Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 458

Chapter 458: Catastrophe(1) Chapter 458: Catastrophe(1) Haldrek’s breath hitched.

His hands went rigid on the reins, his warhorse shifting uneasily beneath him as if sensing its rider’s sudden hesitation.

His soldiers still advanced, shields locked, boots striking the earth in rhythmic unison, but Haldrek-Haldrek did not move.

His body was stiff, frozen atop his saddle, his world narrowing to the terrible sight before him.

The priest was not just dead.

He was carried.

The rioters held his lifeless form aloft, hoisted on their shoulders like some wretched banner.

His bloodstained robes billowed as they moved, his head lolling grotesquely, mouth agape in an eternal, silent prayer.

The firelight flickered against the deep wound in his throat, against his still fingers curled stiff in death.

A deafening silence fell over Haldrek’s thoughts, a void that swallowed all else.

This was no mere riot anymore.

This was no simple unrest, no minor outbreak of violence to be quelled with clubs and shield walls.

This was sacrilege.

And there would be a reckoning.

The weight of it crashed down upon him, heavier than any armor, heavier than any battlefield burden.

A priest had been slain.

The fires consuming the settlement were nothing compared to the fire that this death would ignite.

Haldrek’s stomach twisted with dread.

Someone would have to answer for this.

Someone would have to bear the blame.

His throat went dry.

His fingers trembled against the reins.

He could already hear the whispers that would crawl through court, through the halls of power, through the lips of scheming men eager to point a finger.

The garrison was meant to keep order.The garrison allowed a holy man to be butchered.The garrison failed.

No-he had failed.

It would not matter that the priest had been slain by these wild tribesmen, nor that the flames had been lit by desperate hands.

The prince’s reforms were a delicate thing, and their enemies would seize upon any excuse to call them doomed from the start.

And what better proof than a priest, dead in the arms of heathens?

Haldrek swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat did not go away.

He felt the cold grip of inevitability tightening around his neck, dragging him toward a fate he had no power to stop.

There was no glory in this night.

No honor in this battle.

Only ruin.

And he feared-no, knew-that ruin would come for him first.

The soldiers marched forward, their shield wall unyielding, boots pounding in steady unison against the dirt.

The flickering firelight cast their armored forms in shifting shadows, the acrid scent of smoke and blood thick in the air.

Their grip tightened on their clubs, their breath misting in the cold night as they neared the heart of the riot.

Then they saw it.

It was a soldier on the left flank who spoke first, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

“Gods above… that’s a priest.” The words carried through the ranks like a ripple through still water.

The men’s steps slowed ever so slightly as their eyes fixed on the lifeless body hoisted above the rioters.

The long tunic, the hood now stained dark with blood-it was unmistakable.

“The priest,” another muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

“They killed a holy man.” Murmurs spread through the ranks.

Even beneath their helmets, the soldiers’ faces twisted with unease.

A priest’s murder wasn’t just another corpse in the dirt-it was sacrilege, a blasphemy that would shake the very foundation of their prince’s rule.

There would be consequences.

Haldrek swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat.

He had been a soldier long enough to know that battles were not won only with steel, but with politics.

If the flames consuming this settlement did not die down, if the riot was not quelled immediately, the fire that would come for him would be far worse.

The nobility, the clergy, even the prince himself-someone would demand blood for this night.

And Haldrek had no intention of it being his.

He had one option.

Do his duty.

Perfectly.

If order was restored, if the riot was crushed decisively, perhaps he could maneuver through the storm that would follow.

Perhaps the blame could be placed elsewhere-on a failure of intelligence, on local incompetence, on treachery from the rioters themselves.

Someone else’s head could roll.

But if he failed now, if this settlement fell into complete anarchy… His fate would be already sealed.

Haldrek inhaled sharply, steeling himself.

There was no time for hesitation.

He pulled hard on his reins, turning his horse sharply.

His voice rang out like thunder.

“Silence in the ranks!” The murmuring ceased.

The soldiers straightened, eyes snapping back to their captain.

“You will obey my orders,you will execute the prince’s laws ” Haldrek continued, his voice cold as iron.

“The riot ends now.

We restore order, we put these dogs in their place, and we bring the prince’s peace back to this settlement.” He swept his gaze over his men, letting the weight of his words settle.

“No hesitation.

No mercy.

No voices.” He gestured toward the body.

“Forget what you see.

Forget what you think.

Do your duty.” He raised his arm, signaling the advance once more.

“Forward!

Quell the riot!” The soldiers clenched their teeth.

Whatever fear had gripped them was swallowed by duty.

They moved with cold precision, their shield wall advancing like an unbreakable tide.

The soldiers tightened their grips on their clubs, their formations flawless despite the chaos ahead.

Their disciplined march cut through the madness of the burning settlement, boots hammering the ground in perfect unison.

Then-the horns blew.

Two sharp blasts echoed through the night, slicing through the air like the cry of war itself The sub-centurii, each leading a contingent of fifty men, raised their brass war horns again and again, their deep, commanding notes reverberating through the settlement.

The wailing of women, the crackling of fire, the screaming of wounded men-all were drowned beneath the overwhelming sound.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each horn blast tore through the riot like a thunderclap, forcing its way into every ear, overpowering every voice.

The effect was immediate.

The rioters, both tribesmen and settlers alike, faltered mid-swing.

Clubs hesitated in the air.

Fists stopped just short of striking their mark.

The cacophony of combat gave way to the deafening echo of the horns.

For the first time since the chaos had erupted, silence threatened to overtake the riot.

The fighters turned-one by one, then in clusters-toward the new force marching upon them.

Tribesmen, their faces painted in streaks of soot and rage, let their grip loosen on their crude weapons.

Settlers, bruised and bloodied, instinctively stepped back, their attention stolen from their immediate foes.

The garrison had arrived.

The clash that had consumed the streets, the brawl that had turned men into beasts, had suddenly found itself frozen-because a third force had entered the storm.

And it was coming straight for them.

Captain Haldrek wasted no time.

His voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“Hold formation!

Advance in step!

Shields high!” The garrison moved as one, their discipline unwavering.

Shields locked together, forming an unbreakable wall of steel.

Their clubs, thick and brutal, were held firm in calloused hands, ready to strike.

Their march was relentless, their armor gleaming in the firelight.

The sight alone sent ripples of unease through the rioters.

The tribesmen, hardened by labor and survival in harsh lands, found themselves hesitating-not because of numbers, but because of something far greater.

Steel.

In their homelands, iron was rare, let alone chainmail and full-plated breastplates.

Yet here stood an entire force clad in it, their weapons forged from a metal stronger than anything the tribesmen had ever wielded.

It was not just the men who terrified them-it was the unnatural shine of their gear, the weight of their weapons, the impenetrability of their shields.

This was not a battle between warriors with clubs and crude blades.

This was like fighting gods made of iron.

And gods could not be killed.

A nervous murmur rippled through them.

Many shifted in place, their grips tightening on their weapons, but their once-burning rage now dulled into something else-fear.

On the other side, the locals had fallen eerily silent.

There was no one among them so ignorant as to not recognize the banners of the Black Stripes-the private army of the War-Prince.

These were the men who had crushed the Ozanians, who had hunted down and butchered the rebel lord Ormund, who had stood unbroken at Arduronaven against an army twice their size and won.

Their reputation was legend.

Their discipline unmatched.

And their fear daunting as the ocean These were not mere garrison soldiers.

These were warriors who had forged their name in blood and fire.

These were the men of Alpheo.

And they were marching toward them.

A heavy silence draped over the battlefield, thick with uncertainty.

The settlers shifted uneasily.

The tribesmen’s awe turned to hesitation.

Then, without thinking, both sides took slow steps away from one another.

The battle that had raged so fiercely just moments ago had suddenly… stilled.

A space, a cautious no-man’s-land, began to form between them.

The riot was not over.

But neither side dared to make the first move.

The soldiers paid no mind to the hesitation of the rioters.

There was no pause in their march, no hesitation in their movements.

The moment the first line reached the open space between the two sides, they crashed forward with brutal precision.

“Break them apart!” Their clubs and sticks swung in measured arcs, not wild, not reckless-controlled violence.

Wood cracked against flesh and bone, striking arms, shoulders, ribs, and legs.

The force was just enough to hurt, to drive back, but not to kill.

The tribesmen, still reeling from the sheer sight of the armored force, instinctively stepped back as the soldiers came crashing in.

Their fury, which had burned so hot just moments ago, faltered under the relentless discipline of the advancing line.

Their crude weapons and fists were nothing against chainmail and steel.

The settlers, too, found themselves forced back.

They had expected the garrison to subdue the tribesmen, not them.How could they attack their own?

But the soldiers did not discriminate.

The riot had to end.

More boots pounded the ground as the second wave of soldiers pushed into formation, taking full advantage of the widening space.

Their movements were ruthless in efficiency-each strike widening the gap, each step forward claiming control of the battlefield.

And it worked.

Within moments, the riot had been split.

The tribesmen and settlers now stood apart, separated by the advancing wall of iron and discipline.

Haldrek watched from behind, gripping his reins so tightly that the leather creaked beneath his gloves.

The riot was being pushed back.

The first step toward order had been taken.

His mind raced ahead.

If they could keep this pace, they could turn their attention to the fires.

They had to be fast.

But then- A scream.

A voice, shrill and furious, piercing through the night.

And just like everything else that night, Haldrek realized- It would not be that easy.