Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 502

Chapter 502: A Rat’s work
The streets of Arduronaven trembled beneath the relentless march of armored boots, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the sickly-sweet promise of victory. At the head of the Herculeian host rode Lord Arnold, his gilded armor ablaze in the midday sun, every polished plate a mirror reflecting the broken city before him. Beside him, Prince Lechlian sat motionless in his saddle, his face an unreadable mask—only the slight tightening of his gloved hands on the reins betrayed his satisfaction.

And then there was Orymus.

Eldest son of the executed Lord Vroghios, last true ruler of Arduronaven before the Yarzats had taken his head and his city.

Orymus was smiling.

Not the measured, diplomatic smile of court, nor the self-satisfied smirk of a nobleman securing power. This was something feral—the grin of a wolf stepping back into a den it had been driven from, teeth bared, hunger sharp in its eyes.

The city sprawled before him, its once-familiar contours flooding his mind. The Garden of the keep, where his sisters had once laughed among the roses, were now clearly left on their own , the beautiful flowers stepped on and overwhelmed by the common grass.

Then he saw scenes that he could have witnessed, the gate where his youngest brother had been dragged away in chains along with what remained of his family.

He had been powerless then.

Now?

Now, Arduronaven shuddered beneath his gaze.

The great gates had opened without a fight. No barricades, no desperate last stand—just the hollow groan of hinges and the eerie quiet of a city that had already surrendered.

There had been defenders. Six hundred men had stood upon these walls when the Herculeian host first darkened the horizon. Six hundred blades sworn to hold Arduronaven against the storm.

Yet now, the army marched through streets littered with corpses—none of them felled by Herculeian steel.

The truth was simple.

The defenders were dead.

Betrayed.

At the edge of the city square, Lucius—known here only as Captain Darros—watched with cold amusement as the architect of this carnage moved among the victors. Sir Agolonthios stood amidst the Herculeian officers, head high, posture relaxed. This was the same man who had stood before his soldiers mere days ago, vowing to defend Arduronaven to his last breath. The same man who had clasped the hands of his captains and sworn they would hold.

Now, he accepted the approving nods of the very enemies he had been tasked to destroy.

Lucius studied him, noting the absence of shame in his bearing, the lack of hesitation in his eyes. Agolonthios carried himself like a man who had made the only logical choice.

And perhaps, Lucius mused, from a certain angle, he had.

Agolonthios had called his captains to a midnight council along of course to the other ministers of the court , only for Herculeian blades to find their backs . Entire companies had been locked in their barracks, cut down as they slept. By dawn, the few remaining defenders found themselves trapped between Agolonthios’ turncoats and the advancing army.

Prince Lechlian had promised the knight a lordship for his cooperation. A fair trade—a city for a title.

Yet as Lucius watched Agolonthios bask in his victory, he wondered how long it would be before Lechlian decided a man who betrayed once would betray again.

The war raged like a wildfire across the land, consuming everything in its path. The Crown found itself besieged on all sides – the Prince of Oizen’s forces pressing from the south, the Northern Lords rising in rebellion, and now the Herculeian war machine advancing with relentless momentum. Three fronts. Three enemies. And with each passing day, more vassals questioned whether their oaths were worth dying for.

Perhaps Agolonthios had simply done the math. Perhaps he’d looked at the tides of war turning inexorably against them, and decided survival was worth more than honor. Lucius could almost respect the cold pragmatism of it – if it weren’t for the six hundred corpses left in the knight’s wake.

The price of betrayal had been steep, but the rewards were undeniable. Arduronaven now stood firmly in Herculeian hands, its gates thrown open without a single siege engine needing to be deployed. More importantly, the road to Bracum – the beating heart of Lord Xanthios’ domain – now lay undefended. The Herculeian commanders were already murmuring about pressing their advantage, about striking while the iron was hot.

Lucius clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, his fingers twitching with the urge to draw steel. How easy it would be to step forward now, to carve his blade across Agolonthios’ throat and watch the traitor choke on his own blood. To leave his body rotting in the sun as a warning to all who would trade loyalty for power. The image burned bright in his mind – the shock in the knight’s eyes, the crimson spray across the cobblestones, the satisfying thud of a corpse hitting the ground.

But discipline held him still. This wasn’t the time. Not yet.

Instead, he forced his breathing to slow, channeling the fury into something colder, sharper. The letter had already been sent, its contents carefully coded, its messenger sworn to secrecy. By now, his true master would know everything – the fall of Arduronaven, Agolonthios’ betrayal, the Herculeians’ next moves. Every piece on the board accounted for.

A grudging admiration curled through Lucius’ anger. The Prince Consort had seen this coming long before the first sword was drawn. While others had been distracted by the obvious threats, he’d been planting his pieces across the board. Like Lucius himself – disguised as the mercenary captain “Darios,” offering his company’s services at a suspiciously low price. Three hundred footmen and fifty archers, all ostensibly loyal only to their pay, unaware that half their wages came from Crown coffers.

His orders had been simple. Watch. Learn. Report everything of value—numbers, morale, alliances. And when the time was right, when the knife was best placed at the enemy’s throat, he would strike.

Lucius exhaled slowly, his grip relaxing. The moment would come soon enough. Sir Agolonthios and his ilk would get what they deserved.

He would make sure of it.

As he was deep into thought about what he was to do next, behind him, the grumbling of his men grew louder, a low murmur of discontent weaving through the ranks like an incoming storm. He didn’t need to turn around to know the cause.

“Fucking joke is what this is,” growled one of his man kicking a loose cobblestone hard enough to send it skittering across the square. “We march all this way, and for what? To stand around like while the highborns divvy up the spoils?”

“No looting, no prisoners, not even a decent fight. What kind of conquest is this?”

“The kind where we still get paid,” rumbled another though even his voice carried an edge of bitterness. “But aye, I won’t lie—it sticks in the craw. Even a handful of silver from the garrison stores would’ve—”

“Would’ve what?” Lucius finally turned, his voice cutting through the grumbling like a whip crack. The men fell silent instantly, shoulders tensing under his cold stare. “Made you feel better about taking a city without risking your necks? Or just given you something shiny to lose at dice tomorrow night?You are getting paid to do nothing, and yet you keep complaining”

He let the silence stretch, watching as some of the men shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. These were hard men, killers all, but they knew better than to test him when his voice took on that particular quiet tone.

In truth, he understood their frustration. Mercenaries lived by a simple code—blood for gold, steel for silver. A city taken without a proper sack was unnatural, like a feast with no meat or a whorehouse with no women. It went against their very nature.

But his thoughts were already elsewhere, drifting northward across the war-torn landscape to a small stone house on the outskirts of the capital. Three months since he’d last seen his wife face, since he’d felt the warmth of her hands on his cheeks, since he’d pressed his lips to the barely noticeable swell of her belly and made promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Would he be there when the child came? Or would some Herculeian spear find his guts first, leaving his son to grow up fatherless, his wife to—

“Captain!” The hissed warning snapped him back to the present. One of the younger sellswords—Tomas, barely more than a boy—was gesturing urgently toward a cluster of Herculeian officers approaching their position. The men immediately straightened, their complaints swallowed back like sour wine.

Lucius didn’t bother with false smiles or pleasantries as the officers drew near. He simply crossed his arms and waited, his expression carefully neutral.

“Captain Darios,” said the lead officer—a florid-faced man with the bearing of someone who’d spent more time counting coins than battlefields. “Your men are to report to the western barracks. The Prince wishes for your company quartered together there for … administrative purposes.”

Lucius didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes flickered over his company, nor the subtle tightening of the guards’ hands on their weapons. Administrative purposes. As if any of them were fools enough to believe that.

“Understood,” he replied flatly. No point in arguing. Not yet.

As the officers strode away, the tension among his men thickened like clotting blood.

“Administrative purposes my arse” someone barked “They mean to keep us leashed like dogs.”

Lucius rounded on them so fast several men actually stepped back. “Enough,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “One more word—one more fucking whisper of dissent—and I’ll gut the lot of you myself. You think this is some back-alley brawl where you can run your mouths without consequence? That florid-faced shit just gave us our orders, and unless you’re looking to decorate the city gates, you’ll follow them.”

He let his gaze sweep across each face, marking who met his eyes and who looked away. Too many hotheads. Too many loose tongues. If he was going to move against the Herculeians, he’d need to do it soon—before one of these idiots got them all killed.

“Fall in,” he snapped. “We move to the western barracks. And if any of you so much as looks at a Herculeian the wrong way, I’ll personally see you flogged raw.”

As the men formed up with grudging discipline, Lucius’s mind was already racing ahead. The western barracks were isolated, far from the city’s heart. Convenient for keeping watch on mercenaries, while also being inconvenient for mercenaries to slip away unnoticed.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the old scar tissue pull tight across his knuckles. The time for waiting was nearly over. When he made his move, it would need to be swift, brutal, and without warning. Like cutting a man’s throat in his sleep—quick and quiet, leaving no chance for cries or last-minute betrayals.