Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 216

Chapter 216: Welcoming the heroes Chapter 216: Welcoming the heroes On either side of Romelia’s Royal Road, two trumpeters stood tall, their military uniforms immaculate, their instruments gleaming in the early light.

They each raised their silver trumpets to their lips, and the sharp, clear notes echoed down the road, cutting through the bustling noise of the gathered crowd, who could barely rein in their cheers for the victorious army.  The trumpeter on the left lowered his trumpet and projected his voice over the crowd.

“People of Romelia!Proud citizens of the great Empire ” he called, his voice ringing with authority.

“Today, you are called to celebrate and honor our victorious imperial army, returning triumphant from their glorious campaign to cull the wicked rebels!” The crowd murmured in excitement, and the garrison soldiers lining the street raised their hands, signaling the people to stay in place, maintaining order on each side of the road.

As the first trumpeter finished his announcement, the second trumpeter lifted his instrument again.

Another series of triumphant, resounding notes sounded from the gate.

And then, through the massive city gates, the imperial army began to enter, banners raised high, glistening armor reflecting the sunlight, and faces set with pride as they marched in step.

The people erupted into cheers as the soldiers paraded down the Royal Road.

The citizens’ shouts of joy rose to a crescendo, ringing out with a fervor that was not faked .

This victory was a reprieve-an assurance that Romelia’s people would not feel the cold dread of a siege, a fate that some of the oldest in the crowd remembered all too well from the bloody civil war that had led to Emperor Gratios’s coronation.

Memories of food shortages, and pestilence still stirring their hearts.

Another reason for the cheers was the promise of a reward from the royal palace: it was customary for a massive allotment of grain to be distributed to celebrate a military victory in honor of the commander that delivered it .

The palace, shrewd in matters of public favor, had not hesitated to extend their generosity this time, using the ceremony to shift the nobles’ gaze from the loss of the Gods’ Fingers .  Yet, beneath the public cheers and the haze of relief, the reality of Emperor Mesha’s position remained precarious.

While the victory had solidified Romelia’s security from the north, the second prince, Mavius, was still alive with a powerful force of his own.

Should Mavius decide to press for control, he could easily mobilize his troops for another campaign southward the next year , a threat that hovered quietly over Mesha’s newly claimed victory.

The imperial army however for now entered Romelia’s gates in a flood of banners, armor gleaming in the midday sun.

They passed through the tents and stalls set up along the main road, where thousands of people shouted their praise and waved in awe, filling the air with a jubilant roar.

”Long life the emperor!” ”Glory to the Empire” Lord Marthio rode proudly at the head of the procession, basking in the cheers of the people.

His hand was firm on the reins, and his face remained composed, but his eyes glinted with satisfaction as he held high the imperial banner-a proud, deep crimson adorned with the golden insignia of the empire.  Directly behind Marthio rode his son’s Tyros, clutching the banner of the Achean family.

Its azure blue and silver hues contrasted sharply with the empire’s colors but commanded equal respect.

The men following behind them marched in tight ranks, their steps synchronized, creating a rumble that echoed off the high stone walls.

Armor clinked in unison, and the brilliant colors of their tunics and banners seemed to form a living tapestry against the dust-churned road.

The army moved forward with unyielding grace and strength, passing through streets crowded with onlookers and jubilant citizens, whose cheers grew louder as they advanced.

The original force of 11,000 had been whittled down to 8,800 soldiers, with only 7,500 permitted to join the victory parade.

The wounded remained behind, hidden from the public’s view to maintain the army’s air of divine strength.

Any sign of weakness would detract from the spectacle that lord Marthio and his commanders intended to present-a flawless force, as unyielding in discipline as in appearance.

Each soldier bore armor polished to a mirror-like gleam, their weapons meticulously sharpened and gleaming in the midday sun.

Even the soldiers of Tyros, a rougher contingent within the army, marched in the parade fully outfitted in regulation armor and well-maintained gear.

Yet they retained elements of their past lives; animal pelts still draped over their shoulders or tied to their belts, remnants of their days as bandits in the wilds.

These trophies-wolf pelts, fox furs, and even the occasional bear hide-marked them as men who had survived on their own ruthlessness before the empire gave them new purpose.

Victory parades were a rare spectacle in Romelia, a privilege generally reserved for campaigns led by the emperor himself or a direct heir.

Parades were only granted sparingly, like precious gold, due to the delicate power balance in the empire.

Allowing an army freshly seasoned with victory into the heart of the city under any leader but the emperor himself posed a risk: a general’s glory in the eyes of both the people and the nobles could be dangerous, sparking whispers of usurpation and fueling ambitions that few dared to ignore.

The loyalty of troops newly loyal to a triumphant general, combined with the rousing support of the populace, was a potent and hazardous mix within the city walls.

But today, there was no such risk.

This time, the triumphant leader was old Lord Marthio, the emperor’s own grandfather, who rode into the city as a victor not for himself, but for the empire and its young ruler, Mesha.

Even the most ambitious nobles felt no fear of treason or conspiracy-no one could believe that Lord Marthio, in his later years , would harbor any intention of seizing the throne from his own grandson.  So, for once, the people’s cheers rang free of any tension or doubt.

The clibanarii, heavy cavalry clad in gleaming armor and mounted on powerful warhorses, paraded through the main road to the city’s thunderous applause.

Their horses, massive and imposing, were among the most celebrated of the parade.

People craned their necks for a better view, marveling at the massive, well-trained steeds that seemed as much a symbol of imperial strength as the soldiers themselves.

Yet, as the horses moved along, the inevitable happened-many of the clibanarii’s horses began to leave deposits on the cobbled street, forcing the infantry following behind to awkwardly dodge the fresh piles.

Despite their efforts, a few soldiers misstepped, their heavy boots squelching into the mess.

The bulk of the army halted in the bustling city streets, just outside the palace walls, as the nobles and a select group of clibanarii continued forward.

The soldiers on horse held ranks, their polished armor glinting under the sun, banners held high, as the citizens continued to cheer them on.

Lord Marthio led the way, flanked by his loyal nobles and clibanarii guards, their horses’ hooves echoing against the cobblestones as they moved toward the palace gates.

As they reached the grand entrance to the throne hall, each lord and guard dismounted with practiced precision, handing off their reins to the palace attendants.

 They entered in silence, boots muffled on the carpeted marble floors or the long decorated hallwas , and made their way up the aisle toward the throne, where the emperor himself awaited.  The emperor sat in solemn grandeur, his frame adorned with the imperial crown and draped in a rich, deep purple silk cloth that shimmered under the throne hall’s torchlight.

His gaze swept over the nobles who entered, each one kneeling in reverence before him.

But when Lord Marthio bent to lower himself, gentle words from Mesha stopped him  “Close family does not kneel gradfather.” Lord Marthio paused, then gave a respectful bow, offering his thanks.

“Your Majesty, it is my deepest honor to serve you and the empire,” he said, his voice steady and solemn.

The emperor’s expression remained composed as he replied, his voice carrying the weight of measured words.

“You have honored us with your victory, Lord Marthio.” He offered no thanks as such an expression could imply that, had he led the army himself, there might have been defeat-a notion that politics would never allow.

It was a subtle absurdity, yet in the balance of power and appearance, essential for preserving the emperor’s authority.

Lord Marthio, still bowing, spoke with pride, his voice filled with conviction.

“Your Majesty, I am honored to have served the empire and to have brought glory to its name.” Mesha, watching his grandfather, nodded approvingly before addressing the room.

“Such a victory deserves recognition,” he declared, his young voice carrying an air of ceremony.

“Great deeds deserve great duties, and so I grant Lord Marthio another responsibility.” He paused, letting his words sink in.

“Lord Marthio has proven himself honorable and capable, and so I entrust him with the reins of the empire until I come of age.

I hereby name him Regent of the Empire once again.” A ripple passed through the hall as the gathered lords processed the announcement.

Many had anticipated this shift, but still, a few pairs of eyes instinctively turned toward Lord Keval, the current regent, expecting perhaps a flicker of discontent.

Yet Keval, composed and unreadable, simply inclined his head, bowing with a slight smile, his expression one of calm acceptance.

As in the late regent’s mind, only one thought was present: Thanks the gods above, it has ended…

Mesha’s gaze then swept across the assembled lords, his young but steady eyes capturing their attention, made sharper by the last days that overturn his life and perception of family  “To the rest of my loyal lords, your rewards will be seen to in good time,” he announced with a slight nod, acknowledging the many sacrifices made.

“But for now,” he continued, a spark of enthusiasm entering his tone, “such a victory demands celebration.

Let us honor this triumph of justice over the wicked rebels with a feast.Glory to the Empire”