Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 266

Chapter 266: End of a campaign Chapter 266: End of a campaign Alpheo and his companions stood outside the encampment made near the walls of Arduronaven, The prince’s dark hair was bound at the nape of his neck, and the breeze toyed with the loose strands that escaped the tie,as his eyes, scanned the horizon for signs of Egil’s approach.

His scouts had reported that his companion was near, and Alpheo was excited to see him once again, given the victory he had achieved in the field with the Golden steeds Behind him, the city of Arduronaven stood, now reluctantly settled under new rule.

A month ago, its walls had echoed the screams of the dying and the clash of steel.

The siege had left its mark: decomposing cadavers, and corners of the city where rubble had only recently been cleared.

Yet, for all its scars, the city now breathed anew.

The stench of death, once so thick that even hardened soldiers had gagged as they marched through the streets, had dissipated.

Alpheo had ordered the bodies burned and the rubble cleared, knowing that a city drowning in its own ruin could never be made whole again.

Now, a man could walk through Arduronaven without fearing that every breath might carry the sour reek of decay.

The people, too, had begun to emerge from their shuttered homes.

At first, they had been shadows, slipping from doorways only when absolutely necessary, their faces pale with fear and suspicion.

But hunger and the pressing need for survival had drawn them out.

Merchants had returned to their stalls, even if their wares were meager, and children, thin and wary, skulked near the marketplace.

Alpheo’s decree-that the people of Arduronaven would not be sold into slavery despite their resistance-had done more than any sword to settle the city.

It was not a purely merciful act, and Alpheo knew it.

A city emptied of its people was a corpse; its markets silent, its coffers barren.

Arduronaven would serve him better alive, its streets busy with trade and its fields tended by farmers who could pay taxes rather than ghosts haunting ruins.

”Got no use for them if they don’t produce anything for me ” he had said to lord Damaris when he proposed on slavery for the population A flicker on the horizon caught Alpheo’s attention, and he turned back toward the road.

A plume of dust rose against the darkening sky, the unmistakable sign of riders approaching.

Egil was coming.

 As they drew closer, the light caught the polished bronze of their bridles and the shimmering armor of the golden steeds following behind them.

The horses, a prize as much as any coin, moved with a grace that matched the ease of their riders.

Egil rode at the forefront, his silhouette tall and commanding despite the casual slouch in his saddle.

His chainmail was marked with the dust of countless raids, and his hair, windswept and streaked with sun-bleached highlights, framed a face split by an easy grin.  As they entered the camp, Egil slowed his mount, his sharp eyes picking out Alpheo waiting just beyond the tents.

Egil dismounted with practiced ease, his boots kicking up a small cloud of dirt as he landed.

With a quick pat to his horse’s flank, he strode toward his friend, his arms swinging loosely at his sides.

“Your grace!” Egil called, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the camp.

“Looking as regal as ever, my liege!” His tone was teasing, but the warmth in his words was genuine.

Alpheo, smaller in frame yet no less commanding, stepped forward to meet him after dismounting .

His dark hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, stirred in the breeze as he extended a hand.

Egil clasped it with both of his own, pulling Alpheo into a brief but firm embrace.

“Egil,” Alpheo said, a rare smile touching his lips.

“It’s good to see you’ve made it back in one piece.

I hear you’ve been having… fun.” “Fun?” Egil echoed, stepping back and crossing his arms with a mock-serious expression.

“If you call chasing a bunch of farmhands with pitchforks across half the countryside fun, then yes.

Pure, unadulterated joy.” He grinned again, his teeth flashing in the fading light.

“Though I admit, torching those last few idiots they sent after us .

And watching them scatter like ants?

Pure happiness..” Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head.

“Insolent as always.

But in all seriousness, your victory over that expedition was well-fought.

You’ve done me proud.” Egil’s grin softened, and he tilted his head slightly, studying his friend.

“It was nothing.

A few well-placed torches, a little chaos, and voilà.

They didn’t stand a chance.

Though,” he added with a sly smirk, “if you insist on heaping praise on me, I won’t stop you.” “I’ll heap praise where it’s due,” Alpheo replied evenly, though his tone held a note of amusement.

“And it’s well due, Egil.

You’ve done more than I could have asked.” Egil waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes twinkled with satisfaction.

“Anything for you, old friend.

Though, if I may be blunt, I could use a proper meal.

And maybe a cup or two of whatever wine you’ve been hoarding.

All that victory can really work up a thirst.” As Egil and Alpheo continued their conversation , Sir Mereth emerged from a cluster of soldiers.

Bowing low before Alpheo, Mereth said, “Your Grace,” his voice steady, ” Alpheo gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, his dark eyes momentarily sweeping over the camp before returning to Mereth.

“My dear knight, I must thank you too for your great victory, you have honored all of Yarzat with your feats” ”I thank you , your grace ” as he said so Mereth straightened and shifted his gaze to Egil, an eyebrow lifting in faint reproach.

“Sir Egil,” he said dryly, “you didn’t forget something, did you?” Egil’s grin widened as if suddenly remembering a delightful secret.

“Ah, you’re right, Sir Mereth!

It nearly slipped my mind.” With a theatrical gesture, he turned and called over his shoulder, “Bring the lord forward!” Two of Egil’s riders led a man forward, his wrists bound with rough cord.

The prisoner dismounted awkwardly, his face shadowed with exhaustion and indignation.

Lord Cretio’s once fine clothes were torn and dust-streaked, though his bearing still carried a shred of dignity.

Alpheo approached, his movements measured and deliberate, as his gaze fixed on the captured noble.

Cretio met his stare, his chin lifting slightly despite his predicament.

“I trust you were well-treated, Lord Cretio?” Alpheo asked Cretio’s lip curled in distaste as he answered, “Your men’s lodgings leave much to be desired, Your Grace.

Awful, to be blunt.” Alpheo’s expression softened with a hint of amusement.

“Ah, yes.

You have the misfortune of being captured by Egil.

I’m afraid he’s not renowned for his stock of fine silks or feather beds.” He turned his head slightly, casting Egil a mock-chiding look.

Egil shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance “What can I say?

My hospitality is…

efficient.” Alpheo returned his attention to Cretio, inclining his head.

“But you are my guest now, and I see to my guests properly.

Sir Mereth,” he said, raising his voice slightly, “have his bonds removed.” The cords binding Cretio’s wrists were cut away, and the nobleman flexed his hands.

Turning to the boy who had been standing quietly nearby, Alpheo addressed him.

“Ratto, would you be so kind as to prepare a bath for our tired lord?

Ensure it’s hot and that he has clean clothes to change into.

A man must recover his dignity, even here.” Ratto nodded eagerly, his young face lighting up with determination.

“At once, Your Grace!” He darted off, a blur of youthful energy.

Cretio looked taken aback by the sudden civility, though he quickly recovered.

Bowing stiffly, he said, “You are most gracious, Your Grace.

My thanks for your consideration.”  As he disappeared into the camp, Alpheo turned back to Egil, the faintest flicker of a smirk on his face.

“You didn’t mistreat him too much, I hope?” Egil scoffed, his grin unapologetic.

“Me?

Never.

I even gave him the best fur to sleep on…” ———————- Inside the spacious war tent, the atmosphere buzzed with a rare sense of camaraderie and triumph.

Lords and commanders from the campaign lounged around the central table, which was strewn with maps, and goblets of wine.

The faint, earthy scent of wax candles mixed with the sharper tang of ink and parchment, as men discussed the details of their victories with animated gestures and booming laughter.

 The mood was undeniably buoyant-why wouldn’t it be?

The campaign had yielded more success than they could have hoped for.

Two towns conquered, their enemy humiliated, and the army’s momentum was undeniable.

Alpheo, seated at the head of the table, watched the revelry quietly.

He leaned back slightly, his slim frame blending into the shadows cast by the tent’s central pole.

He had listened to the talk, allowing his commanders their moment of celebration, but now it was time to focus their energies.

He raised a hand to his mouth and coughed-not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation.

The effect was immediate.

Heads turned toward him, laughter dwindling into silence as the lords and knights straightened in their chairs or shifted their stances.

Even Egil, leaning casually against a wooden post, tipped his head in curiosity.

“My noble lords and valiant knights, for more than a decade, the man who dares to call himself Prince of Herculia has mocked us with impunity, extending his filthy hand toward lands and honors that are not his to claim.

Twelve years ago, the lord of Arduronaven betrayed his oaths and rebelled against his rightful liege.

When he was defeated, rather than face justice, he crawled to the Herculians, and they, as dishonorable and greedy as ever, shielded this criminal under their so-called protection.

One year ago, when the vile uncle of Her Grace conspired to usurp the throne-a treachery mercifully quelled before it could fester further-the Herculians once again showed their true nature.

They sought to exploit our turmoil, attempting to seize Yarzat lands under the pretense of extending their ‘protection’ to Lady Elyra, widow of that traitor lord.

Their scheme, like so many before it, was thwarted, but their audacity remains seared into our memory.

Yet their insolence did not end there.

During the sacred ceremony of my marriage to Her Grace, they dared to send an insult so vile, that it could not be ignored.

Prince Lechlian’s affront on that joyous occasion was a stain he thought would linger without consequence.

But on that very night, before the assembled nobles and gods alike, I swore an oath that his insult would be repaid-repaid not with words, but with blood.

And now, my lords, look to what we have accomplished in but two short months.

His once-proud armies now lie beneath the earth, their corpses a feast for the ravens.

The turn-cloak lord he harbored for so long has been struck down, his treachery extinguished by our might.

Arduronaven, once a bastion of his influence, now stands under our control.

The lands Lechlian called his own are blackened and broken, reduced to ashes through steel and flame.

His people scatter like leaves before a storm, their faith in him shattered.

So I ask you now, my lords,” Alpheo’s voice lowered, the fire in his eyes unrelenting, “have I not made good on my oath?

Has the insult not been avenged?

Speak, for the evidence lies all around us.” The tent erupted into a cacophony of cheers and shouts, the lords and knights pounding the wooden tables with their fists or raising their goblets high in a gesture of triumph.

The air crackled with jubilation as the weight of their victories over Herculia seemed to lift every spirit.  He raised his hand, signaling for quiet.

Gradually, the raucous celebration subsided, the lords and knights turning their expectant gazes toward their liege.

The prince-consort’s dark hair caught the light of the torches flickering around the tent, and his eyes glimmered with both resolve and satisfaction.

“My lords,” he began, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the lingering murmurs, “our banners have flown triumphant across these lands.

Our swords have brought justice to those who dared defy us.

But every victory, as you well know, is but a step in a longer journey.” The room quieted further, anticipation thick in the air.

Alpheo allowed a moment for his words to settle before continuing, his tone measured but resolute.

“For now, we shall return home.

Our men deserve rest, our coffers need replenishment, and our people must see their protectors riding back in triumph.

We have bloodied Herculia and humbled their prince, but the work is not yet finished.” He paused, his eyes scanning the faces before him, ensuring he had their full attention.

“Once we are ready-once our strength has been renewed and our plans laid-we shall return here to finish what we started.

Herculia’s day of reckoning is far from over.For while our enemies will only get weaker from now on, for they will be facing famine and unrest , we shall instead do the opposite…as when we will come back we will be stronger than we ever been.”