Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 378

Chapter 378: The taste of mud Chapter 378: The taste of mud Arnold sat atop his horse, his gloved hands gripping the reins tightly as he surveyed the somber scene before him.

The remnants of his assault force trickled back from the walls of Stitz.The golden light of the setting sun did little to soften the grim expressions etched into their faces.

The soldiers limped and staggered, their armor dented and smeared with mud and blood.

Some leaned heavily on comrades, while others clutched at hastily bandaged wounds, the fabric already dark with fresh stains.

Their steps were slow and labored, tired and their morale dampened by another failed assault.

The faint murmur of bitter curses and pained groans filled the air,far different from the cheers they let out barely a week ago.

Arnold’s men, once brimming with confidence now wore hollow expressions, some of them even resented their commander, after all they had just got some proper loot and now they were forced to fight again, risking for so many of them to have made surviving until then useless.

Arnold’s eyes narrowed as they drifted to the fortress looming in the distance, its walls seemingly untouched by the day’s assault.

From his vantage point, the Yarzat banners fluttered mockingly atop the ramparts, the falcon with six closed fists seemingly flipping him off.

His jaw tightened as he watched his men.

They had marched here with the joy of conquest in their hearts, expecting another easy victory to add to their tally. Now, they were simply weary soldiers, trudging back to camp.

Arnold’s steely gaze turned colder , he knew just how bad his situation was, this was simply the first fortress and he failed to even make a dent on it .

In just a few brutal days, Arnold had already lost more than 120 of his soldiers to the relentless defense of the fortress.

Another 150 lay wounded, their agonized cries filling the camp.  How many of the enemy had he slain?

He couldn’t say.

From the way the Yarzat defenders still manned the walls with unyielding vigor, it seemed the toll they suffered was but a shadow of his own losses.

If any gaps had formed in their ranks, they had been swiftly filled by the resolute garrison, who as the knight had said fought like true soldiers.

How much longer will this go on?

How many more of us will fall?

He wondered as he turned his horse around to retreat to his tent He knew the truth, even if he didn’t dare admit it aloud.

He was marching torward defeat .

Every assault on the fortress bled his forces further, leaving them weaker, less capable of mounting the overwhelming strike needed to break the walls.

The dream of a swift victory had become a nightmare of slow attrition.

His forces, exhausted and diminished, could not afford another week of such slaughter.

The path before Arnold was narrowing to two grim possibilities: order a retreat and abandon the twin fortresses to the enemy, or press on, only to face the same outcome after driving his men to mutiny.

He wasn’t blind to the reality.

The signs of unrest were plain-his soldiers, their bodies battered and spirits worn thin, cast longing glances toward the horizon, yearning for home.

Many had lost their villages in the flames of war, whether at the hands of the Yarzat invaders or the rebels, and now clung to the meager spoils they had earned.

To them, those coins were not just wealth but a chance to rebuild their lives.  But retreat wasn’t as simple as giving the order.

Technically, it was; he had the authority to end the campaign.

Yet the consequences would ripple far beyond the battlefield.

The prince deserts the front lines-what a coward!

The words of those who would jeer at his decision already echoed in his mind, loud and scornful, and he was sure his brother would fan the flame.

 No, if he was to retreat, he needed something more than raw pragmatism.

He needed a pretense, a justification to preserve both his men’s morale and his reputation.

For now, he placed his hopes on a waiting game.

A week earlier, he had dispatched a letter to his father, detailing the hopeless situation at the fortress.

He had spared no detail in his plea, explaining how, with his current forces, Stitz was an unconquerable bastion.

He had requested permission to withdraw, hoping the weight of his father’s authority would shield him from the inevitable criticism.

Now, all he could do was wait for a response, his patience stretching thin with every passing day.

Of course, there was always the possibility that his father might deny his request.

Arnold couldn’t ignore that .

If that happened, he already had another plan-a desperate one, but a plan nonetheless.

He would feign sickness, something debilitating enough to require his return home.

In the same letter, he would urge his father to send someone else to relieve him of command.

When the army eventually crumbled in defeat, as Arnold was certain it would if forced to continue, he could wash his hands of the entire debacle.

No blame would stick to him, and the failure would rest solely on the shoulders of whoever his father sent to replace him.

In that scenario, Arnold could retreat to Herculia as the prince who had crushed the rebellion and stabilized the heartland.

Once his reputation was secure, he could finally focus on the other thorn in his side: his brother.

Arnold’s lips thinned at the thought.

His younger brother’s whispers and schemes had been growing louder in the court, undermining him at every turn, especially after Cretio’s defeat against Alpheo.

But if Arnold returned a hero, the court’s favor would tilt back in his direction, and his brother’s machinations would wither under the weight of his influence.

Suddendly the tent’s flaps billowed open with a sharp snap, entering in as Lord Cretio stepped inside, his boots crunching faintly on the dirt floor.

In his hand, a piece of parchment was clutched tightly, the edges crumpled slightly as though the journey to deliver it had been hurried.

 The sight of the parchment in Cretio’s hand made the young man’s heart quicken.

“Your Grace,” Lord Cretio began, “an envoy has arrived bearing a letter from your father.” Arnold’s brows shot up, and he straightened in his chair.

“Finally,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with restrained frustration.

He rose quickly, stepping forward to take the parchment from Cretio’s outstretched hand.

The seal, bearing the unmistakable emblem of the House of Herculia, glistened faintly in the dim light of the tent.

Arnold broke it with a swift motion, the wax crumbling under his thumb.

Arnold’s eyes moved quickly over the lines of his father’s letter, his expression a careful mask as he absorbed the contents.

When he reached the end, he lowered the parchment slowly onto the table, letting it rest atop the clutter of maps and reports.

He exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing as a smile broke through his otherwise weary demeanor.

“We can finally leave,” he said, his voice carrying a rare note of relief.

Cretio, standing silently nearby, had been watching Arnold closely.

At those words, his own lips curled into a grin, the shared weight of their predicament lifting from his chest.

He had known better than most the dire state of their campaign, and the thought of a retreat was as much a blessing to him as it was to Arnold.

“About time,” Cretio remarked, his tone tinged with dry humor.

“I was beginning to think your father might’ve forgotten he sent us here in the first place.” Arnold chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he sat back in his chair.

” Still, better late than never, wouldn’t you say?” “Much better,” Cretio agreed, stepping closer to glance at the discarded parchment on the table.

“Though I doubt the men will care much for the reasons.

They’ll just be glad to finally get away from these walls.” Arnold straightened in his chair, the faint smile on his face replaced by a more resolute expression. “Give the order for the men to prepare to leave tomorrow.” Cretio nodded, his grin fading into a look of dutiful focus.

“Understood, Your Grace.

I’ll make sure they’re ready.

Do you want the camp dismantled at first light or later in the morning?” “First light,” Arnold replied decisively.

“I want us moving as soon as we can.

I have got enough of this war” “As you say,” Cretio said, bowing slightly.  As Cretio turned to leave, Arnold called after him.

“My lord” The lord stopped and turned back, his brow slightly raised.

Arnold’s eyes met his, steady and sincere.

“You’ve done well through all of this.” Cretio gave a small, appreciative smile and inclined his head.

“Thank you, Your Grace, though you were the one that did mmost.