Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 622: A new dawn(1)

Vhomo stood proudly at the crest of the hill, the wind tugging at the ends of his braided hair, the pride of being in command settling on his shoulders like the chainmail draped across them. His armor was simple but gleaming—sturdy mail over padded linen, a conical helmet fitted tight to his brow, and thick woolen trousers bound in boiled leather.

Nothing ornate, but costly all the same. Thrazanie merchants had charged a king’s ransom for such protection, and his father had paid it—albeit with a grimace—knowing it was a necessity for his youngest son’s first command.

Below him, spread out across the valley like worms squirming beneath the gaze of the sun, stood the enemy. Barely three thousand if that—young unbloodied and half-starved herdsmen wielding spears and round shields of hide. No proper armor. No visible command structure. No discipline in their lines. Just desperation painted across their faces and etched into their posture.

Vhomo’s lip curled in contempt.

This will be slaughter, he thought, his hand resting confidently on the hilt of his axe. A gift from the spirits themselves.

Behind him stood his host—four thousand strong. A wave of disciplined warriors in tight formation, first ranks clad in padded jackets reinforced with boiled leather, each man armed with long spears, short sabers, and small round shields. The front lines bristled with steel helms and gleaming spearpoints. Behind them, archers and reserve axemen waited with cool anticipation.

They looked down in near silence, not from fear, but from the solemn anticipation of victory. It was the quiet breath before the plunge of a blade.

Vhomo allowed his eyes to drink in the view of his army, and for a moment, pride burned in his chest like fire. Let my father see me now. Let my brothers hear of what I do here today. Let them know I am not a boy to be dismissed, but a warlord in my own right.

He turned his gaze once more to the enemy below—shirtless, disorganized, and bold enough to challenge him. Distaste flickered in his eyes.

Do they think themselves brave? Or do they not realize how close they are to death?

The mere thought that they would dare engage him without the presence of his father—the Great Chieftain—was a personal insult. An affront that burned hotter than the sun above.

After all, why else would they take the field now, when they did not last year?

"They think me weak," he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening. "They think I am a shadow of my brothers. That without my father’s hand upon my shoulder, I am nothing."

A bitter laugh caught in his throat, half-spit and half-snarl. His eyes narrowed.

"Steel yourselves, sons of Duskwindai! We stand on the shoulders of our ancestors, and today—today we carve our names in blood!" He shouted heeding his warriors’ eyes to the battle

A roar rose from his host, deep and rhythmic like thunder rolling over the hills. The sound shook the ground and echoed across the valley.

While Vhomo basked in the imagined glory of what songs would be sung about his first command—how he stood tall and fearless, how the spirits guided his hand, how the enemy trembled before the youngest lion of the Duskwindai—he failed to notice the stirrings below.

It wasn’t until his father’ aide, named Kolgor, grabbed his shoulder and pointed sharply to the valley floor that Vhomo snapped out of his self-congratulatory haze.

"Look," Kolgor growled, voice low but urgent.

Vhomo followed the line of his finger. At the foot of the hill, a group of perhaps fifty enemy warriors had broken off from the main force. They weren’t charging. No, they advanced in a strange loose formation, ropes in hand, circling them above their heads like shepherds herding wind.

A duel party? Vhomo thought, amused. Fools. Do they think to show valor now? After fleeing their lands last season? Still it would be nice to see some duels plays out.

But the amusement drained from his face the moment those ropes snapped downward and something was released from the pouches tied to their ends.

Kolgor reacted faster than Vhomo.

"SLINGERS! SHIELDS UP!" he bellowed, stepping in front of Vhomo and raising his own shield above the young commander’s head.

All around, warriors scrambled, hoisting shields without ceremony or command structure—less out of military precision and more out of raw instinct and a strong desire not to die before seeing any glory. Vhomo ducked, his pride smarting even as Kolgor’s shield hovered protectively above him.

They waited, braced.

But the expected storm of stones never came.

Nothing. No sharp whistle of stone cutting air. No thudding impact on leather or iron. No screams. No crunch of bone. Just silence, like the battlefield itself was holding its breath.

Brows furrowed beneath helmets. Some warriors even glanced around in confusion. Had Kolgor panicked? Had he misjudged a gust of wind?

Some of the bravest among them, even extended their necks like children in a crowd desiring to gaze upon a spectacle.

And then—splatter.

Something wet and heavy slapped against a shield with a dull, indecent sound. Then another. And another. A flurry of impacts, not the sharp, percussive thuds of deadly projectiles, but the wet plop of something soft, yielding... and unmistakably foul.

They were not stones..... they were not that heavy.

"TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER!" voices cried, panic rising—not from fear of death, but bewilderment and revulsion.

The sky rained.

But instead of rain it was filfth.

A foul mist sprayed over shields, arms, and faces. Warriors gagged as green-brown globs exploded on impact, some ricocheting into open mouths, others splattering down backs and seeping through furs and padding.

There was no mistaking the smell now.

"Spirits preserve us... it’s shit!" someone shouted, the horror plain in his voice.

Indeed, the Chorsi had not loaded their slings with stones or metal, but with something far baser: dried animal dung, fermented and sealed in hides until rot and pressure had turned them into bursting bombs of filth. Now, as the sacks struck shields and burst, they showered the warriors of the Duskwindai in the excrement of goats, sheep, and who-knew-what-else.

For a long moment, silence fell again—but it was no longer confusion. It was disbelief.

Like a dog hunting a ball that was never thrown by its master.

Then came the anger.

Fury rose not from pain, not from the sting of arrows or the fear of death—but from humiliation. It burned hotter than fire. They were not bloodied in battle. They were not even engaged by swords. They were mocked. Covered in filth like rabid dogs. Turned into a grotesque joke before the fight had even begun.

Some younger warriors roared, stamping the earth and shaking their spears, more in frustration than readiness. A few more impulsive ones started down the hill in wild anger before Kolgor barked them back into line.

The hillside exploded with noise — not the organized calls of war, but a chaos of curses and shouts, disbelief and indignation boiling over in every throat.

"They throw dung at us?!" one warrior bellowed, scraping his shield against the grass like he could somehow scrub the insult off it. freewёbnoνel-com

"I was promised glory, not goat shit!" cried another, flinging his now-defiled cloak to the ground with a wet slap.

One younger man gagged as he wiped a foul glob from his lips. "They’ll pay for this! I’ll grind their faces into the dirt!"

"By the spirits, how dare they!" another roared, raising his arms as though appealing to the heavens themselves. "We’re warriors! Sons of the mountain winds! Not pig-sty children!"

A chorus of similar howls followed—anger, shame, confusion, and above all, wounded pride. The smell alone was enough to break even the most hardened of warriors, but the humiliation was worse. They had climbed the hill full of confidence, and now they stood as the butt of a joke—drenched not in blood or sweat, but in filth.

Yet no one was angrier than Vhomo.

His expression was twisted, the youthful excitement of moments before now replaced by a crimson mask of fury. His face, splattered with dung, trembled with rage. What was supposed to be his day—his victory, his moment to rise—had been soiled, literally and figuratively.

His hands tightened on the haft of his axe, the wood groaning beneath his grip.

"This was to be my triumph..." he muttered, barely audible, his eyes locked on the Chorsi below. "They were to cower. They were to kneel. They were to fall before me in the dust..."

"ENOUGH!" he then roared, voice booming like a warhorn.

He raised his axe high, the blade glinting in the sun, dripping with filth like some grotesque banner. "Warriors of the Duskwindai! Down the hill! DOWN! Let no dung-flinger live! Let no shame go unanswered!"

His cry, fueled by burning pride and the sting of disgrace, echoed through the host like lightning through dry branches. His warriors, already seething and halfway down the hill, didn’t need the order twice.

Their descent turned into a charge—not clean, not drilled, but wild and unrelenting, the fury of insulted men becoming fuel for a storm. Shields clanged, spears rattled, and voices rose in a frenzied roar like the stampede of elephants

And at the base of the hill, the Chorsi watched. Waiting.

Silent.

Still as if calling for them to try and attack them.

As if the real battle had yet to begin.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from f(r)eeweb(n)ovel.𝒄𝒐𝙢