Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 334

Chapter 334: Storming the trenches(2) Chapter 334: Storming the trenches(2) The screams filled the air, mingling with the grim sight of enemy archers retreating in disarray.

Some lay motionless where they had fallen, lifeless forms scattered across the battlefield.

Others crawled feebly toward the safety of their lines, their movements slow and desperate, like worms writhing in the dirt after a heavy rainstorm, ready to be stepped on over by the heels of the men above them.

Inor’s gaze shifted upward to the architects of this music that filled his ears -a group of one hundred women, their slings whirling overhead in perfect unison before unleashing a deadly rain of stones onto the enemy.

Some of them had lost husbands and sons in the previous night, as such their slings were given extra strength He allowed a smile to curl his lips.

If the enemy knew the truth, if they realized that those who had shattered their ranks and sent them scrambling were women, the shame of it might outweigh their fear and pain, prompting them to charge once again.

These were no warriors by trade, no seasoned soldiers that learnt the of killing.

They were women of the hills-farmers, shepherdesses, -driven by necessity rather than choice.

So he was sure that the shame would have burnt twice as much.

As for the wmen,their lives, their families, their futures all depended on this battle, everybody knew that, and everybody fought harder because of it .

The women didn’t pause, didn’t falter.

Stone after stone was cast into the fray, killing man after man.

Unfortunately the feast of corpses did not last long for the rebels, as the lines of infantry now advanced with a steady rhythm,replacing those of the archers that proved most ineffective, their shields locked tightly together to form an unbroken wall of steel and wood.

Thud- Thud- Thud- The air was alive with the sound of stones striking their defenses-sharp cracks echoing as projectiles ricocheted off shields, harmless but relentless, hitting wood instead of meat.

The tightly packed formation held firm, the disciplined troops absorbing the blows without breaking stride, letting no projectiles through.

The women on the hilltops continued their barrage, their arms a blur as they sent stone after stone whistling through the air.

Four volleys rained down, then a fifth, each delivered with precision as it was hard to miss with hundreds of targets to pick from.

But the infantry’s advance was undeterred, their shields proving an impenetrable wall against the assault, like a forest covering those below from the tears of the sky.  Inor, watching the battle unfold, saw the futility of continuing the distant attack , when the enemy was approaching them without breaking a sweat .

Raising his arm, he shouted above the din, his voice carrying clear and commanding: “Stand back!

” The women ceased their assault, stepping back from the edge of the hills as their arms fell to their sides, exhaustion and adrenaline both taking hold, as drops of sweat came down their neck toward their breasts .

Inor gestured to a nearby unit of rebel infantry waiting behind the slingers.

“Take those positions!Let no man through,we make our stand here!” he barked.

The rebels moved forward,those at the frontline, the one in the first ranks were the best equipped in the whole army, their armor and weapons glinting in the early light as they moved to occupy the high ground.

They replaced the women at the edge of the trenches, forming a new line of defense, with spears, swords and axes sticking through.

Inor’s expression hardened as he watched his infantry take up the positions, his mind already calculating how best to repel the enemy when they inevitably reached the head of the hill.

The lines were drawn, and the battle for the heights was about to begin in earnest.

The enemy infantry quickened their pace now that the relentless rain of stones had ceased, their shields still locked in tight formation as they advanced up the slope.

The sound of their boots pounding against the dirt grew louder, a steady drumbeat of determination that echoed through the air.

With the hilltop defenders no longer raining death upon them, they reached the ditches and the crude stakes that marked the rebel fortifications with startling speed, and letting out a loud war cry as they threw themselves forward.

The clash erupted as the advancing soldiers encountered resistance at the stakes.

Men with spears, axes, and swords sprang from behind the barricades, their movements quick and practiced.

The defenders stabbed through gaps in the stakes, thrusting spears into the advancing enemy and slashing at exposed limbs.

The stakes, sharp and jagged, forced the attackers to navigate with care, disrupting their cohesion and leaving gaps for the defenders to exploit as now that they could no longer advance as one, instead being forced to throw themselves forward alone at the enemy waiting for them.

One soldier, stepping too quickly over a ditch, had his thigh speared by a man on the other side .

He howled in pain, his shield falling to the ground as he tried to pull free, only for a spear to drive now into his side, failing however to pierce the mail allowing enough time for a companion to pull the wounded man back to safety, where hopefully he could live to see another day.

 Another attacker swung his axe, hacking through the stakes in a desperate attempt to clear a path in order to have more comrades to advance together , but a defender lunged forward, his sword finding the man’s neck in a clean thrust, before throwing himself back, evading the attempt to avenge the man by his companions.

The fight was chaotic and ferocious.

Soldiers on both sides grunted and roared as weapons clashed against shields, stakes, and flesh.

The attackers swung their axes at the stakes, some chopping them down, while others used spears to prod at the defenders through the gaps, like children poking animals behind cages with sticks.

The defenders, crouched behind their improvised barriers, jabbed and struck at any exposed flesh, their weapons slick with blood.

Inor stood behind the safety of his lines, his gaze fixed on the chaotic struggle unfolding below.

The stakes were doing their work, splintering the enemy’s tight formations and forcing them to advance in disjointed groups of one or two.

These fragmented clusters became easy prey for his men, who struck with precision and ferocity.

He could not help but begrudgingly acknowledge the effectiveness of the chosen battleground.

Those two actually knew what they were doing, he admitted silently, his pride stinging at the thought, he certainly was no commander, yet he partecipated in two battles, survived both and believed himself to have a little bit of exprience.

It was Lucius who had insisted on this location, and now, as much as he hated to concede it, the wisdom of that choice was undeniable.

Without the natural defenses of the hill and the carefully placed stakes, they would have been overrun by the enemy cavalry within minutes from the start.

Instead, the tide of battle seemed to favor them, or at least not their opponent for now, which was good enough.

Inor watched as the enemy’s advance faltered, their soldiers struggling to navigate the treacherous obstacles while his own men exploited every opportunity to strike.

For the first time since the fighting began, he felt a glimmer of hope.

They had a real chance to hold their ground-and perhaps even to win.

Even from behind he could hear the shouts and screams of men fighting for their lives.

 “Come on then, heroes of Herculia!

Where is your grit?” A rebel wielding a woodcutter’s axe, his face streaked with mud and sweat, said as he hacked savagely at the arm of an enemy trying to force his way through.

The blade bit deep, severing flesh and bone -At the sight he bellowed, waving the bloodied axe in defiance before bringing it down this time on his head.

“Where’s your courage now, eh?My woman has more balls than the lots of you!” Another rebel crouched low, waiting for an opening stood in silence , which would later come in the form of an enemy soldier carelessly advancing, his shield raised to deflect a blow from somewhere falinign to instead notice the once below.

The rebel lunged forward with a knife, finding sweet home under the soldier’s arm, sliding between the seams of his chainmail.

The soldier gasped feeling the cold instrustion of steel, his breath coming in short, desperate bursts.

“You’ll meet the same end as the tyrants you serve!” the rebel snarled, shoving the soldier backward as he gasped for air, while the soldier barely a boy in his teenage years, frantically held onto his armpit with his hand trying to stop the bleeding in a fruitless endeavor with tears growing into his eyes.

The prince’s soldiers were not silent in their rage too, returning fire with their own taunts and curses as they hacked whatever was in front of them.

”Die bastard!” one of them roared, plunging his spear into a rebel’s chest, protected only by padded leather which proved to be of little resistance against the iron of the spearhead.

Following that he then spitted onto the gutted man’s face, before keeping on moving forward.

Another swung his mace with all his might, knocking aside a defender’s blade by breaking the bones in the man’s hand , and then with another swing, striking directly at the helmet with a sickening crunch.

“You’ll pay for every village you burned, you filthy cowards!” he growled as the rebel collapsed at his feet, blood going over his eyes as he swayed around before falling lifelessly.

And so the fights for the ditches became a deadly bottleneck where neither side could gain a clear advantage.

It was like a sea of bodies moving around, each second passing claiming more and more lives in what would prove the most bloody environment that most from be it rebel or loyalist would ever lay eyes upon, their ears overwhelmed with the clash of metal, the screams of the wounded, and the taunts of men desperate to break their enemy’s spirit before the opposite could happen.