The pre-dawn light was a cold, bruised gray, painting the battlefield in shades of steel and shadow. The Vexin and House Galen forces stood on the high ground, a grim, silent line of disciplined steel. The air, heavy with the scent of fear and unwashed bodies, was a stark contrast to the thundering, arrogant roar that now echoed from the mercenary camp below. A massive, disciplined force of 8,000 men, a sea of mercenary shields and sharp pikes, was advancing. Their confidence was palpable, a tangible thing that seemed to press down on the outnumbered Vexin alliance.
"The anvil is set," Arion said, his voice a low, steady sound that carried only to Kael, who stood beside him. His face was a mask of cold resolve, every trace of doubt and fear purged by the grim necessity of the moment.
Kael, young and filled with a burning rage for the king who had imprisoned his father, gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles were white. "And the hammer?" he asked, his voice raw.
"The hammer waits," Arion replied, his gaze fixed on the approaching mercenary wave. "The hammer waits for the perfect moment to strike."
The mercenary advance was a relentless, unstoppable tide. They came in a tight, disciplined formation, their shields interlocked, their pikes a forest of death aimed at the Vexin line. The sound of their footsteps, a cold, rhythmic drumbeat of fate, grew louder and louder until it was the only sound in the world. Arion gave the order, a single, sharp command that sent a volley of arrows flying from his men. But the mercenary shields, thick and well-made, absorbed the blow with ease. The mercenary lines, a brutal wall of steel and arrogance, crashed into the Vexin anvil.
The battle descended into a desperate, bloody maelstrom. Shields crashed against shields, steel sang against steel, and the air filled with the desperate cries of men. The Vexin, outnumbered and outmatched, fought with a grim, terrible resolve. They held the line, but just barely. They were a wall of steel, but a wall that was slowly, inevitably, cracking under the immense pressure. A dozen mercenaries would fall for every Vexin, but the mercenaries had dozens to spare.
Arion, a warrior of incredible strength and skill, was in the thick of it, his sword a blur of motion as he cut down man after man. He fought with the fury of a man fighting for his last breath, his body a living testament to the Vexin's desperate cause. Kael, fighting with the fierce rage of a man avenging a father he might never see again, was a whirlwind of death, his elite Galen guards a small, brutal island of defiance in a sea of enemy numbers. The anvil was holding, but for how much longer?
The mercenary captain, Valerius, watched from the rear, a cruel smile on his face. He had seen countless battles like this. He knew that the enemy, no matter how brave, would eventually break. He watched as his men slowly, inevitably, began to push back the Vexin line. The victory was his, he thought, a victory of numbers over desperate courage.
But then, a new sound cut through the chaos of the battle. A sound that was not the clash of steel, but the thunder of a hundred hooves and the furious battle cry of a different kind of warrior.
From behind a wooded ridge, a ridge the mercenaries had dismissed as a harmless feature of the battlefield, came the hammer. Damon, his face a mask of grim fury, rode at the head of his 400 cavalry, a tidal wave of steel and fury. They struck the mercenary flank with the force of a battering ram, a sudden, brutal blow that the mercenaries, with their full attention on the anvil in front of them, were completely unprepared for.
The mercenary lines, a moment ago so disciplined and unyielding, shattered under the force of the charge. The hammer struck the flank, and the anvil held the front. The mercenaries were caught between two forces, a pincer movement of pure, unyielding destruction. Panic, a cold and terrifying thing, swept through their ranks. They were surrounded, and they were dying. The battle, so long a brutal war of attrition, was now a one-sided slaughter. The mercenaries, their command structure shattered and their courage broken, began to flee.
Damon's cavalry, the hammer, pursued them, cutting them down as they ran. The Vexin and Galen infantry, the anvil, surged forward, their desperate defense now a furious, triumphant charge. The mercenary army, the great force that had seemed so invincible, was broken. The battle was over. The war, a bloody and brutal affair, had been won.
As the sun rose over the battlefield, illuminating the carnage below, Arion and Kael stood grimly victorious, their faces streaked with blood and sweat. Damon, his face grim and tired, rode back to the high ground, his cavalry behind him, their swords dripping with the blood of the enemy. The war, or at least this battle, was over. But the king, the true enemy, still sat on his throne, his power still a threat. The war had been won, but the real fight was only just beginning.