Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 523

Chapter 523: Dealing with starving men(4)
The chamber erupted in a storm of disbelief.

Jarza was the first to break the stunned silence, his usually composed features twisting into open incredulity.

“Have you lost your godsdamned mind?” The words tore from his throat like a battle cry. “These aren’t stray dogs you can whistle to heel—these are men who were trying to carve their way through the city not three days past! And you think they’ll suddenly turn around and fight for the hand that broke them?” His fingers curled into fists. “This is madness !”

Asag exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man desperately clinging to patience.

“Let me understand this,” he said, each word precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “You want to arm seven hundred and sixty men who, until yesterday, would have gladly spit you on a pike. Men who watched their comrades die by our steel. Men who—” His finger jabbed toward the window where the prisoner pens lay, “—are currently dreaming of nothing but slipping a knife between our ribs the first chance they get, for those that at least aren’t dreaming of returning home .” He leaned forward. “And you expect them to march in formation under our banners?”

A muscle twitched in Alpheo’s jaw, but before he could respond, Egil let out a bark of laughter—the sound as warm as a winter gale.

“Oh, this is rich,” he drawled, rolling his shoulders like a wolf settling before a feast. ”Because let’s be clear: the moment these bastards get steel in their hands, they’ll turn on us faster than you can say ‘treason.'” His grin showed teeth. “But hey, if you’re set on this folly, at least let me give them proper motivation first.” A meaningful pat of his sword hilt. “A few examples without heads, tend to have the others value theirs .”

Of course Jarza wasn’t finished. “And what of our own men?” he demanded. “You think they’ll stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the same dogs who put arrows in their brothers? Who burned villages under their protection?” His lip curled. “I give it three hours before we have a mutiny on both sides.”

Alpheo let out a deep sigh, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as if physically holding back a headache. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting their protests settle in the air like dust after a storm.

“Oh ye of little faith,” he murmured

“Next time,” he said, fingers steepled before him, “I’d appreciate it if you let me finish explaining before declaring my plan suicidal.” His lips quirked. “Though I suppose I should be grateful you’re all too stubborn to be proper sycophants.”

At least they spoke their minds.

Alpheo knew plenty of rulers who surrounded themselves with flatterers, men who nodded and smiled no matter how absurd or suicidal an order was. That was the kind of idiocy that led to disaster. The last thing he needed was a collection of bootlickers, whispering nothing but agreeable nonsense into his ears.

“First,” Alpheo continued, rolling a silver coin across his knuckles, “I have no intention of integrating these men into our ranks. The idea of sleeping with seven hundred former enemies camped beside us?” He snorted. “I wouldn’t trust them to muck out my stables, let alone guard my back.”

Egil rubbed his temples. “Then spit it out plainly, Alph. I’m too tired for riddles.”

Asag arched a brow. “You’ve been asleep since dawn.”

“And I plan to resume after this,” Egil shot back without missing a beat.

Asag chuckled, but Alpheo pressed on.

“Men will always find kinship in shared suffering,” he said, his voice dropping into something darker. “Villagers bond over hometowns. Soldiers over battles. And slaves?” His fingers stilled the coin. “They bond over the whip, finding fellowships with those sharing their pains .”

A heavy silence fell. Eight sets of eyes—each carrying memories too bitter to voice—met in understanding.

Alpheo broke the moment with a sharp clap of his hands.

“Now. Tell me—what becomes of a hundred starving men turned loose in foreign lands with steel in their hands?”

Asag’s answer came swift as a blade. “They will become wolves.”

He leaned forward now, voice dripping with amusement. “Now, imagine we do that with seven hundred men. All of them starving. All of them armed.With no way to their home. Tell me, what do you think they’ll turn into?”

Jarza let out a low whistle as realization set in. “Bandits.”

Jarza’s breath hissed through his teeth. “You’re not making them soldiers. You’re unleashing a plague.”

“And the new Prince of Oizen?” Alpheo’s coin flashed as it spun through his fingers. “He’ll spend his coronation year putting down fires instead of raising armies.”

Alpheo let the weight of his words settle in the room, watching as the gears turned in their minds. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Consider this,” he murmured, leaning forward with the quiet intensity of a predator circling its prey. “What if we don’t just unleash wolves… but give them teeth and claws?”

Alpheo’s smile was knife-sharp. “A handful of our men – the right kind of men – moving among them. Men who know how to turn a rabble into a weapon. Who can whisper in the dark about which granaries hold the most grain, which manors are lightly guarded, which roads the tax collectors travel.”

The implications unspooled before them like a noose. This wasn’t just about creating bandits – it was about creating an insurgency. A cancer that would eat at Oizen from within long before their armies marched.

Jarza exhaled sharply. “You’d have them striking supply lines before the war even starts.”

“Among other things,” Alpheo agreed mildly. His gaze drifted to the map spread across the table, fingers tracing invisible paths. “Imagine their new prince trying to rally his lords while his countryside burns. While his tax revenues vanish.”

Alpheo’s voice dropped to a whisper that carried through the room like a blade being drawn. “I don’t just want them defeated when we meet on the field. I want them already broken. Bleeding. Begging for mercy before our banners even appear on the horizon.”

Now was the time to set the wheels in motion.

“Egil,” he began, his voice measured and firm, “I’m tasking you with handling four hundred of the prisoners. Take them in groups of a hundred and drop them along different points of the border—spread out just enough that they won’t immediately tear each other apart, but close enough that the Oizenians will have a damn hard time trying to contain them all at once.”

Egil nodded slowly, following along, but Alpheo wasn’t finished.

“Give them weapons—nothing fine, just enough to make them dangerous. Spears, knives, whatever we can spare.” He grinned then, but there was no warmth in it. “And food. Just enough that their bellies ache, but not enough to keep them satisfied. Hunger makes men desperate, and desperation makes them vicious. Let them learn that the only way to eat is to take.”

Egil folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “And the rest of them?”

“Mereth will take care of the remainder,” Alpheo replied easily. “I’ll have him move them further into the countryside, where they can cause even more trouble before anyone figures out what’s happening.”

There was a pause, then Egil sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. When do we move?”

Alpheo barely hesitated. “Tomorrow.”

Egil’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t argue.

There was no need for further discussion—he had his orders, and he would see them done.

Alpheo watched him go, then leaned back in his chair, tilting his head up slightly as if speaking to the gods themselves.

“Run, little prince,” he muttered under his breath, his smirk returning, sharpened like a blade. “Run with your crown slipping from your head.”

Hearing the words Jarza apparently was reminded of something , as he leaned forward, a sly glint in his eye. “Speaking of crowns…”

Alpheo tilted his head, curious.

“I meant to give this to you earlier, but with all our scheming, it slipped my mind.” He gestured vaguely. “As was reported, the prince fled without his treasury. Apparently, he was so confident in his victory that he planned a little ceremony in Aracina. Something that our dear Asag put a rather violent stop to.”

Asag raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Jarza smirked. “Tell me, what is it that a prince needs for such a ceremony?”

Alpheo chuckled, humoring him. “Do enlighten me.”

Jarza said nothing. Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled forth a crown—one far grander than the one that once sat upon Jasmine’s head. The golden peaks were jagged, like the open maw of a beast, the silver base trimmed in delicate gold filigree. It gleamed under the dim candlelight, heavy with stolen power.

With an easy flick of his wrist, he tossed it through the air.

Alpheo barely caught it, fingers tightening around the cold metal. He said nothing, merely turning it over in his hands, running his thumb along the sharp edges of its golden teeth. The weight of it was undeniable. The meaning even more so.

A hush fell over the room, thick as the weight of unspoken oaths. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only sound daring to intrude upon the moment. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if awaiting the birth of something inevitable.

It was beautiful in its way—cold, heavy, a thing meant not for decoration but for dominion.

He let the silence stretch, savoring the gravity of it. Then, at last, he lifted his gaze.

His voice, when it came, was low, smooth as a dagger slipping between ribs.

“Well then,” he murmured, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, “How would you like to serve a king, instead of a prince?”