Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king -
Chapter 658: Smoky ends(1)
Chapter 658: Smoky ends(1)
"How long ago was this information received?" Alpheo asked, tightening the belt of his cloak over the simple tunic he had hastily thrown on, his chest still damp from the water he’d barely dried off. The morning chill bit at his skin, but urgency left no room for comfort.
Egil kept pace beside him, his heavy boots thudding over the packed dirt as they strode through the heart of the camp. Soldiers along their path snapped to salute, some straightening their posture , others still donning their armor, but Alpheo paid them no heed. His mind was already deep in calculation.
"Two hours ago," Egil answered, a touch breathless from his earlier dash.
Alpheo’s eyes flicked upward, narrowing at the pale stretch of dawn still creeping across the sky. The sun was only just beginning to climb over the horizon, casting a golden sheen on the dew-covered tents.
That meant only one thing.
Today, there will be battle.
Without slowing his stride, Alpheo gave his first order. "Send riders to every captain. Tell them to enact the positions we prepared. "
Egil grunted in approval, but then grinned. "Well, everyone except me, I assume?"
Alpheo smirked faintly. "Correct. You’re not standing in the wings forever, though."
Egil arched an eyebrow, waiting.
"You’ll be stationed inside the inner palisade with your riders," Alpheo said, his tone shifting to precise command. "When the signal is given—only when the signal is given—you’ll charge through the forward gate and strike their flanks. Sir Mereth will take the heavy knights to strike the opposite side at the same time."
Egil’s grin widened.
But Alpheo’s voice turned sharp and cold as steel. "If during the attack they rout and the city gate is open, do not enter. Under any circumstance."
That earned a frown. "Why?"
"Because we have no way of knowing how long the engagement will last," Alpheo replied, his gaze narrowing. "And if the defenders—God bless their desperation—see you storming in alone. They could slam the gates shut behind you, trapping you alone in the heart of the enemy’s den."
Alpheo stopped walking then, turning to face Egil squarely.
"I will not risk one of my finest men to speed up the fall of a city that’s already dying.They are set to fall one way or the other; no use risking one of my generals to hurry.’’
For a moment, Egil said nothing. Then, with a lazy smile, he nodded. "Nice to know you worry about me, Alph."
Yet Egil didn’t move to take his leave. He strolled beside Alpheo with the casual swagger of someone who had nowhere better to be.
Alpheo shot him a side glance. "Is there something else?"
"Actually, yeah." Egil scratched his beard. "Are we really going through with that part of your plan?"
Alpheo didn’t need clarification. His lips thinned. "Yes. It’s already in motion. If it works, it may break their spirits in hours. If not—we lose nothing. Why the sudden concern?"
Egil stuck a finger in his mouth, whistled, and withdrew it with a flick of his wrist. "The wind’s moving east. I’m just saying—if we light them up smoke could drift our way. Could spook the horses, they are really timid beasts, you know."
He gave Alpheo a sheepish look. "And... well... I like my horse. In my tribe, they were basically treated like clan members. Can’t let them choke on smoke."
Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, half sigh, half chuckle. "Then don’t ride into the smoke. Position yourself downwind. Adjust your line if you have to."
"Downwind, right," Egil said, nodding sagely. "Wind’s like an old woman, always changing her mind."
"That’s your problem to solve, not mine," Alpheo replied, already walking faster. "Now go. Deliver the orders. Take position. The next time I see you, I expect you to be covered in dust, not complaints."
"Right, right," Egil grinned, finally turning to head off. "Go get your armor on, then. I’ll try not to break the enemy before you’re ready."
"Good," Alpheo muttered as he pushed past another line of tents.
He ducked into the canvas of his private tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him.
Inside, his armor waited on its stand, glinting cold and quiet in the pale morning light.
Those bastards couldn’t have waited till midday, he thought bitterly, reaching for the leather straps. Now I’ll have to suit up in a rush.
He had wanted to bathe in peace—now instead came the storm.
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"What in the hell are they doing?" one of the men atop Herculia’s battered walls muttered, squinting into the morning light. His voice carried a note of suspicion, layered over fatigue. His helm sat loosely on his head, sweat-stained and sooted from weeks of fire-stopping.
Beside him, another soldier leaned forward over the parapet, peering into the no-man’s-land between the city and the enemy’s inner curtain of wooden fortifications. He raised a hand to shade his eyes, brow furrowed.
"They’re not forming up to attack," he said slowly. "They’ve no weapons... no armor either."
The two exchanged glances. Below them, the enemy’s walls stood tall, their siege engines sleeping for the moment—but before them, no soldiers marched, no ladders were raised. Only a handful—perhaps a few hundred—half-starved men in rags and dirt-covered tunics moved with frenzied purpose.
"They look like the laborers," the second soldier added, tone flat. "The ones that built the enemy walls. Farmers from the countrysides, probably."
"I’ve no pity," the first one spat. "They helped make the damn towers and platforms that’ve been raining fire on our homes. Built the ground we’re dying on."
Ahead of them, the scene played out strangely. The men ran in and out of the enemy gate, hauling bundles of wood, throwing them onto the dry plain between the walls. Each trip saw more added to the growing mound—timbers, brush, even pieces of broken carts. Then they would scramble back behind the palisade.
It looked... methodical.
Like ants working a carcass, except in this case, they were building the corpse.
"Should I take a shot?" an archer behind them asked. He had already strung his bow, arrow notched and resting lightly on the string. He narrowed one eye as he drew, gauging distance. "They’re easy targets."
"Don’t bother," the second soldier said, shaking his head. "Too scattered. They’re not threatening anyone—just carrying wood. It’s not like the Yarzat have a shortage of bodies to throw away,you kill one starved peasant , they will send two."
Still, the archer didn’t lower his weapon. He clicked his tongue, eyes flicking over the scene with a restless energy. "Feels wrong just watching them work while we stand here. Idle hands when they’re moving like bees. Makes the blood itch."
His fingers played with the fletching of the arrow, rolling it over and over, uncertain.
Then they saw it.
A lone figure—a scrawny man with a rag tied around his mouth and soot smeared across his arms—emerged from behind the gate. Unlike the others, he did not carry wood.
He carried fire.
A crude torch flickered in his hand, flames licking upward as he ran low, head down, toward the growing pile of dry lumber.
The archers on the wall noticed first.
"Wait—what the hell is he—"
The man reached the pile and flung the torch high with both arms, as though it were a spear.
It landed with a thud in the center of the heap.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then: whumpf.
Orange tongues leapt up, hungrily devouring the oil-soaked timber. A gust of wind caught the blaze, and within seconds, thick, acrid smoke billowed upward in a swirling tower, blackening the sky. The fire took hold like it had been waiting all morning for permission to be born.
"What the hell is the point of that?" one of the soldiers muttered, still squinting at the blaze now roaring in the field like a bonfire set loose. "They just burned their own damned lumber. What’s that going to do? Scare us into surrendering?"
A few others grumbled in agreement. The fire crackled, sending twisting columns of black smoke skyward, but it didn’t seem to serve any clear tactical purpose. There were no charges, no siege towers moving behind the haze, no soldiers advancing under cover.
"Maybe it’s to block our sight," a younger man suggested, scratching his head. "You know, so we can’t see what they’re doing behind the smoke?"
"But the wind isn’t even blowing toward us," a gruff archer pointed out, gesturing with his chin. "Look at it—it’s drifting sideways, east. The smoke’s curling away from the wall, not into our eyes."
As he spoke, another soldier spun to look farther down the battlements. His eyes widened. "Wait... that’s not the only one."
"What?"
"Look," he said, pointing. "Over there—smoke’s rising on the western side. And there—another one. Farther down. They’ve lit fires in multiple spots."
A murmur rose among the men. They shuffled along the parapets, scanning the horizon. Sure enough, columns of smoke were blooming from other sections of the no-man’s-land—low, wide pyres, all igniting almost simultaneously.
They could not understand what the enemy’s intentions were.
And how could they? As they did not know yet that the sight that was in front of their eyes was not the only perspective to look through.
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