Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 909

Chapter 909: Battle of the sands(1)

“It’s still not too late to get out of here,” Kroll said, his tone heavy with the kind of concern only old friends could afford to show as he brought the water of the river to his lips. The man’s armor clinked softly as he adjusted his great helm under his arm while drinking. “We’ve a lot riding on this lame horse, you are aware, yes?” He said after the second gulp

Blake gave a quiet laugh, the kind that sounded more like an exhale of disbelief than mirth. “More than you know, friend.” He turned, catching Kroll’s eye through the early mist. “How many times are we going to have this same talk?It’s getting a bit ripetitive”

Kroll grunted. “As many times as it takes for you to listen at least once. Ten years I’ve followed that damn tail of yours through half the world’s madness. And this plan…” He shook his head, the steel plates of his gorget creaking softly. “No matter how clever it sounds, it doesn’t smell like something that came from you, does it?”

Blake’s smile curved like a knife. “It doesn’t.”

At that, Kroll sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I was wondering why the little mice weren’t nipping at my heels anymore. It’s good that he’s with you. That one was wasted back home.” He gave Blake a solid, friendly punch to the shoulder, light for him, though it nearly staggered the man.

“You’ll be the death of me someday.”

Blake chuckled, brushing the dust off his pauldron. “Is that what you should say to the man who gave you the seat of honor?”

The only answer was silence, then a low laugh echoing behind the older warrior’s back as he strode off toward his men.

The camp was stirring now, the faint clatter of arm the murmurs of soldiers trying to laugh off the dread crawling under their skin. Somewhere behind Blake, one of his crewmen muttered a curse under his breath.

Blake didn’t turn to watch the man go. The words of doubt, the grim predictions,they were already echoing through the camp like the tolls of a funeral bell.From any other eyes, this truly did look like a battle already lost.

They had no cavalry.No archers.And a quarter of the men standing behind him had been slaves barely a week ago,men who had once been cargo, not comrades.

Their armor was mismatched, their discipline questionable, and their numbers pitiful compared to the tide rolling toward them. Every sensible man would call it suicide.

But expectations were made to be broken.

And that was precisely what Blake intended to do.

He stood there for a long moment on that low ridge, the hot air coiling around his boots, his breath clouding before him like smoke. The wind carried the faint hum of a thousand drums, deep and rolling, shaking the ground like the heartbeat of some waking beast. The world burned faintly gold,the first touch of dawn spilling over the hills.

Out there, somewhere in that growing light, waited his crown… or his death.He could almost see them both riding toward him, two phantoms in the fog, one wreathed in laurel, the other in shadow. And both smiling.

But even Blake,reckless, bold, could feel the tremor in his chest when the enemy revealed themselves.

“By the Abyss…” someone muttered behind him.

“Gods help us,” another whispered.

“How many are there?”

“So this is where I die, uh?”

The fear spread through the line like cold water down a spine. Blake couldn’t even fault them for it. Even he, for one breath, forgot how to breathe.

Across the mist, the enemy host emerged like a moving continent, an endless tide of men, their standards rising above them like spears of color. The banners of the Azanian host rippled in the wind, yellow and gold like fire in motion. Ranks upon ranks, ordered and gleaming. Their armor caught the first rays of sunlight until it looked as though the very hills themselves were made of steel.

At their head, drums boomed, and horn-calls tore through the air like thunder.Behind that front rank, their first real terror moved,rows of archers, stretching as far as the eye could see. Black plumes of feathers crowned their helms, and already they were stepping forward in perfect rhythm, nocking arrows, drawing string to ear.

Still, Blake did not flinch.

He drew in a lungful of the freezing morning air and shouted, his voice cracking through the ranks like a whip:

“Come on, you pansies! Didn’t you want glory?”

He slammed the heads of his twin axes together, sparks bursting from the steel and flying above his helm like fireflies. “Then today’s your bloody chance! This is where our legend begins! Today, the dust itself shall drink its fill of blood!”

That at the very least gave some courage to the man.

For now the real trouble however where the soon-to-come enemy arrows, luckily Blake’s dear brother had found a solution for that.

“Bring the shields forward!” Blake roared as the man laughed.

One of Blake’s greatest disadvantages in this battle was obvious to anyone who had ever seen his army,he had no archers, no slingers, no way to answer a storm of arrows but with curses and raised shields. His men were ship-raiders, not soldiers of formation. They were killers of decks and docks, men used to cutting throats up close, not loosing arrows across a field.

On any other day, that would have doomed them.Luckily, they had found the answer to that problem: making sure the enemy couldn’t shoot at all.

And there was where the whining and crying shields would play their part.

Long trembling line of chained figures, women, children, the old and the broken, all driven from the captured city and staked before his army were all that stood between the enemy arrows and them. They were bound together by rope, their pale rags fluttering in the wind. Some sobbed, others prayed.

Their cries rose and fell with the cold breeze.

“Mercy! Please—””Don’t let them—” “My son are you there? Do not shoot!””

The wind carried their voices across the field like the wails of ghosts.

Of course, there had been one problem with the plan.

A quarter of Blake’s first line was Azanian,slaves taken from the city, promised their freedom if they fought. Putting their kin among the “crying shields” would’ve been madness and a recipe for mutiny. So they picked differently.

From the pens, they dragged out the ones no man would ransom,the weak, the old, the broken. Those whose bodies bent under the years or whose spirits had already snapped. They were paraded before the camp of slaves and asked who would fight to save him or her.

Whoever rose, was given weapon and the shield and the cargo would be demoted to simply a pig, kept in a cage to be killed if the battle was lost.

The unwanted were fastened to the stakes and lashed together in front of the ranks, a forest of shaking bodies between Blake’s men and the enemy line.

And against all odds….it worked.

No arrows darkened the sky and made mince meat of them.

The plan was working better than they’d dared hope. The enemy archers, seeing the women and graybeards in the front, hesitated. Their bows hung half-raised, strings whining in the wind.

“Come on then!” one pirate shouted, smacking his breastplate. “Let’s see if you’ve the stomach to shoot your own old folk!”

”I am sure you can hit us , come on!” another shouted raising his hands to the sky as if he could call their attention.

Another shoved one of the slaves to his knees and kicked him in the ribs. “Half-dead already, eh? Save your arrows, lads, he’ll croak on his own!”

Their laughter rippled down the line, and even though the two army spoke different language that did not allow for the meaning to be lost.

But all the laughter they had ended the moment the archers began to move.

At first, just a shuffle,a few banners swaying, ranks parting. Then came the sound. A low, rhythmic pounding that rolled through the mist, shaking the very air.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“What in the pits is that?” someone murmured.

Through the dust, something vast stirred. The enemy archers split apart, and through the gap came shadows tall as towers, crowned with spikes and steel.

The dust tore away, revealing the Sultan’s tanks.

Not the trade beasts of dusty roads, but great, towering brutes draped in lamellar armor, eyes veiled with red silk to hide the front lines, mouths foaming as the mahouts urged them on. Long spears and curved scimitars gleamed at their sides; banners of gold and black trailed behind like tattered suns.

All knew of the sultan’s beast,and all feared their arrival.

The earth trembled under their charge, each step pounding like the heart of some enormous god announcing their life drum to the whole world.

“By the Abyss…” a pirate whispered, voice small against the thunder of hooves and the roaring war-cries of the riders.

And with him, thousands more feared.