Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 240

Chapter 240: Siege of Arudonaven(1) Chapter 240: Siege of Arudonaven(1) “More arrows!” a man shouted hoarsely, his bowstring trembling as he nocked yet another shaft.

He gestured urgently to the boy tasked with running arrows along the wall, the lad darting back and forth like a shadow amidst the chaos.

With a sharp exhale and ignoring the kid running towards him, the archer leaned forward to take his shot, his aim fixed on the soldiers swarming up the ladders.

His eyes narrowed as he sought his target- Thwack.

A sharp, sickening impact cut his focus short.

The archer staggered back, a gasp clawing from his throat as an enemy arrow buried itself cleanly at the base of his neck.

He dropped his bow, his hands clutching at the wound as crimson life spilled between his fingers.

His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, the light in his eyes dimming as his breath rattled away.

“Come on…

help me, gods,” the man whispered, his prayer desperate and scattered as he climbed the swaying ladder.

His left hand clung to the wooden rungs, the other clutching a spear.

Each step felt heavier as he neared the top, the din of the battle above blending with his thundering heartbeat.

Finally, he hoisted himself over the lip of the wall, breathless but determined.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes locked with those of a defender-a young soldier leaning over, trying to gauge the chaos below in a morbid interest to see the dead bodies down the wall.

The climber knew he had no time.

His spear fell through the air as his hand instinctively reached for the dagger strapped to his back.

In a single fluid motion, he lunged, driving the blade upward beneath the defender’s chin.

The steel pierced through flesh and bone, the blade emerging through the man’s jaw as his body went limp.

But victory lasted only a heartbeat.

A sharp, blinding pain shot through his side as a spear struck him hard.

The chainmail absorbed the tip, sparing his life, but the force was enough to send him teetering.

He toppled backward off the wall, the ground rushing up to meet him.

The impact shattered his arm, the same one that had carried his spear moments ago.

Dazed and broken, he had no time to even comprehend his fall before a stone, flung by a boy from above, struck his temple.

His vision blurred, and then the world went dark, his prayers unanswered as he went directly to face the gods.

Perhaps he was a pious man, his prayers now unanswered.

Perhaps he had a family waiting beyond the walls, their hopes pinned on his return.

Or maybe he was a condemned criminal, plucked from the gallows and promised survival in exchange for his service by his lord.

It did not matter.

On either side of the siege, men of similar stories and similar fears bled beneath different banners.

They fought and died for causes greater than their understanding, for leaders they may never meet.

Each life snuffed out was a thread severed from a story that could be a narrative on his own, ready by the thousands and adored by as many .  ———- The defenders on the walls hurled stones with all their might, their muscles straining as they sent jagged rocks crashing down on the climbing attackers.

Most of them struck with brutal force, knocking men from ladders or crushing helmets as screams rose from below.

Arrows whistled through the air, loosed in rapid succession by those stationed near the crenellations, their shafts aimed at the soldiers attempting to scale the walls.

But the attackers were not without retaliation.

Outside the walls, Alpheo’s archers crouched behind their mobile barricades, steadying their bows with practiced precision.

They unleashed a relentless volley of arrows, each one arcing toward the defenders.

The air became thick with the deadly exchange.

The defenders ducked behind their parapets, shielding themselves from the sharp hail.

The reprieve was brief, but it was enough.

Below, the soldiers on the ladders took advantage of the moment.

Gripping the wooden rungs tightly, they climbed with desperate speed, spurred on by the chance to reach the wall before the defenders returned to their positions.

Vroghios stood atop the battlements, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos unfolding before him.

Enemy soldiers surged toward the walls like an unrelenting tide, their ladders rising against the stone as archers loosed volleys from behind mobile barricades.

For all the noise and bloodshed, something gnawed at his mind-there were no battering rams in sight.

He turned his gaze toward the enemy’s sprawling forces, noting how Alpheo’s men were pressing hard on every side, stretching his own defenders thin.  His eyes darted back to the gatehouse, where his own reserves stood in formation, waiting to repel a ram that wasn’t coming.

“Damn it, ” he muttered under his breath.

“Ugor!” Vroghios roared, his voice cutting through the din.

His second-in-command, a stout man with a bloodied face, rushed to his side.

“Take the man on the gate !” Vroghios barked, gesturing toward the waiting men.

“Get them to the walls-now!

We don’t need them there if the bastards don’t have a ram!” The captain hesitated for only a moment before nodding and turning to issue the order.

Vroghios gripped the cold stone of the battlements, his thoughts racing.

This was not a defense; it was a desperate attempt to plug the cracks before the entire dam gave way.

But he couldn’t risk leaving his walls undermanned while Alpheo’s forces swarmed them from all sides ————-.

Lucius stood amidst the makeshift refugee camp, his gaze darting around the chaos of the city.

The screams from the walls echoed in the distance, the anguished cries of dying men a grim symphony to the turmoil unfolding.

Despite the commotion, the area around the camp was eerily mostly unguarded, as the only ones looking over the refugees were five men, and even those were wounded and only had clubs with nail on the plank of wood.

Lucius’s sharp eyes met Marcus’s, who stood nearby with a tense expression.

A subtle nod passed between them, and they turned to the others-twenty men in total, each one positioned discreetly among the throngs of displaced villagers.

These were no ordinary refugees.

Each man was a soldier ,that volunteered for this mission.

Lucius crouched low, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade.

“We move quietly,” he murmured to Marcus, his voice barely audible over the distant din.

One of the disguised men, took a deep breath and stepped forward from the shadows of the refugee camp, as hours before he was the one that picked the shortest straw.

The guards’ backs were turned at first, their attention drawn to the distant commotion at the walls, but one of them turned sharply, catching sight of him.

“Oi!

Stop right there,” barked the guard, raising a hand to halt his approach.

At his call, the other guards turned, their expressions a mix of irritation and mild suspicion.

The wiry man raised his hands, palms open, and took another step forward.

“Sorry, I-” he stammered, his voice carrying a nervous tremor.

“I’m starving.

Haven’t eaten properly in days.

Please, have you got anything to spare?

Even scraps?” The guards exchanged glances, one of them shaking his head with a scowl.

“Your meal will come in the afternoon, same as everyone else,” one snapped, shooing the man away with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Now get lost before I-” He never finished the sentence.

The wiry man surged forward in a flash, his hand darting to the dagger hidden beneath his tattered cloak.

With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged it deep into the guard’s neck.

A choked gurgle escaped the man’s lips as he crumpled to the ground, his life spilling out in crimson streams.

All around them, men moved like shadows.

They had discreetly circled the guards while the exchange took place, and at the first sign of violence, they sprang into action.

One lunged at a guard from behind, wrapping an arm around his neck to stifle his shout while driving a dagger into his chest.

Another instead plunged the dagger onto the man’s gut before taking out a second one and trusting onto his back were the heart should have been.

The guards had no time to react, their shouts of alarm strangled before they could form.

In moments, all five were sprawled lifeless on the ground, their blood pooling in the dirt.

The refugees huddled in the square, their gaunt faces betraying hunger and despair, turned to watch the brutal scene unfold.

They said nothing, their eyes wide but their mouths silent, thinking that perhaps hunger had gone at the head of some of them.

These were the men that they would have to use, a crowd of starved peasants, without home and without hope.

Lucius stepped forward, his bloodied dagger glinting in the dim light.

His gaze swept over the huddled masses, taking in the hollow cheeks, the frail limbs, and the defeated postures of the men, women, and children who had endured weeks of neglect, even he was hungry as he had been barely fed.

Just one meager meal a day, barely enough to keep them alive, who knew that their desperation would be the soldiers’ hope to win the city.

“You’ve been starved like worms,” Lucius began, his voice sharp but steady, carrying over the quiet murmurs.

“Left to waste away while that fool of a lord sits on his walls pretending he can win.If this continue we are going to die, even if they repel the enemy what will happen to us when the food goes short?Will the lord feed us or his soldiers?

The enemy outside,” he gestured toward the wall, “they’ve promised us safety and food if we open the gate for them.

Not scraps.

Food.

Whoever wishes to eat-truly eat till his stomach burst than may come with us.”