Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 263

Chapter 263: Night attack(1) Chapter 263: Night attack(1) The moon hung high in the night sky, its pale light spilling over the hills like a silver veil.

The enemy force, as anticipated, had pushed themselves to exhaustion, marching relentlessly to reach the village they believed would be the next target of the raiders, day and night they marched in order to reach it before the enemy From his vantage point on a ridge, Egil could see their encampment nestled in the shallow valley below.

Just as his scouts had reported: no defensive structures, no proper watch rotations-just tents haphazardly nailed into the ground.

It’s really too easy…

He turned slightly, his sharp eyes catching the gleam of polished armor amidst the shadows.

Sir Mereth had come after all.

The “High Buffoon,” as Egil had privately christened him, had brought his knights along, their golden finery and stiff demeanor at odds with the more rugged and practical appearance of Egil’s riders.

At least he didn’t tuck tail and ride home.

I’ll give him that, we will need all the swords we can get…

The two groups, however, could not have been more divided.

Even now, as they prepared for the strike, the hostility between them was palpable.

The animosity had boiled over during their brief time together, with scuffles breaking out between Egil’s hardened and free-spirits warriors and Mereth’s disciplined knights.

Harsh words had escalated into fists, and in one instance, a broken nose.

It had taken Egil stepping in-axe in hand and no small amount of colorful threats-to keep the groups from outright bloodshed before the battle.

Egil turned to Rykio,who stood nearby, leaning casually against his horse.

“Looks like the fool decided to join us after all,” Egil muttered, his voice low enough to keep the knights out of earshot.

Rykio snorted.

“Hope he doesn’t get in the way.” Egil smirked.

“If he does, I’ll let the enemy take him as a gift.” The two shared a quiet laugh before Egil’s expression hardened.

He mounted his horse in a single, fluid motion, gripping the reins with practiced ease.

“It’s time.

Let’s show them what it means to march against us .” With a silent gesture, his riders moved into position, their horses treading softly on the dew-covered grass.

Egil’s plan had worked to perfection thus far, and the time had come to deliver the final stroke.

A strike from the shadows, swift and merciless-this was how enemies learned to fear the name of Yarzat, and he would be the one to deliver it .

Egil’s voice cut through the night like a knife, quiet but firm.

“Advance.” The riders moved with practiced precision, rows of four forming a disciplined column as they began their descent toward the enemy encampment.

At the front, four men held the edges of a great woolen blanket, stretched taut across wooden poles.

It was a crude yet useful creation, woven by the women of the camp and designed specifically for this moment.  Egil rode at the center of the formation, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as daggers.

His horse moved with a steady, deliberate gait, as if it too understood the gravity of the moment.

He glanced ahead, watching as the blanket shielders maintained their pace, ensuring no stray flicker of light coming from their torches gave away their position.

As soon as they were close enough, Egil’s hand rose into the air, his fingers curling into a tight fist.

The riders tensed, their grips tightening on reins and weapons.

He held the gesture for a moment, his sharp eyes locking onto the campfires flickering in the distance.

Then, with a decisive motion, he thrust his hand forward.

“Now!” His voice, though low, carried an undeniable authority-that of a man whose will could move mountains if he so wished .

In perfect unison, the riders surged forward, kicking their horses into a thunderous gallop.

The blanket shielding the torches was thrown to the ground, forgotten, as the torches flared brightly against the night,, decalring to everyne their position and intention.

The sudden blaze illuminated the riders’ faces-feral grins, clenched jaws, and eyes that burned with the promise of chaos.

The sound of hooves became a deafening roar, the ground trembling beneath the weight of the charge.

The distance between them and the camp shrank rapidly, the once-calm night shattered by the pounding of horses and the rising shouts of men.

Egil leaned forward in his saddle, his blonde hair whipping behind him as he bared his teeth in a wild grin, feeling once again that primordial instics of his people, to kill, rape and burn.

It wasn’t long before the first alarmed shout echoed through the camp, piercing the stillness of the night.

“Riders!

Riders coming!” a frantic voice yelled, probably from a watchman who saw the torches , soon followed by a cacophony of more cries as the sentries scrambled to comprehend the sudden threat.

But it was too little and far too late, for it to amount to anything.

Egil and his men descended upon the camp like wolves in the fold, the roar of hooves and the flicker of torchlight casting chaotic shadows across the confused scene.

The first line of tents buckled as horses trampled them, their occupants barely managing to crawl out before being overtaken be it by weapon or simply by the hooves of the steeds.

Soldiers fumbled with their weapons or simple armors , still tangled in sleep and confusion, while others bolted out half-dressed, clutching spears ,shields, and sometimes nothing.

Egil rode at the front, his axe glinting in the torchlight around the camp as he barked orders to his men.

“Give them no mercy!

Push through!We have no need of prisoners ” His voice cut through the chaos like a whip, spurring his riders to maintain their momentum, as the best charge was the one that carried more on fear than actual damage.

The riders unleashed their fury, torches flaring as they swung them low and hurled them onto the fabric of the enemy tents.

The dry fabric caught fire instantly, the flames licking hungrily across the surface before erupting into roaring infernos, that devoured anything inside.  Men who had taken refuge within the tents, hoping to escape the slaughter outside, now found themselves trapped in a hell of their own making.

Their muffled screams turned into shrill, guttural cries as fire consumed them.

Figures burst from the tents, their clothes and skin alight, flailing in agony as they stumbled blindly into the chaos.

“Help me!” one man shrieked, his voice cracking as he clawed at his burning tunic, only to collapse onto the ground, his cries fading into a guttural moan as the smell of burning meat spread through the camp.

Another bolted from his tent, his face blackened and blistered, only to be cut down by a passing rider before he could take another step, ending his pain and giving him the only mercy a soldier can give another.

The air was filled with the cries of suffering-wails of agony, desperate prayers, and panicked shouts blending with the roar of the flames.

In that moment there had been more piety on those men , than in any temple, as the name of the gods and their beings was invoked by their twisted mouths thousands and thousands of times.

In the chaos, shadows danced wildly, the light of the fires playing cruel tricks on the fleeing soldiers, who ran headlong into each other or straight into the path of Egil’s riders, who cut down men left and right, the enemy too divided to mount even the slightest of resistance, making them look like lambs waiting for the slaughter.

Flames spread unchecked, engulfing row after row of tents, creating a hellscape from which there was no escape.

Egil, at the head of his riders, watched the chaos unfold with an happy smile on his face, taking in the cries of pains as it was the cold and pure air of a mountain, the commander himself taking part in the slaughter as he always used to dow.

Egil spurred his horse forward, his laughter cutting through the din of battle like a blade.

He swung his axe in a brutal arc, its edge splitting the jaw of an unarmored man who had stumbled out of a burning tent.

Blood sprayed in a grotesque fountain as the man crumpled to the ground.

Egil’s eyes gleamed with a dark amusement as an idea struck him-a sick, twisted jest to add to the chaos.

“A fox!” Egil bellowed, his voice rising above the screams and crackling flames.

“A fox is on the loose!” He laughed, the sound deep and unsettling, his shoulders shaking as if he truly found the carnage around him comical, as he used the nickname so hated by his dearest friend.

The riders nearest to him caught on, their initial confusion giving way to mirth as they joined in.

“A fox!” one of them yelled, throwing his javelin into a panicked soldier’s back “There’s a fox in the night!” “A fox in the camp!” another shouted, just before his sword slashed across the enemy throat.

The blood-streaked riders took up the cry, their voices ringing out in cruel harmony.

They galloped through the camp, the thundering of their hooves echoing alongside their jeers.

To the terrified soldiers, it was as if the night itself mocked their plight.

Barefoot, unarmed men scrambled out of the flaming ruins of their tents, their faces pale with terror as the riders bore down on them.

Some tried to run but were trampled under the roof or cut down by sweeping blades and spears.

Others froze, their eyes wide with dread, as the cries of “Fox!

Fox!” came closer, making their legs tremble and wet from the golden liquid coming down from their waists.

Egil slashed his axe again, its blade catching a man across the ribs, splitting flesh and bone with a sickening crunch, that usual feeling that he adored so much and craved in the life he had lived as slave .

He twisted in his saddle to look at his men, his grin widening as he saw them reveling in the slaughter, their voices rising in frenzied unison.

“RUN YOU, BASTARDS, YARZAT’S FOX HAS COME.”