Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The attacker should ideally outnumber the defender by a ratio of at least three to one—or so the famed Prussian general Carl von Clausewitz wrote in his seminal work, On War.

It's a principle that has echoed through centuries not only those following the commander. The attacker, after all, bears the greater burden: advancing across uncertain ground, maintaining cohesion under fire, and gambling everything on a decisive breakthrough before exhaustion and confusion take their toll.

At Agincourt, the French learned this lesson the hard way. They marched through churned mud and uneven terrain, rain soaking their armor and clogging the earth beneath them. The English longbowmen waited with cruel patience, releasing volley after volley as the French forces, noble, proud, and heavily armored, bogged down in a mire of their own making. Their formation and cohesion had crumbled long before steel ever clashed with steel.

It was a clear truth: to attack meant to suffer first.

Seems like Lechlian did his homework, Alpheo mused grimly as he stood atop his steed, arms crossed, gazing out over the cursed ground his army would have to march through.

The land ahead looked like a battlefield drawn straight from a general's nightmare. There were no flat stretches to anchor a solid advance. The earth rolled in unpredictable waves, not enough to be dramatic, but just steep enough to break formation during a charge. Thick patches of thorn-ridden underbrush punctuated the route, snagging cloaks, biting into legs, and threatening to tear gaps in any shield wall that tried to pass through.

It was, without a doubt, the perfect place for a defender to dig in and wait.

The Herculeians picked their ground well, Alpheo conceded, not without a flicker of respect. Smart bastards.

But then his lips curled into a slow, confident smile.

His army after all wasn't like others.

While most rulers and lords relied on raw numbers or the noble pride of their knights, Alpheo had at its disposal a standing army.

Marching in formation was merely the beginning for them , his soldiers had been trained in what he called the hot march: moving fast, adapting on the fly, splitting to maneuver around obstacles, and reforming into lethal cohesion in the blink of an eye. Bushes, uneven hills, rocky gullies.

These were nuisances, not obstacles.

Having after all years of peace meant that you could virtually teach your troops to do everything thier commander wanted.

Where most formations would buckle and scatter, his men would twist and morph like a single living creature, bending, never breaking.

Of course, that accounted for his army. The same couldn't be said for the nobles' levies trailing behind.

Spoiled sons of lords and press-ganged peasants, armored in borrowed steel and armed with simple spears and shields. Alpheo had done what he could, drilling them during the month wait at Herculia, but their cohesion would never match that of his own companies. Still, he had managed to temper the worst of the chaos. They wouldn't be perfect, but they wouldn't be a complete disaster either.

And then… there were the Voghondai.

They were the wild card, the third part of his force. Tribal warriors , they fought not in tidy formations, but with raw fury and unrelenting aggression. They scorned long spears and heavy discipline. Instead, they wielded thick axes, curved blades, and short, brutal shields designed for closing the distance and smashing through an enemy like a hammer through glass, intended only to move fast.

The Voghondai didn't march, they surged. They didn't hold lines but instead they broke them. Their war cries were terrifying, their charges unpredictable. They didn't rely on the terrain or fear it. Whether they were fighting on sand, snow, or thorn-choked hills, they fought the same way: fast, loud, and deadly.

Against a disciplined force, their wildness might have cost them dearly. But Alpheo wasn't throwing them at the elite legions of Vrivius the Red..

He was throwing them at levies, half-trained farmhands in borrowed mail, men whose only shield against terror was the hope that the battle would pass them by.

The Voghondai would tear through them.

And terrain? To the Voghondai, the bushes, the hills, the mud meant absolutely nothing.

Perhaps it would do me good to give a bit more effort to our auxiliaries. I think in the future their style of fighting would be much more than useful....especially if properly implemented...

For now, all of that was for the future. The din of marching feet, the clash of blades, the screams of the dying, it could wait.

At present, Alpheo sat alone on one of the many low, scrub-covered hills that dotted the battlefield like sleeping beasts. The wind tugged at his cloak, carrying the dry scent of dust and thorns as it whistled through the sparse vegetation.

His army lay a few hills behind him, out of sight but never out of reach.

Parley had been proposed, not in earnest, of course. Neither side harbored illusions of peace. Alpheo least of all. No, he hadn't ridden out here with any hope of ending things bloodlessly. He had come to look his enemy in the eye. To see if the man behind the Herculeian banners still had doubts, and perhapse to bait him into making some mistake.

And maybe, just maybe, he could seed those doubts deeper with a few well-placed words.

He didn't have to wait long.

From the distance, a shimmer of movement caught his eye, riders, twenty in number, cresting a hill far to the north. Their armor glinted faintly under the midday sun, their banners snapping sharply in the breeze in a multitude of color.

Alpheo rose slowly, dusting his hands off against his cloak as he narrowed his gaze.

It was the second time he had laid eyes on the man. The first had been three years prior, at the infamous Battle of the Bleeding Plain. Back then, Alpheo had been the underdog, his forces nearly outnumbered two to one.

And yet, Alpheo had walked away from that slaughter as the victor.

Now, the tables had turned. This time, he held the numbers. Scouts estimated the Herculeians had no more than two thousand left to muster. Desperate remnants and levied dregs, nothing like the proud army Lechlian had once led. Meanwhile, Alpheo commanded a force nearly double that, battle-hardened veterans, tribal berserkers, and whatever half-decent men the nobles had coughed up.

This battlefield was of Lechlian's choosing, yes, but the war? The war now belonged to Alpheo.

He watched as the riders approached, their pace slowing as they neared the base of the hill. The golden sun gleamed off their pauldrons, and at their head, mounted upon a tall black horse, rode the prince. His silvered armor bore the sigil of the Herculeian eagle, that would soon have his wings clipped, even now, a faint dusting of travel dulled its once-brilliant shine.

Even from a distance, Alpheo recognized him, tall, clean-shaven, and bald. And yet… the flush on his cheeks didn't escape notice.

Had a drink before riding out? Alpheo mused as he straightened his back, casually brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder. A touch of courage from the bottle, perhaps? Or just the nerves showing?

For a long moment, the two men said nothing. Silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring, tense, waiting to snap.

In the end, it was Alpheo who broke it.

"I'd like to say it's a pleasure to see you again," he began, his tone light but dripping with contempt. "But that would be a lie. And we both know neither of us has the stomach for pleasantries.In a few hours we will make a butcher's house of this land. What's the use of throwing pearls at a pig?"

He paused, a slow grin crawling across his face.

"I do hope it warms your noble heart to know that I've stripped your house of everything not nailed to the floors and shipped it all south. Your tapestries now hang in my latrine. Your mother's favorite vase makes a fine piss pot. You may wonder on that when you will see your men killed"

If the jab landed, Lechlian gave no sign. He sat astride his black steed like a statue, unmoved.

"You can keep it," the prince replied coolly. "I imagine your court is sorely lacking in taste. Given who represents it, I'm sure a bit of stolen refinement must feel like culture to your lot."

His voice was crisp, clipped, each word sharpened with aristocratic disdain.

"And if scavenging from my halls brings you joy, I'll let you have it. Dogs, after all, are happiest when chewing on their betters' scraps."

Alpheo laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed across the hilltop. The very same insult that had once sparked this war had now come full circle, and he embraced it like an old friend.

"Ah, that was a good one. Credit where it's due. Tasting the mud from my boot must've seasoned your tongue, Lechlian. Sharp words, if not sharp steel.I must have become lazy for all the victories I have achieved..."

His grin widened.

"Take pride in that. When your army breaks and scatters, when your men flee through thorn and blood, remember this moment—how you bested me in a battle of tongues. It might be the only victory you'll claim."

He turned slightly and gestured behind him, to the hills and shadows where his troops waited just out of view. The prince's eyes narrowed, confusion, just for a moment, barely perceptible.

"Nice terrain you chose, by the way," Alpheo added, almost conversationally. "Though I did have to make a few adjustments. Can't march through this pretty mess without a little creative maneuvering, you understand."

Before Lechlian could comment on the remark, Alpheo pressed forward.

"But enough of the verbal foreplay. You were the one who called for this meeting, not me. So go on then, Your Grace. Lay out your grand proposal to avoid the bloodshed of your men."

Lechlian's jaw tightened for just a moment. Then he inhaled slowly, his voice measured and clear.

"This doesn't have to end in slaughter, Alpheo."

Alpheo raised a brow, almost amused.

"Oh, it doesn't? Also, don't call me by my name. Only my friends can."

"You've proven your strength. You've carved your conquests out of our borderlands, and I'll admit, not without skill. And if you stop now… if you return to your lands and halt your advance, I'll recognize your holdings, including Herculia."

Alpheo's eyes narrowed. Lechlian continued.

" Let the bloodshed end here, before it causes good men to die. You've won enough for your legacy, take it and do not get too greedy, else the gods may punish you for it."

Silence followed. A crow cried somewhere overhead, circling lazily on the wind.

Of course, the answer was coming from a mile away

"Is that all? A pat on the head and a bone tossed to the dog that bit you?" He clicked his tongue, slowly shaking his head, as if disappointed in a dull student. "I'm flattered,Prince. Truly. That offer might've sounded generous… if it came before ."

He stepped forward, just enough to make the distance uncomfortable. The guards behind the prince tensed up but Alpheo gave them no mind

"You seem to have forgotten one very important thing."

Lechlian remained silent, his expression unreadable, but the stiffness in his jaw betrayed tension. Alpheo didn't wait for a reply.

"You and I are not equals," he said, voice low and pointed. "You speak to me as if you were on par.

But you are thoroughly mistaken. That illusion shattered long ago."

He gestured lazily, as if recounting a tiresome list.

"I bested you at the Bleeding Plains.

You, who had nearly twice my numbers. You banded together with Shameleik and a parade of traitors and fools in rebellion. And what did that get you?"

He leaned forward, tone now tinged with menace.

"I shattered the Oizenian host at Aracina. Their prince died screaming at my feet. You slithered back to your hole after seizing Arduronaven like a thief in the night. And I? I took it back in six days. Six."

Alpheo's eyes burned now, and his voice rose, bold and cruel.

"Everything you've touched, I've broken. Every alliance you forged, I've undone. Every fortress you claimed, I've turned to ash. You lost your right to speak to me as an equal the day you retreated."

He gave a sharp laugh and shook his head in mock pity. "Are your ears clogged or are you just foolish? Did no one report to you the truth? You are prince of nothing and lord of Shit . What was yours is mine. What you have is mine. What you will have, if anything, will be mine to give you.

If you wish to lay claim to the title of Prince, then stand your ground and fight for it; do not take to flight as you did before, as I shall pursue you wherever you may be with the swiftness and ferocity of a thousand storms."

There was silence on the hilltop now; even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"But," Alpheo added as if in an aftermath, "since you were so kind to bring me terms, I'll return the favor. Here are your terms, Prince of nothing ."

His voice was suddenly calm, regal even, like a judge sentencing a criminal.

"You will stand down. You will disband your army. You will abdicate in favor of your eldest son, who will ride to my camp, bend the knee, and place my new crown on my head."

He took a slow, deliberate step toward Lechlian.

"In exchange, I shall be generous. I'll permit your son to keep half the lands still sworn to you. He'll rule them as my vassal, under my law, under my banner."

For a long moment, there was only the faint rustle of wind in the bushes and trees.

Lechlian's expression was stone. "I came here," he said, his voice cold and controlled, "to avoid needless bloodshed. To invoke peace between us before more lives are thrown away on pride and ambition.And yet all I have received are insults from your treacherous mouth"

Alpheo threw back his head and let the sound ring out across the hill, as if Lechlian had told the world's best joke.

"Peace?" he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "There can be no peace between us, there will be no pact, for there can be no deal between lion and men, as long as one lives the other is in harm, and for sure, there won't be any peace for me while you breath."

He pointed a gloved finger at the prince.

"You've already shown what kind of neighbor you are. As long as you held power, you were a thorn in my side. Always meddling. Always lurking."

Alpheo's voice darkened, hard as iron now.

"You offered refuge to rebels fleeing my justice. You whispered treason into the ears of lords meant to be mine. You stirred dissent, poisoned alliances, and fanned rebellion like a coward behind a curtain. And now you come to me, cloak in hand, speaking of peace?Prince of lie and craven is what I call you."

He spat into the dirt beside him.

"Here is what I think of you and your offer.

There can be no peace where one hand always hides a dagger. So if peace is to be, then one of us must end."

He paused, letting those words hang like the tolling of a bell. Then being mounted on his horse with easy grace, turned it halfway toward his camp.

"Go back to your army, Lechlian," he said without looking back. "Stand among the last men who will ever follow you and look them in their eyes as they die and reassure them that you will follow by the day's end."

Then he cast a glance over his shoulder, and for the first time, his tone lost its amusement—it was ice.

"For the next time we meet, I'll offer no terms.

I wish you a good death."

And with that, Alpheo rode down the hill, his cloak snapping in the wind behind him like the banner of a storm that would know no end and no peace.