Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 504

Chapter 504: Shield of Aracina(2)
The enemy archers moved like shadows behind their heavy wooden pavises, the makeshift barricades forming a jagged line across the battlefield. Then—the telltale twang of bowstrings, the air suddenly alive with the deadly song of arrows in flight.

“Arrows!”

The defenders ducked behind the crenellations as the deadly hail descended. Arrows thunked into wood, skittered off stone, and occasionally found their mark in flesh.

A grizzled veteran grunted as an arrow buried itself in his shoulder, the shaft quivering as he slumped against the parapet, his teeth bared in a snarl of pain. Another man took an arrow clean through the throat—his hands flew up instinctively, fingers brushing the fletching before he toppled backward, his blood already pooling on the worn stones.

There was no time to mourn. No time to even look.

Below, the enemy’s foot soldiers surged forward like a dark tide, their ladders hoisted high above their heads. They moved in ragged waves, the front ranks holding shields overhead as arrows rained down upon them. Some fell instantly, shafts protruding from thighs and shoulders, their screams lost in the chaos. Others pushed forward, their boots churning the blood-soaked earth into crimson mud as they charged the walls.

The defenders made them pay for every step.

Archers loosed volley after volley, their arrows finding gaps in armor, punching through mail. A young attacker—barely more than a boy—stumbled as an arrow pierced his knee, his scream cut short as a second shaft took him through the eye. Still, the ladders came forward, carried by men who knew death waited atop those walls but climbed anyway.

Then—impact.

The first ladder slammed against the stone with a resounding crack, its iron hooks biting into the parapet. Another followed. Then another. The enemy swarmed upward like rats, their gauntleted hands gripping the rungs, their weapons clenched between their teeth.

But the defenders were ready.

“Now!”

Great stones, each the size of a man’s head, were heaved over the edge. They smashed into climbers with sickening crunches, sending bodies tumbling backward, their skulls shattered, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. One attacker took a stone square in the chest—his ribs caved inward with an audible snap, his body folding like a rag doll as he plummeted to the ground below.

Archers leaned over the walls, picking off climbers at point-blank range. A man halfway up a ladder took an arrow through the cheek—his scream turned to a wet gurgle as he lost his grip, his body bouncing off the ladder before crumpling in the dirt. Blood slicked the ladder rungs now, making each foothold treacherous, but still, the enemy climbed.

And then—the first hand grasped the battlement.

A scarred brute in splinted mail hauled himself over the edge, his axe already swinging. A defender lunged forward, only to have his throat opened from ear to ear. The invader roared in triumph—right before a spear took him through the gut, lifting him clean off his feet before hurling him backward into the mass of climbers below.

While the eastern walls became a slaughterhouse of steel and screams, the western side held its breath.

The siege tower loomed in the distance, its massive frame creaking as it inched forward, pulled by teams of oxen and men. It moved with dreadful inevitability, its shadow stretching long across the broken ground.

Asag watched from his vantage point atop the gatehouse, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He knew better than anyone what this meant.

Ladders could be easily be repelled. Archers could pick off climbers. But a siege tower, once lodged against the walls, was a different beast entirely. It would vomit forth a tide of armored killers directly onto the battlements—a bridge of death that could not be burned or broken. Not this time. The fish oil was gone. The chains could not be cut.

There was only one option left.

Meet them head-on.

The defenders stood shoulder to shoulder along the western wall, their ranks thinned by seventeen days of relentless combat. Of the 150 men of his elite, still able to wield weapons, Asag had positioned 100 here – the strongest, the most determined, even if many of them could barely stand without wincing in pain. Their arms were wrapped in blood-crusted bandages, their faces gaunt from exhaustion, their armor dented and scarred from countless battles. Yet not a single one had retreated to the healers’ tents. Not one had chosen the comfort of rest over the grim duty of defending their home.

They waited in eerie silence, their weapons gripped tight, their eyes fixed on the approaching siege tower. Some whispered prayers to gods they weren’t sure were listening. Others simply stood motionless, their jaws clenched so tight their teeth ached, their fingers flexing unconsciously around sword hilts and spear shafts. The air smelled of blood and smoke and fear, but beneath it all was something else – a stubborn, unbreakable resolve.

Asag felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he surveyed his men. These were no fresh recruits, no green boys who didn’t know which end of a sword to hold.

These were hardened veterans who had endured seventeen days of hell – who had watched friends die beside them in a city that they had seen for the first time , who had fought through exhaustion and pain that would have broken lesser men. And yet here they stood, ready to face almost certain death without flinching.

The remaining 50 men waited further back, held in reserve by Asag’s command. He knew better than to commit all his forces at once. If the eastern wall faltered, or if the siege tower disgorged too many attackers at once, he would need fresh swords to plug the gaps.

These reserves stood like statues, their breathing steady despite the tension coiling in their guts. Some checked and rechecked their armor straps. Others muttered quiet prayers to long-forgotten gods. All of them gripped their weapons with white-knuckled intensity, their eyes darting between the siege tower and their commander.

And all the while, the massive siege tower crept closer, its shadow stretching across the blood-soaked earth like the hand of death itself. The ground trembled beneath its ponderous weight as the oxen teams strained against their harnesses, dragging the monstrous structure forward inch by terrible inch.

The defenders could hear the creak of its wooden frame, the groan of its wheels as they crushed corpses and broken weapons beneath them. Soon, it would reach the walls. Soon, the real battle would begin.

Asag exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt until the leather grip creaked in protest. They had no more fire to burn it. No more to pour down on the attackers. Only steel, flesh, and sheer stubborn will remained. It would have to be enough.

With a final, shuddering groan, the siege tower ground to a halt against the battered stones of the western wall. For one breathless moment, there was silence – the calm before the storm. Then, with a thunderous crash, the bridge slammed down onto the parapet, sending splinters and dust flying through the air as it formed a direct pathway from the tower’s belly to the heart of the defenses.

The defenders didn’t wait for the enemy to emerge. The moment the bridge fell, the archers loosed their arrows in perfect unison. The air filled with the sharp twang of bowstrings and the deadly hiss of arrows in flight. The first wave of attackers, caught completely unprepared, had no time to raise their shields. The arrows found their marks with sickening precision – punching through chainmail, embedding deep in unprotected throats and faces.

One attacker died with an arrow through his open mouth, his battle cry turning to a wet gurgle as he collapsed backward. Another took a shaft to the shoulder, snapping it off with a roar of pain only to be struck again in the gut, doubling over as he crashed to the wooden bridge. Not all arrows found their mark – some glanced harmlessly off helmets or were stopped by well-placed shields – but the initial volley had done its work, leaving the bridge slick with blood and littered with writhing bodies.

Yet still they came.

The survivors of the first volley pressed forward, shields now raised, their battle cries rising above the din. Behind them, fresh waves of attackers surged from the tower’s depths, their weapons gleaming in the pale light. The moment of relative calm shattered as steel met steel along the narrow parapet, the defenders bracing themselves for the onslaught that would decide the fate of Aracina.

And then they charged.

The first wave, despite their losses, surged forward over the bridge with the desperation of men who knew there was no turning back. They had come too far. Their only options now were victory or death.

They crashed against the defenders like a tidal wave of steel and fury. Shields slammed into shields with bone-rattling force, the impact echoing along the stone walls of the city. The defenders, bracing themselves, held their ground, but the sheer momentum of the charge sent some staggering back.

The attackers wasted no time. They drove forward, using their shields like battering rams, shoving and smashing, trying to break through the thin first line that had been purposefully formed from the garrison’s men.

These were not the elite Halberdiers of Asag—no, these were city watchmen, conscripts, their job not to overpower but to endure and receive the brunt of the initial assault.

Still, the fact that they were defending their city and their family meant that if the Oizenian thought they would find easy targets, then they were about to be proved wrong, as it was not simple praise when Asag had called them lions.

Still the attackers pressed harder, as much as their numbers allowed . Step by step, they gained ground, hacking and stabbing, driving their swords over and under shields, using sheer numbers to overwhelm the thin line. A young defender took a blade to the gut, his eyes widening in shock as he crumpled to the ground. His killer barely had time to wrench his weapon free before another defender pierced his throat with a spear

However, it was not a case that the first line was made of the city’s enlisted citizens,of the weakest part of the defense as the true backbone of the city’s defense were instead getting ready to make their presence known.

As then—from the flanks—came the one and true hammer blow.