Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 333

Chapter 333: Storming the trenches(1) Chapter 333: Storming the trenches(1) Arnold sat tall on his warhorse, its black coat gleaming under the morning sun, much like the intricate decoration of his armor.

Gold accents caught the light with every movement, making him a shining figure as he moved deliberately through the ranks.  The 800 footmen stood in disciplined rows, their weapons at their sides, eyes locked on their prince.

Each man could hear him clearly as his horse paced slowly along the line.

Arnold’s words, when he spoke, would carry to all corners, but for now, he said nothing.  He looked closely at the faces in the lines.

Some of these men came from villages ravaged by the rebels-homes burned, families slaughtered, as they were recruited on the way there.

Their eyes burned with a fury that needed no words to express.

They craved vengeance, and it was this shared hunger for retribution that bound them together.  The aftermath of the night attack had only solidified their resolve.

No prisoners had survived.

Those rebels who were unfortunate enough to be dragged back into the camp alive were quickly surrounded by soldiers whose anger boiled over.

Without orders, men had approached the captives and slit their throats on the spot.

For those few who initially survived the butchery, their fate was no less grim.

Arnold had allowed it to happen, watching impassively as the captured were then dragged to a spot where the rebels atop the hills could see.

They were tortured, their screams echoing across the battlefield, reaching the ears of their comrades above.

Piece by piece, the soldiers took their revenge, cutting into the prisoners while laughing cruelly.

Arnold knew the psychological toll this would take on the rebels, and he made no move to stop it.

By the time the soldiers were finished, there were no prisoners left-only broken bodies dumped in plain view of the enemy.

As Arnold continued his ride through the lines, he finally slowed, letting his voice cut through the stillness.  “I still remember the day I took command of you,” Arnold began, his voice carrying strong and clear over the assembled men.

“Back then, the people of Herculia looked upon you as little more than fodder for the enemy’s blades-another band of doomed souls destined to die in the dirt, trampled underfoot by those who dared defy the state.

You were the third army that my father raised, the first two as you know met defeat, and the people of the city thought you would share that same fate.

When I first took you under my banner, you were raw, unshaped-a slab of meat, as good as bound for the butcher’s block.

“But under my command, you changed.

Victory after victory has forged you into something greater-something unstoppable.

You have trampled the same dogs who once burned our villages, razed our homes, and butchered our families.

You’ve brought justice to those who thought they could sow chaos and go unpunished.

And today, my men, we stand here to finish what we started.

“Yesterday, you saw the outcome of their attack.

They thought to catch us unprepared, to strike fear into our hearts under the cover of night.

But instead, what did we give them?

We gave them death.

Even in our sleep, we were more than a match for their so-called strength.

And now, I ask you-how will they fare against us when we are wide awake, with our weapons in hand and a thirst for vengeance in our hearts?

“They cower on that hill, thinking their trenches and palisades will save them.

They believe that their desperation will make them stronger.

But let me tell you this: desperation is the cry of a beaten animal.

It is the sound of defeat.

And we, my brothers, are not the defeated-we are the victors.

We are the storm that will wash them from that hill and scatter their ashes to the wind.” Arnold’s horse turned slightly as he looked out over the ranks, his armor gleaming as he raised his voice.

“Today, we will show them what true strength is.

We will show them what it means to face the soldiers of Herculia.

No quarter, no hesitation, no mercy.

For every village they burned, for every family they slaughtered, we will repay them tenfold.

Let the hills hear your roar and tremble at the wrath of our might!” He raised his sword high, the sunlight catching the blade as it flashed like lightning.

The soldiers erupted in a deafening cheer, pounding their weapons against their shields in a thunderous rhythm.

Arnold smiled grimly.

The time for words was over; the time for battle had come.

He had divided his 700 footmen into two distinct lines, each stretching wide across the field.

Arnold’s plan was simple yet effective: waves of steady pressure, each assault building upon the success or failure of the previous one, see how one fared and make decision based on their performance.

Behind these lines, his cavalry remained idle but ready.

Arnold had deliberately kept them in reserve, stationed far enough back to ensure that the enemy could not see them.

He knew well that horses were of little use in a steep uphill battle against fortified positions.

To waste them in such terrain would be folly, and Arnold was no fool.

Arnold raised his gauntleted hand, his voice ringing out across the lines.

“First wave, advance!

Archers, forward to support!” His tone was resolute, cutting through the tension like the blade of a sword.

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, the discipline he had drilled into them evident in their precise movements.

The first wave began to march, shields held high and spears ready, a wall of determination heading steadily uphill.

Just ahead, the archers moved forward as well, their bows slung over their shoulders and their quivers clinking softly against their backs.

They were tasked with closing the distance enough to harass the rebel lines before the melee could begin.

The morning sun gleamed off their polished helmets as the archers neared the midpoint of the incline, their eyes fixed on the distant rebel fortifications.

Then it came-a faint swish in the air, like an ominous whisper.

Thud.

Thud.

The sound of projectiles striking flesh and shields was followed almost instantly by bodies crumpling to the ground.

The column wavered for a heartbeat, archers looking around in confusion.

“What was that?” one of them muttered, his hand reflexively reaching for an arrow.

The answer came not in words but in cries of pain and horror.

A man fell clutching his shattered arm, with a stone coming out of it the bones beneath his skin grotesquely bent.

Another screamed, a projectile crushing his kneecap and sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt.

“Slingers!” one of the archers yelled, his voice cracking as panic began to ripple through their ranks.

 Smooth stones, whirled with leather sling, streaked through the air like invisible missiles.

Unlike arrows, they struck with blunt force, shattering bones and rupturing flesh.

The archers were caught in the open.

With no cover and still far out of range to effectively use their bows, they became easy targets.

Men began to fall, clutching their faces, chests, or limbs as the relentless hail of stones rained down.

Some tried to raise their bows, but the distance was too great, and their shots fell short of the rebel positions.

“My arms!

My arms!” a man shrieked, collapsing to his knees as a stone smashed into his forearm with sickening force.

The impact shredded muscle and tendons, the jagged edges of fractured bone barely hidden beneath torn flesh.

He cradled the ruined limb, his face pale with shock and agony.

“Gods help us!” another soldier cried, his voice trembling as chaos surrounded him.

The sound of spitting blood followed by a sharp crack echoed as a third man spat blood, a stone striking his chest with devastating accuracy.

The force caved in his ribcage, sending jagged shards inward to puncture his lungs.

He coughed violently, each spasm bringing up frothy red as he fell to the ground, clutching his side and gasping for breath that would not come, as his throat was filled with blood.

A fourth soldier staggered backward as a stone caught him square on the knee, the joint bending unnaturally as bone splintered beneath his greaves.

He let out a guttural scream, collapsing into the dirt and clutching his shattered leg, his cries drowned out by the chaos around him.

A young archer, barely more than a boy, dropped his bow as a stone struck his temple.

The crack of bone was unmistakable, and he fell silently, his body limp before it hit the earth.

His comrades barely had time to register his death before another volley of stones rained down.

“Get back!

Fall back for cover!By the gods!” an archer shouted, his voice cracking as he waved his comrades to retreat.

The panicked cries spread like wildfire among the ranks, the archers abandoning their exposed position as another volley of stones tore through the air.

“They’re cutting us down out here!” another yelled, his face pale as he clutched at his quiver.

He turned and sprinted toward the advancing infantry, his fellows following suit in a frantic dash to escape the deadly barrage.

The infantry’s shield wall loomed ahead, a semblance of safety amidst the chaos.

“Behind the shields!

Hurry!” someone within the ranks bellowed opening a small gap, the soldiers bracing as the retreating archers scrambled toward them.

The archers ducked and weaved, their breaths ragged as stones continued to rain down.

One stumbled and fell, only to be yanked to his feet by a footman throwing him back inside the formation with one arm while holding the shield on the top with the other.

Another limped forward, blood dripping from a nasty gash on his thigh, but sheer desperation drove him onward.

Finally, they reached the shield wall.

The infantrymen parted briefly, their shields shifting to let the fleeing archers slip through before closing ranks again.

“Stay low and keep your heads down!” an officer barked, ignoring the fact that no officer gave the order to retreat, but knowing that out there they were getting torn into shreds, his voice steady even as stones clanged against the shields around him with dull, resonant thuds.

The archers huddled together, panting and shaking as they crouched behind the protective line of shields.

“Bloody slingers,” one muttered bitterly, clutching his bow as if it were a lifeline.

Their fear and subsequent retreat, was actually the right choice , since slingers had a much longer range than archers given that they were on the high ground ,and their projectiles was effective even against armors, which coupled with the fact that archers had nothing excepted some padded leather effectively meant that they stood no chance to win the engagement.

Under all point of view, the action they had taken was the right one , yet they did not know if their general would have the same opinion, as after all he gave no order for any retreat