Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It certainly was a good day .

The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays over the verdant field. The surrounding woods casted their shadows along the edges of the battlefield,while the middle was nothing short of a sunlit expanse.

Soon, however these green pastures would be dyed crimson with the blood of fallen soldiers.

Jarza stood on the field, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his first battle vividly, though it had been over twenty years ago—a simple skirmish when he served in a sellsword company for an imperial lord, tasked with cleansing his domains of bandits . That company , he vaguely remembered had disbanded a few years later, but Jarza as always found another band to join. Twenty winters and twenty summers had passed in the blink of an eye, each season blending into the next.

The four years he had spent as a slave were the longest of his life, dragging on with relentless cruelty. Starved and beaten in a foreign land, Jarza had often believed he would die in those chains. Yet, against all odds, he had survived. The gods, it seemed or yet he believed , had other intentions for him. Each scar and each battle had brought him to this moment, standing on this field, ready to face whatever came next.

He could never fully understand that boy , he was like a book open to everyone to be read and yet written in a language never seen.Easy to read and impossible to understand. His ideas were usually either nothing short of genial, or outright dumb.He still remembered the first batch of a plan he had made to escape , if they had followed on those they would have certainly have been caught.

He surveyed the field, his eyes scanning the nearly 600 warriors surrounding him. Among them, 200 were under his direct command. He had always dreamt of leading men into battle, a vision that seemed distant during his early days in the various sellsword companies. Most leadership positions in those bands were occupied by exiled minor lords or members of distant branches of noble families—individuals less powerful and less wealthy than their mainline kin. Yet now, against all odds, Jarza had men under his command, ready to follow him into the fray.

His gaze shifted, catching the vague shadow of the man he called a friend, Alpheo. Jarza smirked, recalling the incredulous faces of the nobles when they realized the plan: fighting cavalry with infantry. Who would have thought of doing something so stupid like that? And yet when they made a few tests it proved them wrong.

This campaign had turned out to be remarkably fruitful. Not only had they managed to assemble a cavalry corps, but they had also replenished their nearly empty coffers. The ransom for the prince's nephew and the captured elite infantry had brought in a substantial sum, securing their financial stability for the foreseeable future.

Jarza's thoughts wandered back to his long journey. He had always been a soldier, a warrior for hire, drifting from one battlefield to another. He had fought for lords who barely acknowledged his existence,he always believed that would be all that he would reach. Yet there was something in Alpheo's eyes that made Jarza think that he was awaiting something else , more than sim-

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Before Jarza could finish his thoughts, the distant sound of enemy horns echoed across the battlefield, pulling him back to the present moment. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the horizon. There, like a dark wave cresting over the green fields, the enemy lines began to advance.

Hundreds of enemy soldiers advanced, their lances glinting under the midday sun. Banners fluttered in the breeze, displaying the sigils and colors of the enemy prince and the various lords allied with him. As they drew nearer, Jarza could see the truth in Alpheo's words. Despite their superior numbers—between 700 and 1,000 by his rough estimate—their ranks were filled with peasants.

Jarza turned and looked back at their own banner, a white field with two black stripes going diagonally. Strangely enough, Alpheo was adamant on taking such a banner ,Jarza would have preferred something more elaborate and yet his captain had refused to even listen to his suggestions, something that rarely happened.

He wondered the reason for this stubborness for a few minutes before reluctantly forgetting about it .Moving from the banner , Jarza lowered his eyes to the enemy troops.

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Most of these soldiers lacked proper armor, wearing only the barest protection of tattered leather or simple cloth. They carried basic shields and spears, tools of war given to them in haste. Their march was anything but disciplined; the lines wavered, and many struggled to maintain their formation. It was clear they had received only rudimentary training, enough to form a shield wall and little more. These were not seasoned warriors but common folk thrust into the chaos of battle, armed with the basics and left to fend for themselves.

Jarza observed their approach with a critical eye, noting the uneven pace and the nervous glances exchanged among the ranks. The enemy prince's forces might have the advantage in numbers, but the quality and discipline of their troops left much to be desired

Jarza turned to his men, watching as they waited in silent anticipation. The front lines were composed of his brother in servitude , each man equipped with chainmail and helmets that gleamed dully in the sunlight. Their faces, though weathered, were set forward. Behind them, the new recruits provided by the prince stood ready. It was a common tactic: placing the elite soldiers with the best equipment at the front and the less experienced recruits at the back.

Each soldier in the company held a lance, but Alpheo had ensured they were also armed for close combat. Maces and swords hung at their sides, weapons chosen for their effectiveness against lightly armored foes. Alpheo had emphasized the importance of these weapons, knowing that when facing an army equipped primarily with spears, good armor and close-quarter weapons would allow his men to cleave through the enemy like a hot knife through butter.

Jarza observed the calm, focused expressions of his comrades. They were ready, their minds and bodies steeled for the coming battle, as they knew that by the end of the war their pouches would be filled with silver.

Feeling the imminent approach of battle, Jarza took a deep breath and donned his helmet, which he had temporarily removed. His armor was not just chainmail; it was reinforced with steel plates that covered his stomach and lower chest, providing additional protection. Braces and shoulder covers added to his defense, while not impeding his movement . Currently, he sat on horseback, a position that afforded him a better view of the enemy lines slowly advancing towards them.

As he adjusted the fit of his helmet, Jarza couldn't help but feel a twinge of anxiety. The weight of the armor was familiar, this was not his first battles and still that familiar sense of fear was there. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing his unease, but Jarza steadied the animal with a firm hand on the reins.

It was still a good day to die.