Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 495

Chapter 495: Kindly given by a friend(1) Chapter 495: Kindly given by a friend(1) Robert rode at the head of the vanguard, his gloved hands tightening around the reins as the familiar weight of command settled onto his shoulders.

It had been years since he had led men in war-true war.

The last time he had been at the forefront of an army, it had been under the banner of Prince Arkawatt.

The memory felt like something from another life.

Back then, he had been surrounded by knights, men of noble blood and rigid discipline, not the band of sellswords that now followed behind him like a pack of half-tamed wolves.

Seven hundred mercenaries, bought with the temple’s silver, rode and marched behind him.

He had paid careful attention to scouting ahead, ensuring there were no surprises on the road, refusing to repeat the mistake of Lord Ormund, who had ridden blind into an ambush and lost everything.

But despite all his efforts, the lack of discipline gnawed at him.

It was evident in the way they marched, in the way their formation loosened with every kilometer, in the way they still failed to keep their damn mouths shut.

They were men who fought for coin, not honor, and he had already been forced to make an example of some.

A good dozen of them now hung from the trees they had once tried to strip bare, left to rot as a warning to the rest after they had broken from the formation to raid villages when they camped for the night.

Even with that, he could still hear them-hundreds of voices behind him, talking, laughing, completely oblivious to how their noise could give them away.

His jaw clenched as he turned sharply in the saddle, glaring at the men.

“Quiet!” he barked, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade.

Reluctantly, silence settled over the column, though Robert could feel the simmering resentment in some of their eyes.

He didn’t care.

If they were too foolish to understand the importance of silence, then they would die the moment they faced true soldiers.

As he faced forward again, his mind drifted to Alpheo, to the disciplined and hardened troops that he commanded.

They had been soldiers, not unruly thugs in stolen armor.

But Robert had to make do with what he had.

He gritted his teeth, the leather of his gloves creaking as he tightened his grip on the reins.

Every instinct in his body screamed that this march was a mistake.

The rebel lords called him the Low Prince or the Mud Prince, sneering as if he were some unworthy pretender clawing at a throne above his station.

But Robert knew better.

He knew exactly what that prince was capable of.

If they believed him an octopus out of the water, he was instead a leviathan waiting for the ships to pass through his domain, ready to swallow them all in a futile attempt to sate its bottomless hunger.

That man was not mud.

He was quicksand, waiting for fools to step too far forward before pulling them under.

Five minutes.

That was how long the silence had lasted.

Then, like a creeping sickness, the voices rose again.

Whispering at first, then louder, swelling into full conversations, laughter, even the clinking of weapons as men gestured wildly in their talk.

Robert’s fingers twitched.

He breathed in slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.

Let it go.

Then he heard a man shouting a crude joke about some tavern girl he’d bedded, followed by the guffaws of half a dozen others.

Robert snapped.

He yanked his horse around so sharply that it reared up, kicking dust into the air.

The sound of its hooves slamming down silenced the nearest mercenaries, but it wasn’t enough.

His glare burned as he swept his gaze across the men.

——————- Torghan crouched low beneath the thick canopy, his breath slow and measured, every muscle in his body coiled tight like a drawn bow.

He felt like a predator in the tall grass, watching his prey march unaware into the jaws of death.

The stillness before the strike-the heavy silence of a perfect hunt-was intoxicating.

It had been months since he and his warriors had come to these lands, and in that time, he had watched and listened, taking in the wonders of civilization.

The vast cities, the grand castles of stone, the endless fields of golden grain-he had marveled at how these people lived, at their comforts, their luxuries.

And yet, in all their grandeur, he had found little his people could do better.

Until now.

Hunting.

These soft-bellied lords might have fine steel and horses bred for war, but they knew nothing of moving unseen, of becoming the very shadows they feared.

Their scouts had ridden ahead, knowing that this stretch of road was perfect for an ambush.

And yet, they had failed to see the wolves hidden within the trees.

They lingered close to the open road, their horses wary of the dense underbrush.

The ground beneath the trees was thick with gnarled roots and uneven earth, treacherous for hooves.

Even the bravest among them hesitated to push deeper into the forest.

It was their mistake.

Torghan’s warriors lay still in the undergrowth, covered in dirt, leaves, and the scent of the wild.

Not one of them moved, not even when the pounding of hooves came so close that the very breath of a horse could be felt against their skin.

More than once, a hoof landed mere inches from an outstretched arm or a motionless face half-buried in the brush.

Still, no sound came.

No breath too loud.

No sudden twitch of a hand to betray them.

They were the trees and the trees were them Torghan smirked to himself.

These people called themselves warriors, but they knew nothing of the hunt.

The trees were a hunter’s ally, but even they had their limits.

As dense as the forest seemed from the road, it was not vast enough to conceal a great army.

No more than a thousand warriors could melt into the undergrowth-any more, and the illusion of the forest’s emptiness would break.

Stealth required restraint, and so only the best among them were chosen.

Torghan had made certain he was one of them.

When word spread that the prince was seeking warriors for an ambush, he had been the first to step forward, the first to plead-no,beg-to be put to use.

This was what his people were born for.

If they could not be counted upon for war, then what good were they to the prince who had sacrificed so much to protect them?

He would not allow his people to be seen as beggars or burdens, he had to show them that he and his people were worth the price.

This was his chance to prove that to them.

To prove himself.

His blood roared with excitement, his fingers twitching over the hilt of his axe and javelins.

This was to be his first true battle in these lands, his first taste of real war.

And yet, as he crouched in the darkness of the trees, feeling the thrum of his warriors’ breaths around him, he knew that many shared his sentiments .

The prince had not trusted the Voghondai alone to carry out this strike, nor did Torghan blame him.

Alongside his six hundred tribesmen, four hundred of the prince’s own elite footmen hid in the woods, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Unlike the tribesmen, they were clad in steel,pure steel not only chainmail, their helms, of course taken off in order not to catch slivers of moonlight between the trees, rested onto the ground, yet their eyes kept their hunger for bloodshed as he had witnessed when he laid eyes on them for the first time.  As after all leading them was the prince himself, so of course they were to prove themselves.

Torghan felt his breath steady, his resolve harden.

Around him, crouched low in the brush and pressed against the trunks of trees, were young warriors whose blades had never known the taste of flesh, whose hands had yet to be stained with the dark, sticky wetness of real battle.

This was their moment, their trial by fire.

They had been raised on stories of blood and glory, but stories were nothing compared to the trembling breath before the first strike, to the knowledge that one mistake could be their last.

Yet the fear in their eyes was drowned out by something fiercer-eagerness.

They were like young wolves, barely restrained, waiting for the scent of the kill.

Torghan understood them well.

His grip tightened around his javelin, his knuckles whitening as he fought against the overwhelming urge to loose it, to watch it sail through the air and bury itself in the flesh of one of the many unsuspecting men marching below.

He could already see the impact in his mind’s eye, could almost hear the wet crunch of bone and the startled cries of the dying.

His every muscle coiled, desperate to act, to strike first, his lower parts hardening at the thought.

But no.

Not yet.

His orders had been clear-the horn would call the hunt.

Until then, he had to wait, no matter how much it burned.

The silence stretched, thick with the weight of a thousand held breaths.

And then, through the stillness of the forest, a sound.

A rush of wings.

Ravens cut through the air like black knives, startled from the branches as if the gods themselves had cast them forth.

And in that moment, the long, shrill wail of the war horn split the sky.

The prince had given his command.

Torghan let loose a wild grin.

His javelin was already soaring, followed quickly by a thousand more.