Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 503

Chapter 503: Shield of Aracina(1)
The city of Aracina groaned under the weight of war, its once-proud walls now battered and scarred, its streets humming with the grim rhythm of a people preparing for death.

Seventeen days.

Seventeen days of iron and fire, of screams in the night and the ceaseless thud of siege engines pounding against stone. The land beyond the walls had become a graveyard—ladders splintered into kindling, siege towers reduced to smoldering husks, corpses left to bloat under the merciless sun. The stench of rot and burning pitch clung to the air, thick enough to taste.

Inside the city, life had narrowed to the essentials: survival, defiance, and the slow, methodical preparation for the next assault.

The medics worked in shifts, their hands slick with blood as they stitched flesh and set broken bones. They were running low on supplies—clean linen for bandages, even the sharp-smelling salves made from crushed herbs and animal fat.

Children, too young to fight but old enough to understand fear, darted through the streets like shadows. They carried water skins to the thirsty, bundles of arrows to the archers, their small hands trembling under the weight of war. Some hauled buckets of sand to the walls, where men waited to pour the scalding grains onto the heads of climbers. Others simply stood at their posts, hollow-eyed, staring at the enemy lines as if sheer will alone could turn them back.

And above them all, standing where the wind howled loudest, was Asag.

The breeze tugged at his hair, threatening to expose the ruin of his right side—the twisted flesh, the scars that ran like melted wax from temple to jaw. A wound from a time long past , a mark he had learned to hate.

He scowled, pressing a gloved hand to his face, forcing the dark strands back into place. He knew what people saw when they looked at him—pity, disgust, sometimes even fear. But today, he had no patience for their stares.

Today, there was only the battle ahead.

Below, the enemy stirred.

The distant clatter of armor, the shouted orders, the slow creak of siege engines being repositioned—all of it carried on the wind like a promise. They would come again. Soon.

Asag’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Let them try.

He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.

This was the moment for a speech—he knew that much. He had never been one for words, but he had watched Alpheo enough times to know how to simulate the kind of speech that could stir the hearts of men. It didn’t need to be elegant. It just needed to rouse them.

He turned to the gathered soldiers, his voice cutting through the morning air like the sharp edge of a blade, trying to mimick one of the many speeches Alpheo had given.

“Men of the Crown!”

The effect was instant. Heads snapped up. Conversations died mid-breath. The restless shifting of soldiers at their posts stilled as every eye fixed on him.

“You are fathers!” His voice boomed across the battlements. “Brothers! Sons! You are the blood and bone of those who shelter behind these walls—the husbands, the uncles, the friends who swore to stand between your people and the fire!”

He let the words hang, watching as backs straightened, as calloused hands tightened around spear shafts. Some of the younger men swallowed hard. The veterans simply stared, their faces carved from stone.

Asag stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken arrow shafts as he gestured toward the enemy host beyond the walls.

“Look at them!” His voice turned to gravel. “That rabble of whores-sons and butchers. They come with fire in their hands and greed in their hearts. They would burn your homes. Steal your gold. Murder your brothers where they stand. And your women? Your daughters?” His lip curled. “They would drag them screaming into their tents and call it victory as they rape them.”

A low growl rippled through the ranks. A spear butt slammed against stone.

“For seventeen days, you have held this wall!” Asag roared. “Seventeen days of blood, of sweat, of watching your friends die beside you! And yet—here you still stand!”

He paced along the battlements now, his gaze locking with soldier after soldier.

“They thought we would break by now. They thought fear would rot us from within. That we would drop our swords and beg for mercy like whipped dogs!” He spat over the wall. “So tell me—have you begged?”

“NO!” The response came like thunder.

“Have you broken like dogs?”

“NO!” Louder now, voices raw.

“Then why in the hells would today be any different?!” Asag bellowed. “Let them come! Let them climb these walls with their ladders of kindling! Let them batter our gates with their hollow pride! And when they do—” He ripped his sword from its sheath, the steel singing as it caught the dawn light. “—we will send them back to their mothers in pieces!”

The roar that answered him shook the very stones. Shields slammed together like cracking bones. Swords and spears stabbed toward the sky. Even the wounded raised their voices, their bandages darkening with fresh blood as they shouted themselves hoarse.

Asag let the fury build, let it feed on itself until it became something living—something hungry. Then, with deliberate care, he sheathed his blade. The silence that followed was sharper than any war cry.

“You fight like lions,” he said, quieter now, but no less fierce. “But remember—you do not stand alone.” He turned, pointing toward the city below, where women still carried water to the wounded, where children still scavenged arrows from the dead. “Every soul behind these walls fights with you. Every prayer whispered in the temples, every stitch sewn by trembling hands—it is all armor for your backs. So when those bastards come again?” His scarred face twisted into something feral. “Make sure they choke on their arrogance before they ever lay a finger on what’s yours.”

His eyes swept over them, seeing the sweat on their brows, the blood on their tunics, the exhaustion in their limbs.

“I stand with you!” He slammed a fist against his chestplate. “This city stands with you! And mark my words—the Crown stands with you!”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the ranks at the mention of the Crown. Some men exchanged glances—doubtful, weary. Asag cut through it before it could fester.

“Help is coming!” he roared. “Even now, the Crown marches to break this siege, to drive these bastards back into the filth they crawled from! And all that is asked of you—all that is needed—is for you to do what you have already done for seventeen days! Hold this wall! Fight like demons! Endure like the unbreakable bastards you are!”

He let the words settle, watching as jaws clenched, as fingers tightened around sword grips.

“And when they arrive—” His voice dropped, turning dangerous. “—they will avenge every drop of blood spilled. Every life taken. Every wound carved into your flesh. Every house burned. Every child left weeping. Every widow made. They. Will. Pay.”

A deep, guttural sound rose from the defenders—not quite a cheer, not quite a snarl. Something primal. Something hungry.

Asag stepped forward, his boots grinding broken arrowheads into the stone.

“I know,” he said, quieter now, “that the words of princes mean little to men who have bled as you have. That the promises of lords sound hollow when it is your friends lying cold in the dirt.” He paused, then bared his teeth. “But I have broken bread with this prince. I have looked into his eyes as I look into yours now. And I swear to you—on my life, on my honor—when he comes, he will not just reward you. He will make them suffer.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

He didn’t believe the Crown would arrive in time.

But it didn’t matter.

If they couldn’t save Aracina, they would burn the world to avenge it.

If not salvation, retribution would suit his corpse more than enough.

Beyond the walls, the enemy host stirred.

Like a great beast rousing from slumber, banners shifted, formations tightened, and the dull clang of steel being readied echoed across the field. The siege tower loomed in the distance—a monstrous skeleton of blackened wood and iron, crawling forward on groaning wheels.

On the battlements, the defenders moved quickly.

Archers nocked arrows, their bowstrings humming like wasps. Below, men fed fresh logs into the fires, stoking the cauldrons of sand that had kept the enemy at bay for seventeen brutal days.

Asag’s gaze locked onto the siege tower, his jaw tightening.

Two days ago, there had been two.

One now lay in ashes, its frame collapsed in a roaring pyre before it could touch the walls. A victory—but one bought in blood.

Thirty-nine dead.

Thirty wounded of his finest—the halberdiers he had trained, the men he had trusted to hold the line when all else failed. Their faces flashed in his mind, their last shouts still ringing in his ears.

The loss sat like a stone in his gut, a weight he refused to show but could not shake.

Now, the second tower advanced.

And this time, it would reach them.

The moment the enemy came into range, the sky darkened with a storm of arrows.

Bows creaked, strings snapped forward, and shafts screamed through the air in a deadly arc. The first volley struck the advancing ranks like a wave crashing against jagged rocks. Men crumpled, some falling instantly with arrows buried deep in their throats or eyes, others staggering forward a few steps before collapsing onto the bloodied earth.

But the enemy did not stop.

Through gaps in their shields, the next wave surged forward, stepping over the dead and dying, gripping their weapons tightly as they pressed on. Another volley was loosed—this time faster, more brutal. Arrows slammed into raised shields, punching through gaps in armor, embedding deep into flesh. Screams of agony cut through the air, but there was no hesitation. The enemy marched forward, even as their comrades fell beside them.

There was no laughter.

In the first days of the siege, the archers had grinned when their targets collapsed, some even calling out bets on who could land the best shot—”Through the eye!” “Right in the gut!”—mocking the enemy’s cries as they clutched at their wounds. There had been something almost exhilarating about it back then, a sense of control in a battle where they had none.

But that had been then.

Before the endless waves of enemies.

Before the walls were streaked with the blood of their own.

Before exhaustion weighed on their limbs and turned their bodies numb.

Now, there were no cheers.

No smirks.

Only silence, broken only by the sharp twang of bowstrings, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the dull, rhythmic sound of arrows being drawn from quivers.

They loosed.

Knocked another.

Loosed again.

And still, the enemy came.

Sometimes they would shout for the children on the wall to carry arrows to their exhausted stocks, but for the most part, they stood silent as they did their duty.