Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 480

Chapter 480: Strategy Chapter 480: Strategy The air in Lord Corvan’s borrowed chamber hung heavy with the cloying scent of perfume that the lord was kind enough to spray everywhere .

At the head of the table, Alpheo sat motionless, his fingers steepled before him.

His gaze drifted across the room-past the goblets of deep red wine, past the half-eaten platters of roasted meats, past the maps weighed down by daggers at their corners-and settled on the empty space where Torghan should have been.

The Voghondai chieftain, though sworn to the war effort with nearly six hundred hardened warriors at his back, had not been summoned to this council.

The reasons were twofold: first, Torghan’s grasp of the southern tongue was rudimentary at best, making strategic discussion nearly impossible.

But more importantly, his presence would have been a spark in a room full of dry tinder.

Many of these lords had only reluctantly answered the crown’s call, their loyalty strained by years of resentment toward the Voghondai’s presence within the princedom.

Some had even been among those whispering that the barbarians should have been driven back beyond the mountains long ago.

To seat Torghan among them now, after their rebellion had been justified as a defense against his people’s “savagery,” would have been to invite disaster.

Alpheo could already picture it-some young lordling, emboldened by wine and pride, letting slip an insult.

Torghan, never one to suffer fools, responding in kind.

And then?

Then blades would be drawn, blood would stain Corvan’s fine carpets, and this fragile alliance would shatter before the first battle had even been fought.

No.

Better to keep the chieftain occupied elsewhere, drilling his warriors or hunting in the forests beyond the camp.

Alpheo’s attention returned to the men before him.

They sat straight-backed and solemn, their expressions carefully schooled into masks of determination.

But he knew better than to mistake their attendance for true allegiance.

These lords had answered the call to arms-some out of loyalty, others out of obligation, a few perhaps out of sheer opportunism.

But none of them truly understood what was coming.

If they had even an inkling that this was not merely a campaign to crush a few rebellious nobles, but the opening moves of a war that would pit them against not one, but two foreign princes…

Well.

Their wine might have tasted considerably more bitter.

A servant moved silently along the table, refilling goblets.

The liquid splashed dark as blood against the silver.

Alpheo watched the ripples fade, then raised his eyes to meet those of his war council.

Had word spread that the rebel lords were not alone-that both the Prince of Oizen and the Prince of Herculia had cast their lots into this conflict-then some of the men seated before him would not be here at all.

Many would have hesitated, others might have outright refused to join the royal host, perhaps even choosing to heed the call of the rebels instead, while others instead would claim neutrality over the conflict.

After all, the rebel lords had not sat idle.

Their letters had traveled across the princedom, reaching every major noble house, each parchment carefully penned to stir doubt and fear.

They did not simply call for open defiance against the crown; they painted themselves as protectors, guardians of tradition against the tyranny of an overreaching throne, who was encroaching on their rights as noblemen.

They spoke of the White Army as a blight upon the land, a force that answered only to the prince and not to the well-being of the state.  They decried the crown’s interference in matters of faith, stirring the pious to anger by framing this war as a defense of sacred institutions.

Had the lords truly understood the weight of the forces gathering against them, would they have still ridden to his banner?

Some, perhaps.

But others… Alpheo dismissed the thought.

It did not matter now.

They were here.

Their banners had been raised, their soldiers stood ready.

He would make use of them before any of them had the chance to reconsider their oaths.

Alpheo reached for the rolled parchment at the table’s edge, its edges slightly curled from age and use.

With deliberate care, he unfurled the map across the polished oak surface, using empty goblets to weigh down its corners.

The thick candlelight danced across the vellum, illuminating intricate lines and notations that made several lords lean forward in their seats, their brows furrowing in surprise.

This was no crude traveler’s sketch.

The map was a very good piece of cartography, its details so precise that individual villages and minor streams were marked alongside the major holdings.

Some lords exchanged glances-such thorough mapping of noble lands was unusual, bordering on suspicious.

In many courts, the very act of commissioning such detailed charts might be seen as preparation for confiscation rather than governance.

Lord Corvan’s fingers twitched toward his wine, his eyes narrowing slightly as he recognized his own lands rendered in exacting detail.

“This is…

remarkably thorough, Your Grace,” he said, the compliment laced with unspoken questions.

Alpheo ignored the implied inquiry.

Instead, he picked up a slender ebony pointer and let its tip hover above the northern territories.

“These,” he said, tracing a slow arc across the parchment, “are the lands currently held in rebellion.” The pointer moved with precision, outlining a swath of territory that made several lords suck in quiet breaths.

It was one thing to hear of revolts-another to see their sheer geographic scale laid bare.

He tapped four key locations in succession, the pointer striking like a judge’s gavel with each name: “Lord Niketas of Lonsium holds the land nearest to us.” Tap.

”While lord Gregor and Lord Lysandros are in the middle of the two.” Tap.

“And Lord Eurenis of Corgendau sits astride the northern border with the empire.” Tap.

Alpheo let the weight of that realization settle before continuing.

“Thus far, their forces remain within these borders.” The pointer circled the rebel lands again.

“No probing attacks.

No raiding parties slipping past our patrols.

Just…

silence.” Lord Corvan snorted into his wine.

“Then they lack the stomach for a real fight.

Hiding behind their walls like frightened children.” A few chuckles rippled through the room, but Alpheo noted how quickly they died.Who knew what they were waiting for?

Reinforcements?

Or simply the advantage of letting us wear ourselves out on the march?

Of course, he expected it to be the first.

Alpheo’s pointer struck the table with a sharp crack, cutting off the murmurs.

“We march north in three days’ time.” The ebony rod carved a path through the map’s open plains.

“This route gives us clean lines of advance-no dense forests for ambushes, no narrow valleys where numbers become meaningless.” He paused, the pointer hovering over a cluster of hills near the rebel border.

“The only terrain favoring deception is here.

We’ll send forward scouts to ensure no surprises await.Then we will seek battle with them and put an end to this rebellion as soon as possible.” Before Alpheo could continue, he was interrupted by Jarza.

“And what do we do if they refuse to engage?

If they retreat further inland instead of facing us?” A moment of silence passed before Lord Pyrros of Sistarorum scoffed, shaking his head.

“No noble would have the face to retreat from an open challenge and leave his holdings unattended and ripe for raiding,” he said, his tone dismissive.

He let his gaze settle on Jarza, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“But I suppose it is not your fault for asking something like that.

You have not had the time to understand the… dynamics of nobility.” The unspoken jab-commonborn-might as well have been shouted.

The meaning was clear.

The slight was intentional.

Jarza’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as his glare bore into the older noble.

“In war, all situations must be planned and reviewed,” he shot back, voice low and measured, though no less cutting.

“Something you may not know, given how little time you have spent actually fighting one.” The tension in the chamber crackled like a fire catching dry wood.

Some of the lords shifted in their seats, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement or disapproval.

Pyrros’ smirk faded.

His fingers twitched against the table, as if considering whether or not to escalate the insult further.

Alpheo had no patience for it.

“Enough,” he said, his voice calm but final succeeding into cutting down the argument.

“We have no time for petty squabbles” Jarza gave Pyrros one last glare before leaning back, crossing his arms.

Pyrros merely scoffed but said nothing more.

Alpheo exhaled slowly, barely restraining the frustration.

He loathed these meetings.

They were more exhausting than the march itself.

He had once thought that gathering more men of rank and standing would bring a diversity of perspectives, sharper ideas, a greater understanding of strategy.

Instead, all it did was bring more egos, more bickering, and more men who were more interested in posturing than actually planning.

This was why he preferred the close, private meetings with his officers.

There, he could engage in true strategic discussions without having to wade through the chaos of noble pride and pointless insults.

There, plans were formed with sharp minds, not dulled by arrogance.

But for now, he had no choice but to endure it.

Alpheo let the silence linger for a moment before speaking again, his voice measured.

“It is a valid issue to raise,” Alpheo continued, watching Pyrros bristle at the acknowledgment.

Jarza gave a small smile, just enough to show his satisfaction in being acknowledged, which clearly stood on the other lord temper.

Alpheo continued, turning back to the gathered lords.

“Personally, I would prefer not to pursue them further inland.

If I were in their place, I would use such a retreat to lure our host deeper into their lands, waiting until we were stretched thin, before hidden forces emerged from castles and strongholds to surround us from different sides.” Some of the lords shifted in their seats, their expressions growing more serious as they considered his words.

“But if they do retreat, we will turn the whole region upside down,” Alpheo went on, his voice taking on a sharper edge.

“We will burn and loot every village in our path, take their crops, cut their supply lines, leave them with nothing but ash and ruin.

They will not sit idly by and watch their lands be destroyed-they will be forced to meet us in battle.” Silence settled over the room.

It was clear from their expressions that many of the lords had not thought of this, not about the raiding part but the trap that Alpheo would have sprung if he was on the opposite side.  Then, breaking the quiet, Lord Damaris of Megioduroli , the same one who had cooperated early with the crown back when lord Ormund was the main problem of the crown, spoke up.

“And who will lead the vanguard your grace?” Alpheo considered it for half a second before giving his answer.

“The honor will go to the one who has hosted us in his home-Lord Corvan.” Lord Corvan straightened, his chest puffing slightly with pride.

“I am honored, Your Grace.” Alpheo met his gaze with a smile, but inwardly, he had other thoughts.

The vanguard was the most dangerous position, the one that bore the brunt of any sudden attacks or ambushes.

It was always attributed as the position of greatest glory, but Alpheo had no intention of taking it himself.

He needed to be at the center of command, and preferred not have his standing army suffer the biggest casualties.

Lord Corvan, however, was eager for the distinction, and Alpheo was more than willing to grant it especially since it would his forces to take the brunt of an attack.