Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 34 (Patreon)

Lys watched from her vantage point as the sergeants moved the recruits to close off the entry point to the camp. Logs formed a makeshift hurdle, hammers jamming stakes into the ground between them. They stacked the barrier and fortified it until it was waist high.

One sergeant pulled out a bag of metal and began to toss the contents out into the entry point. She squinted, trying to make out what they were. The metal glinted in the sunlight, revealing pointy edges. She grimaced, realizing that stepping on one would probably hurt, even with boots on.

Behind her and Plainfield, a man’s voice rang out. “Rocks! Move it!”

She glanced back, spotting a group dragging a sled full of heavy round rocks to both sides of the entry point. They grunted with exertion as they heaved the rocks into position.

Throughout the camp, it was like a beehive that had been poked. Recruits scurried back and forth, following the barked orders of their sergeants. The purpose of many of the menial tasks they had been given quickly became apparent.

“Trekhill!” a voice called out. Lys turned to see Sergeant Swift approaching. “Get those arrows ready. We don’t know when they’ll make their move.”

“Yes, sir!” Lys replied, her hands already reaching for her quiver.

Plainfield sidled up beside her, his own bow at the ready. “Think we’ll actually have to shoot anyone?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly.

Lys swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the smooth wood of her bow. “I hope not,” she murmured. “But if we do, aim true.”

She glanced out at the enemy forces, keeping her head down. They seemed to be taking their time, preparing for an attack rather than rushing forward. As she scanned their ranks, a single man caught her attention, striding purposefully toward the camp.

“Sergeant Swift!” Lys called down. “There’s a man coming this way!”

Swift’s voice carried back to her. “Keep an eye on him, Trekhill, but hold your fire!”

Moments later, Finn emerged from the camp, climbing over the defenses to meet the approaching Irongian. Lys observed their exchange from a distance, the two men standing apart as they spoke.

In a flash, the Irongian drew his sword and lunged at Finn. The sergeant fought back skillfully, but the Irongian’s onslaught forced him to retreat.

She nocked an arrow, searching for an opening to shoot. Plainfield’s hand gripped her shoulder. “Don’t do it, Trekhill! You might hit Sergeant Finn!”

She shrugged him off, her eyes never leaving the duel. “If I shoot, I have a shot.”

The Irongian’s attacks were ferocious, his two-handed strikes battering Finn’s sword. Suddenly, Finn stumbled backward, and Lys drew and released her arrow in one smooth motion. The bow no longer felt too heavy.

As Finn hit the ground, the Irongian raised his sword for a final blow. Lys’s arrow found its mark just at that moment, piercing the enemy’s throat. Finn scrambled to his feet and jogged back to the camp while the Irongian formation began to take shape, multiple shield squares moving forward.

Lys dropped to the ground as arrows whizzed overhead, the Irongians’ assault on the defenses beginning. Beside her, Plainfield hit the dirt, both of them hugging the inner slope of the embankment.

The other recruits at the entrance took cover behind the logs, their shields held above their heads. Shouts and curses filled the air as the enemy archers unleashed a second barrage.

Lys crawled backward, keeping her head low until she reached a spot where she could stand, just her eyes high enough to scan the enemy. She nocked an arrow and searched for a target. Spotting an Irongian archer, she drew back her bowstring and let the arrow fly.

Arrows whistled over her head, forcing her back into cover before she could see if her shot had found its mark. Reinforcements poured in from the other side of the camp. The Irongians were clearly focused on a frontal assault in one location rather than surrounding their defenses.

The enemy’s large rectangular shields provided ample cover as they advanced. Sergeants barked orders to the recruits, their voices rising above the din of battle. Lys wasn’t sure there was much else to do.

The Irongians reached the outer defenses and began hacking at the spikes with axes, the stakes barely slowing their progress. They threw down shields over the outer ditch, using them as bridges to cross the obstacle.

She and Plainfield, as well as archers from the other groups, began to fire rapidly into whatever was exposed. Some of them even went down. More died as a half-dozen recruits hurled rocks over the wall, aiming for the Irongians pushing through the caltrops.

Lys realized her position offered a clear shot at the enemy’s flank without exposing her to their archers now that they had come so close. She took aim at one of the lead men and released her arrow, watching as it struck him in the neck.

“Good shot!” Plainfield whooped.

She shook her head. “Focus on your own shooting, idiot!”

Another arrow found its mark in an Irongian’s exposed neck. Their armor was weak there, especially from the side.

The defenders held the line, their shields locked together as they braced against the onslaught. But the other recruits held.

Without warning, a ladder thumped against the wall in front of her, and she moved forward, kicking it back down before the attackers could climb.

An arrow grazed her arm, sending a sharp jolt of pain into her shoulder. She hissed, dropping back into cover. Around her, recruits hurled rocks from the sides, pelting the enemy’s shields.

The Irongians outnumbered them, but it became even more apparent up close. It seemed like they were surging forward like an enraged boar. They pressed against the entrance, their combined weight threatening to overwhelm the log wall.

Lys took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. She focused on her breathing, each inhale and exhale steadying her hands. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed to sharpen.

She nocked an arrow, aiming for the small gaps in the enemy’s shield wall. Her shots flew true, finding their way through the narrow openings with uncanny precision.

“Keep your shields up!” Swift’s voice boomed over the chaos.

Lys spotted Orin and Garrett fighting side by side, their faces grim with determination. The Irongians strained to push forward. The log wall, braced and guarded by the recruits, was the only barrier holding them back.

Her gaze fell on a group of Irongians wielding axes, their blades hacking at the stakes that held the makeshift wall in place. She drew back her bowstring, targeting the men who threatened to unravel their defenses.

Lys’s eyes widened as she spotted another ladder on the opposite side of the gap. The archer recruits stationed there fled in panic as an Irongian soldier reached the top of the wall and cut one of them down.

“Breach!” Lys shouted, her voice straining to be heard above the chaos. “There’s a breach on the other side!”

She tried to catch Sergeant Swift’s attention, but he remained focused on directing the defense at the main entrance. Gritting her teeth, Lys reached for her quiver, only to find it empty.

She quickly switched to her second quiver and nocked an arrow, aiming at the Irongian soldier perched atop the ladder.

The arrow found its mark, and the man tumbled backward, crashing into the group of soldiers waiting at the bottom. Another Irongian took his place, hiding behind a large rectangular shield. Lys adjusted her aim and released an arrow, striking the man in the ankle.

Despite her directed fire, more Irongians swarmed up the ladder, forming a dense cluster on the slope. Lys’s heart raced as she realized the gravity of the situation.

If too many enemies breached the defenses, they would flank the recruits guarding the entrance, rendering the chokepoint useless.

Suddenly, Sergeant Yasir appeared, wielding a spear and sword. He leaped higher than Lys thought possible, landing in the middle of the growing enemy formation. With a powerful thrust, he jabbed his spear into a man on top of the ladder, sending both flying backward.

The Irongians turned on Yasir, their swords flashing, but he already had two blades in hand, striking with lightning precision. Lys took advantage of the distraction, firing arrow after arrow into the exposed backs of the enemy soldiers.

She wasn’t sure how it was possible, but he turned every strike against him into a counterattack of his own. Even redirected their attacks toward themselves. Lys bit her lip. Fighting wasn’t supposed to be like that, was it?

A small block of six recruits armed with spears advanced up the slope to support Yasir. The Irongians, faced with the sergeant’s onslaught, began to flee—back down the ladders or even jumping off the wall.

“Trekhill!” Plainfield’s urgent voice drew Lys’s attention as he tugged on her shirt. “Look!”

He pointed beyond the wall, where distant banners fluttered on the horizon.

The dust kicked up by the marching force obscured their identity, making it impossible to discern whether they were friend or foe. But one thing was certain—they were approaching fast.

Lys reached for her second quiver, her fingers grasping at empty air. Just one quiver left, then. The Irongians seemed to notice the incoming march, and they started to fall back.

Scanning the retreating enemy, Lys spotted men hobbling along, their feet pierced by the caltrops scattered across the ground. She nocked and took aim, focusing on the exposed targets. As they retreated further, Lys’s world narrowed to nothing but her breathing and the rhythm of her shots.

An enemy archer turned and loosed an arrow in her direction.

Instinctively, Lys drew and released, her arrow slicing the incoming projectile in half before continuing on to shoot down the archer. She reached for another arrow, only to find her quiver empty.

“Watch out!” Plainfield yelled, yanking her back from the edge as sporadic arrows whizzed overhead.

Lys gasped for air, feeling as if she had been punched in the gut. Plainfield stared at her, his eyes wide with awe.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he said, his voice a mixture of admiration and disbelief.

Lys shook her head, equally stunned by her own actions.

Below them, a group of recruits formed a column, marching along the inside of the wall as they tracked the enemy’s movements outside.

Crawling back to the edge, Lys squinted through the dust, her eyes straining to make out the banners of the approaching force.

As the wind shifted, the flags became clear—white with red. The colors of the main cohort body.