Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 336

Chapter 336: Storming the trenches(4) Chapter 336: Storming the trenches(4) The stand off continued for a few more minutes, with the archers emptying the quivers all of their arrows, before the infantry advanced forward to actually enter battle with the rebels.

Their boots pounded against the earth as they neared the trenches.  As they reached the trenches, the stakes once again slowed their approach.

Soldiers in the front lines hacked at the obstacles with axes, splinters flying as the stakes gave way under the assault.

Behind them, others pushed forward, stepping over the broken barricades to close the distance with the rebels.

The defenders met the attack with fierce resistance.

Spears thrust from behind the cover of the trenches, jabbing at exposed throats and faces.

Axes swung downward, cleaving into shields and arms alike.

Swords lashed out in the chaos, clashing against armor with resounding clangs.

One soldier, climbing over the jagged remains of the stakes, was yanked into the trench by a rebel wielding a scythe.

He screamed as he was dragged into the fray, disappearing into a throng of stabbing blades.

“Push forward!

Take the trenches!” a knight in shining armor shouted from the rear, his voice carrying above the chaos  The prince’s soldiers surged with renewed ferocity, using their shields to batter aside the defenders’ spears.

They leaned into the fight, slowly advancing step by brutal step.

Blood stained the ground as men fell on both sides, their cries of pain mingling with the grunts of exertion and the taunts hurled by the rebels.

“Come on, you dogs!” one rebel shouted, thrusting his spear into the chest of an advancing soldier.

“This is where you meet your end!” But the weight of the assault was overwhelming.

The sheer number of attackers forced the defenders back, inch by bloody inch, until the trenches became a chaotic melee of flashing steel and desperate shouts.

The second wave of Arnold’s soldiers proved far more seasoned than the first.

These were not green levies recruited on the way , but men who had seen war before and were lucky enough to survive military disaster after military disaster.  Unlike their predecessors, they didn’t hesitate or falter; they moved like a machine, battering aside rebels with shield and blade.

The trenches, once the defenders’ strongest bulwark, began to falter as more and more attackers poured in, forcing gaps in the rebel line.

From his vantage point above, Inor’s jaw clenched as he saw the attackers gaining ground.

The banners of Arnold’s forces waved defiantly near the breached trenches.He turned to a nearby runner and barked his orders.

“Send in the reserves!

Now!

Tell them to reinforce the trenches or we’re done here!” The runner nodded and sprinted off.

Moments later, a fresh wave of rebels began streaming toward the front lines.

Farmers turned fighters, herders and huntsmen, their faces hardened with resolve, swarmed down from the hilltop fortifications, throwing more bodies to the meat grinder.

The trenches became a maelstrom of chaos as the reinforcements poured in.

Rebel soldiers rushed to reclaim lost ground, vaulting into the narrow earthen defenses with weapons raised.

Swords clanged against spears; axes swung in devastating arcs, shattering shields and biting into flesh.

A young rebel carrying a sword leaped into the fray, slashing wildly at a knight who was shouting orders.

His first strike glanced off the knight’s shield, but his second found its mark, slicing a gash in the knight’s thigh.

The knight fell,unfortunately for the young fightier, he was quickly swarmed by two enemy soldiers, who cut him down where he stood, preventing him from finishing the kill.

After a quick self-check noting the gash not to be too deep, he kept on fighting helped on his feet by the men who had saved him, keeping close to him, knowing that by the end of it all they could be in for a reward, as they had just saved a member of the low nobility who was also courageous enough to jump in the fray.  Returning on the battlefield, there was a back and forth.

Men grappled in the mud, clawing and stabbing, their cries of agony and fury filling the air.

The trenches were a chaotic mess of bodies, blood, and steel as both sides fought tooth and nail for control.

Inor’s reinforcements, bolstered by sheer determination and the need to protect their lives and families, managed to stall the enemy’s advance.

But the second wave, seasoned and relentless, held firm, pushing back with every inch they gained.

The archers, having expended all their arrows, slung their empty quivers aside and unsheathed the short swords and daggers at their sides.

These men were not trained for close combat, but the desperation in their eyes showed they knew there was no alternative.

“To the trenches!” the knight leading them bellowed leading the charge and entering the fray with his men One archer, a lean man with a fresh gash across his forehead, leaped into the melee.

He ducked beneath the wide swing of a rebel’s axe and thrust his dagger upward into the man’s gut, twisting the blade before yanking it free.

The rebel fell with a guttural moan, and the archer turned to find his next target.

Another charged shoulder-first into a rebel who was grappling with an infantryman.

The impact knocked the rebel off balance, and the archer drove his short sword into the man’s neck  “Push them back!” one of the infantrymen shouted, his shield splintered but still holding firm.

The archers formed into loose groups, covering one another as they moved through the chaos.  A particularly bold archer climbed onto the edge of a trench, only finding however a spear waiting for him, quickly finding its mark on his neck.

Blood sprayed as the man collapsed down, another victim of the hundreds of that day.

While in a battle , commanders would always make sure that their troops remained in formation to give some resemblance of order to the engagement and understand the flows of the battle, right now there was none of that nonsense.

 Commanders’ orders were drowned out by the cacophony of clashing steel and guttural screams, leaving each man to fight for his survival in the cramped five-meter-wide trench, whatever order was given the men would follow their own, kill the enemy before the enemy kills you.

Spears, once the pride of the infantry, lay abandoned in the mud-too unwieldy for the brutal close quarters.

Men wielded whatever they could find: axes hacked through armor and flesh alike, short swords jabbed mercilessly, and daggers slashed and stabbed, as the man holding it watched the life goes away from the eyes of another men.

The trench had become a maelstrom of bodies, where shoving, punching, and clawing were just as effective as any weapon.

One soldier pinned another to the ground, his hands tightening around his opponent’s throat.

Before he could finish the job, a dagger plunged into his neck from behind.

His grip faltered, and he collapsed with a wet gurgle.

The man who had stabbed him glanced down briefly, his bloodshot eyes filled with weary malice, but there was no time for relief-an axe swung down at him, narrowly missing as he rolled away into another tangle of bodies.

In the chaos, it was nearly impossible to distinguish friend from foe.

Without banners to guide them and no clear difference in armor or attire, the only certainty was this: anyone in front of you was the enemy, and anyone behind you was an ally-for now.

On occasion, two men would find themselves hesitating, blades raised but unsure if the other was friend or foe.

Their eyes narrowed, their breaths heavy as they sized each other up.

A quick, shouted question-“Who do you serve?”-was enough to break the spell.

As soon as the answer came, one lunged forward while the other retaliated, their hesitation giving way to the raw, animalistic need to kill or be killed.

The trench itself seemed alive, churning with the chaos of the melee.

Bodies fell only to be trampled underfoot, and the mud grew slick with blood.

Like a demon calling for the sacrifice of more, relishing in the pure bloodshed happening there, the red mixed in the dirt being the carpet from which he would walk on and the dead bodies being the bricks of his throne.  The air reeked of sweat, iron, and death.

In the madness, camaraderie and enmity blurred, but one thing remained clear: survival demanded ruthlessness, and the trench showed no mercy to the faint-hearted.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, its relentless heat pressing down on the battlefield.

The clash of steel and the screams of men continued to echo from the trenches, but from the base of the hill, it was an indecipherable cacophony.

Two hours had passed since Arnold had sent the second wave, and his patience was wearing thin.

Arnold sat astride his horse, its polished armor gleaming in the sunlight, though the prince’s heir looked far less composed.

His jaw tightened as his gaze fixed on the ridgeline where the trenches lay, the smoke and dust obscuring any view of the fighting.

At last, he turned to Lord Cretio, who stood at his side, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“My lord” Arnold began, his voice clipped, “do you have any sense of what’s happening up there?

Anything at all?” Cretio hesitated, glancing toward the hill as if straining to see through the haze.

His expression betrayed his unease.

“Not much, Your Grace.

From what we’ve seen, the second wave managed to breach the trenches, but beyond that…” He gestured vaguely with a gauntleted hand.

“I couldn’t say.

It’s chaos in there.

No runners have come back, and with the fighting so dense , it’s impossible to say what is going on” Arnold’s frown deepened.

“So we’re blind, then.

No way to tell if they’re holding, advancing, or being slaughtered?” “Blind for now, yes,” Cretio admitted, his tone cautious.

“But the fact they’ve lasted this long might mean they’re holding the trench.

At the very least, they’re keeping the enemy occupied.

If the rebels had regained full control, I suspect we’d seen our lines much behind” “My lord,” Cretio began, voice steady despite the tension in the air, “are we to proceed with the plan?

” Arnold considered the question in silence for a moment, his gaze fixed on the hill where the battle raged unseen.

The faint clang of steel and the cries of men drifted faintly on the wind, mingling with the crackle of fire and the distant roll of drums.

At last, he leaned forward slightly in his saddle, his expression cool and calculating.

“Our current state favors us more than you think,” Arnold said, his voice low but firm.

“Let them fight it out in the trenches, Cretio. Let the blood run high between the two forces” Cretio frowned, shifting uncomfortably.

Arnold cut him off with a sharp gesture noticing his displeasure .

“Half an hour,” he said decisively.

“That’s all.

Let them stew in their struggle for another thirty minutes.

Then, we’ll give the order to for them to go ahead with the plan.Get the cavalry ready, I want everything to fall under one fast swoop”