Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Arnold raised his shield just in time to hear the whistle of an arrow cutting the air above his helmet. His arm tensed under the familiar strain as the shaft thudded uselessly somewhere behind him.

The bait assault had begun only minutes earlier, four hundred footmen under his and Thalien's shared command now throwing themselves against the city walls in a desperate storm of steel, torchlight, and war cries.

The men didn't know the full truth, of course.

They hadn't been told that this attack was but a calculated feint, designed to draw attention while another force crept toward a different fate. To them, this was the long-awaited battle, the first surge after three days of tense, brittle calm.

For a moment, as no new missiles screamed toward him, Arnold dared to lower his shield and glance around the dark chaos.

It was hard to see clearly, and the only real beacons that shooed away the darkness were the torches gripped by soldiers or burning near shattered ladders. Still, he forced himself to piece together the shape of the engagement from the little visual information he had at his disposal.

The assault was underway in full. His troops had already set their ladders and were climbing as maniacally as they could. While the defenders above of course did the same, trying to put them down as maniacally as they could.

Hurling rocks, arrows and thrusting down with spears at the upcoming soldier, but the attackers were not as vulnerable as one might expect.

The fact that they reinforced the ladders with planks at the side had helped. Now, only the front ranks bore the brunt of enemy fire, and the men behind them could at least ascend with their heads shielded.

The narrow ladders meant they advanced in tight columns, their round shields raised above like a moving roof, enough to deflect smaller rocks and arrows, though not always enough to prevent broken arms or concussions when heavier debris landed.

But none of it meant the assault was going well.

From what he could tell, no breach had been made. The most they had accomplished were tenuous footholds at the tops of ladders, where steel clashed against steel in violent stalemates, each side fighting for that last rung or step.

He turned away from the walls. That scene would not change soon, and staring at it wouldn't hasten progress.

Instead, his gaze found Thalien.

His brother was cutting quite the figure across the night, horse hooves thudding through dirt and blood, banner raised high as he rode along the front lines, shouting words of fire to rally their soldiers.

It could have been mistaken as an act of courage if it were not one of reckleness instead.

Arnold's first instinct had been to shout at him. It was lunacy to ride so openly, waving a sigil like a signal flare for the archers on the wall. And yet... somehow, no arrow had struck him. No projectile had found his steed. Not yet.

But as Arnold watched, his concern shifted from tactical to personal.

Their conversation hours earlier came flooding back, the things Thalien had confessed. Arnold had not understood before. He had not seen the depths their father had carved into his younger brother's soul.

Now, as he watched Thalien ride headlong through death without a shred of hesitation, he understood far too well.

His brother was not well in his head. And it was his fault too, not just that of his father.

Arnold lowered his head slightly and offered a silent prayer, not for victory, but for his brother's life... and perhaps for his peace, too. Shame bloomed in him.

Then he turned to the rear, toward the towering shape that now loomed just dozens of meters away.

The siege tower.

It creaked and groaned as it rolled across the churned earth, pulled by strong arms.

Its monstrous frame creaked ever forward, looming higher with each lurching step across the battlefield. Now within striking distance of the city's defenses, the siege tower drew the full attention of the defenders atop the walls, eyes narrowing, bows raising, voices shouting. They all saw it clearly: this was the true threat.

Missiles rained down upon it in a steady storm, but the tower held firm, its armored shell protecting those inside. A good part of soldier on the ramparts had shifted their focus to it, mostly abandoning the baited assault lines for the looming giant that promised a breach.

It was working.

Of course, they were no closer to making a breakthrough than a horse running through a forest.

But in terms of strategy, the first phase of the mission had succeeded. The chaos sown by the attack was already taking root. More men were being pulled from position, the defenders' coordination fraying under the pressure of two simultaneous threats.

And yet, as Arnold watched the siege tower roll closer through fire and shadow, he couldn't help the quiet voice in his mind that whispered what if?

What if the they did more than just distract?

What if, through sheer grit, they did take a portion of the wall?

Still he kept his hope realistic, which of course means, extremely low.

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

On the farthest edge of the battlefield, hidden from sight and far from the chaos that consumed the main assault, another part of the plan was unfolding. And, to what would have been Alpheo's surprise if he had been there to see it , was progressing better than he had dared to hope.

The soldiers climbing the cliffside, where a single misstep meant certain death, advanced rather steadily . Of the original 195 volunteers from the Fourth, Alpheo had chosen 70 of their finest. To that he added another 40, handpicked from the other legions. Every man here knew the risk. Every man had stepped forward regardless.

The ascent was brutal.

The incline sloped toward the city, making the climb technically possible, but far from safe. Sharp stone offered only the faintest promise of footholds, and the dark, moonless night left little room for hesitation.

Alpheo had done everything in his power to prepare them.

Each soldier was equipped with spiked gauntlets and boots to dig into the rock, small pouches of ash to dry their grips, and torches mounted on specially-modified helms bright enough to guide their steps. Most importantly, they carried ropes.

The strategy was simple, but execution would demand perfection.

Not every man was expected to scale the cliff alone. That would have been madness, too slow, too dangerous, too exposed.

Instead, the first wave was to reach the top, anchor their ropes to anything solid—trees, stone fixtures, even the iron studs if it needed to be , and drop them for those below. A chain of ascent, quick and coordinated, was the key. With every rope thrown down, more would rise.

Still , the climb was grueling.

Even with every advantage Alpheo had secured for them there was no easy way to ascend a cliff face in the dark with the sea snarling at the rocks below. The stone was hard to grip in places, slick with moss , and it gave little forgiveness to tired hands or unsteady footing.

A few of the men faltered. Their grips betrayed them.

One misplaced hand, one crumbling foothold, and they slipped.

They however fell without a sound.

Their bodies slammed against the face of the cliff before vanishing into the dark surf below. No screams. Not a single cry for help. Only the dull, distant sound of bone meeting stone, and the ceaseless rhythm of the waves swallowing what was left, which sometimes was not even heard with the waves breaking upon the shores.

Discipline apparently ran deeper than fear.

They knew that if you were to fall, you were to do so in silence. The success of the plan relied on stealth, and not a single one of them wanted to bear the infamy of being the one at fault for the assault.

They as such found their honor in their death.

The casualties dripped slowly at first, one here, another there. Hands missing the stone, boots slipping despite their spikes, men tumbling into the abyss as the cliff claimed its price.

But the rest climbed on.

Eventually, a muffled grunt announced the first man reaching the top. He didn't celebrate. There was no time. Instead, he dropped to his knees, glancing around for anything he could use.

More and more people edged to the top, and they too started looking around for things to knot their ropes around.

One found a pair of large stones and wedged his rope to one of them. A few had brought small iron poles; they hammered them into the soil then bound their ropes with tight knots and cast them down the cliffside.

The ropes fell like lifelines into the abyss, swinging faintly in the salt-heavy wind.

In the blackness of night, the cords were nearly invisible. Only those directly beneath could see the shifting motion against the starligh.

Then a hand caught one.

"Here!" the soldier whispered harshly"Here, I've got one, grab it!"

Another reached to him. Fingers found the line. Then another. And another.

Feet dug into the rock face, hands clenched around the rope, and slowly, one by one, the soldiers began to rise, swinging upward with their strength and faith that they could reach the top before a sentry above would look too closely into the void below.

Below them, the sea continued to crash. Above them, destiny waited in silence to see to which side the city would fall.

That night, much to their ignorance, would decide more than the simple fate of a single city.