Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 750

Chapter 750: Yarzat rules the waves! (3)

With the stone barrage from the ships and the brutal breakthrough carved by the Fourth Legion, the rest of Alpheo’s host landed almost unopposed.

The thin remnants of Oizenian resistance, scattered and demoralized, were swept aside with ruthless efficiency. Whatever slim chance the defenders had of holding their city vanished like smoke in a storm.

Within twenty minutes of the first boots hitting the harbor, the battle was over. The garrison was shattered, with all either perishing under steel or surrendering themselves under capture. And so it was , that Alpheo made his entrance into the first Oizenian city to fall beneath his banner.

He rode forward with his white stallion, whose legs, once pure as snow, were already flecked with crimson where it had stepped through a pooling stain. It came from the ruin of a soldier lying facedown, half his body intact while the other half ended in a ragged stump obliterated through a stone.

There was no time to clear the streets or arrange the dead into neat rows. The city, still groaning under the weight of conquest, was already beginning to feel the chaos of victory.

Looting had begun before Alpheo even set foot inside the gates. Several lords’ levies had broken formation, darting away to seize whatever coin, cloth, or drink they could lay their hands on.

The Third and Fourth Legions, those who had secured the harbor and pushed the defenders back, were not far behind. Once the perimeter was locked down and their prince gave the word, they too spilled into the streets, their war cries replaced by shouts of discovery as they tore into homes, storehouses, and merchant stalls.

Alpheo made no move to stop them.

The sack had begun before he arrived, and he doubted he could have stopped it.

And besides, why restrain them? The city had been taken by the sword; it was only natural it be paid for in spoils.

He had spent quite a sum for this campaign, and honestly, there was no better way to even the expenditures than by a good old sacking!

He had given only one command before the assault: no fires. The city’s stone heart and its stores of food would serve him far better intact. Everything else was left to the discretion of his men.

Yet he knew they could not linger. Every moment spent plundering dulled the sharp edge of their greatest advantage, that of surprise. His host was now deep in enemy territory, and though the fruits of victory hung ripe all around them, they could not afford to spend days clawing greedily at the apple’s core.

There were more cities to take, more blows to strike before the enemy gathered their strength.

The screams of Artalerita’s citizens drifted like smoke through the streets, curling into the prince’s ears. Alpheo turned his head, his gaze settling on Asag.

The man stared straight ahead, his expression unmoved, as though the cries of the conquered were no more than gulls over the sea.

“Asag,” Alpheo called, his tone measured but edged with intent.

“Yes?” The legate turned at once, as if he had been expecting the summons.

“With the city taken, we now have the chance to press our advantage before word of our presence reaches further north. The Hetos River makes a fine natural border, one reason I struck so far south.

From here to Freusen, there are no fortresses to slow us.”

Asag’s eyes flicked toward the sky. “And for that, I suppose you’ll want the men reined in. It’s to be sunset in a few hours…come morning, the worst of the looting will burn itself out. But…” He studied Alpheo for a moment, his mouth quirking faintly. “Something tells me you don’t plan to wait.”

A corner of Alpheo’s lips curled into a smile, though it died as quickly as it came. “You’ve learned to read me too well, old friend. Yes, you’re right. Right now, we hold the advantage of surprise. I don’t know how long that will last, but I know this: the sooner we move, the more it will count.”

“The men have been at sea for a week,” Asag said, voice level but with a trace of warning. “Many are half-mad from salt air and cramped decks. They’ll want release—drink, women, the weight of land under their boots. You risk pulling a bowstring too tight.”

Alpheo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that the official mood of the Third… or your own counsel?”

“Any legion of ours will fight through hunger, fatigue, and fury if ordered,” Asag replied. “But the levies? That’s another matter. Most of them I believe will not heed the orders . Looting is their only promise of reward. Take it from them too soon, and they’ll drag their feet.”

“Will your legion stop the sack if called?”

“Without hesitation nor wait,” Asag said, not even pausing to think.

“Good. In two hours, have your men drawn in and ready. The Fourth and the Golden Steed will muster alongside you. Any soldier who refuses falls where he stands, you have my leave to make the example sharp. Once the stubborn are dealt with, the rest will fall in line. I will have a mission for you soon enough.”

Asag gave a curt nod, already working through the steps in his mind. The screams in the streets rolled on, the sun slipping lower, bleeding red across the rooftops, when suddenly the blast of horns split the air.

That gave them quite the shock.

Alpheo’s hand twitched toward his sword, but the flicker of tension died when he caught sight of the banners, black mastiffs on pure white.

The Crown’s Hounds had arrived, pushing through the chaos, their commander at the front and his second still blowing the horn with the obscene persistence of a brothel regular immersing himself on a woman’s slit.

“Ah! My dear friends!” Egil’s voice cut clean through the din of screams and cries. It was loud, warm, and far too cheerful for a city still dripping blood.

He strode forward as if he were arriving at a feast rather than a battlefield, armor scuffed from the road but his grin untouched. “I see your boys have already started celebrating. Mind if we join in?”

He threw his arm wide, as though presenting a stage, and Alpheo’s eyes followed the gesture. Soldiers stumbled out of the broken husks of homes, clutching armfuls of cloth and coin, some dragging women by their wrists, others laughing with blood still fresh on their hands.

“Did you finish what you were sent to do?” Alpheo asked, voice even, though his gaze stayed on the looters.

“Of course. Who do you take me for?” Egil replied, mock injury twisting his grin. He gave a theatrical half-bow, then stepped aside with a flourish to reveal the man his companions shoved forward.

He was a youth, barely seventeen, wrists bound in coarse rope that had bitten red lines into his skin. His brows were knitted in fury, but the rest of his face was pale seeing the state of the city.

“I present to you the son of the Lord of Artalerita,” Egil declared with pride, like a hunter unveiling his prize. “Normally I’d bring you the father too, but as you’ll soon learn, he’s not here, but in the capital with his army.”

So that was it. Alpheo realised, The reason why the city fell so easily, the garrison ‘d been gutted. Half their strength stripped away to answer Sorza’s call to arms.

That was some good timing…

Alpheo studied the boy, noting the defiance in his stare despite his youth. His gaze drifted to the ropes biting his wrists, then shifted, slow and pointed, toward Egil.

“Don’t give me that look,” Egil said, the corner of his mouth still up. “The little fool went for his sword even after we caught him. He’s lucky we tied him before he could do anything we’d regret. Otherwise, instead of this fine young lord, you’d be meeting a corpse.” He gave the boy’s cheek a playful, patronizing slap. “Isn’t that right, my dear boy?”

“He must have sent a rider to warn his father,” Alpheo said.

“Already handled,” Egil replied without missing a beat. “The messenger’s dead, and the letter’s in my hand.”

“You…?” The boy’s voice cracked, the word more gasp than question. Until now he hadn’t known he had failed even at warning his kin.

“Oh, he speaks! By the Great Horse!” Egil barked a short laugh. “I thought you were mute.” He turned back to Alpheo, tone shifting to business. “So…what do we do with him? I doubt his father can pay ransom now that you’ve taken his lands and treasury.”

“I’ll find a use for him,” Alpheo said. His voice softened only enough to show it was not meant for cruelty. “Cut the rope. Take his sword if you must, but he’s still of noble blood, that’s no way to treat him.”

Egil arched a brow; after all he had done far worse to far higher people in the hierarchy of society.

You could probably count with one hand the people that killed a prince and lived to tell the tale…

“You’re lucky we had you cornered, boy. Otherwise, you’d have had a javelin between your ribs. I am sure you heard their stories, no?” With deliberate slowness, he drew the youth’s sword from its scabbard and held it up to the light. “Fine steel, by the way. Mind if I keep it?”

“He’s joking,” Alpheo said, cutting the tension before it could tighten. “When your captivity ends, your sword will be returned. Until then, you’ll be our… guest.”

The boy’s lips tightened, but to everyone’s surprise, he offered no protest. Perhaps he understood that the prince’s custody was a safer prison than Egil’s company, whose name was even blacker than that of his prince.

“Well then,” Egil said with a wolfish grin, “if that’s all, my boys and I will see what spoils the city still offers.” He lingered where he stood, eyes fixed on Alpheo in silent request for permission.

“You may,” Alpheo said at last. “But in two hours the entire army will assemble in the main square. Your men will help enforce the order. I expect none of them to be among the offenders.”

Egil’s grin faltered into a frown. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” Alpheo replied, his voice cooling to steel, “I have work that must begin immediately. And for better or worse, Egil, you’re part of it.”