Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 143

Chapter 143: Public show Chapter 143: Public show Alpheo sat quietly as Agalosios finished closing the wound, the medic’s skilled hands stitching the gash before wrapping his hand in layers of bandages.

The pain had dulled somewhat after the tea of willow bark and honey had been administered onto the wound , though it still throbbed persistently beneath the wrapping.

He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the tightness, but was at least thankful the worst had passed.

Mounting his horse with his wounded hand hanging limp at his side, Alpheo guided the reins with his good hand.

As he rode back toward the camp, the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, casting a long shadow behind him.  Clio, riding close beside him, broke the silence.

“Are you alright?” he asked Alpheo gave a slow nod, glancing over at him.

“As good as I could be, given the situation,” he replied, his tone dry.

“I’m not dead, at least, though I’ll admit I’ve been in better shape.” Clio frowned, looking at his bandaged hand.

“He caught you off guard,” he said.

“That won’t happen again, you will have to own better security from now on, you are no longer a simple mercenary.” Alpheo chuckled, though it was more of a low exhale through his nose.

“No, it won’t.

I should’ve expected something like that.

Desperate men are always dangerous, and Thalys…

well, his mind was already dead the moment we arrived, did not expect the bastard to be so loyal to end some five meters underground for a dead men.” Clio looked ahead at the nearing camp, the fires beginning to flicker in the distance.

“What happens now?” “We finish the siege, we break them,” Alpheo said, his voice firm.

“But for now, I need to know about Egil.” He turned his head toward her.

“Has he returned?”  “Yes, he returned earlier this afternoon.

He brought back some hundreds of laborers, just as you ordered.” Alpheo’s lips curved into a smile despite the pain.

“Good.

That will speed up the preparations,” he said.

“We’ll need them to finish fortifying the camp.

The more we dig in before they get desperate enough for a sortie, the better.” Clio glanced at him.

“Will you rest now?

You’ve taken a wound-no one would expect you to oversee the men tonight.” Alpheo shook his head slightly.

“No the man needs to see me, else they thing something worse has happened.

Once I know everything’s running smoothly, then I’ll think about it.

But not a moment sooner.” He gave him a wry smile, his tired eyes betraying the strain behind his words.

As Alpheo rode in front of the lined ranks, the sun had already dipped low, casting long shadows across the encampment.

Seven hundred soldiers stood in disciplined silence, their gazes locked onto their commander.

His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm on the earth as he passed, each man straightening a little more, the weight of the moment heavy in the air.

Alpheo’s bandaged hand rested at his side, visible to all as a reminder of the treachery earlier that day.

When he reached the center, Alpheo lifted the bandaged hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, his eyes scanning the crowd.

The movement brought silence to every whispered conversation, every subtle shift in the ranks.

His voice, strong but edged with the pain still lingering in his body, carried across the camp.

“I called the commander of the city to a parlay,” he began, his tone heavy with grim purpose, “to avoid bloodshed.

To see if they had any sense left in their heads before they were crushed under our boots.

But what was their answer?” His voice grew sharper, eyes narrowing as he spoke.

“They sent me a dagger, an act of cowardice and treachery, one that would’ve killed me if not for the gods’ mercy-or their failure.” The soldiers shifted, murmuring angrily amongst themselves, their faces hardening as they processed what Alpheo had endured.

It was a grave insult, not just to their leader, but to all of them.

“Jarza!” Alpheo barked, and his second-in-command stepped forward at once, motioning for the two prisoners to be brought forth.

The two guards, who had been taken captive alongside Thalys, were dragged into the open, their faces pale but defiant, knowing their fate hung by a thread.

Alpheo pointed to them with his good hand.

“These two,” Alpheo said, voice cold, “stood by as their commander, Thalys, attempted to murder me.

But they swear they knew nothing of his plan.

So let them speak.” One of the prisoners, his voice trembling but steady, spoke up first.

“I swear by all the gods, we had no idea what our commander planned,” he said, bowing his head.

“If we had known, we would’ve stopped him.” The second guard, nodding vigorously, added, “We didn’t know.

We thought it was just a parlay-peace, a chance to avoid the battle.

We swear it on our lives.” Alpheo looked down at them with cold, calculating eyes before turning back to the assembled soldiers.

His voice was harsh, cutting through the tension.

“These men we are fighting are godless murderers, traitors to the crown.

They have no honor, no sense of duty, and they would sooner stab you in the back than face you as men.

They are nothing but rabid dogs, and you know what we do to dogs that bite.” The soldiers murmured in agreement, their anger building.

Alpheo’s voice rose again, commanding their full attention.

“We will put them down, one by one, until there’s not a single one of them left standing.

And it begins now.” He pointed toward Thalys, who was being dragged forward.

“This man-this craven, this traitor-attempted to kill me under the guise of peace.

He will be executed here, as an example of what happens to those who betray the sword of justice.” The men stood at full attention, awaiting the fate of the man who had dared to strike at their leader.

Alpheo’s eyes, burning with fury, didn’t leave the prisoners as the sentence began.

Alpheo’s voice thundered through the camp, his fury palpable.

“His sentence shall be quartering!

Let all who see this know that betrayal will be paid in blood!” The soldiers stood at attention and let out a cheer .

Shahab, standing slightly to the side, watched in silence, his face unreadable.

What Thalys had done – violating the sanctity of a parlay – was a grave taboo, an act of cowardice and dishonor.

It was not Shahab’s place to intervene; by tradition, it was up to Alpheo, the wounded party, to determine the punishment.

Without a word, Shahab nodded in silent acknowledgment, understanding the justice of the sentence, even as the brutality of it came closer.

The red-hot dagger, glowing ominously, was plucked from the flames by a soldier, the heat warping the air around it.

The blade sizzled as it was held aloft, radiating an unbearable heat.

Thalys, bound to the stake, could only whimper weakly behind the gag, his swollen eyes blinking open to see his fate approaching.

His body jerked against the ropes, a futile attempt to escape what was coming, but the bindings held him fast.

Without hesitation, the soldier brought the glowing blade to Thalys’s exposed abdomen.

The moment the red-hot metal made contact with flesh, there was a sickening hiss, the smell of burning skin filling the air.

Thalys’s body convulsed violently as the searing blade tore into his stomach, carving a path through muscle and tissue.

A scream – muffled by the gag – erupted from deep within him, but it was drowned out by the sound of sizzling flesh and the horrified gasps of the soldiers who bore witness.

Blood and steam rose from the wound as the dagger plunged deeper.

His skin blackened and peeled around the edges of the incision, the stench of charred meat unbearable.

The blade was twisted, cutting deeper into his belly, and Thalys’s legs buckled beneath him, his body jerking in agony as urine flew down onto his leg.

The soldier moved with cruel precision, slicing through the soft flesh of his stomach, opening him like a pig .

Thalys’s eyes rolled back in his head as waves of indescribable pain tore through him.

Blood and bile spilled from the gaping wound, mixing with the charred remains of his flesh.

His body trembled uncontrollably, and his gagged screams grew weaker, but the horror of the moment stretched on.

Alpheo, his hand still throbbing from his own injury, watched with cold satisfaction.

The men around him stood still, some looking away, others transfixed by the gruesome punishment.Many of the men that followed Alpheo since Arlania, during the time they were slave saw such punishments already, still looking at it again as a freeman, was a total other experience.

Shahab, ever composed, did not move, did not speak.

It was Alpheo’s moment of retribution, and it was carried out without mercy.

The red-hot blade had done its work, leaving Thalys a shuddering, broken shell, the gaping wound in his belly leaking blood and viscera as his life ebbed away in excruciating agony, while still letting him be alive and kicking, not extinguishing the life within him.

On the walls of Confluendi, the garrison watched in horror.

The distance between them and the camp did little to soften the brutal scene unfolding below.

Those closest to the edge of the wall had the clearest view of Thalys’s grisly punishment, and what they saw turned their stomachs.

Several soldiers looked on, their faces pale and stricken.

One man gripped the stone battlements so hard his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched in disbelief.

Another soldier, younger and less hardened, gagged at the sight, bile rising in his throat as he backed away from the edge.

His legs wobbled, and a moment later, he turned and stumbled to the ground, retching violently.

“Gods…

what are they doing to him?” one whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant cries of Thalys’s muffled agony.

A few couldn’t bear to watch any longer.

They turned away, some with hands covering their mouths, others moving shakily to the back of the wall.

One soldier, his face haggard with dirt, leaned against the stone, sweat dripping from his brow.

He wiped his face and muttered a prayer under his breath, unable to look back at the horror below.