Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Chapter 109: Dead field

 The once lush, rolling plains were now littered with the bodies of fallen men and horses, a landscape seemingly pictured by lady death herself. The tall grass, once swaying in the breeze, was trampled and stained red, flattened beneath the weight of the dead and dying. Here and there, shattered weapons and broken shields lay scattered like remnants of a violent storm. The sea however were finally calm, and the victorious sailor could finally cheer at the end of the storm.

Northmen moved among the corpses, their faces hard and unflinching as they kicked at the bodies, checking for any signs of life. A groan or twitch was quickly silenced with the cold steel of an axe or sword, ending whatever pain remained. This was the only mercy that one side would give the other.

Maesinius rode through the aftermath, his steed moving carefully between the fallen. The prince's eyes scanned the battlefield, his expression calm and unreadable. His armor was stained with the dirt of battle, but his posture was as regal as ever. Soldiers around him, battered and bloodied from the fight, turned as he passed. Some knelt in respect, others raised their weapons high in salute, shouting his name.

''Your grace!" a grizzled warrior called, bowing his head as the prince approached.

"Glory to the prince!" another voice shouted from across the field, followed by a chorus of cheers as more men turned to acknowledge their leader.

Wherever Maesinius rode, men bowed and cheered, their voices rising above the stillness of death that hung over the battlefield. To them, he was not just a commander but a symbol of victory, a figure who had led them through the storm and made them feel triumph for the first time in their lives. Even the wounded, those who could barely stand, lifted their hands in salute, their faces filled with pride.

Maesinius gave a small nod to each man he passed. The victory was theirs, but the cost was evident in every lifeless body that surrounded him. His eyes flickered over the scene, noting the faces of both subjects and foes alike, lying motionless in the dirt.

The battle had been won, though not without struggle. After the Messinian cavalry broke and routed, the northern forces seized their moment. Edmund and his riders, alongside the infantry used in the ambush, wheeled around to flank the remaining forces of Lord Conte and his vassals. 

The Messinian foot soldiers, now without the protection of their cavalry, found themselves caught between two advancing lines. Panic spread like wildfire among their ranks. Swords clashed, and the air filled with the cries of men fighting for their lives, but the outcome was already decided.

The northern cavalry, though small in number, struck with precision, cutting down Messinians as they fled. Infantrymen followed closely, axes and spears tearing into the backs of those who dared turn and run. The flanking had worked; Conte's forces crumbled under the pressure and victory was delivered to Maesinius's feet.

Yet, despite the northern momentum, there simply wasn't enough cavalry to finish the job. Most of the enemy army, once it realized defeat was inevitable, scattered into the distance, disappearing across the horizon before the Northerners could fully encircle them.

Maesinius knew well the value of cavalry in a battle such as this. The northern forces had fought hard and outmaneuvered their foe, but with more horsemen, the victory could have been absolute, almost all of the army would have been either killed or made prisoner. As it stood instead , the bulk of Conte's infantry escaped into the wilderness, their numbers diminished but still significant enough to regroup.Though he was satisfied enough that he had crippled the enemy cavalry, denying them their biggest advantage, he still felt a sour taste at the thought that total victory could have been achieved.

As Maesinius rode through the battlefield, the ground littered with bodies, he spotted Edmund nearby, his face still dirty from the intensity of the battle. The young man was guiding his horse toward the prince's, his expression a mix of disbelief and lingering adrenaline.Maesinius reined in his horse, slowing down beside Edmund, who looked up, at him.

"Well done, Edmund," Maesinius said, his voice steady but warm. "You handled the cavalry better than I could have hoped for. That ambush saved us, no question about it."

Edmund blinked, as if unsure whether the prince was truly speaking to him. His lips twitched into an uncertain smile. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said, shaking his head slightly, his voice edged with disbelief. "I still can't believe we pulled this off. I mean... 150 riders against 700? It's madness. I thought we were done for."

Maesinius chuckled, his eyes scanning the battlefield, then meeting Edmund's again. "Madness, maybe. But it worked. And you led them well. That takes courage."

Edmund let out a short laugh, though it was tinged with frustration. "Courage or stupidity, I'm not sure which, still the plan was yours... I still can't believe my father volunteered me for such a dangerous role. Not a single word of protest from me changed his mind '' He shook his head, his thoughts clearly still spinning. "It felt like he was sending me to my death."

Maesinius raised an eyebrow, sensing the young man's unease. "Your father knows your worth. And he trusted you to come through. He was right.You are also one of the few he believed would had the sane mind to actually fake a retreat instead of headbutting a mountain, if the role was given to Uther do you think he would have reined back? Your father must have had conflict within himself I am sure"

"Maybe," he said quietly, his gaze dropping back to the battlefield. "Maybe..."

Maesinius gave Edmund a firm pat on the back, his grin widening. "Still not bad for your first time leading" he said with a hint of admiration. "You've earned your place today."

Before Edmund could respond, the prince spurred his horse forward, riding on through the field, leaving the young man confused with his recent events. 

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After a short ride through the field , the prince returned back to camp.As Maesinius dismounted, he barely had a moment to catch his breath before he saw Uther the Giant striding toward him, his body covered in blood—most of it not his own. Uther's face was smeared with the red of his enemies, his long beard drenched, and his chest heaving with the adrenaline of the battle, that just ended a few hours ago . Without warning, the giant of a man grabbed Maesinius by the waist, lifting him clean off the ground as though he were no more than a child while bringing him in a tent where the lords were waiting

"Ha! We did it!" Uther bellowed, his voice deep and booming like thunder.

The prince gave a small laugh, feeling the raw power of Uther as he was hoisted up. "Put me down, Uther, before you break my spine!" he chuckled, patting the giant on his broad, bloodied shoulder. With a playful grin, Maesinius gave Uther a firm shove,though for the giant it was more like a pat. 

From the crowd of cheering lords and soldiers, Mjorn Breakshield, with a new scar running from his temple to his jawline—stepped forward, raising his mug of ale high. "To the prince!" he shouted, his voice gruff but full of admiration. "Victory is ours! Glory to the North!"

The men cheered even louder, the name of their prince on their lips as they raised their mugs in salute. Maesinius, though exhausted, smiled at his men, his heart swelling with pride. He had led them through the storm of battle and emerged victorious. The road ahead would be long, but for tonight, they could celebrate.

Maesinius scanned the faces of those around him—lords and warriors who had risked everything to fight by his side. The victory was theirs, but he knew that most of the enemy arm had escaped, still he would not tamper his lords' moreale. He nodded to Mjorn, acknowledging the man's words.

"To all of us," Maesinius said as he grabbed a horn filled with ale , his voice rising above the noise, "and to the battles yet to come."

Maesinius drained the last of his drink, savoring the bitter taste of victory mixed with the ale, before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He set the mug down with a heavy thud, the noise barely audible over the ongoing celebrations. His attention was soon caught by Lord Cregan—pale-faced as always, but sharp-eyed and steady, his mind already working past the glory of the day.

"What will we do now, Your Grace?" Cregan asked, his voice cutting through the cheers. Though the battle was over, the war was far from finished.

Maesinius stood tall, his eyes scanning the tent as he considered the question. The lords gathered around quieted slightly, sensing that the prince was weighing the next move. He glanced from face to face, looking for insight, for counsel. His eyes finally rested on Lord Harold of North's Bane, a grizzled veteran whose wisdom came from decades of leading men into battle.

Harold, leaning casually against a nearby post, straightened. "We should use today and tomorrow to rest and recover," he said, his deep voice carrying across the tent. "The men are exhausted, and we've wounded to tend. After that, we'll hunt down the remnants of the fleeing army. They'll be scattered and demoralized, easy prey for us."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords. Most nodded, the weight of the day's battle starting to catch up to them. Even in victory, the men were tired, their bodies aching from the hard-fought combat. Harold's words made sense.

Maesinius stood in silent thought for a few moments, his gaze shifting toward the entrance of the tent as if he could already see the path ahead. The fleeing army was still a threat, but Harold was right. His men needed rest. The last thing he wanted was to push them too hard and weaken their strength for the next encounter.

Finally, the prince nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Harold speaks wisely," he said, his voice firm. "We've won a great victory today, but we need to regain our strength. Tomorrow and the day after, we rest. Then we pursue the enemy and finish what we've started."

The lords gave a collective nod of approval, satisfied with the decision. But Maesinius wasn't done. He raised his hand to command their attention once more. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice rising, "we shall have a feast. A celebration for the army. They fought with honor today, and they deserve to know that their prince values their actions."

A cheer erupted in the tent, men clapping one another on the back, their spirits lifted by the prospect of a feast.