Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 763

Chapter 763: Headache

“Your Grace,” the messenger bowed low as he stepped into the throne hall.

His voice carried across the marble chamber, where the gathered nobles stood in small clusters, those were the nobles who had answered the prince’s call to arms and were currently waiting in the capital to march toward the enemy that was to move one moment or another,.

The man’s gaze did not linger on them. His eyes stayed fixed on the polished stone beneath his boots as he spoke.

“His lordship Samuel has fallen under attack by bandits on his way to the capital. He has, by the gods’ grace, managed to save his life and avoid capture, but most of his army and the supplies they carried have been lost. He sends his regrets, Your Grace, and begs to inform you that he will be unable to answer the call to arms in the near term.”

A murmur of recognition spread through the crowd. This was not the first incident, and it was clear that the responsible party for such news was the same band of brigands that had grown bold enough to repeatedly ambush military contingents.

It was an easy conclusion to make given that their signature tactics were always the same.

They would lie in ambush near wooded stretches of road or overlooking hills. Their assault usually starting with trees felled to block the advance and hit their lines, or wagons sent hurtling down slopes to smash into the column’s center. This initial strike was designed to cause maximum disarray, often breaking the lines before the bandits themselves even descended for the final, chaotic charge.

The strategy had become a frustratingly common entry in field reports. But for the man on the high castle, its recurrence did not make the insult any more digestible.

His dark eyes fixed on the messenger, though his hand twitched once toward his brow as if to knead away the familiar throb of a headache. He resisted the urge, drawing a slow breath instead.

“Where did the ambush happen?” he asked at last, his voice measured, each word clipped.

“Only a few kilometers from Aragustaven, Your Grace,” the messenger replied.

The Prince’s gaze darkened. Two weeks ago, it was outside Diroli. Now Aragustaven. The thought settled in his mind like a stone dropping into deep water. How do these bandits know where to strike… and when? The question seemed to feed the pounding in his temples.

“Is there no one who can rid me of these vermin?” Sorza’s voice rose, echoing through the vaulted chamber. “Two years they have plagued our roads, two years they have bled our merchants and soldiers, and yet not one of you has brought me their heads.”

The nobles shifted uneasily. None stepped forward. None dared meet the Prince’s eye.

Then a single voice broke the silence. “Your Grace…”

From the line of lords, a man stepped forward. a tall figure with a neatly trimmed beard and a calm bearing.

Sorza tilted his head slightly, surprised. “Would you like to be given the mission, cousin?Are you the man that I searched for so long?”

A faint, almost regretful smile touched Lord Amava’s lips, coursin to the prince, and younger brother to the only member of the Royal family, that had it worse than Shameleik when dealing with the Peasant Prince.

“I apologize, Your Grace, but I fear I am not.”

The Prince’s brows drew together. “Then why step forward?”

“I wish only to suggest, Your Grace,” Amava said, bowing slightly, “that for now we ignore these troublesome outlaws.As irritating as they are, I believe that there are… greater matters that demand our attention.”

Sorza’s expression hardened. He leaned back against the throne, fingers drumming once on the armrest. “The Peasant Prince has still not moved toward any of our borders. As a matter of fact, I am growing bored with the silence. Had I known no better, I could have had the impression he had simply given up.”

His eyes swept the hall, daring anyone to disagree. “As such given the silence, it would most certainly make my day,” he said slowly, “to hear of those bandits nailed to the road leading to Oizen.

The gods’ eyes clearly have seen that they probably deserved the punishment several times over.”

The nobles bowed their heads, but whether in agreement or in avoidance, it was difficult to tell.

The tension that the prince felt was not his alone.

The nobles, too, shared that sentiment.

They had all come to court under the banner of defending the realm, eager for decisive action, many with the spirit of revenge for kinsmen massacred on that ugly night outside Aracina.

And yet, the days had bled into weeks, and no word of the enemy’s movements had reached them.

In better days, Sorza had relied on his network of spies to trace the so-called Peasant Prince’s every maneuver.

But for months now, the music had gone silent. His proud network had become a graveyard.

Every agent sent to seed informants among the enemy’s maids, stewards, and petty functionaries, the latter which he had found an abundance of, met the same fate: vanishing without a trace, or worse, sending one solitary morsel of intelligence before falling forever mute. No cries for help. No trails of rumor. Just silence, heavy and complete.

The cruelest case was the one who seemed reliable. For months, the man had sent regular, convincing accounts. Sorza had allowed himself to believe he had finally secured a true vein of information from within the Peasant Prince’s circle.

That illusion collapsed when word arrived not from his spy, but from a caravan of merchants: Yarza’s royal host had nearly completed its muster in the capital. A truth too vast, too public to have been missed, yet absent from every report Sorza had received.

The conclusion was inescapable. His “source” had been turned, forced to feed him carefully measured lies.

The cost was beyond measure. Precious weeks lost. A counter-muster delayed. The defense of his realm weakened at its roots. And worse than the strategic blow was the humiliation. Sorza, had been made a puppet. His strings pulled by a peasant in a borrowed crown.

Since the day he had fallen captive to that mercenary years ago, vengeance had burned in his chest like a coal. When his father died, that coal disappeared.

Retribution had given way to a more pragmatic thing: the fear of facing an opponent he did not yet understand. And now, with the enemy nowhere to be seen, the fear was ever more present than if the man were camped in plain sight outside Oizen’s gates.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the Lord of Partius said, stepping forward into the echoing space between them. “We all share the desire to see these bandits dealt with, and to know the Peasant Prince’s location. But I believe it would be a waste of time to chase shadows.”

“We have word of their attack,” Sorza countered. “If we move quickly, perhaps we can gain a lead on their position.”

Partius shook his head slightly. “We have tried that for the past year, Your Grace, and have nothing to boast of. These are not mere brigands. They move with far precision that any should expect from common outlaws, as if guided by a hand far more capable than theirs. It is clear they are receiving… outside help.”

Sorza’s eyes narrowed. “You think he is behind them?” There was no need to name the Peasant Prince aloud.

“Yes, Your Grace. I believe our strength would be better spent here, drilling without pause with those weapons of yours, which we have all seen and remember the strength of. If we best the Peasant Prince in open battle, the support behind these vermin will vanish with his defeat.”

Of course he’s behind them, Sorza thought, fingers curling against the armrest of his throne. Only a fool would believe that a rabble of roadside thieves could suddenly turn into phantoms who strike with perfect timing, always knowing where our men march. This is his doing, his coin, his orders, his informations.

He knew all of this already. And yet… gods, how he longed to hear something, anything, that could be called good news. A bandit captain captured.. Even a rumor that his spies had survived long enough to report.

But there was nothing. Only empty roads and silence where answers should be.

He would have been content, ecstatic, even, to have his wish granted and receive at last some concrete news of the enemy’s whereabouts. But fate, as it so often did, refused to give him the comfort he wanted despite fulfilling his dearest wish.

“Your Grace!”

The cry rang sharp across the hall. All heads turned toward the great doors, where a man stumbled inside, his chest heaving, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His clothes were travel-stained but Sorza’s eyes went first to the emblem stitched into his surcoat: the colors of House Apurvio.

The man dropped to one knee, trying to find enough air to speak.

“We have sighted enemy forces!” he gasped. “Bands of riders have been raiding the lands of my lord, putting his field to the torch and displacing his subjects!”

Sorza’s brow furrowed. Apurvio? The southern border? His mind immediately leapt to the nearest threat.

“Did the Sharjaan attack?” he demanded anxiety gripping his heart, wondering if this was Alpheo’s plan to have them suffer an invasion by two sides.

“No, Your Grace,” the man said, wiping at his mouth before continuing. “The enemy was reported to bear black and white stripes upon their tabards. They are the forces of the Peasant Prince.There is no mistaking…”

The murmurs turned to full-blown commotion. Lords twisted in their seats to whisper to one another; some scoffed, others frowned in disbelief. The Peasant Prince’s host had not been anywhere near the south, by all reason, it should have been impossible for them to appear there , there was, after all, an entire princedom between the two.

Sorza felt the confusion as keenly as they did, until, like a curtain drawing back in his mind, understanding came.

That’s how he did it… three years ago. The memory struck him like cold steel in the gut: his father’s army caught utterly unprepared, the enemy striking from an unexpected quarter. He sailed.

Sorza rose sharply. The lords’ murmurs stilled.

“Enough,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber. “Send word to our forces. We will ride south and drive the enemy from Apurvio’s lands before they dig in. We finally have our wish fulfilled, and we can ride to battle and glory.”

But as the hall moved with his command, Sorza stood rooted for a moment.

A short while ago, the uncertainty of not knowing where the enemy was had gnawed at him. Now he knew. Now the Peasant Prince was within reach. And for all his words of defiance, Sorza felt it.

And recognised that to be the ache of fear.

He undoubtedly was not over him.