Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 289

Chapter 289: Raise the hoes(2) Chapter 289: Raise the hoes(2)  Spears jabbed and thrust into the crowd, piercing through ragged clothing and starved flesh, but each fallen attacker was replaced by two more.

The air was thick with the cries of rage, pain, and desperation, mingling with the dull clang of weapons against shields and the wet thuds of blows landing on flesh, followed by body hitting the ground.

A soldier near the center of the line gritted his teeth as he drove his spear into the stomach of a refugee.

The man fell with a choking gasp, but before the soldier could pull his weapon free, two others seized the shaft, yanking it from his hands.

Their faces, gaunt and hollow with starvation, twisted with fury as they lunged at him.

The soldier raised his shield just in time, catching one across the chest, but the other grabbed his arm and pulled him forward.

“Help me gods!” the soldier screamed, his voice filled with terror as he was dragged into the crowd.

His comrades tried to reach him, their spears stabbing wildly, but the mob swarmed him, fists and rocks crashing down in a frenzied storm.

Within moments, his cries were drowned out by the roar of the mob.

Further down the line, another soldier swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade slicing into the shoulder of a refugee armed with a crude club.

The refugee fell back with a guttural scream, but his place was immediately taken by another who hurled himself at the soldier, grabbing him by the throat.

The two grappled violently, the soldier’s sword clattering to the ground as he struggled to break free.

A comrade rushed to his aid, driving a spear through the attacker’s back.

At the edges of the line, the soldiers were faring no better.

A small group had broken off to secure a weak point, their shields raised against a torrent of makeshift weapons.

A jagged piece of wood slammed against one soldier’s shield, splintering into shards, but the force knocked him off balance.

Before he could recover, a rock crashed into his knee, and he crumpled to the ground with a scream.

The mob surged over him like a wave, trampling him underfoot as they pressed forward.

Despite the chaos, the sergeant bellowed commands, his voice raw.

“Push them back!

Don’t let them through!” Amidst the chaos, one soldier found himself surrounded, his shield shattered and his sword lost.

He swung his fists wildly, punching and shoving anyone who came near, but the mob descended on him like predators on prey.

A man smashed a stone into his side, and he crumpled with a cry.

Another leaped onto his back, clawing and biting, while others kicked and stomped.

His comrades could only watch helplessly, unable to reach him without breaking the line.

The shield wall trembled under the assault, the soldiers’ boots digging into the mud as they struggled to hold firm.

They were outnumbered ten to one, their strength waning as the mob’s fury showed no sign of abating.

Blood splattered the ground, mingling with the filth of the camp, as the battle raged on in a desperate, savage struggle for survival.

“We are hungry!” they roared, their cries reverberating through the camp.

“We deserve food too!” The words were filled with raw desperation and fury, echoing like a battle cry as they surged forward against the soldiers’ shield wall.

Another voice bellowed from deep within the crowd, soon picked up by dozens more.

“No more starving!

No more lies!” The chorus became a relentless rhythm, each shout punctuated by the dull thud of bodies slamming into shields and the crash of rocks hurled at the soldiers.

“We die, or you feed us!” The chants came from every direction, overlapping and swelling into a cacophony that seemed to shake the very ground.

The mob, though ragged and starved, seemed empowered by their unity, their voices forming an unbreakable force even as their bodies fell under the soldiers’ spears.

“We deserve to live!” The shield wall, already teetering on the edge of collapse, began to buckle as the relentless force of the mob pushed against it.

With each shove, more gaps opened, exposing soldiers to the frenzied hands of the starving crowd.

Through the breaches, refugees swarmed in, their emaciated faces twisted with rage and desperation.

Each opening in the wall became a floodgate, allowing more of the mob to pour through, overwhelming the defenders with sheer numbers.

The once-disciplined line became a scattering of individuals fighting for survival, their cohesion shattered.

“Hold the line!” a soldier shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos.

One of the soldiers, gripping his shield with trembling hands, watched in horror as a comrade was dragged into the throng, screaming as he disappeared beneath a sea of fists and makeshift weapons.

The sight broke his resolve.

“It’s over!

We’re done for!” he cried, tossing his spear aside and bolting toward the open fields.

His desperate retreat was a signal to the others, who began to follow, weapons and shields clattering to the ground as they abandoned their posts.

Even the sergeant, who had held his ground for a moment longer, looked around at the chaos and the hopelessness of the situation.

The entrance was no longer defensible, and the soldiers were moments away from being completely surrounded.

With a grimace, he turned and ran, not bothering to issue orders or rally the men.

The remaining soldiers, seeing their leader flee, succumbed to panic.

“Run!

Save yourselves!” one shouted, and the camp’s defenders dissolved into a full-blown rout, scattering in all directions as the mob surged forward, chanting and roaring with newfound triumph The mob didn’t bother chasing after the fleeing soldiers; their goal was never bloodshed but survival.

Like a tidal wave, they surged toward the carts stacked with food supplies.

Starved bodies jostled and pushed against each other, desperate to be the first to reach the precious cargo.

Hands clawed at sacks of grain and bundles of dried meat, tearing them open as the contents spilled to the ground.

Some stuffed handfuls of grain directly into their mouths, ignoring the gritty texture as they chewed frantically.

Others grabbed whatever could be eaten raw-fruits, cured meat, and even unripe vegetables-devouring it with trembling hands.

A man clutching a sack of grain was tackled by another who wrestled it from his grasp.

The two scuffled on the ground, fists flying as the sack ripped, spilling its contents.

People around them dove to collect the spilled grain, scooping it up by the handful and cramming it into their mouths or pockets.

Near the carts, a woman shouted to a small group.

“Get the pots!

Start the fires!

Boil the grain before we waste it all!” Her voice was barely heard above the chaos, but a few obeyed, scrambling to gather what they could and set up makeshift cooking stations.

Some started to boil water in dented pots salvaged from the camp, pouring grain into the bubbling liquid to prepare a crude porridge.

Meanwhile, fights broke out elsewhere.

A child clung to a small bundle of bread, only to have it ripped away by a desperate man.

The child screamed, but the man, with tears streaming down his face, shoved a piece into his mouth, unable to resist the pull of hunger even if that small satisfaction came from stealing it from a child.

Amid the chaos, a few in the crowd, their stomachs no longer clawing at them with the same urgency, began to look around and realize what they had done.

The blood on their hands-the corpses of soldiers torn apart in their fury.

A man, clutching a half-eaten piece of bread, sank to the ground as the reality hit him.

What have we done?

he thought, staring at the broken spears and scattered shields of the soldiers.

A woman nearby, cradling a child who finally nibbled on a scrap of meat, glanced at the carnage and muttered, “The prince…

he won’t forgive this.

We have killed his soldier.” She hugged the child tighter.

Another man, crouched by a fire with a pot of porridge, looked up with haunted eyes.

“There’s no going back now,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“We’re not refugees anymore…

we’re outlaws.” His voice trembled as he stared at the horizon, where the soldiers had fled.

“The prince will hunt us down.

He’ll make examples of us.”  They had crossed a line they could never retreat from.

Their hunger had driven them to rebellion, and in their desperation, they had destroyed the fragile order that once held them.

To stay here was to await judgment; to flee was to embrace a life of banditry.

Their fears were well-founded.

Lechlian, already struggling under the weight of endless demands, would undoubtedly seize this opportunity to reduce the overwhelming number of mouths to feed.

A quarter of them, at the very least, would be cut down-whether through execution or by being sold into slavery.

The latter option was fraught with risks to his reputation.

Selling his own people into bondage would tarnish his image as a just ruler.

Yet, with his current dire straits, reputation held little sway.

The prince’s armories were empty, his coffers drained, and his soldiers ill-equipped.

Thousands of refugees swelled his lands, and the last harvest had yielded only enough to scrape by.

The uprising only worsened his predicament, forcing harsh measures to the forefront.

In such a desperate situation, practicality would outweigh pride.

If selling the rebels to southern markets meant filling his treasury and easing the strain on his dwindling food supply, Lechlian might very well choose infamy over inaction.

For the prince, survival-both his own and that of his realm-was the only priority left.

For the starved there was only one path forward ‘Rising up in rebellion’.