Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king
Chapter 654: Inauguration(2)

Chapter 654: Inauguration(2)

"ON THE WALL! MOVE IT, DAMN YOU!"

The knight’s roar cut through the air like a whip, his sword raised high as he swung it in a wide arc to drive the point home. The steel glinted against the overcast sky, the blade slicing the air in a tight circle above his head.

"CAULDRONS! GET THOSE GODS-DAMNED CAULDRONS BOILING!" another voice bellowed, hoarse with panic .

"ARCHERS, TO THE PARAPETS! FETCH EVERY ARROW YOU CAN FIND—IF IT’S SHARP, IT FLIES!"

The courtyard erupted in a frenzy. Soldiers, sprinted in every direction, clattering into each other, curses flying faster than orders. Boots thundered over cobblestones slick with mud and piss. Barrels of pitch were rolled toward the wall, sloshing violently, while thin-faced children lugged armfuls of firewood toward the fires, already blazing under wide iron pots. The pungent stink of tar, smoke, and fear rose like a stormcloud.

Someone dropped a crate of arrows, and dozens spilled across the stone in a clattering mess.

"Pick them up! PICK THEM UP, YOU FUCKING DONKEY!" a red-faced captain screeched, slapping the back of the child’s head as he scrambled to gather them with trembling hands.

Above, on the battlements, the garrison surged into position like blood to a wound. Archers jostled for space, stringing their bows with shaking fingers, eyes darting over the horizon as if expecting the sky itself to fall. A pair of older veterans shouted at green recruits to stand firm, to breathe, to hold steady. But no one really listened.

And how could they? The silence—the blessed, aching silence that had hung over Herculia for a full month—was gone. Utterly gone.

In its place was a sound that no man welcomed: the sound of readiness without certainty. The kind that made your stomach tighten and your mouth go dry. The kind that whispered, today might be the day it all ends.

From the tower’s upper levels came the grinding clatter of winches as boiling dirt mixed with water was hoisted to murder-holes, while war drums thudded out of rhythm in the square below as someone tried—and failed—to beat order into the chaos.

Every man, every woman, every half-grown boy that could carry a weapon or pour scalding oil was being pushed into place. Spears clattered against shields.

And outside the gates?

They waited.

The enemy sat just out of bowshot, calm and coiled like a hunting cat. Their siege lines stood silent, neither charging nor retreating—just watching, as if waiting for the enemy to get all dandy and ready

The entire host of the invaders was in formation now—battering rams at the ready, ladders bristling like thorns on a monstrous beast. From every inch of Herculia’s battered walls, the grim machinery of war was visible, and with it came a choking sense of inevitability.

It was a sight that stole the breath from every defender’s lungs.

These were no mere soldiers. These were the wolves who had torn through their lands, the ones who had scattered their prince like leaves in the wind and set fire to towns once called home. The memories of ash-choked skies and screaming fields returned with vivid cruelty. It had taken mere months to turn their country from paradise to a cinder-choked husk—and now the beast had returned to finish what it started.

They knew what would follow if the enemy broke through: a year of famine, the scythe of rebellion swung by starving peasants, the slow rot of a princedom abandoned by its gods. And then silence. Just silence.

It had happened before, and who knew if it would again?

But as crushing as that dread was, it wasn’t the worst of it.

No—the true weight on their souls, the cold hand that gripped their hearts and squeezed, was the man leading that host. The man at the front.

They had heard the stories. All of them had. He was the general who had never lost a battle, the prince whose blade carved through armies like wheat before harvest.

Wherever he walked death followed, villages reduced to cinders.Nobles behaded and hanged and left for the birds. His enemies didn’t just lose; they were broken.

He didn’t need to scream threats from the walls or taunt them from his lines.

His presence alone was the signal: the reckoning has come.

And what hope did they have?

Of the 1,500 defenders inside Herculia’s crumbling walls, only a few hundred could call themselves warriors. The rest were townsfolk and militia—farmers who had fled after their homes at been burned, boys barely old enough to shave gripping clubs with nails hammered into them. Many had no mail, no helmets, not even boots fit for marching. Some wore nothing but padded jerkins and clenched their teeth as if anger could replace armor.

But anger wouldn’t stop what was coming. And everyone on those ramparts knew it.

Still, they stood. Because what else could they do?

They stared out at the enemy horde— shields locked, war cries ready to be unleashed—and they waited for the end. But it wasn’t death they feared the most.

It was him. That relentless, inhuman commander who seemed more demon than man. Who came not to conquer, but to punish. A specter of wrath sent from the bowels of hell to make them atone for sins they didn’t even remember committing.

And now he was here—at their gates.

Waiting. Watching.

And soon, he would knock at their door.

------------------

So this is to be my first battle, Thalien thought, his grip tightening on the heavy silk banner resting on his shoulder. The pole was almost as tall as he was, topped with a silver eagle spreading its wings against the morning sun.

He stood behind the main defensive lines, armor gleaming, polished to perfection—but already warm from the anxious heat rising from his body beneath the steel plates.

Though he knew he likely wouldn’t set foot into the fray unless disaster struck—unless the enemy truly poured over the walls—he could still smell it: the iron tang of oiled weapons, of burning pitch, of sweat clinging to mail. War had a scent, and now it filled his nostrils like incense before a sacrifice.

Unlike most of the trembling conscripts around him, Thalien didn’t feel true fear. His hands weren’t shaking. Not yet. Their defenses were solid—thick walls, enough men, boiling oil, arrow stockpiles high as a man’s chest. As long as they held, reinforcements would come. His father would come.

And then... then he’d get to see the look on his father’s face once he was done.

If I survive the day, that is.

He scanned the battlefield ahead pushing his way through the quivering troops, eyes narrowing. Strange, though. Why make all that noise only to just stand there? Another war horn blared, shrill and echoing, the fifth in less than half an hour. What are they doing? Trying to shake our nerves into dust?

A whole month of relative peace, and now this sudden storm of chaos—but no actual attack. No creeping siege towers under the cover of darkness. No clever assaults. Just blaring horns, clanking armor, and standing formations.

It makes no sense, Thalien thought, frowning beneath his visor. Especially not from him. Yarzat’s little fox is no brute. He’s clever. Cruel and clever.

"Volstoff!" Thalien called over his shoulder.

One of his father’s guards stepped forward.

"Yes, Your Grace?" he said, gaze flicking briefly toward the walls as he spoke.

"Do you see any siege towers?" Thalien asked, peering past the lines of ladders and battering rams. The enemy stood like statues beyond the reach of their arrows—far too still, far too quiet between those horns.

Volstoff squinted into the distance. "None that I can make out, sire. Just rams. Ladders, too. Plenty of them."

Thalien’s brow furrowed. "Isn’t that... odd? I mean, I’m no seasoned general, but aren’t towers essential for a proper assault on fortified walls like ours? Ladders and rams alone... those odds seem suicidal."

Volstoff hesitated before answering, shifting uneasily in his armor. "Yes, Your Grace. It’s not the tactic I would’ve chosen."

"And yet they haven’t moved an inch," Thalien murmured, eyes now narrowed to slits. "Shouldn’t they want to storm us quickly?The more time they waste , the closer the relief army will be"

"I don’t—"

"Wait," Thalien cut him off, stepping forward on instinct. He raised a hand to shade his eyes and leaned forward, scanning the enemy ranks more carefully. Something had just clicked.

"...They’re not looking at us," he said quietly.

"Sire?" Volstoff asked, confused.

Thalien didn’t respond right away. He was too focused now, heart starting to pick up its pace.

Many of the enemy soldiers were turned around, their heads craned toward their rear lines. Some were pointing even.

And suddenly, Thalien wished the horns had been the worst of it as the realization hadn’t even settled in Thalien’s mind before the sky screamed.

It began as a low, hollow hum—like the growl of something ancient being stirred from slumber. Then came the whoosh, a violent tearing of the air above him, like the heavens themselves were being ripped open.

Instinct overruled pride. He flinched, dropped to a knee, and threw his back against the rampart as something enormous shrieked past just meters over his head. The air cracked. A rush of displaced wind slapped across his face, dragging the banner from his hands. The banner he was holding clattered against stone, tumbling toward the stairs.

Another projectile roared by, a second aftershock of terror in the sky.

"Volstoff—?!" Thalien called out, his voice dry, almost cracking. He turned, looking to the side—where his guard had stood just seconds earlier—but the space was empty. No black-plated form. No voice answering back. Only the wind, and dust rising like smoke.

Behind him, the city screamed.

Not in panic—in pain. He didn’t have to look to know.

The unmistakable sound of masonry splintering, of wood bursting, of rooftops crumbling under the sheer weight of falling death. Windows shattered like glass raindrops. Screams—high, low, raw—rose into the sky in terrible harmony.

And beneath it all, the groan of Herculia itself. As if the city were alive. And now it knew it was dying.

Thalien’s fingers dug into the stone of the rampart. He pressed his back against it, hard enough that he could feel every imperfection in the carved stone through his armor. He didn’t dare raise his head—not yet.

But he could see them. Over the edge of the parapet, just barely, he caught sight of them: the stones.

Dozens of them, sailing high into the air like birds of doom, trailing smoke and shadow. They arced in perfect silence—then began their descent.

His blood ran cold.

He clenched his teeth as another tremor rippled through the stone beneath him, then another—closer now. The ground felt like it wanted to run from under his boots.

Thalien didn’t move. He couldn’t. His limbs felt like carved wood, every muscle locked in place. He hadn’t trained for battle.Hadn’t ever drilled in armor.Never studied siegecraft under any gray-haired men who spoke of "discipline" and "valor.", yet he feared nothing would have changed even as he had.

As none of them could ever teach him what to do when the sky fell.

As in that moment, staring upward at the dozens more stones blotting out the sun as they arched through the air inside the city , he finally understood.

They were undone.