Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 322

Chapter 322: Heir of a falling country(2) Chapter 322: Heir of a falling country(2) From the information extracted from the captured men, Arnold was informed that there were in total seven bands of men, scattered across the region that had been in secret communication, coordinating their attacks and sharing critical intelligence about the prince’s forces.  Led by the rebel to the location he had described, the prince’s forces moved under the cover of darkness, encircling the final camp nestled deep within the forest.

At dawn’s first light, the attack began.

The surprise was total.

Confusion erupted among the rebels as horns blared and the prince’s soldiers surged forward.

Men stumbled from their tents, half-dressed and disoriented, scrambling to arm themselves.

But it was futile.

With the entire camp surrounded, there was no escape.

Those who tried to fight, those few that even tried, were quickly overpowered in the chaos, while most abandoned their weapons and fled, as it was said however they were sorrounded and if they managed to escape the infantry the cavalry was waiting for them.

Within less than an hour, the camp was silent,except of course from the moans of pain and the cry of women and children that were to be sold away, the hub of rebellion reduced to a field of broken tents, scattered weapons, and subdued captives.

Arnold strode through the wreckage, his gaze scanning the scene with grim satisfaction.

The rebellion in this region was over.Half his work was finally down .

Men strode through the remnants of the last rebel camp, their boots crunching on bloodied earth as they moved among the bodies sprawled across the ground.

The air was thick with the stench of death, mingling with the faint cries of the wounded who had yet to succumb to their injuries.

A soldier kicked at a lifeless form, his expression cold and calculating.

When the body flinched, he wasted no time, driving his spear down hard into the man’s back.

The muted gasp and final twitch of the rebel confirmed his work, and he moved on without a second thought by yanking the spear free Nearby, another soldier spotted a rebel desperately crawling away, his face smeared with mud and blood.

The soldier chuckled darkly, striding over to the pitiful sight.

With a swift kick, he flipped the man onto his back, exposing his terrified, pleading face.

he saw that the men was too wounded and would have no value as a slave , so he spared him the pain of that .

The rebel’s voice broke as he begged for mercy, his hands trembling in the air.

The soldier silenced him with a single, brutal thrust of his spear into the man’s chest.

Blood gurgled from the rebel’s lips as he stilled.

In the heart of the camp, if a man was not killing another then he was raping a woman .

A group of soldiers had seized several women, their cries of protest and fear ignored as they were dragged toward the tents.

The chaos of victory had devolved into something far darker, and the remaining rebels whose wives were being dragged , were either in rope unable to intervene -or too dead to care.

The general that led the army to victory, Arnold, however, had already distanced himself from the carnage.

He rode back to his main camp at the forest’s edge as soon as the battle was over.

From his vantage, the prince considered the campaign complete, leaving the cleanup to his men and his thoughts fixed on the next challenge which was to now deal with the western part of the rebellion.  The prince’s heir pushed aside the heavy canvas flap of his tent and stepped inside, his armored boots clinking against the wooden planks hastily laid out for a semblance of comfort.

Behind him, Lord Cretio followed with a steady gait.

The older man had been a steadfast supporter of Arnold since he was a kid -a bond made firmer by the union of their two families through Arnold’s betrothal to Cretio’s daughter.

Blood now linked their fortunes, making Cretio’s loyalty to the prince’s heir both personal and political.After all his grandchildren would inherit the throne  As soon as they were inside Cretio wasted no time, clasping his hands behind his back as he offered a slight bow.

“Another feather in your cap, my prince.

The rebels fall like leaves in autumn under your blade.

Soon, this forest of discontent will be cleared.” Arnold let out a dry laugh as he dropped into the chair by the map, tossing his gauntlets onto the table with a clatter.

“A feather in my cap, is it?

More like dust on my boots.

Let’s not dress it up, Cretio.

We’re slaughtering men too weak to hold a proper spear and too hungry to stand their ground.” “Victory is still victory, my lord,” Cretio replied smoothly, stepping closer to the table.

“It is not the strength of the vanquished that matters, but the steadiness of the victor.

The nobles will sing your praises regardless.

We’re in hard times, and your success-no matter how achieved-shines brighter because of it and honestly I believe the state should hold on any victory they can get in this hard time.” Arnold shook his head, rubbing his temple with one hand.

“Spare me the gilded words.

You and I both know there’s no glory here.

These peasants are half-beaten before we reach them.

Killing desperate men is hardly the stuff of bard’s tales.” Cretio tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

“Bard’s tales are written by those who pay the bards.

If fame cannot be found in the field, than it can be in the hand that restores order in chaos.

That is a tale worth spinning, wouldn’t you say?” The prince leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily.

“Order in chaos,” he echoed, the weight of it evident in his tone.

“We’ll see about that once the last of these fools are dealt with.

Until then, this so-called victory is just another slog through the mire.

We’re not out of the woods yet.” Arnold leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table as his gaze bore into the map spread out before him.

His fingers traced absent patterns across the stained parchment, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Even if we put this rebellion to bed,” he began, his tone low and edged with bitterness, “there’s still the hound on our west, greedy for blood and waiting for his chance.” Lord Cretio shifted slightly but said nothing, sensing the weight behind the prince’s words.

Arnold continued, his voice growing colder.

“My father couldn’t put it down with a rod when he had one in hand.

And now?

Now, with nothing more than a stick to defend ourselves, all we can do is cower behind high walls and pray Yarzat doesn’t come howling at our gates.Worse that foolish father of mine, did not even send a man to ask , or better yet beg for a truce, a man should not yield to a dog, he says as Yarzat sinks his teeth to our throat” His fist clenched as he spat the words, the veins on his temple briefly visible.

“And why?

Because my father couldn’t keep himself from insulting the so-called fox.

Making a fool of him during his own marriage, no less.

So now we reap the rewards of that folly.

Yarzat is no friend to us, and who can blame him for wanting vengeance when the only dowry he got was humiliation?Worse he is winning which means that unless we cut ourselves a leg and an arm, he will not even ponder about coming to the negotiating table with us,, always if my father eyes aren’t cleaned from all the shit he threw in…any silver lining to say my lord?” For a small moment he said nothing.

“There are times, when even the sweetest words cannot mask the bitterness of reality,” he finally said, his voice quiet feeling that even in victory there was no joy to be found and feeling like the young man in front of him needed a break more than anything .

Arnold gave a dry, humorless laugh.

“That’s the first honest thing I’ve heard in days.” He sat back in his chair, exhaling heavily as he brought his hands to his face, showin a side of him that he only dared show to the one he trusted most.  The display of self-loathing Arnold was giving was interrupted by a firm voice just beyond the tent’s entrance.

“Your Highness,” the voice called, sharp and formal.

“A messenger has arrived from the court.

He bears a letter from His Grace, the prince.” Arnold exchanged a glance with Lord Cretio, the faint flicker of unease passing between them unspoken.

Straightening his posture, Arnold replied, his voice steady and authoritative, “Send him in.” The flap of the tent was pulled aside, and a man entered, his face shadowed by the dim light within.

His travel-worn clothing and mud-splattered boots hinted at a hard journey.

He immediately bowed low, holding the posture for a respectful moment before rising and stepping forward.

In his gloved hands was a sealed letter, the wax bearing the unmistakable crest of the prince.

With a measured step, he extended the letter toward Arnold, his head slightly bowed as he spoke.

“Your Highness, I bring word from His Grace, your father.

He instructed me to deliver this with all haste.” Arnold leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as they fixed on the letter.

He took it with deliberate care, breaking the seal with his thumb.

The faint crack of the wax seemed to echo in the charged silence of the tent.

Arnold broke the seal with a practiced motion, unfolding the letter with a faint crackle of parchment.

His eyes skimmed the lines, his expression tightening with each passing word.

By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, he let out a slow exhale and closed his eyes.

More bad news apparently.

Lowering the letter, he turned toward Lord Cretio, extending it with a steady hand.

His voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency.

“The rebels have taken the fortresses of Kiryo and Srits.” Cretio’s face darkened as he accepted the letter, his lips tightening as he read it for himself.

Arnold rose from his seat, his movements sharp with purpose.

“Please inform the officers,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

“We march west at first light.

This cannot be allowed to stand.” Cretio gave a solemn nod, his jaw set with grim resolve.

“I’ll see to it at once, Your Highness.” Arnold turned away, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the tent’s canvas walls, the fire in his chest reigniting with the resolve to crush this rebellion once and for all.