Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 235

Chapter 235: Tales of bravery Chapter 235: Tales of bravery Lord Xanthios stood atop the makeshift palisade, his figure commanding and resolute despite the chaos erupting around him.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of sweat, blood, and smoke, as attackers swarmed the walls in desperate waves.  Xanthios, clad in steel plate that gleamed dully under the afternoon sun, raised his sword high.

“Hold the line!

” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the clamor like a trumpet’s call.

His men roared in response, their morale bolstered by his presence.

An enemy soldier, climbing a ladder, thrust his spear toward Xanthios.

The lord sidestepped the attack and brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, severing the man’s grip on the ladder.

The soldier screamed as he tumbled back into the throng below.

Another enemy emerged at the top of the palisade, only to be met by Xanthios’s shield, which smashed into his face with enough force to send him sprawling back onto his comrades.

Despite the relentless assault, Xanthios refused to retreat to safety.

He fought shoulder to shoulder with his men, a spark of youthful defiance rekindled within him.

In that moment, he felt transported back to his younger days, when he had first followed his father into battle.

Perhaps it was the weight of years pressing upon him, the desire to close a lifelong chapter that went on for far too long, but he found himself wielding his blade with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in decades, all times wasted for that moment he wanted to live.

He pivoted to face another attacker who had managed to breach the wall.

The soldier lunged with a sword, aiming for Xanthios’s midsection.

Xanthios deflected the strike with his shield and countered with a brutal thrust to the enemy’s throat, silencing him instantly.

Blood sprayed onto the lord’s armor, but he paid it no mind.  “Reinforce the western side!” he shouted to some of his men as another ladder slammed against the wall nearby.

“Archers, keep shooting!

Do not let them gain a foothold!” Lord Xanthios paused mid-strike, the clash of steel momentarily drowned out by the unmistakable sights of somethign shining on the horizon.

He swiftly dispatched the enemy in front of him with a brutal thrust, his voice rising above the chaos.

“Reinforcements have come!” he bellowed, raising his bloodied sword high”We have won!” A roar of relief and triumph erupted from his weary soldiers.

Spirits that had been battered by hours of relentless combat surged anew.

The attackers faltered, their confidence visibly shaken as they began to withdraw, eyes darting nervously between the advancing reinforcements and the defenders who now pressed forward with renewed ferocity.

As the enemy stumbled back toward the city walls, Xanthios made a split-second decision.

“We’re not done yet, lads!

Let’s give them something to remember us by!” A cheer rang out as soldiers poured from the main camp, rallying behind their lord, as while normal soldiers after hours of fighting would have dropped down onto the field, the sight of the lord charging head first himself filled the men’s with courage, prompting them to fight in a last minute sortie, striking down any stragglers and scattering the attackers like leaves before a storm.

————– Less than twenty minutes later lord Xanthios stood outside the battered gates of the camp, his sword still in hand, its edge dulled and crusted with blood.

Around him, his soldiers slumped against the walls or sat on the ground, their exhaustion visible in their every movement.

The enemy army had retreated into the safety of their city walls, the defenders too drained to pursue them further.

Xanthios himself, though weary to his bones, stood tall, his bloodstained armor catching the late afternoon light.

From the distance, the rhythmic pounding of hooves on earth signaled an approaching force.

Xanthios turned his gaze toward the horizon, where fifty armored riders emerged from the haze of the battlefield, their polished armor dirtied with blood .

At their head, a proud banner fluttered-the falcon of House Veloni-Isha.

Leading them was Alpheo himself, his youthful figure unmistakable in the saddle as he urged his steed forward.

A victorious general coming back to camp.

As the riders closed the distance, Xanthios couldn’t help but notice the young prince’s gaze sweeping over him, lingering on the blood that streaked his armor and face.

Alpheo dismounted gracefully, striding forward with purpose, allowing Xanthios to see that also his own armor was not untarnished by blood.

Shortly after the rout, in fact, Alpheo led his bodyguards in a brief pursuit of the fleeing enemy troops, ensuring his presence was noted among the aftermath.

He joined the fray only once the battle’s outcome was secure, cutting down three routing peasants with quick, efficient strikes.

His blade easily cutting unarmored backs with ease, an effort to pain his armor with a bit red, before returning back to camp in time to see the lord holding it against a sortie made by the garrison of the city they were besieging.

“Lord Xanthios,” Alpheo began, his voice steady but warm, “your bravery and resolve have been the backbone of our victory today.

If not for your courage in holding our rear, we would not have achieved what we have.” Xanthios, battle-hardened and unflinching until now, felt his chest swell at the prince’s words.

He dropped to his knees, bowing his head low before Alpheo.

“Your Grace,” Xanthios said, his voice rough with emotion and weariness, “it has been my honor to fight in your name.

But my deeds pale in comparison to the glory you have achieved on this day.

Perhaps now, at long last, justice may truly be delivered.” Alpheo reached down, grasping Xanthios by the arm to help him rise.

“You have honored me with your service, Lord Xanthios.

Your deeds on this field will not be forgotten, nor will your steadfastness , as for in the enemy’s defeat we draw our glory.

Justice is closer now because of you and the men who followed your lead.” As Xanthios stood, Alpheo’s expression softened.

“May I ask about your son, Sir Caelum?

I have not seen him among the victors.” Lord Xanthios hesitated, his weary face shadowed by concern.

“Your Grace, my son fought with valor, as he always does, but he wounded in the fray.

He is alive, thanks to the quick actions of his men, but he is resting now.” A flicker of sorrow crossed Alpheo’s face.

“I am deeply sorry to hear this.

Caelum has always been a man of courage, and today was no exception.

I will send my best physician to attend him.

Such bravery demands the finest care.

” Xanthios inclined his head, his voice breaking slightly as he replied, “Your Grace, you honor my family beyond words.

My son will be grateful for your kindness, as am I.

It is no small comfort to know he has your favor.” Alpheo placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

“Favor?

Your family has earned more than that-your name is etched in this victory more than mine .

Without your steadfastness here, my lord, there would have been no triumph, something I will make sure to soon award.

Having said that, I am sure you are tired from your battle , so I will leave you to rest.” Alpheo said with that smile that could have charmed stones.

—————- The night blanketed the camp in a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional groan of a wounded soldier or the faint shuffle of lone guards patrolling the perimeter of the camp.

The army had returned victorious, yet the air carried none of the jubilance that often followed a triumph.

Even the loot obtained from the enemy camp was overshadowed by fatigue .

The camp itself seemed like a crypt, eerily still under the pale light of the stars.

Fires burned low, their embers casting feeble shadows over soldiers slumped against tents and crates.

No songs were sung, no laughter rang out, no toasts were raised.

The victory feast had been postponed-there was no strength left to celebrate.

Even those who had imagined glory found themselves overwhelmed by the ache in their bones and the weight of the day’s bloodshed.

Inside the tents, many collapsed without removing their armor, their breaths heavy and uneven as sleep claimed them like a slow, inevitable tide.

Outside, a lone wind whispered through the camp, rustling the banners that hung limp from their poles.

It carried with it the faint smell of death from the battlefield and the distant cries of scavengers birds already circling the carnage left behind.

The prince himself, stepped into the sanctuary of his tent,.

His armor, dulled with grime and streaked with dried blood, felt like a weight dragging him down to the earth.

Ratto stood by the entrance, eager for orders, but Alpheo waved him off with a weary hand.

“Go rest, Ratto.

I am sure you are tired,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The young squire hesitated but nodded, retreating into the night without another word.

Left alone, Alpheo, let the stillness envelope him.

He stumbled toward his bed and sat heavily upon it, the thin mattress creaking beneath his weight.

His shoulders sagged, and for a long moment, he did nothing but stare at the floor.

Finally, he let out a deep, shuddering breath and placed his hands over his face.

The weight of his palms against his skin felt like the pressure of the world itself, threatening to crush him.

Now, in the silence, the truth clawed at him ,that same thing that he had refused to see until now, while pride and desperation had guided his every move.

He had been so close to ruin.

So close to watching his men break under the enemy, to witnessing the collapse of everything he had dared to build.  “Damn my arrogance,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the raw edge of self-reproach.

“Damn it all” He had believed himself invincible, untouchable, and in doing so, had nearly led his army to destruction, as the only thing that stopped it were the action of a man whose loyalty he had taken until now for granted, something that he swore to make sure never happened, as he now realized that despite it all, he was not a god.

 For a long moment, he sat there, motionless, the prince stripped bare of his titles, his victories, his armor-just a man weighed down by his own hubris as he came to realize how close he was to fall down in the dig he had dug himself.

And yet still, he was still a human, imperfect as they come.

(In comment map of the last moment of battle)