Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 557: Last effort(2)

Two thousand three hundred soldiers stood outside beneath a star-pocked sky, their breath rising in pale puffs that vanished into the cold night air. The moon was absent—lost somewhere behind the clouds or perhaps hiding from what was to come—leaving the world in a pitch-dark hush that wrapped around steel and sinew alike.

Armor clinked softly as men shifted in place, half-awake, eyes wide and confused. Their weapons—spears, swords, axes, and bows—rose into the blackness, but without the moon to catch them, they gleamed not. It was a silence of iron. The kind that breathes down your neck just before something breaks.

They had been roused without warning, torn from thin rolls of hay or the ground, from their restless sleep by barking sergeants and captains with wild urgency in their voices. No answers, no speeches.

Only orders. Armor on. Weapons drawn. Stand in formation.

And so they stood, lined in ragged blocks outside the crude fortifications they themselves had helped erect in the prior weeks—those trenches, those stakes, those barricades meant to weather an attack they now understood would never come.

The realization came slowly, crawling across the host like a chill wind: we’re not defending anymore.

They looked behind them at the earthworks, the ramparts, the watch fires dying low. And then ahead—into the forested dark where the enemy camp lay, unaware and wine-soaked.

Whispers passed from line to line like wildfire through dry grass:

"We’re going out?"

"I thought we were dug in?"

"Gods, what the hell is going on?"

But above the murmurs and muffled confusion, there was a charge in the air—a current, crackling and unseen. Boots stamped into the frozen dirt. Leather straps were tightened. Blades were checked again and again

Lord Niketas sat tall upon his warhorse, a dark silhouette against the deeper dark, his fur-lined cloak stirring gently with the night wind. Though the cold gnawed at armor and bone alike, he looked unbothered—stone-faced, steady, his eyes fixed downhill where the trees whispered and the enemy slumbered

He turned his horse slightly, just enough to see the serried ranks behind him—men standing still in silence that was almost reverent. Then, with a voice hard as iron but not raised more than needed, he gave the order.

"March."

The sound of steel boots shifting echoed like distant thunder, dulled by the thick dirt. The soldiers obeyed without a word, without flair. No horns. No songs. Just movement. Quiet and grim.

Downhill they began to tread—slow, s—like a wave of shadows spilling across the slope. Spears leaned forward with the march, like the legs of a vast beast crawling through night. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

The bulk of the army was on foot, hard-bitten infantry whose breath fogged like ghosts in the air. Shield-men and archers slinging their bows across their backs. No cavalry thunder this time—less than fifty mounted knights alongside 40 squires on horse moved near the flanks, their hooves muffled and careful on the slope. The rest of their horsemen—two hundred strong—were ghosts themselves, scattered or stranded, lost somewhere far off. The last message had come a week ago. Since then, nothing. Not even crows.

Only the gods knew where they were now.

Lord Niketas squinted into the blackness ahead, his eyes straining to pierce the curtain of night, but it was like staring into ink. He couldn’t see the vanguard, couldn’t make out the men carrying the ladders, couldn’t even hear the clatter of iron over the silence of 2,300 soldiers trying to vanish into the dark.

He imagined them there, somewhere ahead—those few at the very front, hunched beneath the burden of the assault ladders they had managed to cobble together. Not enough by any sound doctrine—half a dozen at best, perhaps less. Normally, you’d never dream of launching an assault with so little. They hadn’t prepared for that, hadn’t planned on breaking a fortified royal encampment. Weeks ago, they had dug in for defense, not ambition.

But Robert’s voice still rang in Niketas’ skull. The camp is drunk. The prince believes the war already won.

If it was true—if—then those ladders wouldn’t need to be many. They just had to be first.

As they pressed forward, the slope grew steeper, and with it came a subtle urgency. Feet picked up pace, weapons rattled quietly against armor, breath came heavier.

Then something strange.

The torches.

Scattered around the enemy camp’s outer line—torches meant to give warning, to light the approach and blind attackers—now stood still, flickering soft and lonely in the dark.

Unattended.

Niketas narrowed his eyes further. No sentries passing by them. No silhouettes moving between the glow, perhapse the gods had truly smiled at them.

The first sound wasn’t the crash of steel—it was the wooden thunder of ladders being heaved against the camp walls.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The final battle did not start with a charge, a taunt, or a warcry, but with wood thumping against wood.

Crude and heavy, the few ladders they had groaned beneath the weight of armored soldiers scrambling up them. The silence shattered as the first enemy sentries atop the walls finally noticed what was happening. Confused at first—then terrified. One dropped his torch in panic. Another, wide-eyed, reached for his horn.

A sharp blast ripped through the air.

Then another.

And another.

The alarm was sounded.

The camp had awoken.

But it was too late.

Lord Niketas surged forward on horseback through the shadowed chaos behind the wall-line, raising his arm high, his voice low but cutting through the confusion like a whip:

"Forward! Take the gate! Open it from within!"

By then, the first wave of infantry had already crested the ladders and spilled onto the ramparts. The clash of steel rang sharp as they met the few guards there—groggy, disoriented, unarmored. One soldier tackled a sentry before he could even draw his blade, slamming him down and pushing him off the wall. Another drove a short spear clean through the ribs of a man mid-blow on the horn, silencing him forever.

Within moments and a few bodies, the attackers had control of the wall.

Torches along the rampart were seized and hurled down into the camp’s inner circle, lighting the chaos below. Shadows scrambled like rats as the first few rebel soldiers dropped rope and waved for those below.

The wall was theirs.

The gate—just moments away.

Steel screamed and blood spilled as the rebel troops overwhelmed the wall’s defenders , it was an easy job considering they had the numbers and the advantage of surprise. The few royal sentries—half-dressed, half-awake—stood little chance.

One tried to plead, swordless, only to be met with a spear through the gut. Another turned to flee along the ramparts but was hacked down mid-sprint, his scream echoing into the blackness.

The rebels showed no mercy."Not so high and mighty now, are you!?" one spat as he ran a blade through a sentry trying to crawl away.

"Tell your prince we do the feasting tonight!" jeered another, kicking a corpse from the parapet.

Ladders groaned as more soldiers flooded up and over. Others took ropes and dropped into the interior. The defenders at the wall were not just killed—they were dismantled, humiliated, made a mockery of by men who had long been on the back foot and now tasted blood.

Within minutes, they reached the inner gate mechanisms. A hard shove, a wooden groan, and then—

The gates yawned open.

And the night devoured the camp.

From the darkness outside, 2,300 rebels surged forward like a tide unleashed. Armor clattered, boots thundered, torches flared. The sound of their advance was a thousand-strong drumbeat of steel and vengeance.

Inside the camp, confusion reigned.

Royal soldiers stumbled from tents half-dressed, weapons forgotten, drunken minds slow to grasp the horror around them. One campfire was kicked into the air by stampeding boots, setting a tent ablaze. Another man ran, shrieking, straight into a rebel spear.

Cries of panic rippled through the camp.

"They’re inside!"

"We’re under attack!"

"The wall is lost—fall back! FALL BACK!"

But there was nowhere to fall.

The rebels poured in, line after line, their cries a mix of fury and triumph. The rout had begun. The camp that had once held so proud a host now drowned in chaos, the banners of the prince fluttering helplessly in the black wind, soon to be trampled underfoot.

Steel clashed with fleeing flesh, and the rebel soldiers—driven by weeks of hunger, hatred, and fear—gave no quarter. They hunted the panicked royals through the narrow camp paths, cutting down men who had scarcely opened their eyes, who still stank of wine and triumph.

"Run faster, pigs!" one rebel shouted as he drove a spear clean through a man’s back.’’choke on it!" growled another, hurling an axe after a retreating figure.

It was not a battle anymore. It was slaughter.

Men tripped over each other trying to escape, only to be carved down from behind. Some threw away their weapons, hands raised, only to be trampled under boots too eager to stop. The rebels shouted curses, crude jokes, and gleeful howls, letting the gory work carry them deeper into the prince’s camp.

Then came the light.

From the far end of the camp, beyond the tangle of tents and overturned benches, a sudden glow rose into the sky—firelight, flickering and violent. Thick plumes of smoke began to drift over the encampment, painting the air in haze and ash.

Some rebels paused, blinking against the light, their bloodied blades lowered in confusion.

"The hells is that?" one muttered."Someone’s found the wine stores early!" another laughed. "Saved a cask for the rest of us, I hope!"

Laughter rippled among them.

Someone must’ve set a few tents ablaze in their excitement, they thought. A reckless prank, a chaotic flourish to mark the end of the war. None questioned it too deeply. After all, the camp was theirs now.

But none of them had reached that far.

Not yet.

None had passed through to the rear third of the camp. If they had, they might’ve noticed something strange: the back gate was barred, completely blocked off with hastily piled carts, crates, and even snapped beams.

For if they had , it would have most certainly changed everything.

Because now, with the rear gate sealed shut and only one entrance open—the same one still crammed with fresh, eager rebels pushing in for glory and loot—the camp was no longer a battlefield. It was a bottle.

And someone had just lit the fuse, while the bugs inside feasted on the remnants of the wine still inside of it.