Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 187

Chapter 187: Running against time (2) Chapter 187: Running against time (2) Marthio stepped out of the tent, the flaps falling behind him with a dull thud, and he immediately heard a commotion stirring from the camp’s edge.

Shouts, hurried footsteps, and the low murmur of soldiers speaking filled the air.His feet moved faster as he approached the growing crowd, and then he saw it-what the scout had been stammering about.

Over 300 men were pouring into the camp, a motley procession of soldiers and…

something far worse.

At the front of the group, about forty men wore the standard-issue armor of imperial light riders, their dark breastplates gleaming under the fading sunlight.

These men moved with discipline, holding their spears and swords with the ease of veterans.

They were clearly the riders that Tyros brought with him as he marched to the defense of the Fingers.

Behind them, however, the real oddity began to filter through.

Hundreds of men-barely looking like soldiers at all-ambled in.

They had no armor, no shields, and no helmets to speak of.

Instead, they wore furs and animal pelts draped over their shoulders, some of them little more than ragged cloaks.

Their faces were smeared with dirt, and their eyes were sharp, feral even.

Their weapons were crude-bows slung over their backs, others gripping rusty daggers or battered lances.

Marthio’s stomach tightened as he watched them enter his camp.

Bandits.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

Tyros had brought back with him bandits  His jaw clenched as he surveyed the chaotic procession.

What has that damned fool gotten us into now?

Through the mass of wild men and ragged soldiers, a familiar figure finally emerged, striding confidently toward the camp’s center, as he owned the whole world .

Tyros.

His red hair caught the last glimmer of daylight, standing out like a flame amidst the grays and browns of the bandits he had brought with him.

He wore a half-smile, the kind of grin that could charm or infuriate, depending on the situation.

His armor was scuffed but well-worn.

Marthio’s eyes narrowed as his son approached, a mix of pride and frustration swirling within him.

Tyros had always been impossible to control-stubborn, reckless, and charismatic enough to draw others to him no matter how unwise his plans.

And now, here he was, leading an unruly band of misfits straight into Marthio’s carefully built camp.

Tyros walked forward with an easy gait, his smile widening as he stopped before his father.

“Father,” he greeted, voice warm but with that ever-present edge of mischief.

“It’s good to see you.” Marthio remained silent for a beat, his eyes scanning the rough-looking men Tyros had brought with him.

Tyros seemed entirely unbothered by the tension in the air.

“My companions,” Tyros gestured with a casual sweep of his hand toward the bandits-soldiers , “will require some tents.

They’ve been marching with me, days and nights, through every cursed road we could find.

And I imagine,” he added with a grin, “they would really appreciate a warm meal too.

They’re a bit rough around the edges, but they’re loyal enough.” Marthio’s jaw tightened, Loyal?

To what?

A bag of stolen coins?

Marthio’s expression remained grim as he turned to his son.

“Follow me,” he said, voice tight with frustration, before heading toward the now-empty tent.

Tyros followed, a glint of amusement in his eyes, clearly unbothered by the tension.

Once inside, Tyros spotted an urn of wine on the long table, the remnants of the earlier meeting.

Without hesitation, he grabbed it and took a long drink straight from the mouth of the urn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His eyes roamed the tent, noticing the scattered maps and empty plates.

“Is there something to eat?Been starved for days “  Marthio’s patience thinned further.

“Stop acting as if you were a fool,” he snapped, his voice low but edged with irritation.

“Enough of this nonsense.

Start explaining.” Tyros grinned, leaning back against the table with a relaxed air.

“Fine, fine, truthfully, I could not wait to share my story, so eventful…

they could easily write a book about it” he began, still wiping wine from his lips.

“After the fall of the Fingers, I managed to slip away before Mavius’ men could capture me.

Had about sixty riders with me.

Most of them were ready to head back, to return home and report the defeat.

But I knew better.” He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes.

“I knew you didn’t need me to trudge back to you, looking like a beaten dog.

So, I decided to…

remediate the situation.” Marthio’s brow furrowed.

“Remediated?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief.

“You thought that playing the rider, chasing carts and foragers, would fix anything?” Tyros leaned back against the table, clearly savoring the moment as he recounted his exploits.

“We hit their supply lines hard,” he said, voice full of pride.

“Every cart, every foraging party we found-we took them out.

No food, no reinforcements, just chaos for Mavius’ forces.” Marthio’s eyes narrowed as he took in his son’s words.

“And these…

‘companions’ of yours?” he asked, gesturing toward the ragtag group of men outside.

“Where did they come from?” Tyros smirked.

“Ah, yes.

My charming companions.” He paused, his grin widening.

“While I was on the run, I was captured by bandits.

Nasty lot, too-mean enough to string me up, but smart enough to listen.” He chuckled at the memory.

“I convinced them that their days of raiding would soon end in a nice crucifixion if they kept on, be it from Mavius or Mesha’s side .

But if they fought for me, swore loyalty, they might just earn a pardon for their crimes alongside a wide bag filled with coins at the end of everything.” Marthio raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced.

“And they believed you?” Tyros shrugged.

“Desperation makes men do strange things, Father.

I gave them hope, and they gave me their blades.” He tilted his head, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“We kept riding, growing stronger, causing enough trouble for Mavius’ forces that they had to send someone after us.” “And?” Marthio pressed, still not entirely satisfied.

“Who did they send?” “A knight,I forgot the name of the poor bastard” Tyros said, his grin fading into something more serious.

“One of Mavius’ men.

They put him in charge of hunting us down, tracking us through the forests.

But instead of being hunted, I turned the tables.

We ambushed them-caught them by surprise.

I even captured the knight himself.” Marthio’s eyes widened slightly, impressed despite himself.

“And?” “And,” Tyros continued, leaning forward with a triumphant gleam in his eye, “from him, I got something better than a blade.

Information.

Useful information.” Tyros leaned in closer, his voice lowering as he began to recount the information he had wrested from the captured knight.

“The knight apparently was a close man of Mavius, he told me that their emperor is growing increasingly agitated.

He’s convinced he needs to march south immediately, before the heavy winter sets in.

Some of the lords in his camp disagreed, thinking it would be wiser to settle in and consolidate their gains.

But they’re in the minority.” Tyros continued, “Most of Mavius’ lords were disappointed with the meager loot they got after the fall of the Finger.

They expected riches, spoils worthy of their ambitions, but they ended up with scraps.

That frustration has made them eager to push south, supporting Mavius’ reckless plan for an advance.” Marthio stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“So, they’re divided and yet rash” “Exactly,” Tyros said, nodding.

“The hunger for wealth and power is making them careless.

Mavius wants a decisive victory, a big win, and he wants it now.

He’s not thinking about the long-term consequences-he just wants to march south and crush us before winter comes in full force.

The boy is impatient.” “And what about winter?” Marthio asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Surely even he understands the danger of marching an army in those conditions?” Tyros grinned.

“He doesn’t care.

He’s willing to fight under any condition, thinking it’ll be a quick campaign.

He wants to soundly defeat us before the deep winter sets in-before the snow makes movement impossible.I think he believes, that if he defeats us on a pitch battle the southern lords will flock to his side. Which I believe is a sound thought….he’s going to give battle soon, no matter the cost.” Marthio sat back, his brow furrowed, pondering the gravity of Tyros’ words.

After a moment, he turned to his son.

“Give me the knight,” he demanded.

“I need to verify this information.” Tyros’ grin faded slightly.

He shook his head.

“I can’t Father.”  “And why not?” Tyros sighed, standing up and pacing slowly.

“It wouldn’t look good for a lord, to walk into camp with a tortured nobleman in tow, even if he is a rebel.

It’s bad optics and against the code of chivalry and honor.

And truthfully, some things are better buried under the dirt.” Marthio’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

His son continued.

“Look, the information is good, Father.

I wouldn’t be bringing it to you if I had any doubts.

And we don’t have the luxury of second-guessing right now.

What we need is a plan, a way to use this against Mavius before he strikes.” Tyros stopped pacing and turned back to his father ”And on the way here, wouldn’t you know I just thought of something” Tyros’ smile unfurled slowly, like the first light of dawn creeping over a darkened horizon.

It was the kind of smile that carried the steady confidence of a man who held his cards close to his chest and knew that he held the key to victory.