Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 509

Chapter 509: Catastrophe(1)
“In a siege, even the rats have their use.”

Jarza had told Asag those words the night before he departed for Aracina, a veteran’s wisdom given to a man about to learn the cruel language of siege warfare. It was a simple phrase, but one carved from experience, from battles fought behind crumbling walls and on blood-slicked stones, in his past as a mercenary.

It did not need to be said that every man, woman, and child of the city would have their part to play. War did not afford the luxury of bystanders.

The young would run with bundles of arrows strapped to their backs, darting through smoke-filled streets to resupply the defenders.

Women and the elderly, hands worn by time or untouched by battle, would haul stones to the walls, stack them beside the archers, or kneel by the wounded, pressing cloth to gaping wounds and whispering prayers no god would answer.

The city did not simply fight with its swords and spears; it fought with every heartbeat within its walls.

And yet, if one wished to witness the true cost of the battle, it was not the walls they needed to look upon. Not the bridges where men fought and fell, nor the gates battered by siege engines. No, the true toll of war lay in the great medical tents erected in the city square.

There, away from the clashing steel and the shouts of men, was another kind of battlefield.

The air reeked of sweat, blood, and the cloying bitterness of herbs crushed under frantic hands. Military surgeons—Alpheo’s finest, sent to aid the defense—worked tirelessly beneath the dim light of oil candles, their fingers slick with the warmth of another man’s life. They did not wield swords, but knives, saws, and needles, each tool a weapon against death itself.

Some patients would scream as wounds were extended for a surgery. Others lay silent, either too weak to cry out or already past the threshold where pain mattered.

It was said that warriors earned their place in the songs of the bards, but no song would ever be sung for the hands that stitched flesh back together, for the ones who held down writhing bodies so a blade could do its work, for the exhausted voices whispering, “Stay with me, just a little longer.” of people that did not want to die alone

And yet, without them, there would be no city left to defend.

It had to also be noted, that the medical staff of the White Army was considerably the best one out of their contemporary, made of course possible for the intervention of Alpheo, which shared some of the basic knowledge that he knew about the medical field.

Still the White Army was not composed solely of warriors and medics .As behind every soldier standing in the shield wall, every archer loosing an arrow, and every cavalryman charging into battle, there was an intricate network of non-combatants whose work ensured the army could march, fight, and survive.

Among them were cobblers, mending the boots of weary soldiers worn thin from endless marches; surgeons, tending to wounds both fresh and festering; cooks, stirring great pots of stew to feed the hungry masses; quartermasters, tirelessly managing supplies and provisions; and coach drivers, guiding wagons filled with the tools of war or food .

Fletchers worked ceaselessly, crafting arrows for the archers, ensuring that the sky would never be empty of death.

Blacksmiths, though unable to forge full suits of armor or fresh blades while on the move, could still coax fires hot enough to repair dented helmets, reforging weapons made dull and twisted by battle. Even the horses, the lifeblood of the cavalry and supply trains, had their own dedicated caretakers, ensuring their shoes were set firm and their strength maintained.

Unlike many other standing armies, the White Army contained no slaves—not out of any moral stance, but out of simple practicality.

Where other armies used enslaved men to carry food and equipment, Alpheo had instead chosen mules and donkeys. These beasts of burden, though requiring greater feed, could carry far more weight than a man, would never collapse from exhaustion in protest, and most importantly, posed no risk of turning their weapons upon their masters in a desperate bid for freedom, as had happened for some others, one of them even becoming a prince.

Another difference between the royal standing army and any others was Alpheo’s refusal to permit camp followers—particularly prostitutes.

Alpheo had deemed them a source of disorder, a distraction that corroded discipline and cohesion among the ranks. Beyond the moral concerns, their presence brought with them the shadow of disease and the potential for outbreaks that could cripple an entire campaign before a battle was even fought.

Hygiene was something Alpheo held in the highest regard, enforcing strict cleanliness measures that kept sickness at bay. In a world where death could come not just from an enemy’s blade, but from the filth and pestilence festering in poorly managed camps, the White Army stood apart—not just in discipline, but in the care it took to preserve the lives of its men.

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“Hold him down! Hold him down, damn it!” One of the medics shouted as a wounded soldier thrashed violently on the wooden table, his leg a mangled ruin from an axe blow. Two assistants struggled to keep him still, their hands slipping against the sweat and blood covering his body.

“He’s losing too much blood—nurse, more pressure on the wound!” Another surgeon snapped as he pressed a wad of clean cloth against a gaping hole in a man’s side. The soldier gasped in pain, his fingers digging into the edge of the cot as if he could squeeze the agony away.

“Stop screaming and bite down, you fool, or you’ll break your own damn jaw!” Agalasios the head medics of the surgen himself bellowed, forcing a leather strap between the teeth of a man about to have an arrowhead dug out of his shoulder.

“Boiling water! Now!” A woman’s voice cried as she rushed toward one of the great cauldrons, scooping up a ladle and pouring steaming water over a set of bloody instruments.

“This one’s not going to make it—move him off the table, we need space!” A medic grunted, already signaling for another patient to be brought in.

The screams of the wounded filled the tent like a terrible symphony, but the surgeons and nurses worked without pause. There was no time for pity, no time for hesitation.

. The wounded who could be saved were fought for, their bodies stitched, burned, and bandaged, while those beyond saving were given a sip of strong liquor and a prayer from a priest before being left to fade into silence.

The great city square, once a place of commerce and chatter, had been transformed into a sprawling field hospital.

At the heart of the chaos was Agalasios, the head of the military surgeons, a man whose hands had seen more suffering than most warriors.

He had been with Alpheo since the days of their mercenary campaigns, long before they fought under banners of white and black . His voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the cries of agony as he moved between the wounded, directing procedures, scolding apprentices, and barking orders to the women who worked tirelessly alongside him.

Massive cauldrons of boiling water sat at the center of the tent, steam rising in thick clouds as assistants carried buckets back and forth, ensuring that no tool touched a wound before being scrubbed and boiled. Dozens of bars of soap, an uncommon luxury nowdays, were stacked high, used to cleanse hands and instruments before and after every procedure. Water buckets were constantly refilled, for no wound was to be touched with dirty hands, no surgery attempted without ensuring that infection was beaten before it could begin.

Thirty trained military surgeons, personally sent by Alpheo to Asag, worked in shifts, their expertise a godsend amidst the carnage. They were not alone—dozens of women from the city had been gathered to assist them, their hands washing wounds, holding men still during painful procedures, and carrying bloodied rags to be burned outside. Together, they formed an assembly line of care, ensuring that no man was left untended, no wound ignored.

This was the difference Alpheo had made. In most armies, the wounded were left to fester, their survival dependent more on luck than care. But here, infection was an enemy just as deadly as steel, and it was fought with the same ruthless efficiency. Limbs were lost, men screamed, and the stench of blood and sweat was inescapable—but far more lived than in any other war camp.

Yet the shouts of pain and misery were the same as those of any other army.

A boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen. His arm trembling violently, with an arrow lodged deep into the flesh just above his elbow. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, and his wide eyes darted around the medical tent, seeking something—someone—that could make this nightmare disappear.

Agalasios exhaled through his nose, stepping forward to examine the wound. His experienced hands moved with certainty, fingers prodding the flesh around the entry point. The arrow hadn’t gone clean through, meaning it would have to be pushed forward rather than pulled out. A nuisance, but nothing he hadn’t seen before.

He turned his head slightly and called a name.

From the other side of the tent, a woman rushed over, her hands already stained with blood from another patient. As soon as she came into view, the boy’s eyes lit with recognition—she knew her.

“Please Marie, don’t let me die!” he whimpered, his voice shaking. His body squirmed as if trying to escape the inevitable.

The woman’s face softened, but before she could speak, Agalasios cut in firmly.

“You’re not dying, Mars. You’re lucky—an arrow in the arm is nothing compared to what I’ve seen today.”

The boy nodded frantically, but tears still welled up in his eyes. Agalasios ignored them.

Tears didn’t matter—getting that arrow out did.

Reaching for a pair of iron tongs, Agalasios grasped the wound’s edges and twisted the flesh apart to expose the embedded arrowhead. The meat inside gleamed wet and red, glistening under the torches’ light

The boy let out a sharp cry and tried to look down at his own mangled arm, but before he could, the woman placed a firm hand on his forehead and pushed him back down onto the cot.

“Stay put” Her voice was kind, but there was no room for argument.

Agalasios didn’t look up as he spoke. “You’re lucky,” he repeated. “Missed any major artery. You’ll be good as new in two months.”

The boy let out something between a laugh and a sob, his body shaking.

Agalasios turned to the woman. “We’re pushing it forward.”

She nodded, tightening her grip on the boy.

Without hesitation, Agalasios snapped the shaft with a sharp crack, tossing the broken wood aside. Then, using a specialized tool, he clamped onto the remaining part of the arrow, just above the embedded head. He inhaled. Then, in one swift motion—

He pushed.

The boy screamed—a sound raw and unfiltered, a sound of sheer agony that cut through the tent and made nearby patients shudder. His legs kicked, his free hand clawed at the cot, but the woman held him down, murmuring reassurances he couldn’t hear.

The arrowhead slid through the torn flesh, and then—pop—it was free.

Agalasios lifted it up, inspecting the metal piece carefully. No missing pieces. That was good. A broken tip left inside would fester, rot, and kill just as surely as a blade to the heart.

“You’re safe now,” he said, voice even.

The boy sobbed in relief.

Agalasios turned to the woman. “Sew him up. Douse it in alcohol, then bandage it tight.”

She nodded, already moving to obey.

The boy, exhausted but alive, smiled weakly. He was going to live.

And then—

Agalasios’ blood turned to ice.

His eyes widened as two men staggered into the tent, dragging a figure between them. His armor was still on, though it did little to hide the sheer amount of blood soaking through the right side of his torso and his left arm, which made him look as if he was holding a cap in his arms . He could see it dripping in heavy drops onto the floor, pooling at his feet.

Asag.

The Commander of the city’s defense.

His skin was pale, his lips slightly parted, and though his eyes were still open, they were unfocused, like a man who had seen something beyond the waking world .

He was half dead just from looks, yet Agalasios had no choice as the life at risk wasn’t Asag’s alone, but his too.