Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 460

Chapter 460: Ruined plans Chapter 460: Ruined plans The war room of the royal palace in Yarzat was a chamber built for for war-planning, not grandeur, as such there were no decoration except the lone presence of a royal banner atop one of the stone wall.  At the heart of the room stood a great table, its polished surface nearly hidden beneath a collection of maps, scattered notes, and wooden figures marking key positions.

One map in particular held Alpheo’s attention-the most recent and detailed depiction of the borders with Herculia, the princedom that had been his enemy just last spring.

It was a product of careful scouting and precise cartography, compiled under his orders after the campaign’s success, as he found out much to his dislike just how ineffective were the maps they had in previous store, something that he quickly ractified.

Around the table stood the trusted men who had fought by his side-Egil, Jarza, and Asag, commanders of the White Army, the feared Black Stripes.  Egil leaned lazily over the table, one hand gripping the edge while the other resting on his hip.

His eyes danced across the map, but whether he studied it or merely observed what he regarded as the newest toy of Alpheo was unknown.  Jarza stood firm, arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark gaze scanning the maps with quiet intensity, as whatever Egil lacked in planning was instead picked up by him.

Asag was as silent as ever, standing slightly behind the others, his scarred face half-lit by the candlelight.

The only man in the room who was not part of the White Army was lord Shahab.

Alpheo had come to trust him deeply, especially in latter moths when, during Jasmine’s pregnancy the burden of court politics had rested squarely on his shoulders.As he found in him a good source of counsel.

Alpheo’s finger pressed firmly against the map, right over the city of Herculia-the heart of the princedom they had so thoroughly crushed.

His voice, steady and deliberate, filled the war room.

“The last campaign gave us everything we could have wanted,” he began, his gaze sweeping over the men gathered.

“Politically and militarily, the gains were fantastic.

Lechlian’s armies and resources were either burned to the ground or taken for our own.

His standing with his lords?

At an all-time low.

We put Vroghios the turncloak’s head on a pike and even convinced Bricaterun’s lord to renounce his oaths to him.” A smirk played at his lips.

“That slap across the face alone might have been worth the whole war.” A round of quiet chuckles passed through the room.

Even the ever-stoic Jarza allowed himself the ghost of a grin, while Egil’s amusement was far less reserved.

He threw his head back, laughing loudly, the scent of wine already clinging to him despite it being only midday.

It had been a glorious campaign.

No one in the room doubted that.

Yet, as Alpheo looked around at their pleased expressions, he knew that perhaps only he truly understood just how close they had come to disaster.

His eyes settled on Egil, whose grin was wide, careless, and entirely too smug.

It was a strange thing to think that the man who reeked of wine and debauchery was the very one who had saved them all.

Had Egil not turned the tide at the crucial moment, the war would have spelled not just their downfall, but Alpheo’s own.

If he had lost, the lords of the princedom would have leapt at the opportunity to weaken his standing, to make him pay for the risk he had taken.

Instead, here they stood.

Victorious.

Secure.

For now.

That was the reason Alpheo was so lenient with Egil’s endless transgressions.

He was no fool-he knew exactly how lacking in discipline Egil’s riders were.

They were nothing like the drilled ranks of the Black Stripes, nor even the halberdiers under Asag’s command.

They were wild men, rowdy, reckless, more likely to break formation to chase down loot than hold the line.

But they fought like savages, and that made up for their unruliness.

Egil had shaped them in the image of the home tribe he had lost, that much was clear.

Their laughter, their revelry, their utter disdain for rigid discipline-it was all a remnant of a past Egil refused to let die.

Alpheo understood that.

And as long as they continued to win battles for him, he had little reason to complain.

Asag’s dark eyes settled on Egil, studying him with the same quiet intensity he always had.

Then, with a slow shake of his head, he muttered, “I still don’t understand how you managed to defeat Lechlian’s heavy cavalry.” The room quieted a little, the weight of that statement settling over the table.

Asag continued, his voice even but thoughtful.

“I remember when I fought the Oizenian knights.

Nearly lost my head there.

The fight lasted for hours, and we barely managed to hold the line.

And you… your situation was worse than mine.

Outnumbered.

Outmatched in armor.

And yet you not only sent them packing but even had the time to come and aid us in battle.” Egil, who had been tilting his chair back lazily, took a slow swig from his cup before smacking his lips.

“Well, if I learned anything from watching my old tribesmen fight, it’s how to make armored fools chase their own tails.” He grinned, clearly enjoying the confused looks around the table before continuing.

“See, heavy cavalry all charge the same way.

They lower their lances, they scream something about honor, and then they thunder in like they’re already writing songs about themselves.

All we had to do was not be there when they hit.” He made an exaggerated motion of sidestepping, grinning at Asag.

“They charge, we dodge.

They turn around, we pelt them with javelins.

They charge again, we’re gone again.

Then we keep doing that until their horses are so tired they can no longer move , which is easy considering that their owners make them charge around at all time” He set his cup down and leaned forward, lowering his voice mockingly.

“And that’s when we charge them, giving them the fight they so much desired.

Of course by then, it’s just a bunch of exhausted cans flailing around, waiting to be turned into expensive corpses, which, as you may all remember, we gladly did.” Alpheo let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head with an amused smirk.

“Alright, enough.

If we let Egil keep talking, we’ll be here until sunrise listening to him tell us how he personally invented war” The room erupted into laughter, Egil included, who raised his cup in mock acknowledgment before taking another sip.

“I mean, I was going to get to that part,” he said with a grin.

Alpheo chuckled but then leaned forward, his fingers tapping once on the large map spread before them.

His tone grew more serious.

“Back to what matters.

Herculia.” His finger pressed firmly against the city marked at the heart of the princedom.

“If things go well this year, we’ll drive the final nail into this war by taking their capital.As you may all remember, last fall we successfully occupied the twin fortresses, which means that the capital is now as naked as a newborn child, ripe for our taking.

” The room quieted slightly as they all turned their attention to the map.

Alpheo continued, “Once the head is cut off, the body won’t last long.

The moment Herculia falls, most of the remaining lords will abandon Lechlian.

He’s already on thin ice with them after last year’s disaster.

If we make a decisive move, no one will take him seriously anymore.” He glanced around the table.

“And once that happens, annexing the rest of the princedom will be an easy feat.” Shahab, who had been listening quietly, stroked his beard thoughtfully before letting out a low chuckle.

“Two years ago, if anyone had told me we had a real shot at conquering the whole of Herculia, I’d have called them mad.Especially when we were having our capitale to the mercy of the prince of Oizen” He shook his head, a small smile forming.

“And yet, here we are, sitting in this very room, actually discussing such a thing.” Before the discussion could continue or more fruitful arguments could be made, it was cut short by a quick knock on the door, rather soft and yet clearly urgent .Everybody’s eyes move to the door before quickly turning to their prince.

Alpheo’s eyes flicked toward the door too, his posture however stiffening.

No one interrupted a war meeting unless it was urgent.

His fingers tapped once against the table before he gave a curt nod already knowing he would probably not like what he was to hear.

“Enter.” The door swung open, and a guard rushed in, breath unsteady, his face glistening with sweat.

He barely managed to drop onto one knee, his arm outstretched, a sealed letter clutched in his hand.

Alpheo took the letter without a word, breaking the seal in one sharp motion.

His eyes scanned the parchment, his jaw tightening with each passing second.

He took a step toward the map, his grip crumpling the edges of the letter as a muscle twitched in his cheek.

Asag, noticing the change in expression, finally spoke.

“What does it say?” Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, then slammed his palm against the table.

With a swift push, the wooden pieces scattered, toppling off the map like fallen soldiers onto the floor.

“Once again,” he said, voice taut with fury, “all of my godsdamned plans are ruined.” His head lifted, eyes blazing as they met those of his commanders.

His voice was cold, laced with barely restrained anger.

“It would look like we are soon to plunge into a civil war.” He scoffed bitterly.

“And the horn that’s calling it…” His hand curled into a fist at his side.

“…is a fucking dead priest.”