Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 141: Starting the siege(2)
Chapter 141: Starting the siege(2)
A few hours had passed since the besieging army arrived, and the defenders of Confluendi—numbering only 400—watched anxiously from the city's battered walls. Out on the horizon, 700 soldiers toiled in disciplined silence, erecting an orderly camp as though they had all the time in the world. Even from their distant vantage point, the garrison could see that at least half of the enemy forces were not part of the labor, standing guard instead, ready to thwart any attempt at a sortie.
The garrison's own armaments were a sorry comparison—ill-maintained and rusted.As they had to scrap the barrel as the store-house was completely empty.
Many of the defenders bore nothing but a simple sword or a crude lance, and fewer still had shields.
Now, faced with the sight of a well-trained army, armed to the teeth with weapons gleaming like silver under the sunlight, they could see the stark difference between themselves and their enemy. The attackers looked more like an unstoppable war machine, where even the rank and file carried steel that seemed freshly forged. These were no ragged militia or conscripts—they were professional soldiers, drilled and battle-hardened.
One of the men on the wall, a young conscript with a few strands of a dark beard clinging to his chin, held up his own sword. The blade had spots of orange rust crawling up from the hilt, and the once-sharp edge had dulled from disuse. He stared at it for a long moment, then shifted his gaze back to the soldiers outside—disciplined, prepared, and menacing. His voice came out, low and trembling.
"How in the gods' names are we supposed to kill those?"
He wasn't addressing anyone in particular, but the desperation in his voice caught the attention of those nearby.
"I don't know," the older soldier replied, shaking his head. "Just pray to the gods for help. This is what we've been given… and if the gods see fit to send us to our graves with rusty steel, then curse them..."
There was a heavy silence as the soldiers mulled over his words. Some glanced again at the enemy camp, their hope sinking lower by the minute. They had been told they were fighting for their city, their homes, their families—but what could hope do against the cold, brutal reality staring them down from the horizon?
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The head of the garrison, Sir Thalys, stood atop the wall, his weathered eyes fixed on the horizon where the enemy camp was rapidly taking shape. He had heard the murmurs of his men, their whispered doubts and fearful questions, but he knew that letting those thoughts fester would only rot the heart of his already fragile defense.
"Who said that?" he bellowed, his voice harsh and commanding. The soldiers stiffened under his gaze. "I will have no cowards among my ranks! The next man I hear whispering such defeatist nonsense will be treated as an enemy spy and executed without mercy!"
The threat hung in the air, silencing the soldiers who had just moments before been muttering in despair. The garrison commander let his gaze sweep over them, daring anyone to defy him. When no one spoke, he continued with a sneer, his words sharp but hollow.
"Do you not see the wall between them and us? If they're foolish enough to try and storm this city, their bodies will fill the moat before they even reach the gate! And if they think to starve us out, winter will humble them before it humbles us!" He pounded his fist on the stone parapet for emphasis. "Have faith in yourselves, in your brothers beside you! By the end of this month, every man in that army will either flee back to his mother's skirts or wait for her in the depths of hell!"
His short, fiery speech did its job. The men visibly steadied themselves, their rattled nerves calming, if only for the moment. But the commander knew better than anyone that most of what he had just said was a lie, or at least a comforting exaggeration. He had seen armies like this before, well-equipped only in Romelia.
Anyone of those soldier had the equipment only sub-par to that of a king's guard, although he could see that few of them wore breastplates and steel armor above the chainmail. He knew that once a few of those enemy soldiers reached the walls, there would be little hope that his ragtag group of defenders could hold them off for long.
He sighed inwardly, his thoughts drifting back to the days of his youth when he had traveled far beyond these lands. Once, in the heart of the Rolmian Empire, he had stood as an observer, watching in awe as thousands of soldiers marched in perfect unison, each one equipped with armor and weapons fit for a king's guard. It had been a spectacle of sheer military might, a force that could break lesser men with their presence alone. And while the enemy before him now was fewer in number, they carried that same aura—an army of professionals.
For a fleeting moment, he entertained the idea of leading a sortie, of catching the enemy off guard while they were still entrenching themselves. But then, he glanced back at his own men—the dirty, ill-equipped soldiers who leaned on rusty spears and chipped swords, their eyes hollow with fatigue and fear.
No, a sortie would be suicide, he thought as reality slapped him in the face.
His men weren't soldiers in any real sense. They were peasants hastily armed and thrown onto these walls with the flimsiest of armor and rusting weapons. To send them out against that army would be sending lambs to slaughter.
The commander clenched his jaw, his fists tightening on the cold stone of the parapet.
He glanced back at the towering keep. Inside, his young lord and her mother sought refuge, awaiting whatever fate would come. He clenched his jaw,he had failed. He had sworn to serve them, to protect them with his life.The only thing now was to do his duty even in defeat, If it was here on these walls, that he was meant to die, so be it.
Thalys stood atop the weathered battlements, scanning the horizon when a sudden commotion drew his attention. A lone rider, clad in armor and bearing a banner of two black diagonaly stripes on a white field, gallopping toward the walls.That was the first time he saw such a banner, but he realized immediately that it was of the mercenary, mostly for the lack of any herald.
The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed through the cold air as the rider halted just beyond bow range.
The rider raised his voice, sharp and clear. "A parlay! The general of the royal army, Sir Alpheo request a parlay with the young lords's regent !"
Thalys narrowed his eyes, watching the rider with a cold, calculating gaze. He hesitated, his mind racing as he weighed the situation. Turning his head slightly, he glanced back at the distant keep, where the young lord and her mother waited, helpless behind stone walls.
Thalys stood tall on the battlements, eyes locked on the lone rider below, before suddenly shouting down with authority, "It will be the commander of the city who meets you! The regent will not risk her well-being by treating with kinslayers and liars!"
"The meeting will take place between the walls and your camp," the rider continued, his voice firm. "You are allowed to bring only five men."
After saying that the rider did not waid for a response but turned his horse and rode back toward the distant camp, the banner fluttering behind him like a shadow. Thalys inhaled deeply and turned to his close guards and choosing five.
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Minutes later, clad in his armor, Thalys led a small contingent through the gates. The air was thick with tension, the cold bite of impending conflict lacing every breath they took. His guards, five in total, followed closely behind him
Ahead, just beyond the no-man's land between the walls and the enemy camp, a simple wooden table had been set up, marking the meeting point.
As he approached the table, Thalys pulled the reins, slowing his horse. He dismounted smoothly, the cold ground crunching under his boots. His guards followed suit, dismounting with practiced ease.
Alpheo stood by the table, his armor catching the midday sun, casting sharp reflections across the field. With a faint smirk, he greeted the approaching commander.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet the man defending this city. Mayhaps in any other situation we could have shared a cup of wine," he said, his voice calm, almost mocking, as if this were a casual affair rather than a life-and-death standoff.
Thalys, however, did not respond. His eyes were fixed on Alpheo, the man responsible for the death of his lord and his young son. The hatred in his gaze was barely contained, but he kept his composure, hands clenched by his sides.
He glanced up, his eyes catching the bright afternoon sun. For a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to wonder if this would be the last time he saw the sun, the last time he breathed free air.
A small sigh escaped his lips.
Without warning, his hand shot to his belt, drawing his dagger in a flash of steel. In one swift, reckless motion, Thalys lunged forward. The dagger gleamed as he aimed it directly at Alpheo's throat.
If he was to die, then he would be choosing the way he would go.
