Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 497

Chapter 497: Kindly given by a friend(3) Chapter 497: Kindly given by a friend(3) Torghan stood motionless over the dying mercenary, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.

The man beneath him twitched like a speared boar, fingers scrabbling at the ruin of his throat where Torghan’s axe had bitten deep.

Blood pulsed between the mercenary’s fingers in thick, dark rivulets, each weakening spurt marking the ebbing of his life.

His boots kicked feebly against the churned earth, carving shallow grooves in the mud as he tried in vain to push himself away from death’s embrace.

The killing blow hadn’t been clean.

The mercenary’s last desperate parry with his shield had turned what should have been a decapitating strike into a messy wound that would take minutes, not seconds, to claim his life.

Torghan watched, fascinated, as the man’s lips moved soundlessly, forming words that would never be spoken.

His eyes – wide and white-rimmed with terror – locked onto Torghan’s face, pleading silently for mercy that would never come.

A strange heat blossomed in Torghan’s chest, spreading through his limbs like wildfire.

His fingers tightened around the axe haft, the leather grip sticky with blood beneath his palms.

This was different than hunting beasts The man dying at his feet wasn’t some faceless training dummy or dumb animal – he was a warrior, with a life, with people who would mourn him.

And Torghan had ended him.

The realization sent a jolt through him, electric and intoxicating.

His breath came faster now, his pulse thundering in his ears like war drums.

The cacophony of battle around him – the screams, the clang of steel, the wet thuds of blades finding flesh – faded into a distant hum.

All that existed was this moment, this kill, this transformation from boy to warrior.

Memories flashed through his mind – sitting by the fires as a child, listening wide-eyed to the bloodstained tales of the veteran warriors.

The way they’d laughed when he’d first hefted a practice axe, his arms trembling under its weight.

All those moments of being lesser, of being untested, washed away in the crimson tide spreading beneath his boots.

A gurgling whimper drew his attention back to the dying man.

The mercenary’s movements had grown weaker, his struggles more sporadic.

His fingers, once clutching desperately at his ruined throat, now twitched feebly in the mud.

The light in his eyes was dimming, like a guttering candle in a storm.

Torghan tilted his head, studying the man’s face.

There was no hatred in those fading eyes – only fear, and beneath that, a terrible sadness.

For a heartbeat, Torghan wondered who this man had been.

A farmer’s son?

A father?

Had he marched to war for gold, or honor, or simply because he had no other choice?

The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Torghan bared his teeth in something that was neither smile nor snarl, but some primal expression of triumph that had lived in warrior’s hearts since time immemorial.

He planted a boot on the mercenary’s chest, feeling the feeble rise and fall of dying breaths beneath his sole, and wrenched his axe free with a wet schlick of parting flesh.

The battlefield rushed back into focus with jarring intensity.

The air stank of blood and voided bowels, of iron and fear.

Torghan’s nostrils flared as he drank it in, his muscles coiling like a spring.

He was no longer just another unblooded tribesman – he was a killer now, baptized in the hot blood of his enemy.

And by the spirits, it felt good.

With a wordless roar that echoed the battle cries of his ancestors, Torghan surged forward into the fray.

A spear thrust toward his chest with killing intent.

Torghan twisted, feeling the point skitter harmlessly across his breastplate in a shower of sparks.

The mercenary’s eyes widened in shock, his grip faltering for just an instant.

That instant was all Torghan needed.

His axe came down in a arc, shearing flesh and bone with equal ease.

The man’s collarbone shattered with an audible crack, his scream cut short as Torghan wrenched the blade free in a spray of crimson.

Something warm and wet struck Torghan’s cheek.

He didn’t bother wiping it away.

Another enemy came at him from the side, sword flashing toward his ribs.

Torghan turned into the blow, taking it on the reinforced sleeve of his mail.

The impact jolted up his arm, but the rings held – another life saved by the prince’s generosity.

The mercenary’s face paled as he realized his mistake.

Torghan’s answering grin was all teeth.

He slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, feeling ribs give way beneath the force of the blow.

As the mercenary staggered back, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, Torghan’s axe came up in a vicious uppercut.

The blade caught the man under the chin with enough force to lift him momentarily off his feet.

Flesh parted like overripe fruit, the lower half of the mercenary’s face peeling away in a grotesque flap of skin and muscle.

The man collapsed, his ruined mouth working soundlessly, hands clawing at the air as if trying to piece his face back together.

Torghan stepped over the twitching body without a second glance.

The battle rage was upon him now, thrumming in his veins like liquid fire.

He was death incarnate, and the field before him was ripe for the reaping.

This armor-this fine armor, the best he had ever worn-made him feel untouchable.

The enemy’s blades slid off him, their spears failed to pierce him, and he could strike back with a force they had never seen before.

It was intoxicating, better than any drink, better than any feast.  He turned, taking in the battlefield around him.

His people fought like the hunters they were, quick and relentless, leaving bodies in their wake.

The Black Stripes on the other side crushed the enemy with sheer force, their axes and maces shattering shields, their javelins still buried in the bodies of the fallen.

The chaos of battle had swallowed any semblance of formation.

What had started as a pincer movement had devolved into pure, unrestrained slaughter.

The mercenaries, trapped and desperate, no longer fought in ranks but in scattered clusters, backs pressed together as they tried to fend off death from both sides.

And then, the inevitable happened.

The lines fractured completely.

Torghan, his axe dripping with the lifeblood of another fallen enemy, found himself shoulder to shoulder with a warrior clad in steel with a black and white wool cloth over it .

The man was broad, his armor heavy, his face smeared with grime and sweat.

A soldier of the Black Stripes, one of those giant that he had feared when he first arrived in this paradise.  For a brief moment, amidst the whirlwind of screams and steel, they locked eyes.

They could not speak the same tongue, but they did not need to.

Their weapons, their bloodied hands, the adrenaline burning through their veins-it all spoke the same language.

 The Black Stripe was the first to communicate , he grinned, his teeth bared in the rush of combat as he raised his bloodied mace in the air as he did with his highbrows.

They were both drenched in the red of their enemies, both standing in the mire of torn bodies and shattered shields.

Warriors.

Killers.

Torghan exchanged the greeting Then, without another word, they turned, each launching themselves back into the fray.

The Black Stripes abandoned their usual tight formations, surging forward in wild charges, axes rising and falling in a brutal rhythm.

They were not here to hold lines or maneuver in strict formations.

They were here to break men.

And break them they did.

—– Alpheo stood motionless beneath the gnarled branches of the ancient oak, its shadows giving him refuge as his warrior spilled blood for him.

Below him, the battlefield unfolded like some grotesque theater – the screams of dying men, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air, the desperate clatter of steel against steel as the mercenary line collapsed into chaos.

His forces had struck like a hammer against glass, shattering their formation with brutal efficiency.

Yet instead of satisfaction, a cold irritation settled in his gut.

This should have been a decisive victory.

A masterstroke that would break the rebel forces before the real battle even began.

Instead, they’d caught barely a portion of them – seven hundred men at most.

The rest remained safely with the main army, still marching leisurely down the road, blissfully unaware of the slaughter happening just ahead of them.

His fingers twitched at his side.

The plan had been perfect.

The execution flawless.

And yet the prize was…

disappointing.

Like setting an elaborate trap only to catch a few stray rats while the real deal escaped.

A light touch on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts.

Jarza crouched beside him, his weathered face impassive as always.

Without speaking, he jutted his chin toward the road below.

Alpheo followed his gaze.

A single rider stood out amidst the chaos – still mounted, still commanding what remained of the mercenary vanguard.

Even from this distance, Alpheo could see the man’s rigid posture, the way he held himself with an authority that marked him as more than just another sellsword.

“Tell me that isn’t Robert,” Jarza murmured, his voice dripping with dry amusement.

Alpheo’s eyes narrowed.

The rider’s face was obscured by his helm, but the armor…

that damned armor was too familiar  Alpheo exhaled through his nose.

“What the fuck is he doing here?I thought he must have died in a ditch somewhere by now” Jarza shrugged, the motion barely visible beneath his cloak.

“Maybe he’s thrown his lot with anyone willing to fight you?” The possibility settled like a stone in Alpheo’s gut.

If Robert had been advising the rebels…

if he’d been the one organizing these mercenaries…

that changed things.

Explained things.  Above all, the reason why the whole army wasn’t marching together in an ambush, eerely similar to the one that he had used against Ormund.

Normally, he always kept fifty men in reserve, a personal guard to make sure no unexpected surprises came crawling out of the trees.

But his scouts had already reported that the enemy’s main force was still hours away, marching along at a sluggish pace.

That meant they had time.

And if Robert was here-alone, exposed-then perhaps it was better to act now.

Quickly , as after all he wanted to understand what the hell was going on.

“Take a force,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“Capture him.

Alive.” The last word carried particular emphasis.

“I want to have a very long conversation with our old friend to shade light on some things.” Jarza gave him a sharp nod.

Without another word, he slipped away, already signaling to the men nearby.

Alpheo watched as a maniple of soldiers broke off from the trees, moving fast, straight in the direction of their old acquaitance Alpheo settled back against the bark of the tree, arms crossed,while wondering  if he was made the fool by a man that he had labeled as a drunk fool.