Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 558

Chapter 558: Last effort(3)
Lord Gregor brought down his axe with a thunderous grunt, the blade cleaving through collarbone and flesh as if the man were made of paper and meat alone. The soldier gave a short, gurgling scream before collapsing in a heap at his feet, blood spurting in sharp arcs against the dirt. The axe lodged for a moment, stuck in bone, and Gregor ripped it free with a wet crunch and a curse.

His warhorse reared beside him, black mane thrashing in the firelight, and slammed its hooves down with terrifying force—crushing the arms of another soldier who had scrambled too close. The man shrieked, his limbs snapping like dry twigs beneath the beast’s weight.

Gregor spat and urged the horse forward again, carving a brutal path through the chaos, his armor shining with blood that wasn’t his . His face was lit by the fires now rising behind the tents, but there was no fear in his eyes—only the savage joy of the fight.

Behind him, just out of the worst of it, stood Robert

He was not on the front, but neither was he hiding. His sword was not in its sheath, his breathing slow, measured. His wounds had not healed, his bandages still fresh and pulling taut with every movement. But his eyes… his eyes followed every movement, every retreating royal soldier, every flicker of the fire climbing higher.

Gregor didn’t question his distance.Not tonight.

He knew why they were here.And he knew who had brought them this chance.

If the battle had a name, it was carved into Robert’s suffering.If victory could be claimed, it had begun the moment Robert limped from the trees, half-dead, burning with the words that now set this camp alight.

So Lord Gregor, blood-drenched and roaring, let him be.Tonight, the old warrior had earned his silence.

Bit by bit, Gregor’s contingent carved its way toward the heart of the camp—the place where silk tents rose larger and grander, where banners fluttered heavier and poles stood taller. It was the circle where the lords resided, where generals kept maps rolled and wine uncorked. In every camp it was the same: the deeper the gold lining, the closer one stood to command.

It had to be said that even as enemy, Gregor was awed by the number of tents in the camp, as after all usually footmen slept on the open air, as only those with some economic capability could buy a tent, which was something not given to a levy when enlisted.

So the fact that there were so many tents was something that awed Gregor, as it meant that the crown had lots of money to spend.

For if they had the silver for the tents, then it wasn’t so impossible to believe the words that each member of the Black Stripes was equipped with breastplate, greave ,cuiss along with other pieces, which was usually an high-standard equipment that only a well-standing knight could employ.

Still he was leading a battle so he had no time to waste in such thought.

The clang of steel on steel rang through the alleys of canvas and rope, the rebel soldiers hacking through the remnants of disoriented defenders who stumbled from their beds, half-armored, some still chewing remnants of the prince’s feast. Blood splattered on half-eaten meat and spilled wine.

But with every yard gained, the formation thinned.

Not all of it was attrition.

One by one, twos and threes, soldiers peeled away from Gregor’s line. Drawn by cries, or the glint of treasure in overturned chests, or by the scent of roasted meat left still warm. In the chaos, discipline grew brittle, and temptation had a sharper pull than the orders of any lord.

One man ducked into a tent and didn’t come out.

Another veered left, looting the pockets of a dead soldiers.

Gregor noticed, of course. His jaw tightened with each deserter. But there was no time—no breath to chase strays. Not now. If he spent every moment calling them back, they’d be chewing on their own tongues by sunrise with the lords still safe behind the center line.

So he let them go. Deciding to have them hanged later.

Those who stayed close, stayed in the fight. And the fight still had meat on the bone.

A royal soldier tried to rally a defense near a wagon, his spear trembling in his hands. He barely barked a warning before a rebel drove a hammer into his chest, crumpling the chainmail like tin. As the man gasped and gurgled, the rebel kicked him over, laughing as he wrenched the spear free to toss it aside like broken kindling.

“Ain’t you a sight?” the mocked, circling him. “All that armor, and you couldn’t even get a fuck ‘fore dying?” The guardsman whimpered, until a second blow smashed his skull in “Here’s your last fucking drink!”

Not far off, two more royal soldiers tried to form a shield wall at the mouth of a narrow path between tents. They made it five steps before a rebel axeman hurled himself into them with a wordless roar, swinging wide and savage. The first man’s shield split clean through with the blow; the second stumbled back—only to be seized by two more rebels who yanked off his helmet and jammed a dagger into his throat.

A young page, no older than sixteen, tried to run—barefoot, still wearing his bedclothes, the hem stained with spilled wine. A rebel caught him easily, grabbed a fistful of the boy’s tunic, and jerked him off his feet.

The lad begged,

The rebel only grinned, crooked teeth flashing in the firelight.

He let the boy go only after driving the dagger into his back.

The boy dropped without a sound.

All across the center of the camp, the same story unfolded in grim variations. Royal soldiers fighting with trembling hands, some putting up fierce but desperate resistance, others throwing down their weapons only to be run through anyway.

Camp defenders rallied here and there, in desperate clumps with swords half-raised and shields gripped in panic. They were swatted aside like kindling. Most hadn’t even buckled their cuirasses, and many dropped their blades the moment they saw Gregor’s riders bearing down—hoping for mercy that did not come.

The rebels showed no quarter.

By all means the battle was going well and yet, Gregor had that roaring feeling that something was wrong. He could not understand the reason, as by all eyes they were winning, coming closer and closer to the centre of the tent.

He paused for just a moment, the pulse of battle thudding in his ears like war drums beaten too close.

And then he saw it—the flames.

At first, it didn’t raise alarm. Fires were common in night raids. More than a few generals considered it a preferred tactic—spread fire, spread fear, burn the edge of reason from the minds of men. Break morale, break formation, break the spine of an army.

But then Gregor’s brow furrowed.

The fire… was ahead. .And his company, his rebel vanguard, they were the tip of the spear. No one should have been ahead of them, at least not on their side….

A strange chill crept beneath his armor, licking at the sweat on his back.

He squinted into the smoky distance—but then a different sound reached his ears, cutting through the war-racket like a hot knife. Screams—not from the front.

From behind.

Gregor wheeled his warhorse around, his massive frame twisting in the saddle. What he saw at the camp entrance turned his veteran’s blood to ice.

The breach they’d fought so hard to create had become a slaughterhouse. His rebels – the brave men who’d followed him into the lion’s den – were now packed together like cattle, their faces contorted in primal fear. Some dropped weapons to claw at their comrades in desperate attempts to flee. Others shoved forward blindly, as if whatever pursued them from behind was worse than the steel awaiting them ahead.

They collided like waves in a storm, smashing into each other with curses and chaos.Steel clanged—but it wasn’t just the steel of conquest. It was panic.

The cries weren’t the hollow shouts of dying men—they were sharp, high, full of fear. Pure, animal terror. Gregor had heard it before.On ambushes.On routs.On nights when no gods were listening.

The firelight behind him flickered, casting strange, growing shadows.

Something was terribly wrong.

Gregor’s jaw tightened. He gripped his axe again.

What in all the hells was going on?He didn’t have an answer.

And yet he knew something was coming.

—————————————————————————-

Away from the din of slaughter, far from the blood-drenched chaos spilling through the broken gate, the true royal army waited—still as death, cloaked in night. No full moon graced the heavens that evening, no silver gleam betrayed the trap. Only black sky and darker earth stretched around them, hiding spears and silence in equal measure.

Upon a slight ridge veiled by trees and scrub, a small circle of commanders stood mounted and grim. Their armor, dulled to avoid the shine, whispered only when they moved. At their center stood Alpheo, face half-lit by a shaded lantern, his eyes fixed on the horizon—on the flickering glow rising from the camp below, and the mad silhouettes of rebels charging in like starving dogs at feast.

He exhaled, the air curling from his lips like smoke.”Look at them…” he murmured, voice low and almost amused.”They claw at the meat without ever seeing the blade hanging over the table.”

Beside him, Asag leaned on his saddle, the shadows cradling figure and hiding his scars. He tilted his head slightly, watching the unfolding chaos.

“My worries seem a bit foolish now,” Alpheo muttered, lips barely moving. ” But look—” he gestured toward the firelit camp, “it worked. Again. Third time by now.”

He ticked the names off on gloved fingers.

“Ormund, baited into an ambush like a child chasing a ball.

The ambush in the north , spoiled only by that drunkard turning his coat—ironically, the very reason this third one breathes fire now.”

Asag gave his prince a half-smile. “Even masterminds have their strokes of luck.”

“I overestimated them,” he said. “I thought they would smell the trap. But they galloped in like wedding guests at the wrong hall.”

Asag gave a short laugh. “Most of the time, it’s the other one delivering the failures. It feels strange being on the lucky end.”

Alpheo chuckled, soft and wicked. He glanced sideways, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his sword. “Isn’t it beautiful, though?” he said. “The panic will rise slow at first. A whisper in the ranks. Then a scream. Then the crush. And by the time they realize they’re boxed in—”

He made a tap motion to his neck. “—it’s already too late.”

Asag squinted toward the camp. “Should we attack now?”

“Not yet I want them deep. I want them drowning in victory. Looting tents. Stripping armor. Laughing. Relaxed.And of course with no way out ”

He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, a thin smile creeping across his face.”I want the whole head on the chopping block when the axe falls, not just a ear .”

Asag simply nodded, drawing a slow breath as a distant scream floated up the hill.

From the shadows behind them, a thousand and two hundred royal troops stood waiting, spears at rest, swords thirsty, eyes strained in the dark.

This traphad not been born in months of planning, but in mere hours, perhaps even less. It had been carved hastily out of necessity and sharpened in secret like a blade beneath the banquet table.

Alpheo had long harbored doubts that some of the lords who drank his wine were symphatizers to the others, and yet by know as all realised who the true victors would be , Alpheo still harbored those doubts . Thus, the trap had been forged with as few people knowing of it as possible.

Only a handful were told the truth. The rest were simply instructed to be armed and awake this night, no questions answered, only orders handed like stones in their mouths.

In a feudal army, that level of secrecy was akin to threading a needle while riding a galloping horse, after all you could not prepare a trap with a whole army without revealing it to everybody . But somehow, Alpheo had managed, it also of course helped that the majority of the preparation were to be done in his camp.

Still it worked and now it was time to tighten the snare.

Messengers had already bolted off to the other two royal camps, like sparks racing toward powder. Their orders were simple and deadly: March. Now. Meet us at the center. Bring everything.

From his vantage on the ridge, Alpheo turned his gaze toward the darkness, away from the embers of the battle, letting his imagination wander—just for a breath’s time. He imagined himself not as the prince with steel at his back and thousands under his name, but as one of the rebel soldiers—grimy, tired, perhaps still nursing stew from the day before. A soldier who, in his mind, thought the war might just be won.

Would he realize, Alpheo wondered, that the moment he stepped past that gate, the path behind him had closed? Would he feel it, in the marrow of his bones, that he’d stopped walking into a camp and begun walking into a grave?

He turned back to the camp, watching it roar with movement and flame, now more than half the rebel army had funneled inside, like ants on honey. He could almost hear their boots striking ground, their jokes and shouts, their steel striking out at pockets of resistance

Alpheo’s jaw tightened.

Enough had entered.

He turned to a nearby aide and said, in the cool, clipped voice of command,”Send words. Infantry forward , archers first lines send some volleys and then retreat . Close the noose ”

The messanger bowed and darted off like a stone from a sling.

And the prince watched as his unseen army, hidden behind trees and silence, began to stir like a stormcloud, ready to fall upon its prey and bring a proper end to this war.