It was chaos everywhere Alpheo looked. Chaos, and the sickening knowledge that none of it needed to happen. Rage welled in him, not just at the bloodshed, but at the stupidity of it all. This carnage could have been avoided, if men had chosen reason over pride. If they had chosen peace over steel.
But asking for reason, Alpheo realized bitterly, was asking for a god to change his nature. Men bled and killed because they wanted to. Because pride, vengeance, and fear outweighed mercy.
The battlefield proved it.
One of Arkawatt's guards, a veteran with a scarred face, hacked savagely at one of Alpheo's younger mercenaries. The boy, his helmet dented, his eyes wide with panic, barely caught the blow on his shield.
The impact rattled his arm so hard he staggered backward, breath knocked from his lungs. The guard raised his sword again, eager to finish him, only for the mercenary to twist desperately to the side and ram his hammer into the man's ribs.
The sound was wet, a crunch followed by a spray of saliva from the guard's mouth. The veteran bent forward, gasping, and the boy, wild-eyed, smashed his mace down onto the man's skull. Bone cracked. The guard collapsed, his twitching body forgotten almost instantly as the mercenary whirled back into the melee.
But for every man Alpheo's troops felled, another seemed to fall in return.
By a supply cart, two of Arkawatt's soldiers cornered another mercenary. One hacked high, the other low, their blades relentless. The mercenary screamed, parrying frantically, his arms trembling under the weight of each strike. For a moment he held them off, then one blade slipped past his guard, carving into his thigh. He crumpled with a howl, and the second soldier drove his sword straight down through the man's neck.
Blood sprayed across the cart's wooden boards as his body slid limply to the ground. The soldiers turned, already searching for their next target.
The dirt underfoot grew slick with gore. The stench of iron hung thick in the hot air, choking every breath Alpheo took. All around him, steel rang against steel, mingled with guttural grunts, cries of rage, and the ragged screams of the dying.
A bearded mercenary seized one of Arkawatt's men by the neck, snarling as he smashed his forehead into the man's nose.
The guard reeled, dazed, but the mercenary didn't hesitate. He pummeled the man's face with the pommel of his axe until he dropped limp, his teeth scattered in the mud.
Alpheo's gaze darted frantically across the chaos. His men were holding, yes, but barely. They were battered, exhausted, sweat mixing with blood on their faces. Each clash felt slower, heavier. His line was not a wall, but a dam with cracks spreading wider with each heartbeat.
"Hold the line!" Alpheo roared, forcing his voice to carry over the din. "Hold it!"
But his men had little left to give.
Alpheo inhaled deeply, only to gag on it. The heat was suffocating,heat from the sun, from the men pressing together, from the blood-soaked earth steaming beneath their boots. His neck prickled suddenly. Some instinct screamed.
He spun.
A soldier loomed over him, sword raised high, sunlight flashing off its edge as it came down. Alpheo's gut clenched, too fast, too close. His own blade came up sluggishly. Not enough.
Then the man's body lurched sideways with a sickening crunch. A shield had rammed into his ribs like a battering ram, the blow loud enough to snap bone. The attacker collapsed in the dirt, gasping.
Vroth. Always Vroth.
Alpheo didn't wait for anyone. He stomped onto the man's chest, pinning him, and drove his sword into the side. The blade bit shallowly, halted by chainmail, but the man screamed, thrashing.
Snarling, Alpheo wrenched his foot higher onto the man's chest for leverage, then rammed the sword down through his eye. He felt it punch into the skull, felt the awful resistance give way as it pierced the brain. The man jerked once, then sagged, dead weight.
"Stay focused!" Vroth snapped, seizing Alpheo's shoulder and hauling him back toward the knot of guards protecting him. The body was left to twitch in the mud, forgotten.
But there was no time to breathe. The pressure grew worse.
Arkawatt's guards fought like men possessed, their fury redoubled. For every step Alpheo's mercenaries held, they were forced two steps back. Men fell, screaming, shields split apart by axes, throats ripped open by axes and swords. His line, already frayed, bent further under the unrelenting weight. They had been fighting for hours, and it showed,arms drooped, swings slowed, their movements dulled by exhaustion.
Alpheo's heart hammered in his chest as he watched his guards falter under the relentless assault. Even Vroth, indomitable as stone, grunted with the effort of turning aside another of the prince's elite, the strain etched across his scarred face.
The line was breaking.
Then—
A deafening crack split the chaos. Heads whipped toward the camp's entrance as the heavy wooden gates buckled inward and exploded open with a thunderous crash.
What followed was like a storm given flesh. Horses surged through the breach, their iron-shod hooves pounding like drums of war, carrying riders bristling with spears, axes, and swords. Dust and earth flew in clouds around them as they descended on Arkawatt's men like a tide.
"Reinforcements!" a mercenary shouted, his voice half disbelieving, half ecstatic, as salvation came thundering in.
Egil's remaining forces had arrived at last,more cavalry, and behind them a hard column of foot soldiers, surging forward with shields locked and weapons raised. At their head rode a towering, broad-shouldered black man, his axe a blur of steel. He cleaved through men as if they were stalks of wheat, scattering the prince's guards with every furious swing.
"SMASH THEM!" Jarza roared, his bellow carrying across the camp like thunder. His axe made an example for all, as it swept clean through the neck of a soldier, blood spraying as the man crumpled. In that instant, framed by dust, sunlight, and the carnage around him, Jarza looked to Alpheo like an angel that had come to deliver them to safety...
And he, in a certain way, was.
The cavalry slammed into Arkawatt's men with bone-crushing force. The impact was immediate to the eye, lances shattered on shields and armor, riders bowled men over like toys, and the screams of the dying were lost beneath the thunder of hooves. One guard was hurled into the air, his breastplate folding inward under the weight of a charging destrier. Another was impaled through the belly, skewered on a spear and tossed aside like refuse.
The prince's line buckled, its order shattering in the chaos. On foot, men scrambled, trying desperately to form ranks, but they were trampled, scattered, cut down before they could even raise shields. Their formation was gone.
Alpheo seized the moment. He thrust his sword skyward and bellowed with every ounce of his lungs:"PRESS THEM! NOW!"
His voice was swallowed by the storm, but his men heard it. They surged forward with renewed ferocity, driving into the disarray.
---------------
Prince Arkawatt stood in the heart of his formation, as defeat loomed ever closer. His once jubilant expression had hardened as the chaos unfolded around him, though his presence still inspired those nearby. The clang of steel and the shouts of men were deafening, but his voice cut through the noise. He started the fight thinking he had the better number , now however they were the one outnumbered and getting encircled
"Where are the rest of our men?!" he demanded, turning sharply to Robert, his most trusted knight, as if he could have the answer. His brow furrowed with frustration, expecting informations that Robert had no way of knowing.
The knight, breathing heavily and streaked with blood from his own wounds, struggled to speak. He raised a hand, pointing toward the opposite side of the forest in the distance, words forming on his lips.
Before he could utter a sound, the air whistled,a lone javelin shot out from the chaos, flying with deadly precision on the man that both sides wanted less to die.
Thwack!-
-------------
"The prince is dead!"
The cry echoed across the battlefield, followed by another voice, then another, spreading panic through Arkawatt's men.
Alpheo, still hacking away at the enemy, glanced around in confusion.
What?! he thought, his brow furrowed as he thought he heard wrong.
Before he could understand what was happening ,the formation of Arkawatt's guards began to falter, men looking around in panic, unsure of what was happening. The once-disciplined line of soldiers began to fall apart as more and more guards repeated the ominous news while turning around almost as if wanting to see for themselves. Some of them hesitated, while others outright began stopping fighting
Alpheo, still in the thick of the fight, felt the shift but didn't understand "What the hell is going on?" he muttered under his breath hoping that it was a false alarm.
His men were pushing forward, pressing the advantage as the enemy's morale crumbled, but something was wrong, this wasn't how a battle should have ended.
Then, amidst the confusion and the fray of deaths, Alpheo spotted a figure that made him stop dead in his tracks. His heart froze for a moment as he recognized Robert, one of Arkawatt's trusted men, standing in the middle of the battle, holding the lifeless body of the prince. Robert's arms were wrapped around Arkawatt's chest, his face contorted in grief and shock. The prince's body slumped in Robert's embrace, a javelin protruding from his chest, blood pouring down his once-proud armor.
Alpheo stared in disbelief.
What the fuck happened?.
Just moments ago, Arkawatt was leading his men, and now he was dead.His confusion quickly turned to action.
"Guards of the prince! Surrender!" he shouted at Arkawatt's men "Your prince is dead! Lay down your arms!I swear you will be well treated and be spared..."
His words, coupled with the sight of their fallen leader, were enough to break the remaining will of Arkawatt's guards. Slowly, one by one, swords and shields began to drop to the ground, their owners stepping back in defeat, their faces drained of hope.
And as victory rolled up to Alpheo his gaze fell once again on Robert, still cradling the body of Prince Arkawatt.
If he was expecting the proud man to surrender...he was wrong.
Robert's eyes snapped up, locking onto Alpheo's. Hatred blazed in his expression, a raw, primal rage that needed no words. With a roar, Robert threw the lifeless body of the prince aside , grabbed a blade from a nearby fallen soldier and charged toward Alpheo, his face twisted with fury.
Alpheo barely had time to react before Robert closed the distance. The glint of steel flashed as Robert raised his sword, ready to strike. But before the blow could fall, one of Alpheo's soldiers stepped forward. With a brutal shove, the soldier bashed Robert in the chest with the edge of his shield, sending him crashing to the ground.
Robert groaned, winded from the blow, struggling to rise, his hands scrambling to find his weapon. The soldier raised his sword, poised to deliver the killing strike.
"Stop!" Alpheo barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
The soldier hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at his commander, unsure.
"Disarm him," Alpheo commanded, his tone calm but firm. "He may still be to use"
The soldier nodded and swiftly kicked the sword out of Robert's reach before yanking him up by the collar and wrenching his arms behind his back. With a few quick movements and more help coming from comrades, the soldier stripped Robert of his remaining weapons, leaving him defenseless.
Alpheo spared him a quick sight, before turning around making sense of what just happened .
His shoulders sagged slightly as he took it all in.
What had started as a triumph was now spiraling into the worst possible outcome.
The prince was dead, worse it was one of his men that killed him and if that was not enough they were still deep into his territory with the rest of the army soon coming back.
Truly they were neck-deep into their own shit....