Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king
Chapter 655: Inauguration(3)

Chapter 655: Inauguration(3)

The troops erupted as the first stones fell.

Cheers tore through the ranks, raw and triumphant, swelling louder than any horn. After weeks of drills, boredom, and hauling timber under the blistering sun, it felt like being let loose from a cage.

"How do you like that, you rats!" someone bellowed from the frontline, arms raised high in exultation as a roars of fears curled upward from the city.

"You like the view up there?! Wait till the next one’s in your bedroom!" another shouted, laughter cracking out around him like thunder.

The men lined the edges of the forward positions—infantry, archers, even some of the mounted units—watching the arcs of the stones with wide eyes and open mouths, as if they were spectators at an amphitheater. Except this show didn’t need actors or costumes.

Some clapped when a stone vanished behind the outer rooftops, only to be followed by the booming crash of its landing—like some great beast smashing through a forest of buildings.

"That’s for two years ago!" a decurio barked from behind a row of footman, pumping his fist.

"Got plenty more for you bastards!" another added with a sneer, his voice half-lost in the roar of a fresh volley.

From behind the lines, one of the artillery engineers—his face blackened with soot —threw his arms wide and shouted like a carnival barker, "Come one, come all, next show in two minutes! Get your front row seats!"

Even the prince’s standard fluttered higher on its pole, caught by a fresh gust of wind, as though it too fed on the frenzy.

For the soldiers, it wasn’t just bombardment. It was justice, payback, and entertainment wrapped into one. The sight of massive stones flying through the sky—those impossible arcs, graceful and slow—held a strange beauty. It made their hearts beat faster. Gave them something to cheer for.

As the fire began to rise—thin at first, like wisps of smoke escaping a dying hearth, then thicker, fuller, leaping into the sky with wild abandon—the men on the field waited in a tense silence, eyes fixed on the city walls. The stones wrapped in oil-soaked linen and set alight had done their job.

The city was burning.

It didn’t take long for the reaction to ripple across the ramparts. Panic.

Figures scrambled along the battlements, some rushing toward the inner streets, others frozen in disbelief. The defenders’ silhouettes danced against the flickering orange that now painted the sky. From this distance, they were no longer soldiers—just ants scurrying on a sinking ship.

The laughter that broke from the ranks of the besiegers wasn’t cruel. It was triumphant, like a collective exhale of months of frustration and anticipation, finally bursting free into the open air.

War was no longer a waiting game. It had become spectacle. And victory—tangible.

"Well ain’t that a beauty," rumbled a voice like gravel rolling in a barrel.

The speaker was a mountain of a man, his massive frame encased in plate.

Egil, standing beside Jarza, gave a low whistle, the corner of his mouth curling in appreciation as he put a hand on Jarza’s shoulder.

"Shit," he said, letting the word hang in the air like incense, "that made all the waiting worth it." He leaned forward on his saddle, eyes flicking over the battlements where defenders scrambled like headless birds.

He turned to Shahab—old, solemn Shahab Filastin, wrapped in his embroidered cloak , seated stiffly on a horse behind the lines. His eyes hadn’t moved from the scene before him.

"Oi, old man," Egil called, raising an arm to wave him over. "Ain’t got nothing to say? Come on, you telling me that ain’t a beauty for the eyes? Look at ’em scatter!"

Shahab said nothing. He did not even blink. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon where smoke now curled and thickened above Herculia, the city once thought impregnable. The golden jewel of the Herculeians—now coughing black clouds into the sky.

Slowly, Shahab turned his head—not toward Egil, but to look behind him, where his grandson in law stood tall, his black armor shining like obsidian in the light of the inferno.

He still couldn’t believe it. Not entirely. That after all the planning, the endless bickering over rations and labor, the months of backbreaking construction and strict discipline, they were now at the doorstep of the impossible—a true shot at bringing down Herculia.

He didn’t need to say it. They all knew. If Herculia fell, the road to swallowing the entire princedom would open like a ripe fruit under a cleaver.

And none was more pleased than Alpheo himself.

The prince-consort stood with his arms crossed, a faint but satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes scanned the burning skyline with the calmness of a man watching a storm he had summoned unfold exactly as he’d intended.

He turned, glancing at the engineers manning the catapults behind him. One of them—a wiry young man with soot on his cheek and singed eyebrows, one of Pontu’s disciple —let out a jubilant whoop as his shot found its mark.

Alpheo allowed himself a short chuckle.

Perhaps the engineers do deserve a reward, he thought. I’ve worked them like mules... but damn if they didn’t drag the sun itself down on Herculia.

Then another cheer rose from the ranks—another volley launched.

And with every stone that soared into the sky, blazing like miniature suns, Alpheo’s grin widened.

This wasn’t just the start of a siege.

This was the curtain rising on the final act.

They had fifteen catapults in total—monstrous machines of wood and rope, groaning and thundering as they hurled devastation into the sky. Each shot was a scream of destruction, each landing stone a Chapter written in fire. Alpheo had spent months before this siege securing enough stone to make the bombardment not just possible, but sustainable.

For two full weeks, he could unleash ten volleys a day. Ten hammers from heaven, every day, for fourteen days. That was his opening argument.

And he intended to spend every single shot now.

He wanted the fires to catch. He wanted the flames to eat through the markets and homes and temples, to send black smoke curling into the hearts of every man, woman, and child sheltering inside those walls. Let them know that no god would save them. That resistance meant immolation.

He didn’t care if the entire city turned to ash.

As long as he could rule over whatever remained.

From beside him, Asag approached. He was less boisterous than Egil, more grounded, but also prone to second-guessing. He scratched the back of his head, glancing up at the latest fireball arcing into the city’s skyline.

"Hey, Alph..." he called, voice low, almost cautious. "Shouldn’t we be aiming at the walls instead? I mean, not that I give a rat’s ass if a few thousand townsfolk are roasted alive, but wouldn’t breaching the wall give us a clearer path to victory?"

Alpheo turned slowly, hands folded behind his back as if contemplating a painting rather than a warzone. His eyes didn’t meet Asag’s right away. Instead, he let his gaze linger on the inferno building in the city’s heart, where orange tongues of flame licked at the rooftops, and a new plume of smoke began to rise.

"There’s no reason to breach the wall," Alpheo said coolly, finally turning. "The entire purpose of everything we’ve built—the walls, the towers, the defenses, the discipline—was to avoid charging headlong into a fight we can’t win. This is a siege of attrition, not a glorious cavalry charge into open gates."

Asag frowned, unconvinced. "Still... they’re just walls. A few well-placed shots, maybe a sapped section or two—we could open a path, storm it with shock troops, take the city before the relief army even shows up."

Alpheo’s eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to command full attention.

"Think, Asag," he said. "Even if we brought down a section of the wall—which is not guaranteed, given the thickness and strength of their fortifications—we’d only be past one wall. They’ve got two. That alone turns the breach into a death trap."

"And what do you think waits for us after that first breach?" Alpheo continued, now pacing. "A courtyard full of roses? No. A second line of walls, better defended, with archers raining death from above while our men are trapped in a bottleneck of rubble. All while the defenders rally behind fresh lines."

He paused and pointed toward the distant battlements where the defenders were now visibly reacting—fire buckets, screams, smoke-covered silhouettes moving with rising urgency.

"We have 2,500 troops," Alpheo said. "Of those, about 1,900 are fit and ready for the frontline siege combat. The rest are riders. We don’t know exactly how many defenders they have, but it’s safe to say over a thousand—and they’ll be fighting from strongholds we can’t match."

Asag looked away, eyes tracking another flaming projectile soaring through the sky.

"If we throw ourselves at the walls," Alpheo said, his voice now razor-sharp, "and we fail to capture both walls—we won’t get a second chance. And what about the relief army which is surely soon to come? Did you consider that?

Then won’t just be overextended, we’ll be trapped between an anvil and a hammer. A pincer attack from within and out. They’ll drive us back or bury us in the mud."

He leaned in, eyes locked on Asag.

"We don’t need to win through force. We need to make them stop believing they can win. And nothing kills hope faster than fire."

Asag sighed, finally nodding. "Alright... alright, you make your point. Still, I’d like to crack open at least one part of that damn wall. Just for the satisfaction."

Alpheo gave a rare grin. "You’ll get your crack. But for now, let’s watch the smoke and screams. That’s the sound of a state crumbling."

And behind them, the catapults roared again, like drums announcing the doom of times.