The battlefield was a quiet and grim place after the rout of the mercenary cavalry. A chilling wind, carrying the scent of blood and cold steel, swept across the high ground. Lord Eran, his face a mask of weary resolve, stood at the head of the infantry. Arion, a grim and pragmatic warrior, stood among the Vexin troops, his gaze fixed on the distant mercenary camp. The full burden of leadership for the combined infantry fell on both of them. Eran's 2,800 men and the Vexin's 3,200 men were all tired. Their shields were dented, their armor scratched, and the grim memory of the battle was etched into their faces. They had won a great victory, but they knew the main fight was yet to come.
It was in this tense silence that a single rider from the mercenary camp approached. He was a messenger, but not one of peace. He was grim-faced, with a cold, calculating stare that swept over the allied lines. He carried no banner of truce, only the cold, hard terms of a ruthless enemy.
He addressed Lord Eran directly, his voice a gravelly, sharp sound that carried on the wind. "My captain has seen your cleverness," he said, "and he has seen the bravery of your men. But he has also seen your numbers. He knows you cannot win against our 8,000 men of infantry and archers. He offers you a choice: abandon the Vexin, and your army of 2,800 men will be spared. You will be given a path to safety, and for your help in our victory, my captain will reward you with land and wealth beyond your wildest dreams."
Eran's mind was a whirlwind of internal conflict. He had been a proud warrior his entire life, but he was also a pragmatic leader. He looked at the tired faces of his own men and the equally weary Vexin who stood beside them. He looked at Arion, whose face was a mask of cold resolve. They had fought and bled together. But a terrible thought had taken root in his mind—the nagging doubt that the mercenary captain was right. A full 8,000 fresh, disciplined mercenaries awaited them. The decision was a terrible one. Was his honor worth the lives of his men?
Eran's face, a mask of cold resolve, turned to the mercenary messenger. "Tell your captain," he said, his voice a cold and unwavering sound, "that I accept his terms."
The shock that swept through the Vexin ranks was a palpable thing. Arion's face, a moment ago filled with grim hope, turned to one of utter betrayal. Eran's men, tired but disciplined, began to turn, their shields still raised, but their gaze now fixed on their leader. Eran had chosen survival over honor, and he would not be swayed.
Eran's army of 2,800 men began their grim march away, their footsteps a cold, rhythmic sound of abandonment. The Vexin, now a desperate force of only 3,200 men, watched in horror as their allies turned their backs on them, leaving them exposed and outnumbered. Arion's gaze was fixed on the retreating army, a cold fury burning in his eyes.
Just as the last of Eran's men disappeared from view, a new sound cut through the tense air. The thunder of hooves and the sight of a new banner, a golden lion on a field of black, appeared on the horizon. The new arrivals were not a full army, but a force of riders who moved with a silent, deadly precision. At their head was a young man with a sharp, intelligent face, his eyes burning with a furious blue fire.
He rode directly to Arion, dismounting before his horse had even come to a full stop. "Brother!" he said, embracing him in a powerful, desperate hug. "I am sorry I am late. We were attacking the King's supply lines, trying to starve them out from behind. But when Damon's crow came, I knew I had to come here."
Arion, his own face a mask of relief and grim joy, looked at the new force. "We were almost abandoned," he said, his voice low.
Kael Galen, the head of House Galen and Arion's brother-in-law, turned his gaze to the retreating allied army. A furious roar erupted from his chest, his voice a raw and powerful sound. "The King took my father for a traitor," he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "He threw an innocent man into a dungeon and blamed him for a war he started with his own greed! We will not stand by and let him win! This is not just a war for our lands, brother; it is a war for justice!"
With a shared, grim nod, the two men turned their backs on the betrayal and led their forces toward the command tent. The grim numbers of their new reality were laid out on a map inside.
Current Forces: The Vexin Alliance
* Vexin Infantry: 3,200 men
* House Galen Elite Guards: 500 men
* Vexin Cavalry (with Damon): 400 men
The total combined force now stands at 4,100 men. They face a mercenary army of 8,000 men. The odds were a grim 2 to 1 in favor of the enemy, but the sting of betrayal and the righteous fury of a new, powerful ally had given them a grim new resolve. The stage was set for the final, bloody confrontation. The men looked at the numbers and at the impossible task ahead, and they knew they had to find a way to win.