Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 506

Chapter 506: Shield of Aracina(4)
The eastern wall had become a slaughterhouse of iron and flesh, where the siege tower’s gaping maw disgorged an endless tide of killers onto the blood-slick stones. What began as a foothold now yawned wider with each passing heartbeat, the defenders’ line bending like a bowstring drawn too tight.

Steel shrieked against steel in a cacophony of war. The air hung thick with the copper stench of blood and the acrid bite of voided bowels. A veteran defender, his face a mask of grime and exhaustion, swung his notched sword with desperate strength. The blade skittered off an enemy shield—

—just as a halberd’s axe-head crunched through the attacker’s cervical vertebrae, sending a crimson arc painting the stones. Before the corpse hit the ground, another foe vaulted over it, his spearpoint finding the halberdier’s exposed armpit. The steel slid between ribs like a lover’s kiss, punching through lung and heart.

“Hold the fucking line!” The decurion’s roar was raw as flayed flesh, his voice fraying at the edges. His sword moved like a butcher’s cleaver, shearing through a spearman’s fingers before biting deep into a clavicle.

Nearby, a boy—barely old enough to shave—drove his spear through an invader’s abdomen. The man screamed, clawing at the shaft as he collapsed, dragging the weapon from the youth’s grip. Another attacker surged over the dying man, his sword rising—

—and falling in a silver blur that bit onto his shoulder.

The halberdiers most then all fought like cornered beasts, their polearms carving gruesome geometries through the press. One hooked a mercenary’s greave, yanking him into the path of a descending axe that split his skull like overripe fruit. Another shattered a shield with brutal efficiency, the follow-through spike punching through the eye-slit of the man behind it.

Yet no matter how many they killed , the enemy still they came.

For every corpse that tumbled from the walls, two more armored killers leaped from the siege tower’s belly. Their shieldwall advanced with mechanical precision, each step crushing fallen comrades beneath iron-shod boots.

A defender screamed as he was crushed against the merlons, his ribs snapping under the press before a dagger found his kidney. Another went over the edge silently, his body cartwheeling through the air to burst upon the stones below like a dropped melon.

Then came the enemy officer—a mountain of plate and malice, his sword-edge glittering with fresh carnage. He batted aside a desperate thrust, then smashed his pommel into a defender’s face. Nasal bones collapsed with a wet crunch. Before the man could stumble, the officer’s blade punched through his chest, the tip emerging bloody from his back. A vicious twist, a wet schlick as steel withdrew, and another life spilled onto the stones.

“The wall is ours!” The officer’s triumph cut through the din like a cleaver.

And like a dam cracking under floodwaters, the defenders’ line wavered.

Here, a spearman took half-step back, his eyes darting toward the inner city.

The enemy smelled blood.

Their advance became a stampede, shields slamming forward like a battering ram of flesh and iron. The defensive line bowed, buckled—

And in that hesitation, the enemy pressed harder, their hold expanding, spreading like rot upon the stone.

—————-

Asag’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he watched the western wall buckle under the weight of the assault. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack.

The rage inside him was a living thing, a caged beast thrashing against its ribs, howling for release.

Not at the messenger, no. The boy was just a vessel, his face pale as parchment, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he waited for orders that might mean salvation or slaughter.

Not at his men, who stood like battered statues along the wall, their armor dented, their eyes hollow with exhaustion, yet still gripping their weapons with hands that refused to tremble.

This fury was for himself.

For his failure, his self -loathing as men around him were dying in his name.

The western wall was breaking.

He could see it from here—the way the enemy’s shieldwall pressed forward like a tide of iron and flesh, the way his own warriors were being forced back step by bloody step. He had planned for this. Prepared for this. And still, it wasn’t enough.

I should have seen this coming.

I should have been better.

The messenger shifted, his armor clinking softly. The sound snapped Asag back to the present. The boy’s eyes were wide, pleading. Waiting.

Asag turned, his gaze sweeping over what remained of his reserves.

Twenty men.

That was all.

Most bore fresh bandages over wounds that still seeped crimson. Some leaned against the battlements, their chests heaving, their faces gray with pain and exhaustion. None were whole. None were fresh. But they were all he had left.

And yet—

Even a handful of blades in the right place might turn the tide.

His stomach twisted. This wasn’t a gamble. This was desperation.

“Ghalrim!”

His second-in-command turned sharply, his face a roadmap of old scars and fresh blood. The man had fought in more sieges than most of these boys had seen winters, and though his movements were slower now, his spine was still straight, his eyes still sharp. But even Ghalrim looked at him now with something like dread.

“Hold the gate,” Asag commanded, his voice like gravel. “If they breach here, fall back to the secondary barricades.”

Ghalrim’s brow furrowed. “And you?”

Asag didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His eyes locked onto a cluster of warriors along the wall—ten men hurling stones down at the enemy below. Their arms trembled with fatigue, their faces slick with sweat and grime, but they worked without complaint, because the alternative was death.

Asag strode toward them.

“You.” A single word, sharp as a blade being drawn. “With me.”

They hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before dropping their stones and falling into step behind him.

Ghalrim moved to block his path. “Commander—”

Steel whispered as Asag drew his sword. The blade caught the fading light, the edge gleaming crimson, as if already thirsty for more blood.

No more words.

No more hesitation.

Asag broke into a sprint toward the western wall, his boots pounding against the blood-slick stones. The warriors followed without question, their ragged breaths loud in his ears, their footsteps echoing his own.

They would have their answer written in enemy blood before this night was through

————–

Steel clashed against steel, the screams of the dying mixing with the roars of the living as the battle for the western wall raged on. The defenders fought like men possessed, sweat and blood staining their armor, their bodies aching from exhaustion, but they held the line.

Yet the enemy pressed harder. More men poured onto the wall from the siege tower, their numbers growing, their foothold widening.

A halberdier swung his weapon in a wide arc, catching an enemy soldier in the chest, the axe-head biting through chainmail like it was parchment. The man staggered, blood spraying from the wound, before he was shoved aside by another attacker eager to take his place.

“There’s no end to them!” one of the soldiers cried, his voice barely audible over the carnage.

Another man, a young enlisted soldier, had lost his nerve, his shield arm trembling as he backed away. Others were doing the same—the will to fight faltering.

Then, through the smoke and chaos, a banner rose.

A flag, clean despite the chaos of battle , unmistakable in its colors. The standard of their commander.

A halberdier, blood streaking his face, turned and saw it first.

His breath caught, then he bellowed, “Reinforcements! Reinforcements are coming!Thanks the gods”

Another one more interested in the banner instead shouted, ”The Lord! The Lord has come!”

The shout rippled through the ranks, desperate men lifting their heads to see the charging figures.

And at the head of them—Asag himself.

His sword drawn, his pace unbroken as he led the charge toward the western wall, the banner behind him snapping in the wind like a war cry given form, showing everyone where their commander was.

The sight was like a spark to dry kindling into fire.

Men who had been on the verge of breaking now stood firm. The enlisted, who had been seconds from retreat, gritted their teeth and stepped forward instead. The halberdiers, weary but unbowed, lifted their weapons with renewed strength.

The fight wasn’t over.

Their commander was here.

And with him, the will to hold the wall was reborn.

After all there was a difference between fighting under the orders of a commander and fighting alongside him.

For some, the former meant duty—a task to be completed, a command to be obeyed. But the latter? That was a test of honor, of pride. A man could follow an order and still find the strength to run when fear took hold of him. But when the one giving the orders stood beside him, when the man who commanded him bled and killed as he did, suddenly cowardice became unbearable.

And no one felt that pressure more than the Halberdiers of the White Army.

Among them, a commander was not just a voice barking orders from safety, but a leader bound to his corps, bound to his men. Their victories were his victories, their failures his shame. To fight beside him was to prove the worth of their corps, to ensure that neither their name nor their banner was stained with weakness.

And now, Asag was here.

Charging into the fray, his blade reflecting the firelight, his banner rising above the carnage like a promise of retribution.

A new energy surged through the defenders.

What had been a desperate attempt to hold turned into a wave of pure defiance. The men who had moments before doubted, hesitated, feared for their lives now felt only one thing—shame at the thought of failing before their lord.

The halberdiers were the first to answer the call.

They surged forward, their polearms swinging, axes biting into armor, spears thrusting into gaps between plates. A man tried to raise his shield, but a halberd hooked around his leg and yanked him off his feet, sending him crashing down into the throng below.

The enlisted, seeing the unyielding determination of their betters, found their own courage reignited.

“Push them back!” someone roared.

What had been a defense on the brink of collapse turned into an overwhelming counter-charge.

The attackers faltered.

They had been so close, so close to breaking through, to finally pushing the defenders off the wall. And yet, in the blink of an eye, their momentum was gone.

One moment they had the advantage, the next they were being swallowed by a roaring tide of steel and fury.

The only variable that changed, being the presence of one man