Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 457

Chapter 457: Walking onto the spark Chapter 457: Walking onto the spark The moment they stepped outside, the full scale of the chaos hit them like a slap to the face.

The first thing they noticed-before the screaming, before the shouts, before the pounding of frantic feet against the dirt-was the fire.

Further north in the settlement, flames licked hungrily at the wooden structures, their glow painting the night in flickering shades of orange and red.

Smoke billowed high into the sky, twisting and curling like a living thing, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning wood, flesh, and whatever else had been caught in its wake.

 The air was thick with the sound of chaos-frenzied shouting in a tongue most of them barely understood, the wails of women, the guttural bellows of men, and somewhere in the distance, the distinct crash of something heavy collapsing into the flames.

The soldiers followed their guide at a hurried pace, weaving between fleeing villagers and frantic slaves, moving toward the heart of the settlement where the rest of the garrison was gathering.

As they neared, they saw all that they had to stop this-150 men, all that could be mustered, standing in tight formation, their armor gleaming under the sickly glow of firelight.

The commander had already given his orders, and each soldier stood ready, clad in full armor, shields strapped to their arms, but their weapons not drawn to kill.

In their hands, they gripped heavy clubs-thick, sturdy things meant to break bone but not spill blood.

The head of the garrison, a seasoned officer with lines of age carved into his face, had made his stance clear.

No swords.

No spears.

Not unless the savages force our hand.

He had no desire to turn this riot into a massacre-not yet, anyway.

If it could be ended without a bloodbath, that would be the ideal outcome, he after did not want to be the one to ruin his liege’s plans for the settlement’s reforms .

Still his wishes were one thing the reality was another as the tension in the air made one thing clear, it wouldn’t take much to tip it into slaughter.

Men adjusted their grips on their clubs, exchanging uneasy glances as they waited for the order to march.

The firelight danced across their armor, their breath misting in the cold air as they listened to the chaos beyond their ranks.

This had been an easy post.

Now, it was a powder keg, and they were walking straight into the spark while holding some water in their naked arms.

At the head of the gathered soldiers, mounted atop a dark warhorse, sat Captain Haldrek, the head of the garrison.

He was a broad-shouldered man, hardened by years of service, his features carved from stone-square jaw, weathered skin, and a permanent scowl that only deepened under the flickering firelight.

His steel breastplate, dull and scratched from long campaigns, reflected the shifting glow of the burning settlement behind him.

His gloved hands held the reins tightly, the leather creaking under his grip.

His voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“Form up!

On me!” The soldiers, already tense, snapped into motion.

The loose gathering of men shifted into marching columns, their clubs gripped firmly, shields strapped to their arms.  Their boots struck the dirt in unison, their discipline a stark contrast to the madness surrounding them.

Haldrek pulled his horse around, surveying the men with a sharp gaze.

His face was unreadable, but his posture radiated confidence, the kind that kept men from breaking ranks when chaos threatened to overtake them.

He turned his horse back toward the heart of the settlement, toward the growing riot, toward whatever waited for them in the smoke and fire.

Then, with a voice that carried through the night, he roared- “Forward!Bring about our prince’s peace” And with that, the garrison marched into the storm.

The garrison moved as one, their boots pounding against the dirt roads of the settlement, shaking the earth beneath them.  The deeper they marched, the more red the world became.

The night, once thick with darkness, was now pierced by the angry dance of fire, licking at the sky, twisting and writhing as it devoured whatever stood in its path.

Smoke coiled around them, acrid and suffocating, burning their throats as they pressed forward.

Each soldier carried the same grim expression-jaws clenched, brows furrowed, hands gripping their clubs so tightly that their knuckles turned white.

Their armor clinked with each hurried step, but none of them broke stride.

The tension was palpable, lingering between them like an unspoken fear, but none would voice it.

They were soldiers.

Soldiers did not fear riots.

Soldiers feared being alone.

And so, in the company of their comrades, they found the only relief they could afford.

The shouting grew louder.

Screams-some of anger, others of pain-echoed through the streets, carried on the wind like the embers of burning homes.

Shadows twisted against the walls, moving frantically, figures clashing in the distance.

Then, they reached it.

The garrison rounded the final bend, stepping into the full embrace of the riot.

The scene before the soldiers was a maelstrom of chaos-two sides locked in a furious clash, bodies pushing, shoving, throwing fists and stones with wild abandon.

Shouts filled the air, an unintelligible mixture of rage, pain, and desperation, creating a deafening roar that drowned out even the crackling flames consuming parts of the settlement.

The tribesmen made up the larger and fiercer side.

Their faces were twisted with anger as they swung crude weapons-broken tools, wooden clubs, and anything they could find.

They surged forward like a wave, shouting in their native tongue, their movements wild and relentless.

Many of them were bare-chested, their bodies lean and hardened from labor, their eyes burning with fury.

The other side, smaller in number, was made up of the locals.

They fought back with whatever they had, some using their fists, others gripping stones or wooden planks.

They stood their ground as best they could, but they were being pushed back, step by step, struggling against the sheer force of the attacking tribesmen.

Some had already fallen, either beaten to the ground or trampled underfoot, their bodies sprawled in the dirt.

Further beyond the fighting, flames stretched into the sky, their orange glow flickering against the darkening sky.

The fire had spread, jumping from one home to another, but the settlement’s design-ordered by the crown-had slowed it down.

Unlike the crowded cities where flames could swallow entire neighborhoods, the houses here had enough space between them to prevent a full disaster.

The fire could still be controlled, but only if it was dealt with quickly.

But before that could happen, the riot had to be stopped.

Captain Haldrek pulled his warhorse to a stop just ahead of his gathered men.

His gaze swept over the chaotic scene before him for a small second , then snapped back to his soldiers.

His voice rang out like a hammer striking iron-firm, unyielding.

“Shields up!

Form the wall!” At once, the soldiers moved with practiced precision.

The front rank raised their shields, stepping forward in unison, locking the heavy wooden barriers together with a dull thud.

The second rank followed immediately behind, gripping their clubs tightly, ready to strike when the time came.

The formation took shape in mere moments, a small parting gift from all the training they were subjugated to.  “Close the gaps!

Keep tight!” Haldrek barked, his horse pacing alongside the formation.

“We advance as one!

No breaks, no hesitation!No man behind!” The men adjusted their grips, boots digging into the dirt as they braced themselves.

The shield wall stood firm, unwavering.

“Step forward on my command!” Haldrek raised his gauntleted hand.

“Push through, break their will-but remember: no swords .

We bring the prince’s peace, not slaughter.” A breath of silence fell over the formation.

The only sounds were the crackling of flames, the distant shouts of the riot, and the heavy breathing of the soldiers as they steadied themselves.

Then, Haldrek’s arm swung down in a decisive motion.

“Advance!” Without hesitation, the shield wall surged forward, their boots striking the earth in unison, a disciplined force moving to bring the riot to heel.

 The rhythmic pounding of boots against dirt filled the air, steady and disciplined, a stark contrast to the wild, frenzied movements of the rioters ahead.

His gloved hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking as he rode just behind his soldiers, ensuring the line did not break, ensuring order held against the storm.

The heat of the fires gnawed at his skin, smoke coiling in thick, choking plumes, stinging his eyes.

Shadows danced wildly across the burning settlement, twisting and stretching like specters in the night.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of charred wood and sweat, but above all, the stench of something fouler, something unmistakable-blood.

Then, as the formation pressed forward, the soldiers saw it first.

Their movements faltered, just for a breath.

Their steps slowed, shields quivering ever so slightly in their grasp.

It was not hesitation in the face of battle.

It was not fear of the enemy before them for they had none  Haldrek noticed the shift immediately, his jaw tightening.

“Keep moving!” he barked, his voice cutting through the din.

But as he followed their line of sight, his own breath caught in his throat.

There, at the heart of the riot, laid upon the a ground made of hands , was a sight that turned his blood to ice.

The priest, or better yet his lifeless body held up as a effigy.

For the first time since the riot had begun, Captain Haldrek trembled.