It certainly was a good day.
The sun stood high in the sky, draping its golden rays across the vast field
The bordering woods behind the Yarzat army cast their shadows along the edges of the plain, framing the battleground like dark walls, while the open middle was an endless sunlit expanse, wide, bright, and waiting.
Before long, Jarza knew, these green pastures would be stained red, and the serene field would drink deep of blood, like a great beast hoarding everything in its maws.
He stood among the men, silent, watching, lost for a moment in the tide of his thoughts. His mind wandered back, far back, to his first true battle more than twenty years ago.
A small skirmish it had been, nothing glorious, merely a hired job for some petty imperial lord, ridding his lands of bandits. Jarza remembered little of the lord's name, less still of the lands they fought over. What he did remember was the noise, —the screaming, the clash of steel, the sickening crack of bones.
That first company had disbanded not long after, splintered into dust like so many bands of mercenaries. But Jarza had endured, as he always did, and simply found another band to fight for.
Twenty summers and twenty winters had passed since then, years that blurred together like rain sliding down glass. Yet four of those years remained sharp in his mind,four years spent in chains. Slavery in a foreign land, starved and beaten, beaten again when he fell, beaten still when he tried to stand.
Those years had been the longest of his life, crawling forward like centuries. He had thought himself doomed, destined to die nameless and forgotten in some barren pit. And yet, against all odds, he had survived. The gods, he sometimes thought had chosen to keep him alive for something more.
Every scar carved into his body, every near-death endured, had brought him to this very day. To this field. To this hour.
And to that boy.
Jarza shook his head faintly, smirking at the thought. The lad was an open book, easy to read, yet written in a tongue no one alive could truly understand.
He could be dazzlingly clever or suicidally foolish,no middle ground, no moderation. Jarza could still recall the first harebrained escape plan Alpheo had devised, back when the chains still dug into their wrists. If they had followed that plan, they would have been caught and killed within a day.
Yet somehow, by stubborn chance or divine madness, Alpheo had always found a way forward.
Jarza's gaze lifted from the grass to the men around him. Six hundred warriors stood on that field, their weapons glinting in the sun. Of those, two hundred were his own, men who looked to him, trusted him, and would follow him into the storm. He let the sight settle deep inside him. He had dreamed of this once, in his younger years, while serving under petty captains and failed lords.
Back then, command , even in those companies, had seemed a dream reserved for nobles and the bastard sons of greater houses. Mercenaries like him were meant to fight, to bleed, to die nameless in foreign mud. Yet now, impossibly, he stood as a commander. His men awaited his word, his lead.
A shadow moved at the corner of his sight. Jarza turned, catching the outline of the one he called friend.
He smirked again, recalling the looks on the nobles' faces when the plan had been revealed: fighting cavalry with infantry. The very idea had sounded like madness. Lunacy, the lords had spat. And yet,tests had been made. Drills carried out. The impossible had proven possible, and the laughter of the highborn had died on their lips.
It had been a good campaign already. Better than Jarza would ever have guessed. They had built a cavalry corps of their own from scratch, clawed coin into their empty purses, and even captured Oizen's prince's nephew, a prize that had ransomed dearly. The coffers were full again, the men fed and armed. Fortune, for once, had favored them.
And yet—Jarza could not shake the feeling.
He had always been a soldier, a sellsword, drifting on war's endless tide. A blade for hire, nameless in service, faceless in memory. That had always been enough for him. Or so he thought. But in Alpheo's eyes… in the way the boy looked at the horizon… Jarza sometimes wondered if they weren't walking toward something greater. Something beyond coin. Beyond survival. Something he could not name.
His thoughts broke by the circumstances.
OOOOOMMM
A sound rolled over the fields, low and deep, as though the earth itself had groaned awake. Jarza stiffened. It came again, the long, droning blare of horns.
Enemy horns.
The mercenary lifted his head, eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. And there, rising like a tide of shadow against the brilliance of the day, he saw them. The enemy line advancing, dark and terrible, spreading across the field like a storm front.
The waiting was over.
Hundreds of enemy soldiers advanced, their lances glinting under the midday sun. Banners fluttered in the breeze, displaying the sigils and colors of the enemy prince and the various lords allied with him. As they drew nearer, Jarza could see the truth in Alpheo's words. Despite their superior numbers, between 800 and 1,000 by his rough estimate, their ranks were filled with peasants.
Jarza turned and looked back at their own banner, a white field with two black stripes going diagonally like a cross. Strangely enough, Alpheo was adamant on taking such a banner ,Jarza would have preferred something more elaborate, and yet his captain had refused to even listen to his suggestions, something that rarely happened.
He wondered the reason for this stubbornness for a few minutes before reluctantly forgetting about it .Moving from the banner, Jarza lowered his eyes to the enemy troops.
Most of these soldiers lacked proper armor, wearing only the barest protection of tattered leather or simple cloth. They carried basic shields and spears, tools of war given to them in haste. Their march was anything but disciplined; the lines wavered, and many struggled to maintain their formation. It was clear they had received only rudimentary training, enough to form a shield wall and little more. These were not seasoned warriors but common folk thrust into the chaos of battle, armed with the basics and left to fend for themselves.
The enemy prince's forces might have the advantage in numbers, but the quality and discipline of their troops left much to be desired, of course not that things were different from the army that their employer led...
Jarza turned to his men. The front lines were composed of his brothers in servitude , each man equipped with chainmail and helmets that gleamed dully in the sunlight. Their faces, though weathered, were set forward. Behind them, the new recruits provided by the prince stood ready. It was a common tactic: placing the elite soldiers with the best equipment at the front and the less experienced recruits at the back.
Both of the courses had its own drawback, whetever to put the best troops either at the front or at the back, but considering the fighting capabilities, Alpheo believed it best to use such a formation.
Each soldier in the company held a lance, but Alpheo had ensured they were also armed for close combat. Maces and hammers hung at their sides, weapons chosen for their effectiveness against lightly and heavy armored foes.
Alpheo had emphasized the importance of these weapons, knowing that when facing an army equipped primarily with spears, good armor and close-quarter weapons would allow his men to cleave through the enemy like a hot knife through butter.
Jarza observed the calm.
Feeling the imminent approach of battle,he took a deep breath and donned his helmet, which he had temporarily removed.
His armor was not just chainmail; it was reinforced with steel plates that covered his stomach and lower chest, providing additional protection. Braces and shoulder covers were added to his defense, while not impeding his movement. Currently, he sat on horseback, a position that afforded him a better view of the enemy lines slowly advancing towards them.
His horse shifted beneath him, sensing his unease, but Jarza steadied the animal with a firm hand on the reins.
It was, in fact, a good day to die.