Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 259

Chapter 259: From the English war book(2) Chapter 259: From the English war book(2) Lechlian sat on his high-backed chair in the dimly lit court, his jaw tight as he bit the inside of his cheek .

The reports stacked before him were damning, each one worse than the last.

For the past week, messengers had poured into his hall like a tide, bearing grim news: the Yarzats had been raiding village after village, leaving a trail of destruction behind them.

Yet, infuriatingly, they weren’t slaughtering the villagers.

Instead, they torched homes, destroyed crops, and pillaged everything of value, sparing the people only to leave them broken and destitute.

His people didn’t have the means to recover; they were being bled dry by devastation and fear, and he knew that next year he would face a famine.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as his eyes darted to the few men who still stood loyally in his court.

Once, his banners had flown high with a host of lords at his side.

Now, his army numbered less than a thousand, a pitiful shadow of its former strength.

The failure to relieve Lord Ilbert had been the final straw.

His decision to delay reinforcements had backfired spectacularly, and the consequences had been catastrophic.

The remaining lords, disgusted by his failure, had abandoned him altogether.

They had withdrawn to their fiefs, no doubt hoping to safeguard their lands and fortunes from the Yarzats’ relentless pillaging.

Lechlian’s grip tightened on the armrest of his chair as his thoughts turned venomous.

What did they expect?

he seethed internally.

Did they truly believe I could march straight to Ilbert’s aid with just 1,500 men, knowing full well the enemy had bested me before when I outnumbered them two to one?

He bit the inside of his cheek harder, the taste of blood intensifying.

If those lords had even a shred of backbone, they’d see that this was a fight for survival, not just their petty fiefs.

Do they think the Yarzats will stop at Ilbert’s lands?

Let them rot in their castles when the Yarzats come for them.

Perhaps then they’ll understand what I was trying to prevent.

Yet Lechlian remained oblivious to Alpheo’s true intentions.

The prince consort of Yarzat had no desire to extend his devastation to the lands of the other nobles.

His aim was singular: to lay waste solely to the prince’s fiefs.

By doing so, Alpheo sought not just to cripple Lechlian’s power but to ensure that the surrounding nobility emerged stronger than the prince himself.

He desire to sow deep instability within the region-an instability far more enduring and corrosive than the temporary chaos of a famine.And there was no better instruments for that to make it so that the nobles heavily outnumered in strenght that of the prince.

”Your Grace…” a voice to his right pulled him from his brooding.

“We cannot remain holed up in the city while the enemy ravages the countryside.” Lechlian’s jaw tightened, a low grumble escaping his throat before he could suppress it.

“And what would you have us do, Arnold?” he asked, keeping his tone measured.

His eyes moving to that of his eldest.

Lechlian’s gaze lingered on Arnold, his eldest son, standing proud in the dim torchlight.

It was like staring into a mirror of his younger self-broad-shouldered, with the same piercing eyes, strong jawline, and the dark, unruly hair that framed his face.

The resemblance was uncanny, and it stirred a complicated mix of pride and frustration within him.

So much like me, Lechlian thought bitterly, but blinded by the same fire of youth that once made me reckless.

He could see the determination in Arnold’s stance, the unyielding resolve in his tone.

Yet, all Lechlian could think of was how easily passion could lead to folly.

Lord Cretio stepped forward from the shadowed edges of the court.

His voice was steady, commanding attention as he addressed the room.

“Your Grace, the Yarzats’ raiding parties are spread thin.

Reports from the north and south suggest they are overextended.

If we act swiftly, we can send small detachments to harry them.

It won’t break their strength entirely, but it will be a blow to them” Lechlian regarded Cretio with a guarded expression, weighing his words, he was after all one of the few lords that still stood with him.

Before he could respond, Arnold took a step forward, his voice ringing with determination.

“I’ll lead the expedition,” the prince declared, his eyes alight with the fervor of purpose.

“I know the land better than most, and I can move quickly with a trusted force” A murmur rippled through the room, the gathered men exchanging uncertain glances.

Lechlian’s jaw tightened, his brow furrowing deeply as he studied his son.

Arnold’s eagerness was palpable, but so too was the shadow of risk.

Lechlian mulled over the suggestion, his brow furrowed deeply.

Splitting his already meager force felt like courting disaster.

With fewer than a thousand men, every soldier was precious, and dividing their numbers further might weaken the city’s defense irreparably.

Yet, the alternative-remaining passive as villages burned and his people suffered-was equally untenable.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the sharp sound filling the silence.

It’s a risk we cannot avoid.

If we do nothing, I’ll look like a coward who can’t protect his own lands.Something must be done, well since he was the one to bring it up , then it is only fair he is the one to lead them…

Lechlian rose from his chair, the weight of his decision evident in his rigid posture.

“Lord Cretio,” he said, his voice steely with resolve, “you will take command of a force to drive back the raiders north of here.As for the my son he shall follow you and learn.

I task his security to you” Arnold took the command with great displeasure, as he believed this would be his occasion to show his worth, yet he did not argue against it, as the lord beside him was faster in his answer.

Lord Cretio straightened, bowing deeply.

“Your Grace, I will do my utmost.

May I ask how many men we might lead?” The prince paused, the hesitation visible in his furrowed brow.

Every soldier spared was a risk, and yet he could not afford to send too few else the lords thought he forced them toward failure.

“You shall take 200 footmen and 50 knights.

” Lord Cretio inclined his head once more, his tone resolute.

“It will suffice, Your Grace.

We will ensure these raiders regret their insolence.” “See that you do,” Lechlian replied, his gaze hardening.

“I’ll not suffer another report of their flames licking at my lands.” The northern lands had sent in fewer reports of raiding parties, leading Lechlian to believe that the enemy presence there was lighter, perhaps more scattered.

It wasn’t much, but it offered a sliver of opportunity.

If he could claim a decisive strike, even a small one, he could parade it before the nobility as proof of his resolve.

Sitting idle in the capital while his villages burned to ash was a humiliation that gnawed at him.

It made him seem weak-like a prince unable to protect his own people, a ruler unfit to wear the crown.

A victory, no matter how modest, would help to shore up the image of the throne.

The 200 footmen placed under Lord Cretio’s command were drawn primarily from the levies of the lord.

Less than half of them belonged to the prince’s personal recruits , ensuring that any losses incurred during the mission would fall more heavily on his allies than on his own dwindling forces.  If the venture failed, it would cost him less directly-an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice to maintain appearances.

If it succeeded, he could claim the victory as his own, for his son was with them, a triumph orchestrated by the crown one could say.

Either way, the risk to his personal strength was minimized, leaving him with just enough force to hold the capital should the worst come to pass.

Of the whole venture, the thing that caused him most distress was however the safety of his son.

———– A man stood at the side of the road, leaning casually against the post f his shop as he watched the column of soldiers march out of the capital.

Their banners fluttered listlessly in the cool morning breeze, and the metallic rhythm of boots on cobblestones echoed faintly along the street.

Around him, the citizens seemed largely indifferent to the sight, their expressions betraying little more than weary acceptance.

Since the crushing defeat at the hands of the Yarzats, the city’s mood had been steeped in unease.

Whispers of the enemy’s growing strength and the prince’s dwindling forces had fostered fears of an inevitable siege.

But as the weeks dragged on and rumors began to circulate that the Yarzats had bypassed the capital, those fears had dulled, replaced by a cautious hope that the war might never truly reach their gates.  The man’s eyes followed the soldiers until they disappeared down the road, their numbers swallowed by the distant haze.

He took one last look at their retreating figures before stepping back into his shop, the wooden door closing softly behind him.

The shop was a modest butchery, its air thick with the mingled scents of raw meat and sawdust.

Hooks dangled from the ceiling, bearing slabs of pork and lamb, while a wooden counter held a sharp set of knives meticulously cleaned.

In the corner, a row of cages housed pigeons-the perfect way to hide the messanger birds on open sight.  Behind the counter, the butcher glanced at the pigeons as he weighed his next move.

Normally, a bird would carry word to the prince in the south, but he knew that by the time such a message reached its destination, the information would be useless.

The troop movement he’d just witnessed demanded immediate action.

His gaze shifted to a boy crouched near the cutting block, diligently sharpening a cleaver.

The boy, a wiry lad of fifteen with dark hair and quick eyes, was named Fenn.

He was more than an apprentice butcher; he was a messenger-in-training for far more dangerous errands.

The butcher studied him for a moment, considering the risks, before finally speaking.

“Fenn,” he called, his voice low but firm.

The boy straightened, placing the cleaver down carefully before turning to his master.

“Yes, sir?” The butcher stepped closer, resting a hand on the counter.

“I’ve got a mission for you.

This one’s important-no pigeons this time.

You’ll need to deliver it yourself.” Fenn frowned slightly, tilting his head.

“Where am I going, sir?” The butcher hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally answered, “North.”  He had heard of the words coming out of the refugee in the city , and he had got information that there was a raiding party not only south but north too.

As he was a spy , he obviously had basic knowledge of geography around the crown’s land , so he knew from the names of the villages that the raiding party north of them was much closer than the southern one.

“North where?” Fenn asked, blinking.

There was a note of nervousness in his voice, though he tried to hide it with a calm facade.

The butcher let out a breath, glancing briefly at the cages of pigeons as if weighing his words.

“north of us.

They’ll be near the burnt villages-follow the trail of ash and smoke.

That’s where they’ll be.” Fenn’s mouth opened slightly as he processed the poetic words You damn old man, you don’t know either!

He swallowed hard, realization dawning.

“I’ll need to give them the letter?” “That’s right,” the butcher confirmed.

He turned and began rifling through the drawers of his counter, pulling out parchment, ink, and a quill.

“I’ll write it as quickly as I can.

You’ll hand it directly to them.

Nothing less will do.” “But…” Fenn’s brow furrowed.

“How will I get there?

I can’t just walk all that way.” “You won’t,” the butcher replied, his tone firm.

“I have a contact in the city.

They’ll lend you a horse-a good one.

Strong, fast.

You’ll ride straight through, no stopping for anything but the barest rest.

Understand?” “Yes, sir,” Fenn murmured, nodding, though the gravity of the task pressed heavily on his shoulders.

The butcher leaned closer, gripping the edge of the counter as his gaze locked onto the boy’s.

“This is of the utmost importance, Fenn.

If you succeed…” He paused, his expression softening just a touch.

“There will be rewards-proper ones.

You’ll have earned them.” Fenn straightened his back, determination flickering in his eyes despite the apprehension that still lingered.

“I won’t fail, sir.

I’ll get it to them, I will make sure not to fail .” The butcher sighed deeply, rubbing his hands together as he stared at Fenn, his face lined with tension.

“We don’t have a choice in this, boy.

The prince pays for our service, and he expects to get something in return.

If we fail him…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that he’d silence us, permanently, if we proved beneath his desired worth.” Fenn’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

The gravity of the statement wasn’t lost on him, and a chill ran down his spine.

He nodded slowly, his youthful face pale but resolute.

“I understand,” he said, his voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in his chest.

The butcher gave a sharp nod, his eyes lingering on the boy for a moment, as though gauging his readiness.

“Good.

Now, prepare yourself.

This is not something we can afford to bungle.” For a moment, the butcher and Fenn locked eyes.

They both knew that their fates were intertwined, their survival dependent on fulfilling the prince’s expectations.

If this mission failed,and something bad happened to the prince’s soldiers neither would be spared.