Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 265

Chapter 265: Aftermath Chapter 265: Aftermath The following day, the remnants of the enemy camp lay only as a haze of smoke and ash.

The charred remains of tents and the scattered bodies of the night’s carnage were the only thing proof that an army was camped there .

Among the chaos, prisoners sat bound on the ground, their heads bowed in exhaustion and humiliation, guarded by Egil’s victorious men.

Two soldiers stood near the prisoners, speaking in hushed, disgruntled tones.

One of them, a stocky man with a missing tooth, gnawed on a chicken leg with visible frustration.

“What kind of army is this?” he muttered, his voice thick with derision.

“I thought we’d at least find some proper loot.

Hell, even decent boots.

But no, nothing but tatters ” His companion, taller and wiry with a crooked nose, snorted.

“Maybe their prince spent it all on the armor they ran out of at the last battle.

Look at ’em,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward the huddled prisoners.

“More like beggars than soldiers.

Pitiful lot.” The stocky man finished his chicken leg with a loud bite and regarded the prisoners with a sneer.

A particularly ragged one caught his eye, slumped against a piece of fallen canvas.

“Hey, you,” he barked, his voice dripping with contempt.

“Why are you lot so bloody poor, huh?

Some army.

Can’t even afford a proper plundering.” With a cruel smirk, he tossed the bone with a flick of his wrist, sending it arcing through the air to strike the prisoner squarely on his head.

“Word’s in anyway,” he continued “Egil says we’ll meet up with the rest of the army soon enough.

Guess that’s that for our little side adventure….” His lean companion leaned against a shattered post, tilting his head.

“Hmph.

Fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?

There’s something about sneaking up in the night, burning tents, and watching those bastards run like headless chickens that I’ll miss.” The burly man barked a laugh, tossing the remains of another small chicken leg toward the prisoners.

The bone clattered against a bound man’s head, drawing a muffled grunt of pain.

“Aye.

But at least we didn’t leave empty-handed, eh?” He nodded toward a group of women huddled together under heavy guard.

“Looks like some of us chose ourselves wives for when we return home.” “Maybe it’s for the better,” he grunted, eyeing the prisoners with disdain.

“Sure, taking women and eating meat is fun, but these villages?

They’re too poor for us to get much out of them.

Barely worth the trouble.” His companion, leaning lazily on his spear, nodded in agreement.

“You’re not wrong.

At this point, I wouldn’t mind heading back , spending what little we’ve managed to scrape together.

Enough of this chasing shadows and raiding ash heaps.” The first soldier sighed, rubbing his neck.

“Aye.

Don’t know how Egil gets a kick out of this.

It’s not like we’re lining our pockets with gold.

Half the time, we’re just chasing starving farmers.” The second soldier chuckled darkly.

“That’s our commander for you.

He fights for the thrill of it, not for the spoils.

Us?

I’d rather fight for something shinier than smoked pigs and empty granaries.”As he said so he turned his head “You reckon what’s gonna happen to them?” He gestured with another half-eaten leg toward the bound prisoners, their heads bowed low, shoulders slumped in despair.

 “No idea.

Egil said to bind ’em up, not to kill ’em.

Maybe they’re keeping them for a trade-might be some slave merchant looking to buy cheap bodies.

Could fetch a few coins for the effort.” The words hit the prisoners like a lightning bolt, their eyes widening in alarm as muffled gasps and shuffling echoed through their huddled ranks.

The burly soldier noticed, snorted, and laughed around a mouthful of chicken.

“Hah!

Look at that-seems like they don’t like the idea of being sold.” The lanky man tossed the grin back on his face but shook his head.

“You think so?

Well, after the last big fight, His Grace refused to sell any captives.Makes you wonder, though…

maybe he just planning to work them to death instead?

Maybe in some mines?You heard that boys!Maybe you will simply work to death few kilometers from your old home…” He spat onto the ashen ground, the glob landing inches from a prisoner’s foot.

“Either way, it’s not our business.

We’re not the ones hauling their sorry hides around.

I say let Egil and the higher-ups figure it out.” ————— Egil sat cross-legged on the ground of his modest tent, his relaxed demeanor at odds with the tension in the air.

The dim glow of a single lantern illuminated the sparse interior: a bedroll in one corner, his axe resting against the central pole, and a simple wooden tray holding a jug of wine and two cups.

Across from him, Lord Cretio knelt on a small, thin cushion, his back stiff and his expression one of barely restrained fury.

The awkward position of being made to kneel like a supplicant was clearly uncomfortable for the proud noble.

Egil leaned back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow as he regarded Cretio with an amused smile.

“So, my lord,” he began lazily, “how much do you reckon your family can pay to see you free again?

I’m sure they’ll miss you.” Cretio’s jaw tightened, and he spat out his response.

“You’re honorless scum.

A thief and a savage.

Speak of ransom all you like;I do not treat with the likes of you.” Egil sighed heavily, as though disappointed by the lack of creativity in the insult.

He leaned forward, his tone sharpening slightly.

“Honor this, honor that-do you know how dull it gets hearing the same tired lines from your lot?

You think you’re better than me because you prance around in gilded armor and talk fancy, but here you are, on your knees, in my tent.

Defeated, without army and without weapon.

In my tribe if a man suffered such a loss, he would have his head trampled by horses.” Cretio daggers at him, but Egil waved a dismissive hand.

“Spare me the theatrics.

I’ll ask again: how much is your family willing to pay?Or you think your sons would want it better for their father to remain as prisoner?Impatience to get hand on a inheritance is a rarely good of a counsel…” The prisoner glanced around the sparse interior, his lip curling in distaste at the lack of furniture or any semblance of comfort.

Turning his attention to Sir Mereth, who leaned against a tent pole, he barked, “I was promised good treatment, yet here I kneel like a slave.

Is this how you honor your word?” Before Mereth could reply, Egil froze at the accusation, tilting his head in confusion.

“What in the hell are you yammering about?” he said, his tone carrying more irritation than concern.

“Do you see a chair anywhere in my tent?

A bed of silk, maybe?

No?

Then quit whining.

You’re sitting as I do, prisoner or no.This is my private tent…” Cretio’s brows furrowed as he looked around again, as if trying to find some overlooked sign of refinement.

“Are you truly a commander?” he asked, incredulity laced in his tone.

“You live like…

like this?My slaves lives better than this” He gestured vaguely at the bare tent, his disdain clear.

Egil chuckled, a deep, mocking sound.

“A man needs two things,” he said, holding up two fingers for emphasis.

“A weapon and a horse.

The rest?

It only weighs you down.

Makes you soft.

What you see here, lordling, is how a warrior should live.” Cretio’s mouth opened to retort, but Egil cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“Now, unless you’re itching to start composing poetry about your hardships, you’ve got two options.

Either you write to your family and let them know of your…

situation, or you keep that mouth of yours shut and prepare to follow us.” “Follow you?”.

Egil leaned forward in his saddle, the sharp glint in his eyes both amused and predatory.

“Ah, yes.

We’ll soon be rejoining his grace, the prince,” he said with deliberate slowness, his voice laced with mock reverence.

“And you, my dear Lord , will have the singular honor of being presented as the crown jewel of our victory-your defeat, a token of my regard, oh I am sorry our regard.” He said giving an apologetic look at Sir Mereth After that he paused, rolling his shoulders as if loosening them after a tiresome chore.

“You see, for the past month, we’ve been leisurely touring your lands-burning villages, scattering the weak, putting your prince’s subjects to the sword.

But alas, the time for such distractions is over.

We’ll soon return to his grace, and I must admit, I’m eager.

You see, he has this rare gift-leading men forward with nothing but the force of his charm.

It’s something you wouldn’t understand, naturally, having someone to give your earnest, everything you are, have and will ever have.Someone that you care more than you do for yourself.” Cretio’s lips curled into a faint sneer, his voice cold and cutting.

“I would rather face the noose than debase myself before the so-called prince you serve-a lowborn pretender propped up by traitors and cutthroats, who forsake the fact that he was the one that killed their previous liege.

And you, Sir Egil, are no better-a barbarian masquerading as a knight.

How fitting that such a rabble calls him their lord.” The air between them grew taut, charged with tension.

Sir Mereth, standing nearby, glowered at Cretio, his hand instinctively brushing the pommel of his sword.

“You’d do well to hold your to-” Without a word Egil stepped forward and backhanded Cretio across the face.

The crack of the blow echoed in the air, and Cretio staggered under its force, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Egil didn’t stop there.

He struck him again, harder this time, sending the nobleman sprawling to the ground.

The force of the blow left Cretio gasping for air, his expression dark with humiliation and anger.

Egil stood over him, his shadow long and ominous.

“You’d best learn when to speak and when to keep your mouth shut, my lord,” Egil growled, his voice low but brimming with menace.

“You may insult me at your leasure, but do not ever pretend to have the worth to do that to his grace.

This is my kindness.

The next time you insult his grace, I’ll forget my manners entirely, I shall cut off your tongue with a hot knife, and then extend my apology to his grace, for having damaged what he now owns.” The tent was heavy with silence, the kind that seemed to press down on the chest and choke the air.

Egil stood mere centimeters from the captured Lord Cretio, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, thumb brushing the ornate handle in idle, deliberate motions.

His gaze bore into the captured man, unblinking and as sharp as a blade itself.

Sir Mereth, standing a few steps back, tensed “Egil,” he finally said, his voice carefully measured, but even he could hear the faint tremor of unease within it.

“You’ve made your point.

The man’s your prisoner, not your quarry.” Egil didn’t respond at first.

His expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed on Cretio as if weighing a thousand invisible scales in his mind.

Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, a low, rumbling sound that broke the silence like distant thunder.

He straightened, his hand slipping away from the dagger.