Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 479

Chapter 479: Linking up Chapter 479: Linking up The sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays cascading over the marching host like a silent herald of their journey.

It was as if the heavens themselves acknowledged the advance of the 1,650 men that now made up the Royal Army-an army raised without the aid of any noble banners, a force bound not by feudal ties but by the will of the crown itself.

The earth trembled beneath the rhythmic pounding of 300 horses, their hooves striking against the hardened dirt road with unwavering purpose.

Alongside them, 1,350 footmen marched ahead their boots shaking dust up.

The clinking of chainmail, the creak of leather, and the occasional neigh of a restless steed blended together into a symphony of war-a song that carried across the fields as they advanced toward Florium, the city where the noble levies would gather before merging with the royal host.

Even in the face of looming catastrophe, with three separate forces moving against him like wolves circling a wounded beast, Alpheo could not help but feel a surge of pride.

He sat atop his horse, feeling the power beneath him as he listened to the sheer might of his army pressing forward.

For the first time, he truly understood why the nobles feared him.

If he were in their position, he would fear the crown too.

Two years ago, the royal banners could barely summon 400 men.

A pitiful force, a mere formality against the might of the nobility, which most certainly aided in understanding just why the crown was so distant to the nobility with Jasmine’s father.

But now-now the crown alone marched with over a thousand and a half soldiers, armed, trained, and loyal.

Yes, the nobles were right to fear him, as he was the one who held the biggest blade.

Alpheo allowed himself a small, knowing smile as he gripped the reins of his steed.

He had built this.

And he was not about to let anyone take it from him.

Jarza rode behind him, his sharp eyes catching the faint smile playing on Alpheo’s lips.

With a huff, he shook his head.

“I truly don’t get what there is to smile about,” he muttered, his voice carrying just enough bite to show his frustration.

Alpheo turned slightly in the saddle, meeting his old friend’s gaze.

The man looked tired, but then again, they all were.

He studied Jarza for a moment before tilting his head, curiosity lacing his words.

“And what is there not to smile about?” he asked.

Jarza scoffed, his gloved fingers tightening on the reins.

“Well, let’s see,” he started, his tone dry.

“Perhaps the fact that we are at war.

Or maybe the fact that we are outnumbered.

Or just maybe-” he leaned forward slightly, “-it is the fact that every single one of our enemies is united in their desire to see you dead.

No, I truly don’t understand what there is to smile about, Alpheo.” Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his amusement unshaken.

He turned his gaze forward again, watching the endless stretch of marching men and rolling banners ahead of him.

“Herculia barely has the strength to look under her own feet,” he said at last.

“The only real threats are the rebels and Oizen, and they are separated-too far apart to aid each other, too divided to be anything more than two problems to solve, one after the other.

They have no way to link up.” He paused, glancing back at Jarza.

“And that means we can fight them alone.” Jarza grunted.

“That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy.” “Of course not.

But that is not what I am smiling about.” Alpheo’s fingers drummed against the pommel of his saddle before he gestured toward the great host stretching across the land.

“I am smiling because I just realized something,” he continued.

“I realized just how mighty of a force I have assembled.

Alone.” Jarza furrowed his brow, watching as his friend’s eyes gleamed with something old, something that had carried them through fire and blood.

“It wasn’t three years ago,” Alpheo said, his voice quieting just slightly, “that we were running across the sands of Arlania, our stomachs empty, our throats burning, constantly looking over our shoulders for a pursuing force that never came.

We trudged forward, hungry, fearful… but still hopeful.” He turned back to Jarza, his expression alight with something that was not quite joy, but not quite madness either.

“Now look at us,” he said, sweeping his arm across the vast column of soldiers.

“We are lords.

Rich lords.

We lead men into battle, raise banners, burn some others.” He let out a breath that might have been a laugh.

“Tell me, Jarza-does that not excite you?Doesn’t it make your blood boil, this notion that since you achieved what others were freely given, it makes you better than the rest?

And that now that we are fighting for our right to keep what we gave ourselves, do you truly understand how far we have gone?” Jarza held his gaze for a long moment before, despite himself, the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, ”There is something to smile about…” ————————— As the sun continued its slow descent, casting long golden rays over the marching host, the city of Florioum finally came into view.

Its pale stone walls, though not towering, stood firm against the horizon, while beyond them, the rooftops of houses and spires of temples peeked through like jagged teeth against the sky.

The fields surrounding the city stretched wide, but it was not the city itself that first caught Alpheo’s attention-it was the banners.

Fluttering proudly in the wind was the sigil of Lord Corvan, the ruler of Florioum-a lily on a green field, catching the afternoon light as it rippled against the breeze.

And beneath that banner, ahead of the assembled forces waiting outside the city walls, rode the lord himself.

Alpheo recognized him immediately, though he had not seen the man in nearly two years, not since his marriage feast.

Now, as he rode ahead of his retinue, flanked by armored knights bearing his colors, his posture was straight, his expression neutral, though his eyes flickered with something unreadable as he drew closer to the advancing royal standard.

Alpheo shifted slightly in his saddle, adjusting his grip on the reins, watching as the lord and his men rode toward him, closing the distance with their steeds.

As the two parties closed the distance, Lord Corvan brought his horse to a halt before the prince, his men following suit in perfect discipline.

Without hesitation, the lord straightened in his saddle, then dipped his head in a respectful bow, his gloved hand resting lightly on his chest.

“Your Highness,” Corvan greeted formally, his voice even, his expression composed.

“It is an honor to ride alongside you in this campaign.

Florioum stands with the crown against these rebels, as is our duty.” Alpheo gave him a measured look, his expression betraying nothing, though his thoughts strayed to last year campaign, where Corvan did not participate in.

That time, he had not been so eager-sending his nephew in his stead with barely eighty men, a token force meant to satisfy duty while keeping his true strength at home.

Yet now, here he stood, leading his banners in person.

Still, Alpheo knew better than to scorn the lords who had rallied to him.

Making a fool of them, or casting doubt upon their devotion, would do him no favors.

Instead, he offered a nod, his lips curving slightly into something that could almost be called a smile.

“Your loyalty is well received, Lord Corvan,” he replied.

“And you shall have your share of glory, for there is much to be taken.

Ride beneath the royal banner, and together we shall shatter their forces, breaking them upon the weight of our steel.” His voice carried strength, and the men in both their entourages straightened at his words.

Corvan, for his part, nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on the young war prince as if measuring him once more.

Lord Corvan straightened in his saddle, his expression resolute as he spoke.

“It is an honor to welcome the royal host, Your Highness, before we march to meet our enemy,” he declared.

His tone was steady, and practiced, but not without a trace of genuine conviction.

“We have eagerly awaited your arrival, and as you may see, the banners of the other lords have already been raised within the city.

Their hosts have made their way inside, setting up camp around Florioum’s walls in preparation for the campaign ahead.” Alpheo’s gaze swept beyond Corvan’s retinue, past the city gates, where the sight of newly pitched tents greeted him-colors of different noble houses fluttering in the wind, their standards standing tall in the grassy fields beyond the walls.

The encampment was bustling with activity as soldiers hurried to arrange their lodgings, smiths hammered away at last-minute repairs, and squires rushed to see to their knights’ horses.  “As lord of this city, I deemed it my duty to personally receive Your Highness,” Corvan continued, inclining his head once more.

“The rest of the noble lords await you inside.

A feast has been prepared in your honor, that we may dine and discuss the course ahead before steel is drawn and blood is spilled.” Alpheo turned his gaze back to Corvan, his smile returning.

“You have my thanks for such hospitality, Lord Corvan,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of both gratitude and expectation.

“My men will welcome the opportunity to rest before we begin our march.” It was not lost on him that feasts held in wartime were rarely meant for simple merriment; after all, it was the time when the lords could express their loyalty and, of course, secure a chance to ask for favors from the crown, which Alpheo wasn’t really keen to experience.