Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 262

Chapter 262: Chivalry vs Pragmatism Chapter 262: Chivalry vs Pragmatism The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, its golden rays warming the earth below.

Egil reclined on his horse, lying on his stomach over the beast’s strong back with one arm draped lazily over its neck.

The horse, a sturdy creature with a glossy black coat, trotted steadily beneath him, seemingly accustomed to its master’s unconventional posture.

Behind Egil, a line of ten riders followed, their horses kicking up small clouds of dust as they moved in unison.

It had been three days since the letters were sent out, and the tension among his men had shifted into a kind of restless anticipation.

Egil had sent out a quarter of his forces as scouts, and their efforts had paid off.

They had successfully located the enemy army without being detected themselves.

Their reports confirmed that the enemy force was still two days away, moving at a fast but predictable pace.

Egil adjusted his position slightly, raising his head just enough to peer at the horizon.

A faint smirk played on his lips.

Two days.

Two more days until the real fun began.

Egil had not spent the past two days idly lounging. His camp had shifted positions twice already, small raiding parties continued to harass nearby villages, succeeding in manipulating the enemy’s movements, drawing them along paths of Egil’s choosing.

The chosen battleground was nestled within a hilly expanse.

It was a place of natural advantage, where the uneven terrain provided countless opportunities for concealment and ambush.  Ahead, the thundering of hooves signaled the approach of a column of riders-some sixty men in total-cresting the nearest hill and descending into the valley where Egil and his company waited.

The glint of sunlight on steel and the fluttering of pennons marked their arrival, the riders forming a disciplined line as they drew nearer.

Egil sighed audibly, pushing himself upright in his saddle.

His casual demeanor melted into one of measured focus.

He turned to Rykio, a dry smirk tugging at his lips.

“The bastards finally made it,” he muttered, patting his horse’s mane as if bracing himself for the encounter.

At the forefront of the approaching riders was a figure that could not be mistaken: Sir Mereth, his golden steed an ostentatious sight among the more subdued mounts of his escort.

Clad in polished armor that reflected the sunlight with an almost blinding brilliance, Mereth cut a sharp, imposing figure.

As the column halted, Sir Mereth guided his steed forward with practiced precision, stopping mere feet from Egil’s horse.

The contrast between the two knights was stark.

Where Mereth’s armor gleamed like a king’s prize, Egil’s simpler attire was well-worn and dusted from days in the field.

Yet it was Egil who sat with a lazy confidence, his piercing eyes taking in the man before him with undisguised amusement.

“Sir Egil,” Mereth greeted coolly, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth.

“Sir Mereth,” Egil replied in kind, matching the cold formality with his own detached drawl.

He tipped his head slightly, an acknowledgment that bordered on mockery.Useless to say bad blood passed between the two.

Sir Mereth’s eyes stayed locked on Egil, his expression stern as he spoke.

“We received your letter and we have come.” His voice carried a hint of something, as though he had anticipated more decorum from the man before him.

Egil waved his hand lazily, as if brushing away any need for formalities.

“That’s good,” he replied, his tone almost mocking in its casualness.

He shifted in his saddle, looking entirely too comfortable for a man discussing war.

“Your timing’s not bad either.

My scouts reported the enemy’s position a bit ago.

They’re two days from here, maybe less.” Mereth’s brow furrowed slightly, but he gave a small nod.

“Good,” he said curtly.

“Then we should march at once.

” Egil chuckled, a low, amused sound that made a few of Mereth’s riders glance at each other in confusion.

“March at once?” he repeated, leaning back in his saddle.

“Why in the Mother’s name would we do that?” Mereth’s face stiffened.

“Because it’s common sense, Sir …” “Common sense,” Egil interrupted, grinning broadly, “is what people call it when they don’t have a better idea.

Listen, Mereth.

They’re coming to us.

Right now, they’ve got no clue where we are.

They think they’re intercepting our raiding path, chasing shadows.

And here we are, sitting right where we want them to be.” Mereth’s frown deepened.

“Where you want them to be?” Egil adjusted himself in the saddle, leaning forward with a casual air as if discussing the weather rather than war.

“My scouts,” he began, his tone light but with a glint in his sharp eyes, “say these bastards march the whole day, long and hard.

Their plan?

Rest up at night so they can cover as much ground as possible and reach that village.

Smart, right?I mean for a idiot lord who does not understand that you can run day and night but footmen will never outpace cavalry” Sir Mereth’s stern expression didn’t change, but a flicker of curiosity crossed his face.

Egil continued, “Here’s the best part about this.

When they stop for the night?

They don’t bother with defenses.

No palisades, no trenches, nothing.

Just some half-nailed tents shoved into the dirt and a few sorry excuses for watchmen-if you can even call them that.

I suppose their men are tired after a full day of marching , too bothered to even dig a trench considering that in less than ten hours they will march again..” He smirked, his confidence radiating as he gestured lazily toward the horizon.

“It’s like they think since they don’t know our position , they think we don’t know theirs.

So here’s the play.

The night before they reach that village, we come out of the shadows and hit them hard-before they even have time to raise a sword.

We’ll make sure they’re too groggy, too scattered, to do anything but die in their tents.” He leaned back, his hands resting on the pommel of his saddle as if the battle was already won.

“It’ll be an easy victory,my good Sir” Egil said with a crooked smile, “for all of us.

No need for heroics, no need for losses.

Just one quick, clean strike, and this little army of theirs?

Gone before sunrise.And we will both be hailed as the commanders that fought an army two time their size without breaking a sweat” Sir Mereth finally broke his silence, his cold eyes narrowing as he spoke, his tone laced with quiet disdain.

“I expected no less from you, Egil.

A plan like this, crawling in the dark like thieves, striking when a man’s back is turned-this is no way to fight.

It’s dishonorable, unworthy of a knight.

We are bound by our values, by our oath to carry ourselves with honor in all things, even in war.” Egil’s grin faltered, the carefree amusement draining from his face like water from a cracked jar.

His sharp gaze locked onto Mereth, and his voice, once laced with mirth, now carried an edge.

“Disregard such a victory?

For our prince?

Over honor?

Tell me, Mereth, which matters more: the shining banner of your so-called knightly virtues or delivering our prince what he needs-a win?” Mereth stood firm, his jaw tight.

“Without honor, a knight is no better than a brigand.

The way we fight matters.

We cannot abandon our principles simply because it is convenient.” Egil’s tone dropped, his words slow and deliberate, like a blade unsheathed.

“Your values, Mereth, not mine.

I serve the prince.

That’s the only value I hold-to serve him to my utmost, to see that everyone of his need is met.

You’d do well to remember that.” He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, his voice lowering into a dangerous calm.

“Or is your devotion to your own image greater than your devotion to him?” Mereth’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands clenching the reins of his horse.

Egil tilted his head, his voice gaining a sharper edge.

“You think the prince cares if we march in shiny lines and fight on some noble field like you read about in ballads?

No.

He cares that we win.

He cares that we bring his enemies to heel, however it’s done.

And you should care about that too, Sir Mereth.The honor of our prince had been smeared at his marriage.

His own marriage!Where was the honor in that ?” Sir Mereth’s lip curled in contempt.

“I expected nothing more from a barbarian from the west.

Men like you wouldn’t understand the proper conduct of behaviour if it struck you across the face.” Egil’s face darkened even more.

He spat on the ground, his saliva hitting the dirt between them with a loud splat.

His voice was low, filled with the simmering heat of barely restrained fury.

“In any other situation, I’d pull my axe right now and split your skull open, you pompous little worm.

But I won’t-because my prince wouldn’t like it if I put down one of his knights, even one as spineless as you.” He leaned closer, his piercing eyes locking with Mereth’s, daring him to flinch.

“Listen carefully, you fool.

I’ll march with or without you, and when we crush that force, everyone will know the truth.

That Sir Mereth the Craven sat back like a frightened pup, clutching his precious code while real men fought and bled.” Egil straightened with a sharp jerk of the reins, his tone cutting like a blade.

“Your code?

It’s nothing but a leash to keep fools like you tame.

Don’t mistake it for something that binds me.

I answer to one code, and that’s my prince’s will.

Yours?

Yours means less to me than the dirt under my boots.” He wheeled his horse around in one swift motion, the movement sharp and commanding.

Turning his back on Mereth without a second thought, Egil added over his shoulder, “Stay here if you want, shine your armor, and wait for us to win your war for you, like your women at home.

Just don’t expect me to let anyone forget how you cowered while we fought and bled for the only thing that should matter for us….” With that, Egil rode off, his posture a picture of defiance, every muscle radiating contempt.

His men followed him, leaving Mereth alone in the dust, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins of his horse.

Egil tightened his grip on the reins, his horse snorting as if sensing the resolve of its rider.

“Those Herculian bastards thinks the darkness is when they can rest.

I’ll teach them that it’s where death waits.” They were not knights who fought by the light of day, announcing their banners and making grand speeches.

They were warriors who knew the value of cunning and the weight of true loyalty-to their prince and to each other.

Egil thought again of the ambush he had planned .

He smiled, a cruel and exagerated one as he wanted to let their enemy know , that now Yarzat was above their petty ambitions, and he would teach that lesson through blood.