Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The earth trembled beneath them, a low, rolling shudder that passed through the soil and into the bones. For a moment, it almost felt like an earthquake, but Valen knew better. The rising wall of dust on the horizon told the truth. It was not the land that stirred, but the coming storm of men.

Eleven thousand.

The number alone carried weight, but seeing it, feeling it, was something else entirely. Valen had never witnessed such a mass of flesh and iron moving in unison, not since the days when he served in chains under Gratios' army. Then, he had marched at the very rear, a nameless beast of burden dragging carts and crates.

But now,he sat atop a horse, its barding crested in black and white , his armor polished bright enough to catch the light like a mirror. The sword at his side bore the sigil of the home that raised him , the same as the one stitched into the standard fluttering behind him.

Now he was a general. A governor. A man with land, a title, and command. He ruled a city for now made of wood , but that in the future could one day rival the likes of Harmway in trade and splendor.

And none of it would have been possible without him.

The thought gave Valen pause. If this was the day he died… would it truly be such a tragedy?

To fall at the head of an army, in full strength, under a banner of purpose, wasn't that a far better end than starving in rags, bent beneath a sack, unmarked and unloved?

There would be no chains here. Only steel.

But he shoved the thought aside. Not yet. This was not the place he would fall. Not after how far he had come. Not while so much remained to be done.

He could not rest yet.

His eyes swept the lines, observing his men behind the trenches and sharpened palisades. Spears braced. Shields raised. Faces pale and drawn tight.

Some shifted where they stood, their feet unable to find peace on the soil. A few adjusted their helmets, metal scraping against leather straps. One of the youngest among them, a boy a bit older than the slingers on the ridge, let out a long breath and tapped his leg anxiously against the ground.

The soft thud-thud-thud of his foot was barely audible, but it drew a sharp glare from the veteran beside him. Without ceremony, the older man raised a gauntlet and cuffed the boy lightly on the back of the head.

"Still yourself," he muttered. "They can hear that back home."

The boy nodded, ashamed, and fixed his eyes forward. Valen watched in silence, his expression unreadable beneath the curve of his helm.

These men were not born to war, but they were still his soldier.

He straightened in his saddle, letting his hand rest on the pommel of his sword.

The ground trembled again.

But this time, it was not fear that filled Valen's chest.

It was fire.

Behind Valen, the lines were forming like teeth in a steel jaw. Just behind the trenches, standing in tight formation along the ridgeline and clustered near the palisade gaps, stood his men, seven hundred footsoldiers in mail

He had placed them at the front of this section of the line, not out of distrust for the Chorsi, but out of familiarity. He knew how these men would react under pressure, how they held their spears, how they moved when ordered forward or back.

Just behind them, spaced with looser discipline but no less presence, were the Chorsi, eight hundred of them. Taller, wilder, and armed with curved blades, heavy spears,axes and large round shields . Where the Yarzat soldiers stood like stones, the Chorsi shifted like branches in the wind, ever-moving, checking their weapons, murmuring short phrases in their tongue, striking hands to shields or tapping bone pendants against their chests.

It was a different rhythm of war, but not one Valen disrespected.

They were fierce in battle, he had seen it firsthand. And though they fought with passion more than drill, when led well, they could tear through enemy ranks like fire through grass.

He wondered how the Chorsi back home fared before quickly shooing the thought away.

He had much more important things to worry about.

He sat tall in the saddle at the front, the morning sun glinting on the crest of his helm, his eyes scanning the far ridge where the first of the enemy appeared.

Dust rose in waves, rolling, thick, and slow, and from it came the silhouettes of war.

The Duskwindai had finally arrived.

And gods, there were so many of them.

They came in waves, lines bending with the terrain, spreading across the valley like ink spilled on parchment. Valen could already see their formation thickening at the center, forming a wedge with broader flanks that mirrored his own prepared lines.

Valen took in a slow breath, the kind a man takes before a dive into dark waters.

He raised a hand then turned slightly in the saddle, casting a brief glance over his shoulder at the two peoples now joined in a common cause.

Yarzat and Chorsi. Civilized and wild. Steel and bone.

This would be their trial.

As the enemy reached within a few hundred meters of the defenses, they came to a sudden, ragged halt. Dust still curled around their ankles like mist, but even through the haze, Valen could see the lines ripple and shift. The mass of warriors split, those at the front surging ahead while the others remained behind, motionless like a looming wall of shadowed menace.

Just as Varaku said.

They were sending the enslaved tribes first to wear down their lines.

Valen narrowed his eyes. The forward ranks advanced without formation, bodies pressing forward, driven more by fear of what lay behind them than by courage. Their shields were held high, but not in practiced unity,just a desperate, uneven wave of mismatched wood and hide.

They were fodder . Nothing more.

Valen didn't need to look behind him to know what was coming. He heard it, the distinct, discordant hum of arrows ripping through air and the sharper, heavier whistle of stones released from slings. The sound alone was like a warning from the gods.

He did not turn to see the skirmishers work, but he certainly look forward to seeing their result.

And almost on tow, moments later, the enemy screamed.

The first wave had stepped into the range of Yarzat's archers and the Chorsi slingers, and the effect was immediate, and brutal.

Arrows plunged downward with precision, thudding into shoulders, bellies, necks. Some found their mark through gaps between shield rims and arms, slipping into flesh with a wet, sickening noise. Others struck bone, splintering ribs or shattering elbows, pinning shields to arms or bodies to the ground. Here and there, an arrowhead burst clean through a man's thigh, protruding on the other side like a grotesque horn causing men to stop altogether or to limp forward.

And then came the stones.

Skulls caved inward like crushed eggs. Jaws snapped sideways, teeth spinning out with flecks of red. One man reeled back, screaming as a stone split the space between his fingers.

Another collapsed mid-step, his shin cracked sideways like splintered wood. He writhed in the dirt, kicking up bloodied earth before a second stone found his temple and silenced him with a crunch.

There was no order to their deaths. The chaos of it made it worse.

The slaves fell like crops in a storm, shields rattling from their broken hands, limbs twitching from shock or agony. There was no honor in their deaths, only the raw mechanics of slaughter.

The Duskwindai had sent them to die, and die they did.

Still, more came behind them.

The strength of arrows and stones, after all, did not lie solely in the death they dealt—but in the terror they sowed. Every man who saw the figure beside him collapse, every scream of a friend struck in the gut or face, added weight to their steps. It was fear layered over fatigue, a rot that spread through even the most hardened men.

Still, they reaped more than just fear.

Bodies littered the slope like discarded tools, limp, twisted, some crawling, others still. Blood soaked into the dry soil in dark smears, and yet the horde pressed forward. Reluctantly. Unwillingly. But forward all the same.

From his position above the trenches, Valen could now make out more clearly the shoddy patchwork of their ranks. Torn tunics, ill-fitting leathers, spears, and face that believed in the death that was coming.

Of the full mass of 11,000, it was clear now that nearly a third—at least 4,000—were from enslaved tribes. You could see it in their gait. These were not proud warriors.They would get no loot from the battle; they went prepared for death, that would have spared their tribes from annihilation if they refused.

And they were getting closer to their death.

Closer with every second, until the world itself seemed to shrink, until there was nothing else to see but the wave of bodies hurtling toward them like a black tide. The distant wall of the Duskwindai core forces still loomed behind, unmoving. Watching.

Letting the first wave spend itself in blood.

Valen took a slow breath. In his mind, he reached for something, anything.

He made a small prayer inside him, founding a small moment for peace.

Then it was gone.

He guided his horse away , hooves crunching on the dry earth.

He would have liked to be on top of the hill in that moment, from there, he could have seen it all: the bottleneck between the angled stakes, the trenches, the palisades, and behind them the eyes of hundreds of men waiting for his voice to reap the results of their patience.