Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The battle had shifted—no longer confined to the blood-slick stones of the wall, the fight now raged upon the siege bridge itself, that hated wooden pathway the enemy had paid for in rivers of blood. And leading the charge, like wrath given flesh, was Asag.

He was the first.

The first to break through the veil of hesitation. The first to plant his boot on enemy-held ground. The first face the invaders saw as death came screaming toward them.

His armor—once polished, now was red . Every dent told a story: here, an axe had glanced off his pauldron; there, a spearpoint had skittered across his breastplate. The sun caught the grooves and scratches, setting them ablaze, so that for one fleeting moment, he looked less like a man and more like some ancient war-god stepped from legend.

And behind him, the defenders surged.

This was no orderly advance. No tactical maneuver. This was something wilder, something older—the primal fury of wolves who’d finally been let off their chains. The halberdiers led the way, their polearms gleaming like the teeth of some great beast, their war cries raw and ragged. They followed Asag not because he commanded it, but because he led—because he bled where they bled, killed where they killed.

The enemy, so confident moments before, flinched.

Their hesitation lasted only a heartbeat—but in war, a heartbeat was all it took.

They were not just reclaiming ground.

They were making a statement.

The bridge belonged to them now.

The enemy hesitated, their footing unsure. They had expected to fight their way forward, not to be met with a counterattack that shattered their momentum. The sight of Asag alone had shaken them, but now, with an entire wave of defenders crashing toward them, their morale fractured.

Steel met steel in a deafening clash.

The aim of the confrontation was simple—take control of the bridge, hold it, and destroy the chain that kept it connected to the siege tower. If they could sever it, the bridge would collapse, cutting off the enemy’s entry point for good. The fight was no longer just about pushing them back—it was about making sure they never came again.

But between Asag’s men and that goal stood the enemy, still fighting with stubborn desperation, unwilling to let their foothold slip. Blades clashed, shields shattered, men grunted and screamed as steel bit through flesh. The bridge had become a butcher’s block, and neither side was willing to be the ones sacrificed upon it.

”You bastards are slowing down!” one of Asag’s men barked as he drove his sword through an attacker’s gut, his secondary weapon as the first he had lost down onto the ground, twisting the blade before yanking it free. ”What happened? Weren’t you so eager to jump onto our walls a moment ago?”

Another soldier, swinging a blood-slicked axe, laughed as he buried it into the shoulder of an enemy before booting the dying man off the bridge. ”Come on, you sons of whores! Thought you were here to take our city, not bleed all over our fucking floor!”

Asag, cutting down another man with a precise slash to the throat, saw the shift in the enemy. They had started this battle as the attackers, but now they were scrambling. The bridge, once meant to be their entryway into the city, was now the battlefield they were being forced to defend. The weight of that reversal showed in their eyes—in the way their blades wavered, in the way their bodies flinched with hesitation.

”Enough!” Asag roared, his voice cutting through the din. ”Halberdiers—cut the chain!”

The order was simple. The execution, less so.

The massive chain that anchored the bridge to the siege tower was thicker than a man’s wrist, its links forged to withstand battering rams and fire. To sever it, they needed time. Space. A moment’s respite in the slaughter.

And so Asag gave them one.

He rallied his men with a wordless bellow, and like a tide, they crashed forward. Shields slammed into bodies, sending enemies staggering. Swords rose and fell in brutal arcs, hewing through flesh and bone. Step by bloody step, they drove the invaders back, until at last—

—the chain lay bare.

The halberdiers went to work. Their axes rose and fell in perfect rhythm, each blow ringing out like a funeral bell. Sparks flew as steel bit into iron, the sound a screeching wail that set teeth on edge.

”Drive them off! Push them back! Throw them to the ground if you have to! The bridge must be ours!”

The defenders roared, their renewed purpose burning away any exhaustion in their limbs. Shields were raised, weapons were gripped tighter, and the push began. They surged forward like a wave crashing upon weakened stone, smashing through the remaining enemy ranks with the sheer force of desperation and rage.

One enemy tried to hold his ground, swinging wildly at a halberdier, but his blow was parried before the same man threw him off the bridge with the shaft of his halberd

Another tried to turn and run, realizing that the battle had turned against them—but he got only two steps before a spear ran him through from behind, his body falling limply to the side like a discarded doll.

In the end the charge was more than successful, nearly completely allowing the garrison to occupy the bridge; now it was time for the second part.

Asag planted his feet firmly at the base of the bridge, sword raised, shield braced. Behind him, the halberdiers worked furiously, their heavy weapons hacking at the thick iron chains that kept the bridge tethered to the siege tower. But they needed time—time Asag and his men had to buy with their blood.

”Hold!” Asag roared, his voice raw with command. ”No one gets past us!”

The defenders closed ranks at his call, forming a solid wall of shields and steel. They were the last line, the barrier between the enemy and their desperate bid for victory. The attackers saw this and knew—they had to break through, or their foothold would crumble.

And so they came, furious and desperate.

A soldier lunged at Asag with a spear, aiming low for his gut. Asag did not even twist his body, as it was effectively useless with his armor, but while that was true , arrogance would be his false friend, another spear aimed lower came hitting ;slashing across his inner thigh.

Pain flared, hot and sharp, but Asag gritted his teeth and retaliated, his sword cleaving through the man’s shoulder. Blood spattered onto his armor as the body collapsed at his feet.

Another came, wielding a sword, swinging with reckless aggression. Asag raised his shield, catching the blow, but the force rattled his bones. Before he could counter, another enemy struck from the side with an axe—which while still luckily failed in breaking through succeeded in cutting the wind of the commander.

Asag staggered from the blow , but only for a moment, slamming his shield forward to push one attacker back before thrusting his sword into the belly of the other.

He had to fight , he had to gain time

The more he fought, the more wounds he received.

Pain burned through him, each wound stealing more of his strength, but he refused to yield. He could not yield. The entire weight of the battle hung upon his presence. His men fought because he fought. If he stepped back, even for a moment, the momentum they had clawed back from the abyss would shatter.

A heavy axe came crashing down toward his head—he barely raised his shield in time. The impact sent a tremor through his arm, his shield splitting slightly at the edge.

’’Come on!” he snarled, his breath ragged. ”You want this city? You have got to take it first!”

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

He did not know how much time passed, as for the most part the sight ahead of him was always the same .

The enemy hurled themselves at the shield wall, slamming into it like waves against a cliffside, desperate to break through.

He could hear the strained grunts of his men, the clash of weapons, the wet, sickening sound of steel carving through flesh. The defenders held, but barely. He could feel it in their movements, see it in the way they braced just a little harder, how their arms trembled under the weight of each strike.

Asag’s breath came ragged, his body battered, his strength waning. But he could not fall.

Alpheo...

His mind drifted for just a moment, slipping past the blood and smoke. Where was he now? Was he sailing for him, racing to bring salvation? Or was he too caught in his own battle, struggling against another enemy, another siege, another hell?

A darker thought crept in.

What if he never arrived?

What if he died here, nameless among the slain, just another body in the sea of the fallen? The thought sent an unfamiliar chill through him, one that even the heat of battle could not banish. He had always accepted the possibility of death, had worn it like a second skin, but now, standing on the bridge with blood dripping from his armor, he felt something heavier settle over him.

His eyes dropped for a moment—just a flicker, barely a heartbeat. And that was when he saw it.

The wound at his side.

Blood.

A lot of it.

A deep gash, torn open from the axe strike he had barely deflected earlier. He had thought himself lucky, thought the steel had glanced away, but the blood seeping through his armor told another story.

He had been hit.

He touched the gash and winced from the pain. It was real he wasn’t dreaming.

Damn it....seems like this is the end of the road

His grip tightened on his sword, jaw clenched against the wave of exhaustion threatening to take hold. He had no time to bleed. No time to acknowledge the creeping weakness in his limbs.

Then—movement.

The glint of steel in the corner of his vision.

A sword, rising toward him, its edge glistening red.

In that instant, as death bore down upon him, his mind did not dwell on fear, nor regret. Not on the princedom he fought for, nor the men who looked to him for hope. Not even on the enemy before him.

Instead, a hollow thought filled him.

I never told him.

Never told Alpheo the truth of his scars. The ones that ran deeper than flesh, carved into him by hands long buried in the past.

He had never spoken of them, never laid them bare before the only man he had ever trusted.

And now, perhaps, he never would.

A cruel emptiness swallowed him whole, uncaring of his notions , for pain is the companion of man.