Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It is time, Valen thought, eyes narrowing as they followed the slope downward into the grey-brown basin of the valley below.

The wind carried with it the faint scent of earth, pine, and something far more bitter: distant smoke, and with it, the creeping promise of battle.

Behind him, two scouts stood silent, waiting for the dismissal they hadn't yet received. One shifted his weight, the leather of his boot brushing dry grass, but neither dared speak again. They had delivered the report, the enemy was on the march, only a few hours out, and now they waited, patient as shadows, for permission to vanish back into their watch posts.

But Valen wasn't aware of them. Not yet. His mind had drifted, not with aimlessness, but reassessing every angle and element of the plan he had labored to craft.

His eyes traced the lines of the field below, lingering over each contour of the defenses like a painter reviewing his canvas.

Two ragged lines of sharp wooden stakes jutted out from the ground like the fangs of a buried beast. They pierced the slope in oblique angles, flanking the approach without fully sealing it. The sight would have pleased Alpheo.

Behind the stakes, a trench line curled across the hill's base, shallow but effective. It would catch the feet of charging men , slowing them . And behind that, waiting, crouched, some already smeared in mud, were the Chorsi warriors, spears and axes in hand, waiting for the moment their blood-debt could be repaid in full.

The stakes themselves, of course, weren't meant to repel the Duskwindai infantry.

No, the stakes served a different purpose: disruption. They would force the enemy to pass through narrow channels, break their lines, ruin their momentum. In the chaos, the second line of defenders, tighter in formation and better prepared, would strike with ease considering it would be a formation against individual soldiers.

The flanks were closed and fortified, like the curved edges of a hunting funnel, and the center, open, deliberately unguarded, waited like bait in a trap.

From above, it resembled a bottleneck.

And, like any good bottleneck, it was designed not to hold the contents, but to crush them as they rushed through.

Valen exhaled through his nose, letting the cold air anchor him. He had gone over the plan nine times already, every trench, every line of stakes, every movement. It was good. If it worked. And yet, doubt lingered like mist in the corners of his thoughts. It had to work.

"Commander?" a voice interrupted, soft but edged with concern.

Valen blinked, pulled back into the present by the scout's quiet question. The two men were still waiting, standing motionless like sentries behind him, unsure whether to speak again.

He nodded, clearing his throat.

"You're dismissed," he said, his voice low but firm. "Return to your posts and keep your heads low. When you see the first ranks of their main force, signal twice with the green cloth."

The scouts nodded sharply and turned to leave without a word, disappearing down the path they'd climbed to reach him.

Valen remained where he stood, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the soon-to-be battlefield below.

He had known from the start that they would be outnumbered. Every man under his command knew it too. But the scout's report had confirmed just how deep that disadvantage ran.

He would have to tell the other commanders soon. Let them know what they were about to face.

The thought sat heavy in his gut.

He looked once more at the open ground between the flanks, where the Duskwindai would come charging through. Where his plan would either break them or fail utterly.

It's a good plan, he told himself again.

But the gods cared little for plans.

They all knew that they would fight outnumbered, but not in such condition.

It would be an hard conversation.

----------------

Varaku greeted him warmly, as he came into view.

But the words he spoke next soured the warmth in Varaku's face.

"Six thousand against eleven."

The Chorsi leader let the words hang in the air, repeating them in a low voice more like an invocation than a calculation. But Valen could tell, he saw it in the subtle tightening of Varaku's jaw, in the measured breath he drew through his nose, that the truth did not shake him.

The man did not flinch. Not outwardly, at least.

That was something Valen respected. Strength not of limb, but of presence.

Still, the numbers weren't entirely honest.

Five thousand three hundred against eleven thousand, Valen corrected silently, unwilling to share that harsher truth aloud. He saw no point in making a bleak situation bleaker.

Of those five thousand, four hundred were scarcely older than boys—some barely past their twelfth nameday. Valen had not the heart nor the mind to send them to the front lines.

After all, they would have been useless.

Instead, he placed them atop the slope with slings and sacks of river stones. Alongside them stood his two hundred archers, that he had brought from Salthold

Slingers were underestimated in many cultures. But Valen knew better.

A child, taught well, could hurl a stone with such precision and force that even armored men had to fear them. At the right angle, a rock to the temple was no less fatal than a spear. And so the slope's crown bristled with these unlikely warriors, boys ready to defend their home, to keep the enemy from climbing too easily, or too fast.

The true battle, however, would be decided below, where hardened Chorsi warriors and Yarzat soldiers waited behind the trenches and palisades, men equipped with layered armor, weighted spears, and the brutal discipline that Valen inherited from his time in the White Army would stand on that field. Their lines were taut with readiness, their expressions grim but resolute.

This would be a battle not merely of swords, but of wills.

A clash of quality against quantity.

The Duskwindai brought eleven thousand bodies to bear, tribesmen pressed into service, warriors seasoned in mountain raids on the Thrazanie land, and vassal tribe called to arms.

They were less disciplined, less armored, but they would come with speed and fury, driven by hatred for the Chorsi and vengeance for the fallen kin they had lost in the past encounter.

But the Chorsi had not forgotten how to fight either.

Their warriors wore iron, not hides. Their minds were sharpened by recognition what they were fighting for, as such their moreale was high. They had their families behind them , they knew that if they fell that would be it, their entire tribe would disappear overnight.

Still , now, with the Yarzat beside them, they had something more, structure. A spine of tactics to complement their ferocity of weaponry and soul.

Nonetheless, Valen knew the truth, and it clung to his ribs like wet cloth.

If they won today, it would not be because they were stronger.

It would be because they refused to fall; this would be a fight between numbers and resilience.

"I will take the center."

Varaku spoke suddenly, his voice calm but firm, like stone cracking through silence.

Valen turned to him, startled. His brow rose, the surprise plain on his face."Are you sure?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "It will be the most dangerous front, where the brunt of the charge will fall."

He didn't expect the words to dissuade the Chorsi chieftain, but still, he had to say them.

Varaku gave a short nod, his expression unmoved, his eyes already fixed on the battlefield below."That is why I must be there. The center is the spine of your plan. If it buckles, the whole thing breaks. The men at the center will be the ones most tempted to flee. But if they see their chieftain there, standing with them, bleeding with them, they will stand."

It made sense. Brutal, undeniable sense. But that didn't make it any less worthy of respect.

Valen inclined his head, a small but sincere gesture of recognition. Varaku received it with quiet pride and returned it in kind before stepping forward and offering his forearm in the warrior's clasp.

Valen hesitated not from doubt, but guilt that the act would be a false one .

He reached forward and grasped Varaku's arm, the two locking grips as comrades do when both know they may not see the next dawn.

Their eyes met.

In Varaku's gaze, Valen saw the fire of a proud people, of a man who bore not just duty, but the grief and hunger of a tribe long humiliated by the enemy they would soon face.

And in Valen's eyes, Varaku saw something as well, not blood-lust, not ambition, but the cold, tempered resolve of a man who had walked too long among storms to fear the next one.

"Fight with the spirits' eyes upon you, friend," Varaku said, voice low and strong. "We shall feast upon our enemies' flesh… or be the feast."

Valen gave a faint smile"Then let us leave our bones in places worth remembering. May luck walk beside you, honored warrior."

With that, they broke the clasp and turned from each other, each walking to their post and take up the weight of leadership where the steel would soon sing.

The battle ahead would decide more than just who lived or died that day.

It would carve a path for tribes who had never heard their names, shape the future for children not yet born, and more importantly, determine whether Alpheo's ambition in these lands would disappear in a puff of smoke or not.