Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It was clear to all that had eyes that the terrain was treacherous, cruel to both man and beast. Uneven ridges cut across the valley like scars, and thorny shrubs jutted up from the cracked earth like the teeth of buried beasts. For infantry, it was a nightmare. For cavalry, it was near-suicide.

Even now, Egil's riders struggled to hold formation. Their line twisted and buckled as horses stumbled over hidden dips and roots. Dust and broken bramble clung to their boots and coats like leeches. If they had truly intended to ride their lances into the enemy ranks, it would have been a massacre of their own forces.

But Egil hadn't come for a traditional charge.

As the snarling tide of riders neared the enemy's front, arrows began to rain—thin, hurried volleys loosed by frantic levy archers. The sky hissed with steel, and a few horses bucked in surprise as the shafts smacked into the dirt or glanced off mail.

And yet the riders did not slow.

Then, with eerie synchronicity, they pivoted, not into the enemy, but alongside them, skimming just outside spear range. It was only then that the purpose of their charge became horrifyingly clear.

One by one, the riders reached to their saddles, not for lances, nor javelins, but for bundles of rope.

Confused cries rose from the infantry ranks.

Until the ropes came flying.

Weighted at the ends and expertly thrown, the ropes arced through the air like cruel lassos. They looped over necks, torsos, weapons, and legs, tightening with a vicious snap. One moment, a man was standing in rank; the next, he was screaming, yanked off his feet as the rope bit into flesh.

Dozens were ensnared.

"WHAT IN THE GODS—!"

"GET IT OFF! GET IT—"

A soldier's shriek was cut short as he was whipped from the line like a rag doll, his helmet flying off as his head slammed against the rocks, going completely still. Another was caught around the waist and dragged screaming, his boots flailing behind him, scraping furrows into the dirt.

Chaos exploded in the line.

Men stumbled over fallen comrades. Shields were dropped. Spears wavered. The enemy formation began to fracture, not from blades, but from panic.

The riders didn't even need to kill them outright. They circled like wolves, dragging victims behind them as grotesque trophies, parading their slow, agonizing deaths across the front for all to see.

Every now and then, a rope would go taut and snap a limb; bones crunched like twigs, screams echoing across the battlefield.

And as if that weren't enough, javelins now began to rain down, from the second wave of riders positioned behind the first who had remained still until the chaos began. They hurled their missiles with cold precision, cutting down those who tried to rescue the bound or re-form the ranks.

The sky above the levy lines turned dark, not with storm, but with whistling death.

"Hold! HOLD, DAMN YOU!" an officer bellowed, but his voice was swallowed by the maelstrom of screams.

Arrows, ropes, and javelins all converged. Some men broke and ran. Others dropped to their knees in confusion or desperation. But none of them stood unmoved.

It wasn't a cavalry charge. It was a butcher's game. And Egil's riders played it like artists.

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"Those fuckers!" Lechlian spat, his voice sharp as a whipcrack, barely audible over the din of chaos below. His gauntleted hand clenched into a trembling fist as he whirled to a nearby courier. "Tell Caedric to sweep in with the cavalry. Now. Drive those mongrels off our line!"

The courier, a slim youth with panic wide in his eyes, gave a brisk nod and darted off without a word, boots kicking up clods of dust as he vanished down the ridge at a desperate sprint.

Before Lechlian could turn back to the field, another voice cut through the moment—quiet but resolute.

"Father."

The word landed like a stone in a still pond. Lechlian stiffened but did not turn.

"What is it?" he asked coldly, his voice devoid of affection.

Arnold, tall and broad-shouldered, stood behind him with his fists at his sides, trying to steady the fire in his chest.

"It's a trap," he said, measured but firm. "Sending the cavalry now plays directly into his hands. He's baiting you.He wants you to waste them. Why else would he send only his cavalry? Those horsemen aren't pressing the charge. They're provoking us to bait us into action."

Lechlian's brow twitched, but he didn't respond.

Arnold continued, pressing the point. "You know how the peasants' riders fight . They scatter before a proper engagement, then pepper the pursuers with javelins while we pursue. If Caedric commits the knights now, you'll lose them. Keep the archers on them, or send infantry to try and fend off the riders first. There are only so many that they can kill without losing the majority of their forces."

But his words fell like rain on stone.

"I gave you tact enough to be present here," Lechlian said at last, still without looking at him. His tone was bitter, heavy with the weight of grudges past.

Arnold could hardly believe what he was speaking about

"If you'd shown the discipline due your name, it would be you leading the knights today. But you didn't. You chose arrogance. And now your younger brother rides at their head, you can weep at your own faults."

Arnold's mouth fell slightly open, incredulous. "So that's it? You ignore sound judgment for pride?"

"You speak of judgment," Lechlian snapped, "but not once have you shown the wisdom to temper your tongue. Perhaps next time you'll think twice before disrespecting your father and your prince."

Arnold's jaw tightened as the sting took hold. But then, slowly, he let out a breath, not one of surrender, but of quiet disgust.

Why did he even try?

"I hope, for all our sakes, you're right," he said flatly. "If not, this will be just another mistake. Another failure born from your damnable pride and inadequacy."

That was enough for his father.

Lechlian turned, his face flushed with fury, the lines around his eyes stark with exhaustion and rage. He stepped forward, eyes locked on his son with a wild gleam.

"Guards!" he barked, his voice booming across the command ridge.

Two armored men came at once, saluting with clenched fists across their chests.

"Escort Lord Arnold back to his tent," Lechlian growled. "He's done advising me."

The guards hesitated a fraction, glancing at the young lord.

"That wasn't a suggestion," Lechlian snapped, pointing a trembling finger. "Get him out of my sight."

Arnold didn't resist. He didn't even flinch. He merely gave a short, dry snort, almost pity, and turned without a word, his cloak flaring behind him as the guards fell in step.

And as he walked down the ridge, the screams of the dying echoed in the distance along with the sound of hooves thundering toward ruin.

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"Your Grace," said the young aide as he approached with a hurried bow, sweat darkening the collar of his tunic, "the courier reports the Herculeians have sent their cavalry to the right; they've broken formation to pursue Lord Egil."

Alpheo's expression warped into something between satisfaction and relief. He let out a breath, long and measured, as a faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"Excellent," he murmured, now his infantry could work on their complicated maneuver without worry of being flanked by the enemy cavalry.

The aide blinked, uncertain whether to nod or remain silent. Alpheo paid him no further attention.

"Send word," the prince said, voice now steel at the prospect of pursuing his plan . "The time is upon us. The army is to advance, per prior instructions, no deviations. We strike now."

The young man gave a crisp salute, then spun on his heel and vanished down the slope, his boots pounding the dry earth as he made for the runners waiting below.

He raised a hand in signal, and in moments, half a dozen couriers sprang into motion, boys and lean young men with ribbons tied to their belts.

They scattered like sparks from a forge, some darting leftward through narrow goat-paths between rocks and brush, others veering toward the center, vanishing into the haze of raised dust and the steady hum of war-drums pulsing like a heartbeat.

Alpheo remained mounted, silent atop his horse as the wind stirred his cloak. His gaze swept the field until it caught the right flank—his personal flank—where the heart of his infantry had begun to move.

They marched in an oblique line, not a direct surge but a careful angling maneuver that lengthened their front to stretch toward the enemy's exposed side. The formation rippled like a banner in slow motion, an elegant, grinding tide of discipline and iron.

Five hundred footmen of the First led the motion, shields locked, helms gleaming faintly beneath the cloud-filtered sun. These were veterans, drilled to exhaustion under his command. Their lines did not waver, their step was one, and each sword or mace or axe at their side knew the weight of blood.

Alongside them, two hundred and fifty halberdiers from the Third moved in staggered files. Tall polearms gleamed as they caught the light, swinging slightly with every step like the slow sway of a pendulum preparing to strike. Their presence was ominous, meant not to hold but to cut, to tear, to make the enemy bleed at range before the first sword ever touched bone.

The wind carried their muffled chants, low and rhythmic, an old battle cadence passed from grizzled sergeant to raw recruit, pounding into the spine like a drumbeat of fate.

Alpheo watched it unfold with a general's satisfaction and a gambler's thrill. Every piece was in motion. Every pawn moved with purpose.

The Herculeian cavalry, baited and drawn, now chased ghosts. And his hammer, sharp, patient, and ruthless, was about to fall in a manuever that the whole world had never seen.