Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 751

Chapter 751: Mind games(1)

“Would you rather fuck a goat once a year, or be dragged into the lord’s army every time a war breaks out?”

The voice came from a soldier leaning lazily over the crenellations of Freusen’s outer wall. His elbows rested on the cold stone, his spear balanced loosely against his shoulder. He stared out into the dusky fields beyond, but his grin was angled toward the man beside him.

“Neither,” came the flat reply.

The other sentry stood with his back against the parapet, eyes fixed on the road far below. He spat, watching the gob fall until it splattered on the dirt.

The first man’s grin faltered. “It’s not funny if you don’t at least try to play along. Read the room, you miserable bastard.”

“Fuck you. I’m not playing.”

“Fine. Good riddance. Waste of a question anyway.”

Silence settled between them. They waited each other out, breaths steaming faintly in the cooling air.

It lasted all but twenty seconds.

“I’m sorry I called you a fucker,” the first soldier muttered at last.

“And I’m sorry for ignoring your stupid game,” the second man said, rubbing at his face with a gloved hand. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. “I’ve just… got a lot on my mind. Not in the mood.”

“What happened?”

“Martha’s with child.”

A slow grin spread across the first soldier’s face. “Well, congratulations—”

“I haven’t been home in months.”

The grin froze mid-curve. “…Ah.”

“She gave me horns.” The words came out like a sentence, not a confession.

“Oh, fuck, it’s shining.”

“You son of a bitch!” The second soldier’s voice bristled. “I tell you that in confidence and you—”

“No, no, not that!” The first man was already leaning forward over the wall, his arm outstretched, finger stabbing toward the horizon. “There. It’s shining.”

The second soldier’s irritation bled away as he followed his gaze.

Out past the hills, where the road bent out of sight, points of light flickered, dozens of them, glinting in the fading light like a river of stars spilled across the earth.

“…Shit,” the second man breathed.

“Should we call the commander?”

“Yeah… yeah, we probably ought to.”

But neither moved. They just stood there, watching the glow swell brighter with each heartbeat, until they realized the other had been frozen in place too.

Only then did they go find the commander.

————–

“The city’s close. We should just go ahead with the attack,” Asag muttered, leaning toward Egil as they rode side by side.

“Trust me on this, all right?” Egil shot back, his eyes fixed ahead. There was no smirk this time, just a level look that made Asag hesitate. Egil might not have been the commander of this detached force, but it wasn’t often he spoke with such earnestness. Against his instincts but following his guts , Asag decided to trust him.

Worst-case scenario, we put the place to siege, he told himself. It’s not like we could have approached Freusen without being seen anyway.

There were no forests to screen their advance, just flat and open land.

Still , the thought of marching so exposed gnawed at him.

The day before, they had been fighting the current of the Hetos River, rowing upriver until they were dropped off some distance from Freusen. From there, the army had advanced on foot.

Strangely, Egil had asked for all banners of the White Army to be hidden at the moment of disembarkation, replacing them with the standard of one of the Herculean lords lent to them by the prince.

It had seemed an odd move, but Egil refused to explain.

Asag’s own suggestion had been more straightforward: sending Egil ahead to seize the gate before the alarm was raised.

But Egil had been quick to point out the flaw: by the time the city sighted their dust, the gates would already be shut, the walls manned, and the element of surprise lost. Instead, he had proposed something different.

So they marched in plain sight. They passed through villages without touching them, making no raids, no sudden charges. It was a strange kind of behavior for Egil’s men, especially knowing their tendencies.

“Boss!” one of the scouts called as he came riding back at a gallop. He leaned in close to Egil. “A rider’s ahead.”

“They’ve finally sent someone to meet us.” Egil grinned at the news and threw a glance over his shoulder at Asag, who only frowned in confusion. Dismissing the scout with a nod, Egil added, “We should slow down now. Make ourselves look as little like a threat as possible.”

“How in all the hells do you manage that with more than a thousand swords behind you?”

“I don’t know. But order it anyway.”

Asag blew out a breath. “Fine. You do realize that If this goes south, I’ll take the blame. But if it goes north, it’ll be your achievement?”

“Come now, we all fight under the same banner,my kills are yours and your kills are mine” Egil said over his shoulder, already easing his horse forward, pulling away from the column.

Asag called after him, asking where he was going, but the only answer he got was a cheeky smile.

Minutes later, the rider from the city appeared on the road ahead, slowing his pace until his horse stamped nervously at a safe distance from the column. Even from where Asag sat, it was plain as a moonlit night that the man was uneasy, his hands twitched on the reins, his posture wavering. Still, when he saw only a single man riding out to meet him while the rest of the army held back, some of that tension bled away.

“Halt there! You are in the lands of Lord Varath, state your name and allegiance!” the rider called, trying for authority but landing closer to uncertainty.

“Is that how you greet a guest of your lord?” Egil barked, his voice carrying across the quiet fields. “What’s with that tone, soldier? Do we look like enemies to you? Is this what passes for Varath’s hospitality these days?Should we turn my lord’s men around?” He spoke as though the mere act of being questioned were a personal insult.

The rider flinched though suspicious did not disappear “I… I apologize if I gave offense. We did not know our lord was hosting… so many friends. May I ask which lord you serve?”

Egil scoffed loud enough for the man to hear. “We ride under Lord Friskwjt of Fkasin,” he said, deliberately mangling the words, letting them tumble out quick and garbled.

“What?” the rider asked, frowning.

“I said we serve Lord Mjkus of Rtakis,” Egil repeated, even faster this time, the syllables muddled and disjointed as if spat through a mouthful of gravel, though appearing similar to the previous on.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that—”

“ARE YOUR EARS STOPPED WITH WAX?” Egil roared, cutting him off making some slight advance. “It’s not enough to throw suspicion on my lord, but now you insult me too?What is your name soldier?I will have you whipped at the very least!”

The rider’s eyes widened, panic slipping into his voice. “I meant no insult… sir? I’m simply hard of hearing?” he said , though it was clear it was just a quick excuse.

“Then come closer instead of wasting my time!” Egil snapped. “Did they send you to provoke us? Is that your aim? If we are not welcome here, we’ll turn around and let all know of your lord’s hospitality.”

“Please, I beg your pardon,” the rider said quickly, the fear plain now. “Just… one last time—”

“I will not repeat myself a fourth time,” Egil growled. “Come closer, or have your lord send another rider. I’ll be sure to inform him of your incompetence.”

The rider hesitated only a moment before nudging his horse forward, hooves crunching over the dirt road. “I’m sorry,” he murmured an apology again as he drew near, his head ducked low in a humble bow.

“Dumbass,” Egil muttered.

The axe was in his hand before the rider could react. The blade came down in a quick arc, burying itself in the man’s collarbone with a wet, cracking sound. The rider gasped, a sharp, shocked inhale that turned into a choked cough. His eyes went wide as his body convulsed in the saddle, blood pouring down his side and dripping onto the road in thick streams.

Egil wrenched the axe free, and the rider tumbled bonelessly from his horse, hitting the ground with a hollow thud. The smell of iron filled the air as the man lay twitching once, twice, and then went still, his lifeblood pooling black in the fading light.

Egil spat beside the corpse, then reached up to stroke the dead man’s horse, murmuring to steady it.

Once the animal had stopped trembling, he turned and jerked his chin at one of his men.

“Oi, Vanno! This poor sod looks about your size. Strip him and put his armor on.”

Vanno swung down from his saddle, already unbuckling the corpse’s gear, starting from the helm. “What’s the play, boss?”

Egil crouched, rifling through the rider’s pockets as old habits died hard, and smiled once he found something, only to sneer once it revealed them to be just some bronzii.

He threw them at Vanno, who took it mid-air.

“The same thing I’m always good for,” he said dryly. “Nothing honest.”