Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 239

Chapter 239: Final hour Chapter 239: Final hour Morning broke over the city of Arduronaven, bathing its grey stone walls in a pale, unforgiving light.

The guards were out in full force, every inch of the ramparts bristling with men.

Some leaned over the edge, squinting toward the horizon where the enemy encampment stirred with ominous activity.

Others hurried back and forth along the battlements, carrying baskets of stones, bundles of arrows, and heavy jugs of water to quench the thirst of those who would soon face the onslaught.  Down in the streets, the mood was no better.

Civilians peeked from shuttered windows or huddled in doorways, their eyes wide with fear.

Soldiers gathered in clusters, their nervous chatter betraying their mounting dread.

Whispers of doubt spread like wildfire-rumors that the city was surrounded, that no aid would come had reached the ears of every men.

On the wall, Lord Vroghios moved among his soldiers, his polished armor gleaming delivering words of encouragement  “Stand strong,” he called out to a group preparing to lift a massive cauldron of boiling oil into place over the gate .

“The walls have held for generations, and they will hold today!

These invaders may bark, but they will break against the strength of Arduronaven!” His voice carried, and for a moment, a flicker of hope seemed to light in some of the soldiers’ eyes.

But it was faint, quickly overshadowed by the grim reality they faced.

Many of the men knew the truth: they were alone.

The armies of their supposed allies had either fallen or abandoned them.

The prince outside had crushed every sortie they had attempted, and his men were disciplined, relentless, and hungry for victory.

Even now, the enemy camp buzzed with preparation, siege engines being readied and ranks of soldiers lining up in anticipation of the assault.

————— Alpheo stood outside his camp, the crisp morning air biting at his face as he ran along the assembled ranks of his troops.

His horse’s hooves pounded the earth in rhythm with his steady breath, and his eyes scanned the thousands of soldiers standing in formation.

As he moved, the men watched him, some nodding, others straightening their posture as the prince passed by, after all for normal men, it was not everyday that one could look at the prince’s face.

And many of them, who were not in the White Army , became surprised by how young he looked.

He knew the weight of sieges-how they gnawed at morale and sapped strength.

Time was an enemy as much as the walls of Arduronaven.

Alpheo didn’t have the luxury of patience; his campaign had other objectives waiting to be claimed.

This siege had to end swiftly, decisively.  As soon as Alpheo felt the weight of countless eyes fixed on him, he drew a deep breath and began, his voice clear and commanding, yet laced with a calculated charisma: “Loyal subjects of her grace, the hour is upon us-the hour that shall define the righteous and unmask the cowardly.

The turncloak who dares call himself a lord has scurried to his final refuge, trembling behind these walls, hiding from the justice that marches with us.

He cowers, for he knows the truth.

He faces not just an army but the army-the army that knows only victory.

The prince of this so-called lord, sought to tear apart the harmony of our lands, to turn brother against brother, to burn the fields tended by her grace’s humble and faithful servants.

He would have seen your sons and daughters slaughtered or condemned to fates far darker, all for the crown he lusts after-a crown he would wear atop the ashes of your homes, for he would gladly burn it all if he could rule over those ashes.

He is godless, sending armies to halt us, to stop the justice that the gods themselves have entrusted to us.

But tell me, my brothers and sisters, where is that enemy now?

Do you see their banners flying in triumph, or their swords raised in celebration of some grand victory?

No.

Their army lies in ruin.

Their banners are ash, their swords shattered, and their souls now face the judgment of the gods, who weigh them to decide if they will ascend to the heavens or burn for eternity in the flames of their folly.

And who was it that carried such justice to them?

Who was it that cast them down so utterly?” His voice swelled, a clarion call to the spirits of his soldiers, as his eyes swept across their faces.

“It was you.

You, the vanguard of righteousness.

You, the chosen hand of the gods’ will.

And today, we shall finish what we started.

Today, we bring that same justice to these walls, to this trembling rebel, and ensure that he, too, is judged.” “Behind those walls lies the wealth of a man who hoarded while you toiled, who grew fat off the labor of those he betrayed.

Silver, jewels-treasures stolen from the hands of the righteous-all sit there, waiting for someone bold enough to take them.

And who better to claim them than you, the victors of every battlefield, the unstoppable force that even the gods themselves seem to favor?” He let the words settle for a moment, the promise hanging in the air like a tantalizing scent.

Then, with a sweep of his arm, he gestured toward the city.

“They’re yours for the taking.

Every coin, every goblet, every bauble-it’s waiting.

Waiting for your hands to pry it free from the grip of cowards.

Those walls cannot keep you out.

They cannot hold what is rightfully yours!” The soldiers stirred, some gripping their weapons tighter, others murmuring among themselves, their anticipation palpable.

Alpheo took a step forward, his boots crunching on the dirt as he stood taller, his eyes blazing with purpose.

“Today, you fight not just for duty, not just for glory, but for the rewards you have earned a hundred times over.

The spoils of victory are there, just beyond those stones.

All that remains is for you to reach out and take them!” The soldiers erupted into cheers, their voices rising like a wave across the camp, shaking the very air.

Weapons clashed against shields, and men roared their approval of Alpheo’s words, their spirits ignited by the promise of glory and spoils.

Among the throng, commanders moved quickly, calling their men into order, each taking their assigned units to prepare for the impending assault.

Mostly nobles calling for their enlisted troops that survived the battlefield, while the white army with his clear division in squads , was much more efficient in rounding up their soldiers as in less than two minutes they were ready, while the nobles were still calling after their men.  Six paths had been carefully constructed and filled over the past days, spanning the ditch that once protected the city.

Each path led to a different section of the wall, providing six avenues for attack.

Alpheo’s strategy was clear: stretch the defenders thin, force them to divide their strength, and make them vulnerable where their lines faltered.

At the center of this carefully orchestrated assault stood a siege tower-taller than the city walls by few meters.

This tower was destined for Asag’s flank, its height offering a distinct advantage in breaching the defenses by giving the archers on top an advantage in height over the enemy.

Alpheo deliberately stretched his men across the battlefield, thinning his own lines to ensure the defenders could not mass their forces at any single point.

His plan was to have the enemy stretch his troops thin, so that at least one flank would have a higher possibility of breaching through.

From atop the walls, the defenders of Arduronaven gazed down at the imposing sight of their enemy.

The city was surrounded, with no gaps in the lines for escape.

Every direction revealed rows of enemy soldiers, siege tools, and the relentless drumbeat of war.

Men scrambled along the battlements, clutching bows and crossbows, hauling barrels of stones, and filling buckets with water for the defenders to drink from  But despite their preparations, nervous energy rippled through the defenders.

Many were fresh recruits, hastily armed and poorly trained, their faces pale beneath their helmets.

The tension was suffocating, each second stretching into an eternity as they awaited the inevitable.

Arduronaven’s defenders clung to their positions, fingers tightening on their weapons, nerves fraying as the enemy’s lines seemed to press in closer with every beat.

A sharp, commanding horn pierced the tense air, its reverberation carrying across the battlefield and up to the walls of Arduronaven.

Within moments, a thunderous roar erupted as 2,000 of Alpheo’s soldiers surged forward, a tide of disciplined chaos.

Ladders clattered on shoulders and shields held as they charged .

Behind them, archers advanced in practiced formation, crouched low behind wheeled wooden barricades.

The barricades, inched forward steadily, offering the archers cover as they prepared to unleash death upon the defenders.

Quivers were slung across their backs, their bowstrings taut, eyes locked on the battlements above.

The air became alive with movement.

Soldiers carrying ladders pressed toward the walls, yelling in unison to drown out their fear.

The barricaded archers halted just shy of range, setting up their positions with precision.

Moments later, the first volley of arrows arched into the sky, casting fleeting shadows over the charging infantry before hurtling down toward the defenders above.

On the walls, the defenders shouted warnings and braced for impact, the sudden, coordinated advance of Alpheo’s forces tightening the knot of fear that had gripped them since morning.

The clash had finally begun on the 19th day from the start of the siege.