Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 501

Chapter 501: Foiled plan Chapter 501: Foiled plan The air inside the tent was thick, the heavy fabric trapping the mingling scents of sweat, damp wool, and the faint acrid stench of burnt wood from the nearby campfires.

Two men sat on the ground, backs resting against a wooden crate, their armor scuffed and dirtied from their escape.

Though they still wore padded gambesons and metal shirts, they had no weapons-not even a belt knife.

Their swords had been tossed away in the chaos of the route, and whatever was left had been stripped from them the moment they stumbled back into the main host’s camp.

A few soldiers stood near the entrance, watching them with uninterested expressions, but their hands never strayed far from their weapons.

One of the man exhaled sharply.

“You think we’re the only ones that got out?” His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t had a drop of water since the battle or better yet the massacre, that the mercenary band they were enlisted in marched into , alongside many others.

The other, a broader man with a ragged cut along his cheek, let out a dry chuckle.

” Aye.

Seems like we took the right path-through the woods.

Those poor bastards who stuck to the road never made it back.” He shook his head, rubbing at his unshaven chin.

“Fuck, we shouldn’t have joined that band.” The wiry man snorted.

“No shit.

Captain’s dead, half the company butchered, and the last thing we’re ever going to see is a damn payday.” The broader man leaned back, his head knocking softly against the wooden crate.

“We should’ve just roamed around, found our way home.” There was silence for a moment, the weight of that possibility hanging between them.

Finally, the wiry man exhaled through his nose.

“Looking back… maybe you’re right.

But I didn’t expect us to be the only ones here.” He glanced at the entrance of the tent, where the guards remained impassive.

Somewhere outside, men were talking, voices hushed but firm.  The flap of the tent was soon pulled aside.

A man stepped in, his presence alone enough to make both mercenaries straighten their backs.

His armor gleamed even under the dim lighting, a polished breastplate inlaid with fine etchings, pauldrons adorned with silver trim, and a deep crimson cloak draped over one shoulder.  Lord Niketas.

The mercenaries swallowed hard as the nobleman took a slow step forward, his dark eyes studying them as if they were insects pinned to a board.

His voice, when he spoke, was calm but edged with steel.

“What happened?” The broader mercenary, still rubbing at the cut on his cheek, hesitated for half a breath before launching into it.

“A massacre, my lord.

That’s what happened.” Niketas said nothing, waiting.

The wiry man took over, his voice hoarse.

“We were marching with the vanguard.

Meant to scout ahead, keep the road clear.

We had no idea there was an ambush waiting for us in the woods.

By the time we heard the first shouts, men were already dropping.” He exhaled sharply.

“Javelins, arrows-didn’t even see where half of them came from.

One second, we were marching, the next, the whole front line was a damned pincushion.” The broader mercenary nodded grimly.

“They hit us like wolves, from the trees.

No drums, no horns, just shadows moving and then steel flashing in the dark.

I saw a man beside me take an axe to the throat before he even raised his shield.” He spat onto the dirt floor, as if to rid himself of the memory.

“The savages were in the thick of it, cutting men down like it was sport.

They just charged straight into the gaps and tore through us.” Niketas folded his arms, his expression unreadable.

“What about your commander lord Robert?” ”We have no idea, your lordship…” ”What about your captain?” He then asked  The wiry man licked his lips.

“Dead.

Caught a javelin through the guts.

Never even had a chance to give proper orders.” Seeing nothing more could be taken from them Niketas reached the tent’s entrance but then stopped.

He exhaled slowly, as if weighing something in his mind.

Then, without turning back, he spoke-his tone utterly devoid of emotion.

“Hang them.” The words were simple, cold, final.

The mercenaries stiffened.

The broader man’s face twisted in disbelief.

“W-what?” He took a half-step forward, but the guards were already moving.

The wiry man’s breath hitched.

“My lord, we got out!

We made it back!

We can figh-” Niketas turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, his gaze as indifferent as if he were ordering the disposal of rotten meat.

“You abandoned your weapons.

You abandoned your lord.

You abandoned the battle.” He stepped forward, pulling the tent flap open.

“That makes you deserters.” The wiry man struggled as rough hands clamped onto his arms.

“No, no!

We didn’t run!

We-” The broader mercenary thrashed as he was seized, his voice rising to a desperate roar.

“We had no choice!

The battle was lost!” Niketas didn’t bother to listen.

He was already walking away, leaving the tent behind, his mind now set on greater concerns.

Outside the tent, Lord Niketas exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool evening air.

The weight of the news pressed against his chest, but he did not let it show.

Instead, he turned his gaze to his right-hand man, Sir Edmar.

“Send a messenger to the other lords,” Niketas commanded, his voice calm yet firm.

“They need to know what has happened.

And fetch our guest immediately.

I have answers, and he ought to hear them before the night grows old.” Edmar nodded once, bowing his head in acknowledgment before striding off without hesitation.

He moved through the camp swiftly, past the glow of fire pits and the low murmur of soldiers sharing drinks and whispers of the failed ambush.

He paid them no heed, his mind solely on his task.

But as he neared the tent where Sir Lorren was being kept, fate had already played its hand.

The knight did not yet know it, but inside that very tent, there was no man waiting for him.

Only silence.

The cot was empty, the candle on the small table long extinguished.

A half-eaten plate of food sat cold and forgotten.

And at the back of the tent, hidden from view, was a cleanly cut opening just large enough for a man to slip through.

Sir Lorren was long gone.

——————- Damn it!

Damn it all to hell!

What have I done to deserve all of this shit ?

Marcus-known until just a few hours ago as Sir Lorren, fourth son of Lord Vrasio of Derathio-gritted his teeth as he moved through the darkened woods, his every step measured, his breath steady despite the pounding in his chest.

That name, that title, had been a carefully woven lie, one he had worn like a second skin for months.

Now it was ash in the wind.

He had no way of knowing just how much effort had gone into making this deception possible.

How Alpheo had first secured the approval of Lord Damaris by dangling the promise of rich spoils from the rebel lords’ confiscated lands.

How he had scoured his own vassals for a minor noble of little renown-save for a sigil and a name that carried just enough weight to be convincing.

A name that Marcus had worn as a mask.

And everything had been going smoothly.

Until that meddling bastard-Lord Robert-stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.

Marcus clenched his jaw as he pushed forward, his mind racing back to how much easier this was supposed to have been.

He and Lucius had each been given their roles.

He was to lure the rebels into marching into an ambush under the false belief that they had allies within the royal host willing to defect.Where he would then remain embedded within the rebel camp , maintaining his cover and escaping in the chaos of battle.

A clean operation.

A perfect trap.

But Robert’s interference had ruined everything.

The ambush had still succeeded but in a minor key, while also preventing Marcus having his occasion to run away forcing him to abandon his cover sooner than planned.

Instead of vanishing amidst the clash of steel and fire, he had been left with no choice but to slip away under far less favorable circumstances.

So, with nothing but a small, sharpened piece of metal, he had quietly cut a slit into his tent-slow, careful, precise.

A single mistake would mean death.

But luck had held, and when the time came, he’d simply stepped out into the night, calm, composed, looking every bit the noble knight he was supposed to be.  Luckily his noble cover held up which meant that he could keep his armor  No frantic running.

No suspicious behavior.

And when he reached one of the lesser-guarded exits, the sentries barely gave him a second glance.

Why would they?

He was still wearing very elegant armor with a sigil-proof enough that he belonged.

If there was one thing he had learned about men who wore uniforms, it was that they feared rank more than anything.

And for that, Marcus was grateful.

Because right now, the only thing keeping him from a noose was the weight of the lie he had worn so well.

He moved through the undergrowth with practiced ease, keeping low and mindful of every snapped twig and shifting shadow.

He had no choice but to keep moving-no stopping, no second-guessing.

The only thing that mattered was making it back to the royal camp before word of his disappearance spread too far.

He had failed.

That much was undeniable.

His original mission-to seed false hope of defection within the rebel ranks and watch them march straight into a slaughter-had crumbled under Lord Robert’s interference.

His carefully built persona had been compromised, and instead of slipping away in the chaos of battle, he had been forced to flee like a common fugitive.

But failure did not mean ruin.

No, there was still something to salvage.

He had spent enough time among the rebel lords to know how they thought, how they didn’t think, and-most importantly-how little they trusted one another.

They had gathered under a single cause, but that did not make them one force.

Their ranks were riddled with personal ambitions, petty grudges, and conflicting visions for the future.  There were cracks.

And cracks could be widened.

If he made it back to Alpheo with this knowledge, then perhaps his failure could be reshaped into something useful.

His grace had a way of turning even the smallest advantages into decisive victories-perhaps this would be no different.

Marcus exhaled, glancing up at the sky, where streaks of orange and gold began bleeding into the dark.

His lips curled into a faint smirk as he thought of his blond friend-his ever-smiling, sharp-tongued counterpart.

What the hell are you up to now, Lucius?

Whatever it was, Marcus hoped they would have the chance to speak again.

As in the middle of an hostile world, he found in him the only friend that he could trust.