Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 321

Chapter 321: Heir of a failing country(1) Chapter 321: Heir of a failing country(1) Prince Arnold walked through the sprawling camp, his boots kicking up dust as he surveyed the scene.

The clinking of armor and the low murmur of men at rest filled the air, interrupted only by the occasional crack of a whip on a prisoner or the bark of an officer.

His gaze drifted to the rows of cages where captured rebels sat bound in ropes, their faces grimy and hollow with defeat.

Some glared defiantly at their captors, their fury undimmed even in chains, while others sat slumped and silent, their spirits broken.

The stench of sweat, blood, piss , and despair hung heavy in the air.

Arnold’s jaw tightened as he passed, watching as a soldier tested the strength of the bindings on one cage.

These men were to be sold into slavery-punishment for their rebellion and also a reward for the prince to keep everything afloat in the chaos.

In the last two weeks, Arnold had led his forces to five decisive victories against bands of rebels, scattering or capturing up to 1,000 of them in total .

The fights had been short-lived, given that most of time a charge and a pincer attack was all it took to break them.

Few could withstand the charge of knights after all.

With each victory, his reputation grew.

Word of his successes would reach the courts, bolstering his image .

For a moment, a small measure of pride swelled in his chest.

More troubling still was the looming shadow of the Prince of Yarzat.

Arnold stopped near the edge of the camp, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the horizon.

Yarzat’s forces had been relatively quiet during these skirmishes, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they struck.

August was approaching, and with it, the harvest season-a time that often marked the beginning of new campaigns.

Arnold’s mind churned with the possibilities.

The Yarzat prince was ambitious and cunning, no one could deny that, and his forces were far better supplied than his own.

Worse, their realm’s relative stability meant that the other princes would nost stay put and could launch attacks from multiple fronts, exploiting the weakened state of Herculia.

His hand unconsciously went to the hilt of his sword as he thought about the precariousness of their position, the more he thought the worse it became.  Arnold ducked under the canvas flap of the tent.

The metallic tang of blood hit his nostrils immediately, mingling with the stale stench of sweat.

In the center of the space, a man hung from a pole, his wrists bound tightly to it with coarse rope.

His head lolled forward, dark hair matted with dried blood, obscuring a face marred by brutality.

The man’s hands were a grotesque sight-raw stumps where fingernails should have been, the skin red and cracked, flecked with dirt and dried blood.

His feet fared no better; the toes were missing entirely, leaving only uneven scars and oozing wounds that glistened in the flickering light of a nearby lantern.

His mouth was a black void, devoid of teeth, his swollen lips crusted with blood, split in multiple places.

Arnold’s eyes scanned the rest of the man’s body, noting the myriad of bruises and cuts that painted his skin like some macabre artwork.

The prisoner’s chest rose and fell shallowly, each breath a rasping, labored sound that filled the silence of the tent, betraying that despite everything he still lived .

His clothes-or what remained of them-hung in tatters, stained with grime and blood, barely covering his starved frame.

Arnold adjusted himself on the stool provided for him by some servants, his sharp eyes studying the broken figure before him.

Despite the man’s grotesque state-nails ripped away, toes missing, his mouth a bloody void-the rebel still refused to speak.

For a fleeting moment, Arnold felt an odd pang of respect for the defiance the man clung to, even in the face of unrelenting pain.

Arnold knew well enough that he, in such a state, might have sung like a bird long before this point.He wasn’t ashamed to admit that, he after all knew very well his limitation “You know,” Arnold began as he addressed the man, “it was quite the revelation to learn the rebel bands weren’t as disorganized as we’d thought.

Who could have guessed you were exchanging reports on our logistics and troop movements?

Clever, I’ll give you that.

More than a few carts and men fell prey to your ambushes.

Those first weeks were…

costly.I bet you had your fun, didn’t you?” He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping an octave as if speaking to an old acquaintance.

“And then, when we finally managed to drag you out of that hole you’d crawled into, I thought we’d uncovered the prize of all prizes.

A chance to break this network of yours apart once and for all.” The rebel said nothing.

His head lolled forward slightly, a viscous line of bloody saliva trailing from his mouth to his chest.

Arnold tilted his head, a flicker of impatience darting through his otherwise calm demeanor.

He wasn’t even sure if the man was fully conscious.

“Four days,” Arnold continued, leaning back now, his tone sharpening.

“Four days since we started this game.

And through it all, you haven’t whispered a single thing-except for one strange request: to speak with me.” He smirked faintly, shaking his head.

“At first, I laughed.

A rebel, demanding an audience with the prince’s heir while he’s being…

persuaded.

I dismissed the idea outright.

I figured you’d change your mind by nightfall, spill everything to save what was left of yourself.

But no.

Here you are, still holding on to whatever stubborn pride or cause that drives you.” Arnold gestured vaguely toward the man’s mangled form.

“I’ll admit, for a peasant, a rebel at that, it’s…

impressive.

Few men could endure what you’ve taken.I have never met anyone like you” Arnold’s voice turned colder, the edge of admiration replaced by calculation.

“Well, here I am.

You wanted to see me.

Speak, then.

Tell me-where is the last camp?Did you simply want a fairer ear to hear your informations?Or you want a deal?” The rebel slowly lifted his head, his swollen, bloodied eyes locking onto Arnold with a look that defied his broken body.

His lips moved, trembling as he struggled to form words without teeth, his voice a garbled rasp.

“You…

already know…

where it is,” the man wheezed, his voice slurred and wet, as if every word was dragged from some cavernous depth within him.

“I’ll…

tell you…

everything…

but…” He paused, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

“I ask…

one thing.” Arnold arched a brow, his tone sharp and authoritative.

“You tell me, and I’ll let you live.” The rebel let out a choking laugh, a grim, hollow sound that echoed in the tent.

His head tilted to the side, a faint grin curling his cracked lips.

“Live?” he slurred, spitting out a wad of bloody saliva onto the dirt floor.

“No…

matter what…

I’m dead.

Can…

smell it…

already.

Meat…

rotting…can feel myself dying…

” Arnold’s jaw tightened, his patience fraying.

“Then what is it you want?

Speak clearly, and I’ll consider it.” The man coughed, his body convulsing with the effort.

His voice broke into something faintly resembling a plea, yet his gaze remained steady.

“A wife…

two sons,” he said, each word a struggle, but his tone resolute.

“They’re…

captured.

Only reason…

you got me…

is I failed…

to save them.” Arnold leaned in, his piercing gaze studying the man.

The rebel’s words were heavy with desperation and love, the kind of love that burned so brightly it survived even this hellish torment.

Arnold remained silent, letting the man continue.

“You want…

the last camp?” the rebel wheezed.

“Fine.

I’ll…

tell you…

every…

damned thing.

But…

they live.

Let…

them live.” Arnold straightened, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he considered the man’s demand.

He gave a short nod.

“Agreed.

Tell me where the camp is, and I’ll spare them.” The rebel laughed again, a broken, gurgling sound.

“Not…

so soon,” he said, his words slurred but his defiance unmistakable.

“The moment…

I speak…

they’re dead.

Not…

until…

you swear.” Arnold’s eyes narrowed.

“Swear?

On what?” The rebel raised his gaze to Arnold, his bloodied lips moving with deliberate slowness.

“By the gods.

Swear…

by them.

Swear…

you’ll let…

them live.” Arnold’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his eyes locked onto the rebel’s face.

After a moment of tense silence, he nodded.

“By the gods, I swear.

Your wife and sons will live.

” The rebel raised his head slightly, his gaze unwavering despite the broken state of his body.

His voice, though slurred, carried a clear demand.

“As…

free people,” he rasped, his tone steady and unyielding.

Arnold nodded, his voice firm.

“As free people,” he affirmed, his words resonating with the weight of the oath he had sworn.

For a few long moments, the rebel held Arnold’s gaze, searching his eyes as though seeking any crack in the prince’s resolve.

Finally, he seemed satisfied, his bloodied lips parting as he began to speak.

“They hide…

in the forest. I can…

take you…

there.

But…” He paused, taking a labored breath.

“My sons…

need horses.

And…

silver.

Enough…

to get away.Please….” Arnold’s expression softened just slightly, normally he would have refused but such sight made him do the opposite, perhaps it was the fact that he was a father who under untold pain simply wanted the best for his family, or perhaps it was his respect for the man “Agreed,” he said truthfully, turning to one of his knights.

“Bring a physician.

Have his wounds treated.

At first light tomorrow, we depart.” He looked back at the rebel.

“Once you’re strong enough to stand, you’ll lead us to your family.” The rebel let out a weak chuckle, coughing through the sound.

“No…

need…

to wait,” he said, his tone laced with determination.

“Can point you…

now.

” Arnold arched an eyebrow, his respect for the man growing despite himself.

He gestured toward the exit of the tent.

“Very well.

Go ahead, then.

Show us.” The rebel nodded faintly, his body trembling with the effort, but his resolve shining through.

The soldiers around him exchanged wary glances, but Arnold motioned for them to follow.

“Get him up,” Arnold commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Two soldiers moved forward to untie the man from the pole, careful not to aggravate his injuries further.

The rebel staggered, leaning heavily on the men, but his bloodshot eyes remained focused as he prepared to fulfill his end as the Judas of the rebel, with the only difference that what he wanted was not silver but the well-being of his family.