Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 811

Chapter 811: Old grudges(2)

With Egil’s return to the fold, it felt as though the last missing piece of a scattered puzzle had finally been set back into place.

The change was immediate, for the small tensions from his absences disappeared, melting into the air like mist under the morning sun. Smiles surfaced where moments before there had only been grim lines, even Jarza’s stern expression softened.

And considering he was the one with most claims of anger against Egil, well that should have meant something…

Alpheo leaned toward his friend, studying the bruises and swelling with a frown that could not be fully hidden.

“Are you good?” he asked quietly, tilting his head, trying to take in the extent of Jarza’s handiwork without drawing too much attention to it.

“Yes, yes, I’m good,” Egil replied, his grin lopsided but unshaken. He raised his cup and took a hearty gulp of wine before adding with an easy laugh, “I barely had a scuffle with him. It’s all dandy.”

The nonchalance was typical of him, but Alpheo knew well enough the man’s pride.The humor smoothed the moment, though, and for that Alpheo was grateful.

He asked a few more questions and answered other, small, harmless ones about the conference , about the food at the banquet, even about the wine Egil was gulping as though he had not tasted it in days, which was clear was more like minutes.

Of course, Alpheo avoided the sharper inquiries pressing at the edge of his mind: what had really happened with Jarza, and how had the quarrel begun? This was not the place, nor the time, to pry. Better to leave those questions locked away until they were alone, far from the ears and eyes of their new allies.

For now, Egil answered with his usual levity, tossing off replies with the same rough humor that had always been his shield. The air around the table seemed lighter for it. The laughter that rose, though not loud, was genuine enough to stitch over the ragged edges left by the morning’s strife.

Satisfied, Alpheo let the matter rest. He gave Egil a final, reassuring pat on the back,a wordless welcome home. Then, with a last glance at the swelling on his friend’s cheek, he turned back his seat and turned to his new allies.

“I must apologize for the abrupt entrance of my friend,” Alpheo began, lifting his cup slightly as if the gesture could smooth the rough edges of Egil’s drunken stumble. He tried his best to pick up the thread of the conversation and guide it back to where it had been before.

“There is no need,” Mesha replied with a gracious smile. “The… eccentricities of certain companions of yours are already well known.” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice just enough that only those at the table could hear the next words. “Along with, of course, other things.”

He did not need to clarify. Alpheo knew full well what “other things” meant and the rumors, well not really rumors given those were true.

“Though,” the young emperor added, his tone shifting back to something more cordial, “I suppose nothing can be said against the skill of your companions, considering half the feats I have heard of them.”

Alpheo seized the change in tone, inclining his head slightly. “I thank you for your kind words and above all, for your kind actions. You have aided us greatly since your arrival.”

“There is no need to address any of that,” Mesha said, lifting his cup of watered orange and honey. “It was my pleasure to lend aid to an ally. It would hardly do to ignore a friend in need, especially when our cooperation has barely begun.”

Alpheo smiled, though his mind was already working. “I suppose not. I must confess, though,I have long been accustomed to relying only on myself. Yet, it is a welcome feeling indeed, that of placing one’s trust in others.”

He hesitated only a heartbeat before continuing, careful to couch his inquiry in humility. “Truly, my only fear is that we will not be able to repay such friendship when the time comes. For I am ashamed to say, I cannot yet see clearly what meaningful aid a mere princedom like mine could give to a great empire, beyond what we already offer, mercantilely speaking.”

Of course, it was always good for a nation to receive aid from another during war.

But really considering what Mesha risked today…after all the possibility of war he could ill afford in the South was not worth simply for the favor of a single prince…even if that prince was someone like him.

At the question Mesha leaned forward slightly, his voice was earnest, yet carried the cadence of someone repeating lessons learned at another’s knee. “You do yourself little justice, your Grace. I can count on one hand the men who have won as many victories in so short a span of time. Your troops are well-trained and disciplined, they would be welcome in any campaign. You may not command a vast host, but you wield what you have with a master’s hand.”

He paused, his expression softening, a faint note of wistfulness in his tone. “I have heard my grandfather speak of you more than once, praising your skill and your boldness. I do not think another man has surprised him so much in these latter years. And if a man is praised by the Old Lion of Romelia… then surely that is a man worth calling friend.”

A good thing, then, that we have not yet clashed in interest. For if we had, I doubt the Old Lion would have sung so freely of me.

Of course, he knew better than to voice such words aloud. Instead, he inclined his head, murmuring a courteous string of thanks, even as he felt the conversation slip back to its first step.

He had not gained anything concrete.

And while Alpheo searched for some clever way to tug at the strings of this new alliance and draw more from Mesha than the boy-emperor was yet willing to reveal, the latter simply misunderstood his line of questioning. To Mesha, the inquiries were not the careful probing of a wary ruler but the earnest attempts of two sovereigns seeking familiarity.

Encouraged by that belief, and warmed by both the company and the chance to speak with someone closer to his own age and position, Mesha leaned into the conversation rather than letting it wither. His tone grew more animated, his eyes shining with youthful eagerness as he turned to those gathered at Alpheo’s side.

“I must also compliment, of course, the skill of your companions,” he said, raising his voice so that all seated at the table could hear. “Rarely have I seen a prince surround himself with such a wide array of men, hailing, as I understand it, from many corners of this continent. Their skill, however, is proof enough of the wisdom of such a choice. May I ask, my lords, where each of you hails from?”

Asag, stiff in his seat but never one to shrink from notice, was the first to respond. He bowed his head slightly before answering with pride. “Of course, Your Majesty. I was born and raised in the province of Corgorum.”

Mesha’s lips curved into a smile, and he raised his cup in a small toast. “The Mountain of Aracina, then, hails from Romelian soil! It pleases me greatly to know that courage remains a fruit borne of the Empire’s blood.”

The words left Asag visibly taken aback. His eyes widened a fraction, betraying the briefest flicker of surprise that the young emperor knew not only his origin but also that of the epithet whispered about him. For a second, he faltered before regaining composure.

Of course Alpheo understood immediately that Mesha had done his research on each man that he kept at his side.

After Asag, it was Jarza who spoke, his voice smooth, his bearing composed. “I am from Alarnia, Your Majesty,” he said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “Though I confess I have spent more years upon your soil than among my own people.”

Mesha tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity flashing in his eyes. “Truly? Forgive me, but I had thought you hailed from the lands of Azania.”

Jarza caught the unguarded curiosity in Mesha’s expression and understood immediately that this boy, emperor though he might be, knew little of the land that had claimed his father’s life.

A faint smile tugged at Jarza’s lips as he leaned back in his chair. “I can see why you thought so, Your Majesty. The Arlanians and Azanians share much with one another, our complexion, our manner of speech, even certain customs. Our faith, too, is akin albeit a bit different . At a glance, the mistake is an easy one.”

Mesha’s stare lingered, studying the man with interest, as though weighing more than Jarza had said. Jarza chuckled softly, breaking the tension, and reached into his tunic. “But as for me,” he added lightly, pulling forth a silver chain with a star-shaped pendant that glinted in the lamplight, “you need not worry. I believe in the Star now, as any man under his grace banner should.”

The necklace caught the table’s attention, shimmering as Jarza let it dangle for a moment before tucking it back against his chest. His smile was disarming, his tone even more so.

And so, at last, the attention shifted to the one man at the table whose foreignness could not be mistaken, Egil.

Alpheo’s gut tightened the instant Mesha’s gaze landed on him. He opened his mouth, ready to intervene, to steer the boy-emperor’s attention elsewhere, but Egil was faster. He always was.

“I come from the tribe of Enkile,” he said bluntly, his voice carrying across the table like the crack of an axe against wood.

The name fell into the air and hung there, unrecognized and unseen. Mesha’s brow furrowed faintly, though he was careful to school his features into a look of polite attention. To him, Egil’s hard stare, the one that burned like a brand in his eyes, seemed a stoic expression, the dignity of a man speaking of his people.

Egil, however, meant it otherwise. He held the emperor’s gaze, and his tone softened only by the barest degree. “The men of Enkile are proud. Courage flows in our veins like fire, and on horseback, no tribe rides with greater steed or surer hand. We were not many, but every man was worth ten.”

But Mesha nodded, hesitant and clearly having missed the past tense at the end

“Forgive me,” he said carefully, “but I must confess I am not familiar with them.”

At that, Alpheo saw Egil’s jaw tighten, the muscles working beneath the bruised skin. His nostrils flared. For a moment, the mask slipped. “That much is obvious,” he said, “Else you would not—”

He stopped. The words died in his throat, as if he had wrestled them into submission before they could betray him. The stare lingered one heartbeat longer, hard and unyielding, then melted, almost unnaturally, into a smile.

“My apologies,” he said with sudden lightness. “I fear the hangover I carried into this hall has done me no favors. And adding more wine to it was a fool’s mistake. If Your Majesty will forgive me, I would take my leave and find some rest.”

Mesha, still oblivious to the undercurrent running beneath the words, returned the smile with all his boyish earnestness. “Of course, you should rest. It would be cruel of us to keep you at the table when you are unwell.”

Egil inclined his head in thanks. Yet as he rose, Alpheo caught how his eyes hardened once more, before he smoothed them over, excused himself with a murmur, and left the hall where he lasted, but scarcely five minutes.