought the halberd down like an axe, breaking the man’s shield and cleaving into his shoulder.

The second soldier attempted to flank him, not having enough time , the soldiers temporarly deserted his weapon and taking out his short blade he thrust forward .

The blade drove through his attacker’s mail and buried deep into his gut enough to make him fall over, only to be then finished by a quick slash at the throat.  “Is that all you’ve got?!” one soldier barked as he swung the axe blade, crushing the skull of a Herculeian peasant “Pathetic!”  “You thought you could stand against us?” he laughed cruelly as he ripped the halberd free, blood spraying.

“We’re the storm, and you’re the dirt!” Everywhere, the Herculean forces faltered, their shields and formations splintered as Alpheo’s soldiers pressed the assault, their halberds moving in unison, each swing and thrust tearing through the line.

In their relentless assault, they became an unstoppable tide, carving their way deeper into the enemy’s ranks, unyielding, precise, and brutal, they needed no tactics as a simple shash of theirs was enough to break the enemy’s shield and to cleave tilll they reached the hand or the arm.

The reserve troops of the Herculean army, poorly equipped and poorly trained compared to their battle-hardened comrades fighting on the front line , found themselves utterly crushed beneath the might of Alpheo’s newly established Fourth Infantry Corps.

While their opponent may not have been veterans, this being their first real touch of combat, any disadvantage that their lack of experience could have had was completely covered by their well-maintained equipment.

Knowing that the use of this corpse was to wreak havoc deep into enemy lines, and since their weapons did not allow them to use a shield, Alpheo spent quite the good money into buying the best armor that the market allowed, making them look more like iron tanks than actual footmen.

Making their appearances only in par with the amount of dead bodies they left behind as they advanced, unyielding towards their enemies.Proving to everyone on the other side that the money spent on the were actually a good investment.(Watch the comment for map of the battle)