The mountain pass, a place of grim, beautiful silence, was the final stand of 200 Vexin soldiers. But in that silence, there was no grim resolve, only the sound of men's trembling hands on their shields and the rapid, desperate rhythm of their hearts. They were a small, defiant wall against a tide they knew was coming, a tide of 10,000 mercenaries who would show no mercy and feel no honor. They were scared.
Among them was a veteran named Locran, a man with a scarred face who had fought beside Damon for years. He saw the terror in the young recruits' eyes, the way they gripped their swords as if they were their last lifeline. The cold dread was a palpable thing, a force as real as the coming enemy.
Locran stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence like a sword. "I see your fear," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "I feel it, too. We are 200 men against a sea of steel. There is no victory here, only death. But we are not here to win. We are here to hold."
He looked at each man, his gaze filled with a quiet, powerful conviction. "Our people are behind us. Our families. Our homes. They are safe because we are here. Damon is leading the rest of our army to a place where they can win this war, but they need time. We are that time. We are the shield that will break the enemy's spear."
Locran's voice, now a beacon of defiant courage, rang through the pass. "We fight for Damon! We fight for every person who lives behind these mountains. We are not just soldiers. We are the last hope of our people. We will not falter. We will not break. We will give them hell, and we will die with honor!"
A roar erupted from the Vexin soldiers, a sound of defiance that shattered the silence of the pass. The fear was gone, replaced by a burning resolve. They were no longer just 200 men; they were a single, unified force, a defiant wall of steel against the coming tide.
The first sign of the enemy was a low, rolling thunder, a sound that grew into a deafening roar. The mercenaries appeared on the horizon, a seemingly endless horde that stretched from one side of the pass to the other. Their banners, a motley collection of symbols, waved in the wind, a grim testament to the fact that they fought for coin, not for a cause.
The battle was not a glorious clash of armies; it was a brutal, desperate fight for survival. The Vexin soldiers, using every rock and crevice as a shield, fought with a savage courage. The mercenaries, their confidence shattered by the Vexin's ferocious defense, were slowed and frustrated. They were not paid to fight an impossible war, and the Vexin were making this one impossible.
The battle raged for hours. The Vexin were a slowly shrinking force, a flickering flame that was being consumed by a raging fire. But their morale did not break. With every death, their resolve hardened. They were not fighting to win; they were fighting to hold, to buy time for their people.
The last of them fell with a final, defiant roar, their bodies a testament to a courage that would be remembered for a thousand years. The mercenaries, a battered and bloodied horde, finally broke through the pass. They had won the battle, but they had paid a terrible price.
But it was too late. The Vexin's main force, having used the time their comrades had bought them, was now unleashing its vengeance. A cataclysmic roar of steel on steel erupted from the main mountain pass, a sound that echoed the sacrifice that had just been made. The King's army, unaware of the trap, was being met with a blinding fury, a hammer blow from the Vexin alliance that they never saw coming. The main battle had just begun.