Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

With the Rubicon already having been crossed, the crowd collided with the remaining soldiers like a wave crashing against a crumbling wall. Shouts and screams filled the air as desperation and rage overwhelmed whatever will to fight those few dozens of soldiers had, getting slaughtered where they stood.

An infantry-man raised his spear defensively, but a man armed with a dagger darted under it, driving the blade into the soldier’s unprotected thigh. The soldier stumbled with a cry, only to be set upon by two others who wrestled him to the ground, their daggers flashing mercilessly.

Nearby, another soldier swung his sword wildly, backing away as a woman with a wooden club studded with nails lunged at him. Her first strike glanced off his helmet, but the second found his shoulder, the nails biting through the chainmail. He screamed as she yanked the club free and swung again, this time connecting with his temple, sending him sprawling and dead.

One soldier turned to flee, but a boy, no older than sixteen, tackled him to the ground. The boy screamed incoherently as he drove his dagger repeatedly into the soldier’s side, each thrust more forceful than the last.

At the gate itself, a soldier frantically tried to hold his ground, parrying a blow from a club before stabbing forward with his sword. His blade struck home, but the press of bodies was too much. A dagger caught him under the arm, piercing his side, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath as more figures swarmed over him.

Blood splattered onto the cobblestones, and bodies of the defenders was smeared with dirt and gore. The remaining few who tried to fight were quickly overwhelmed, while most of those who fled were either caught or trampled underfoot by the surging crowd.

The cries of the dying mingled with the victorious roars of the refugees, their rage and hunger driving them to claim the gate.

Lucius gritted his teeth, gripping the heavy wooden bar locking the gate. With bloodied hands and aching arms, he heaved it upward. Sweat dripped down his face as he shouted over his shoulder, his voice hoarse but commanding.

”Give way! Make space, all of you!”

The refugees parted, forming a narrow path through the throng, their eyes wide as they realized what was happening. Some stumbled back, pressing themselves against the walls or clutching at their meager weapons.

With the bar finally lifted, Lucius shoved the gate open, the heavy doors creaking wide to reveal the forces of Alpheo waiting just beyond. Almost immediately, the thunder of hooves filled the air as 180 cavalry surged forward, their banners snapping in the wind and their armor gleaming under the morning sun.

The horses galloped through the gap created by the refugees, their riders maintaining tight formation, spears at the ready. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the cavalry passed, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing off the stone streets.

Lucius stepped aside, letting the torrent of horsemen rush past him, his chest rising and falling heavily as he shouted, finally throwing away the identity he had nurtured for the past weeks: ”For the prince!”

The cavalry spread out into the city, their disciplined ranks weaving through the narrow streets, ready to secure the key locations of the rebel stronghold. The sight of them seemed to spark something in the refugees—as many had friends and family defending the city, making them wonder if mercy would be shown to them or if it has been worth it to betray them all .

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The defenders on the wall were in disarray as the order came. Shouts carried from officers to soldiers: ”Fall back to the keep! Retreat to the keep!” Panic mixed with urgency as they abandoned their positions, clambering down stairs, some stumbling in their haste.

Once on the streets, they ran toward the central keep, their weapons clattering against armor or held tightly in white-knuckled grips. As they moved, their eyes darted nervously toward the outer gate. The sounds of chaos echoed from there—shouting, clashing metal, and the unmistakable roar of a crowd. The sight of refugees engaged in combat with their comrades at the gate stopped some in their tracks.

Before anyone could process what was happening, a deafening creak filled the air as the gate swung wide open. From the gap burst a flood of cavalry, their banners flying high and their horses pounding the ground with earth-shaking force.

”Cavalry! They’re inside!” someone shouted, the cry laced with terror.

’’Gods help us,’’ another cried out while looking at the sky.

The thundering wave of horsemen barreling through the streets gave the soldiers little choice. Panic overtook discipline as many dropped their weapons, scattering in all directions, desperately trying to avoid being trampled or skewered by the enemy riders.

Those who hesitated or tried to hold their ground were cut down or ridden over, their cries drowned out by the cacophony of hooves and battle cries. The cavalry surged deeper into the city, carving a path toward its heart, while the defenders who could still move fled toward the keep, their ranks shattered and their morale destroyed.

Lances lowered, their sharpened tips glinting in the sunlight. Soldiers attempting to raise their shields were too slow; the lances pierced through their armor with brutal force, impaling them and sending lifeless bodies sprawling into the dirt. Others screamed as the sheer impact of the charge knocked them backward, bones snapping under the weight of horse and rider.

The heavy cavalry, clad in gleaming steel, smashed through the lines with the force of an hammer.

Maces rose and fell, crushing helmets and skulls beneath their weight, blood spraying in crimson arcs. Axes swung , splitting skulls and cleaving into flesh and bone. One soldier, caught mid-turn, was struck by an axe to the side of his neck, the blow sending his head lolling unnaturally as his body crumpled to the ground.

The lighter cavalry, too weaved through the lines, their swords and maces flashing in the air. Blades slashed across throats and torsos, severing tendons and spilling blood onto the cobblestones. One soldier raised his spear to fend off an attacker but was swiftly cut down, the cavalryman’s sword slicing through his arm before driving into his chest. Another, desperately trying to flee, was struck from behind, the curved blade opening his back with a savage blow.

The narrow streets offered no escape; men were crushed against the cobblestones ground or trampled underfoot as the cavalry surged forward, relentless in their advance.

By the time the cavalry had passed, the streets were littered with broken bodies, crushed weapons, and pools of blood soaking into the earth, as the city was effectively conquered by the cavalry’s charge.

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Within the dim confines of the keep, Lord Vroghios paced, his face a mask of tension. From the high windows, the sounds of misery and chaos echoed up from the streets below: the dying screams of soldiers, the clatter of hooves against cobblestones, the frantic cries of those fleeing the relentless cavalry. He clenched his fists, knowing that his city had been lost.

In the main hall, the remnants of his forces trickled in, battered and bloodied, their numbers woefully few. Dozens of soldiers staggered into the keep, some dragging comrades too wounded to walk, others limping on broken legs or clutching torn arms. Their eyes were wide with fear, faces pale and streaked with grime and blood. These were the lucky ones—the survivors who had managed to escape the massacre in the streets.

Vroghios stood by the great doors of the keep, his bodyguards at his side, watching grimly as the ragged remnants of his army assembled. He waited, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping against the pommel of his sword. Every soldier was precious now, and he needed as many as could still fight. Inside the keep, barely fifty men remained to defend it, as most of his forces had been stationed on the walls. Those that had fled the carnage outside were his last hope of holding out.

The air in the keep was thick with tension and the stench of sweat and blood. Torches flickered, casting wavering shadows on the cold stone walls. The few soldiers who had reached safety huddled together, sharing hushed, fearful whispers as they glanced toward the doors as though expecting them to burst open at any moment.

”We should close it, my lord ” a guard urged from the door, panic clear in his voice.

”Not yet,” Vroghios barked, silencing him with a glare. His voice was firm, but his thoughts raced. I need every man. Every blade.

Some time passed before the deep, rhythmic pounding of hooves grew louder, reverberating through the stone walls of the keep. Vroghios froze, his sharp gaze darting toward the open gate. The sound was unmistakable—the enemy cavalry was closing in.

His heart sank seeing so little of his soldiers reaching the keep.He turned to the guards at the great doors. ”Close it!”

The guards didn’t need to be told twice. They surged forward, pushing the heavy doors with all their might. The wood groaned, hinges creaking as the massive gate swung inward. With a resounding thud, it slammed shut, sealing the keep along the fate of those that failed to reach it .

Bolts were slid into place, and iron bars dropped into their brackets, fortifying the entrance. The guards worked quickly, their faces taut with fear, their movements hurried. Relief was palpable as the sound of hooves hammering the ground echoed just beyond the walls, too close for comfort.

Yet as soon as the gates closed a common thought reached into the head of every man be it soldiers, knights, or the Lord himself .

They were all at their last foot