Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king -
Chapter 657: Changes(1)
Chapter 657: Changes(1)
This had been, by far, the second-worst week of Thalien’s life.
He walked slowly along the ramparts, armor clinking softly with each step, a hollow sound lost beneath the groans of wind and the distant, irregular sobbing that never quite seemed to stop anymore. Around him, the wall teemed with exhausted men—soldiers by name, but most too young, too old, or too green to deserve the title.
They leaned on spears or lay slumped against stone, eyes sunken, faces blackened with soot.
He had long lost count of how many times the city had caught fire.
If not for Herculia’s abundance of wells, they’d have already been dead—burnt or parched into husks. Yet, even the ample water could do little to stop the spread of flame when entire sections of the city ignited at once.
Buckets could only carry so much.
What had once been called a “peaceful” siege—if such a thing could ever be called peaceful—had mutated into something far crueler. The enemy, twisted devils that they were, had no intention of breaching the walls like a proper army.
No, they simply hurled fire over them. Again and again.
And what made it worse—what made Thalien grind his teeth every time he saw smoke rising—was that they could. The enemy’s catapults were put atop their wooden walls for range, their engineers too skilled, and the elevation too perfect. The defenders could do nothing but watch, as stone after screaming, burning stone soared through the sky, igniting roofs and tearing into lives.
There was no pattern, no mercy in it. The enemy launched ten volleys a day, but at random times, chosen at the whim of engineers like mad gods. Sometimes in the deep of night, Thalien would jolt awake not to alarms, but to the terrible chorus of screaming citizens and collapsing timbers. And if the fire caught wrong—if the wind turned spiteful—entire streets would vanish in smoke and flame.
He passed a group of archers crouched low behind the crenellations, their eyes hollow. They barely acknowledged him. Ahead, a man suddenly collapsed, crumpling to the stone with a broken sob. His weapon clattered beside him. Two of his comrades rushed to his side, but they could not lift him. He simply knelt there, shoulders heaving, fists beating at the stone.
Thalien slowed. One of the others looked up, face pale and wet with grief. “He just heard,” the soldier whispered hoarsely. “His parents… his house… nothing left but ash.”
Thalien said nothing as he turned around and went the other way.
All across the city, the same story was the same . Old folk huddled in public squares, too frightened to sleep in their homes, too weary to move. Rescue teams—little more than desperate neighbors with boards and hope—scrambled over smoking ruins to drag out those trapped inside.
More often than not, they pulled out only the dead.
And from the walls, Thalien could see it all. Herculia reduced to smoke and ruin. Once it had shone like polished silver beneath the sun. Now its beauty was masked by grime, smeared in soot, and painted with firelight.
I suppose this will be the end of this state, Thalien thought, his fingers curling tightly around the cold stone of the battlements as he gazed out at the distant shapes looming beyond the city walls.
The enemy’s siegeworks stretched out like a second, sinister wall—a jagged line of wood, earth, and cruel ingenuity. They had turned the landscape into a fortress of their own, hemming Herculia in not with steel, but with inevitability.
From up here, he could see it all: the palisades, the towers, the tents that dotted the horizon like the banners of a conquering host that knew its victory was only a matter of time.
Even if his father came… even if the full host of their realm thundered over the hills tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. It was too late.
He won’t break this, Thalien told himself with a bitter kind of calm. Even he must know that now.
There was no way through. Not with the walls the enemy had raised, not with the ground so well held. Even if the relief army arrived in the full strength they had two years ago , they would have to batter through prepared defenses, take losses under fire, then somehow coordinate with a sally from within. And that… that wasn’t just unlikely. It bordered on fantasy.
Lord Cretio had started preparing for that final, desperate sortie—the one where the garrison would throw open the gates and charge out to link up with the reinforcements. Thalien had seen the preparations: cutting down wood from hourses to make ladders,the only thing that they could make from inside a besieged city.
And even that plan, bold as it sounded, stood on shaky ground. Ladders, Thalien thought with disgust. Ladders against walls? It was a suicide pact wrapped in steel and shouted orders.
Worst of all—they couldn’t even get a message through.
If someone could slip past the siege and coordinate with his father’s army, maybe—maybe—they could time the assault just right. But to do that, they’d have to move unseen past not one, but two walls of fortifications. The inner wall of Herculia… and now the outer shell built by their enemies.
It was a sealed tomb.
He exhaled slowly, breath misting in the cold air.
So this is how it ends. Not with a final glorious clash of steel. Not with banners raised and horns blaring.
But with silence, ash, and slow surrender.
His eyes drifted across the ruined rooftops, the scorched remains of homes that had stood before he was born. Somewhere in those streets were people still digging out the living from the debris… and finding fewer every day.
He stood like that for a long moment, eyes locked on the horizon as the wind tugged at his cloak.
Then, almost involuntarily, a thought bloomed in the back of his mind.
Unless… unless I think of something.
He didn’t finish the thought. Not yet. He only let it linger, stubborn and sharp, like a splinter under the skin.
Because it’s either that…
He looked down at the city, at the crumbling walls, the dying fires, the people who had begun to pray more often than they ate.
…or I die here.
————————————–
Splash—Splash—
The cold water struck his face in steady rhythm, each splash followed by a dripping patter as it rolled down his cheeks and jaw, tracing paths along a face hardened by sun and time. His hands moved methodically, as if performing a sacred rite—cupping, splashing, rubbing.
Then came the cloth—fine cotton, slightly rough from repeated use—dragged across his brow, his eyes, the bridge of his nose, down to his neck, where he scrubbed with a silent vigor. He moved next to his arms, then his chest, before crouching down to cleanse his legs and feet, his fingers kneading the skin firmly, cleansing with purpose. Even his fingernails were inspected, the dirt beneath scraped out with a sliver of smooth, bleached bone.
There was no audience here, no crowd to impress. It was a personal ritual. In a world where a cold could rot the lungs of a man in days and dysentery could fell entire battalions, this was his armor.
The Peasant Prince was many things—schemer, commander, statesman—but above all, he was a through follower of hygiene. No part of his body was neglected. After each part was washed, he rinsed his hands anew before moving on to the next.
It wasn’t just for himself either. He had imposed a strict hygiene regimen across his army. The common soldiers weren’t expected to bathe daily—gods knew water and soap weren’t endless—but each man was required to wash his hands before every meal and to take at least one proper bath each week. Inspections were common, and punishments were rare since the soldiers themselves would not lose the opportunity to use the costly cour-soup, as they knew very well how much it costed, and they of course would not spit in the prince’s face by refusing to use it.
Soap had become as valuable as steel in his camp. The sheer volume needed to maintain even basic sanitation among nearly 3,000 men—including the non-fighting personnel—was staggering. If he hadn’t invested in soap-making workshops years ago, securing loyal craftsmen and steady lye supplies, the cost alone might have bankrupted his coffers.
But it was worth it.
In every siege I’ve led, he reflected, toweling his face dry, we’ve never once lost a man to plague or camp fever. Not one.
And now, as he stepped into the morning air—fresh and biting, laced with the distant scent of ash from the burning city—he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
The siege of Herculia, thus far, was proceeding exactly as planned. Better, even.
The encirclement was complete. The city, once a proud jewel of the princely state, now sat like a smoldering pit of coals, its defenders weary and crumbling under the psychological weight of fire, smoke, and screams. The stones launched by their mighty catapults had turned neighborhoods into pyres. With each passing day, the enemy’s spirit thinned like watered wine.
But most importantly, the most dangerous threat of all—a coordinated strike from the rear by a relief army—had been rendered powerless.
Alpheo turned his gaze toward the entrance of his tent, as if gazing at the outer walls his engineers had erected weeks ago. A second skin around his force.
And it meant that should the prince’s army from the east attempt to relieve the city, they would be the ones fighting uphill, against walls, against prepared positions.
We’ve reversed the trap,a besieging army defending like the besieged, Alpheo mused.
If the garrison tried to strike out in coordination with a relief force, they’d be met with volleys of arrows, burning dirt with water, and disciplined ranks. There would be no open plains for cavalry to maneuver except his, no ambushes sprung from the rear, excepts the one that he planned.
It was checkmate.
Just as Alpheo reached for the towel to dry his chest—broad, lean, the skin pink from cold water—the tent flap burst open with a rush of wind and dust.
Fwump—clang!
The iron rings along the canvas clattered as the heavy fabric was shoved aside, revealing the silhouette of Egil. His face, usually painted with the grin of a man who met life like a tavern brawl, was sweaty beneath his beard, and his chest rose and fell with the sharpness of a man who had run all the way from the far end of camp.
Alpheo did not flinch. He calmly finished wiping down his ribs before raising an eyebrow.
“Well?” he asked, unbothered, the towel still pressed against his side. “What’s shattered your lungs this early in the day?”
Egil’s eyes were still adjusting to the dim light inside the tent, but his voice came clear and urgent.
“The scouts,” he said, “they’ve seen them.”
Alpheo’s hand paused. “Seen what?”
“Herculians,” Egil said with a grin “Relief army. Northbound road. Not more than fifteen kilometers off. They’re coming.”
For a moment, the only sound in the tent was the faint dripping of water from the basin behind Alpheo.
Then the prince slowly lowered the towel, folding it neatly before setting it aside.
The time for hygiene was over, it was time for war.
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