Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 761

Chapter 761: In a pickle(3)

Marcus marched at the head of a silent army, three hundred freed slaves, gaunt and pale, their bodies little more than barely any meat attached to bone.

The clanking of iron rang out with every step, the unbroken shackles on their ankles scraping against the dirt.

The crisp air outside greeted them like an old friend long forgotten.

The sun, which most of them had only seen when going over the horizon , though now still low and fading, spilled over their faces, warming the grime-caked skin. And despite the soreness in their limbs, despite the hunger gnawing in their bellies, they stood straighter.

They breathed deeper.

They were out.

And soon they were to be free.

Marcus could barely believe it had worked. Even now, standing on the slope above the mine’s entrance, it still felt like a dream, one he hadn’t dared to entertain too seriously when they started.

They had moved like ghosts, carving their uprising through the mine section by section. Each time they reached a new tunnel, they would kill the overseers at the same time , and two slaves were then freed of their shackles.

The weapons and armor of fallen overseers were handed to them, and in turn, they joined the charade, posing as guards while more were liberated.

The mine’s zig-zagging construction, which had once made it feel like a tomb, had become their greatest ally. The bends in the tunnels had allowed for each takedown to happen in isolation. As the hours passed, their strength grew.

By the time they reached the last tunnel, every overseer had been slain. Every slave had joined the cause. And now they stood, three hundred strong, at the edge of the final battlefield.

Ahead of them loomed the castle.

It wasn’t a grand palace, never meant to be. The structure looming above the mine was a squat, utilitarian fortress.

Built less to repel armies and more to oversee labor, it held the garrison, the officers, the records, and just enough firepower to keep the region in line. It wasn’t a stronghold to defend against invasion, it was a clamp to hold the mine in place, an iron grip that made sure the ore flowed eastward into the Oizenian prince’s hands.

Still, of course, if someone wanted the mine, they would have to take the fortress too.

And that had always been the true objective of Marcus’s presence.

The prince’s orders hadn’t been about liberating slaves for virtue’s sake. It was to gain manpower for the takeover.

The original plan had been daring. Reckless, even. They were to sneak agents inside, then ignite the fortress from within, fires in the barracks, the storerooms, the towers, while a second force attacked from the outside in the chaos.

But Alator had been captured. Their cover compromised. Reinforcements would never come in time.

So now it was down to this, no coordinated strike, no reinforcements. Just sabotage.

Marcus stood still for a moment, watching the fortress as the sun began to drop behind the cliffs. From this distance, he could see guards pacing along the battlements, relaxed and unsuspecting.

No alarm had been raised as no messengers had fled the mine alive.

The outer gate was open, as it always was during shift changes. A few guards loitered outside, their spears held casually in one hand, their armor loosened to let the heat escape. They squinted at the approaching group, clearly confused but not alarmed. When the day’s labor ended, it was common for slaves to be marched back inside to the dungeon level of the castle.

But the sun was still up.

Their timing was off, and the guards noticed it.

Still, Marcus didn’t need to convince them for long, just enough to get within striking distance.

He kept his pace steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. Behind him, the long column of skeletal slaves shuffled along, their heads bowed. A few of his disguised men had already separated from the group and were closing the distance to the front, appearing like regular overseers who had broken ahead for conversation.

Marcus nodded subtly to them, then continued his pace forward.

The guards leaned up now, curiosity prickling at the edge of their attention.

“Oi,” one of them called out, shifting upright and resting both hands on his spear. “Sun’s still high. Work’s not over.What are you doing here? Something happened?”

Marcus exhaled heavily, wiped a hand across his brow, and made his voice gruff and weary. “Something bad,” he muttered, his tone grim. “Part of the mine collapsed.”

That got their attention.

“What?”

He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, jerking it lazily back toward the line of slaves. “Tunnel caved in. Few of the slaves were buried alive. No time to clear it without help, we come to ask for aid.”

The guards’ expressions shifted from confusion to disbelief. One took a half step forward, his eyes narrowing. Maybe he’d start asking real questions, why send the entire column back instead of a runner? Why have the slaves come back instead of toiling to free up the entrance? And above all why weren’t more overseers at the front?

The story had holes on each side, but it didn’t matter.

They didn’t get the time to ask them.

In a blur of motion, Marcus closed the final step. His hand shot to his belt and drew his dagger in one clean motion.

Swish

The blade sliced across the throat of the nearest guard in a single horizontal arc. Blood burst outward as the man clutched his neck, stumbling back, eyes wide in shock.

Before his body hit the ground, Marcus had already stepped into the second guard, driving his blade upward into the soft flesh beneath his jaw, angling deep toward the brain. A single wet gurgle escaped the man’s lips before he crumpled lifelessly.

The other three disguised men struck just as quickly. They converged on the remaining guards in a swift and deadly flurry, targeting exposed joints beneath the armor, plunging their blades into armpits, necks, and groins.

The skirmish was over in seconds.

All four guards lay in a growing pool of blood, the dust around them soaked crimson.

Marcus looked down at his blade, dripping in the dying light, then at the fortress gates ahead.

The moment the last guard collapsed in a heap of blood and armor, the tide broke loose.

The small army behind Marcus, ragged, emaciated, but no longer shackled, saw their signal. Most of them had already shed their chains, and the few who hadn’t had been positioned at the front only to keep up appearances so that they could get close enough.

Now, those very men tore free what remained, drawing the concealed weapons hidden beneath their rags.

A rumble rose from the crowd as they surged forward like a wave breaking against a crumbling cliff.

They flooded through the gate, 314 strong. Malnourished and hollow-eyed, but driven by fury, desperation, and the more importantly, surprise..

From the ramparts above, one of the soldiers finally realized the truth, or at least part of it, as it was now clear they were facing an uprising.

“Close the gate! It’s a revolt! Shut the gate now!” he bellowed, leaning over the parapet, voice cracking with panic.

But it was far too late.

The gatehouse had already fallen under Marcus’s control. The guards at the front lay dead. The doors would remain wide open, and through them poured the swarm.

A handful of defenders had managed to form a shaky line just beyond the entrance as they had tried to run in a bid to close the gate, but of course, they failed.

The slaves didn’t hesitate as they made the guards reap what they had sown.

Screaming with mad rage, they descended upon the defenders like a flood over a drowning shoreline. The soldiers raised shields, spears, and swords, but it wasn’t enough.

Quantity had a quality of its own, and there were simply too many.

The first line of slaves slammed into them with reckless abandon. A few fell immediately, cut down by better-trained hands and sharper steel, but more pressed in behind them, and more still wrapped around the flanks.

One soldier was knocked off balance as a pickaxe smashed into his leg, shattering bone. He screamed as three sets of hands dragged him down, stabbing him in the ribs and throat with knives and stolen short swords.

Another swung wildly, slashing at a pair of slaves before a dagger found the gap beneath his arm. He froze in mid-swing, choking as the blade pierced through his heart, and collapsed into the dust with blood pouring from his mouth.

Everywhere, it was chaos. Screams echoed off stone. Steel clanged against steel. Blood sprayed across the flagstones as the sheer pressure of bodies overwhelmed the defenders. Some tried to hold their line, but they were too few. The slaves outmaneuvered them, slipping past, striking from behind, stabbing at exposed backs and necks.

One soldier, seeing the day as lost, tried his luck with an escape, only to be caught by two gaunt men with miner’s hammers. They beat him down in a frenzy, again and again, until the helmet caved in and the ground beneath him was painted red.

And through it all, Marcus stood at the gate, his dagger still red with blood, watching as the plan unfolded better that he had hoped.

He didn’t have to lift another finger to aid them.

Or at least not yet as he had more important things to tend to.