Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 828

Chapter 828: The accursed

A splintering headache welcomed Cain into the new day ,nothing new, and yet no less unpleasant for its familiarity. It felt like nails hammered behind his eyes, the taste of iron and stale wine still clinging to his tongue.

He extended a hand, crooked fingers pointing lazily at the carafe of wine by the table. His new servant jolted into action at once, scurrying as if a whip cracked over her back. She poured into the nearest cup, then hurried forward with trembling hands to offer it to her new master.

Cain snatched the vessel and drained it in one long pull, the bitter liquid burning down his throat. Only when the cup was empty did he breathe again, jaw tightening as he thought of the night that had passed. He had hoped , foolishly , to hear the voice of the Sea-God in his dreams. To be granted another whisper of prophecy, some clue, some spark. Instead, he had received nothing but nightmares, and not the prophetic one at that.

With a grunt, he shoved himself up from the bedding. His leg ached as it always did, and he leaned heavily on the golden cane he had taken from the previous master of this house.

The man’s blood was still pooled outside in the dirt, black and sticky where it had dried overnight.

At least the house is fine enough, Cain mused, letting his gaze sweep across the carved beams and silk curtains. Far better than the broken stones he had endured for a decade and a half. Despite the fact that his house had come toward riches, the keep of Elia was as rotten as it had always been

“Grab me my armor,” he growled, voice low and hoarse.

The command fell on deaf ears. Or rather, uncomprehending ones. The slave-girl, the one he had claimed along with the mansion, stood rooted in place. Her wide eyes flicked toward him, then toward the window, then back again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came.

Cain’s lips twisted. I need a fucking translator.

His gaze dropped down her body, the linen shift clinging tight to her frame. The way she stiffened under his eyes, the visible shiver down her spine , he didn’t need words to understand her thoughts. Men’s hungers were a language that required no tongue.

The thought sparked a dull anger in him. She had been taken, just as the house had been taken, just as everything worth having in this miserable place had been taken.

She was his property now, as much as the gilded cane or the bloodstained bed. She should have been grateful , he had pulled her from the clutch of four of his brother’s fodder-recruits, dogs eager to rut in blood.

If not for him, she would have been dragged into their filth, torn apart in body and spirit both. One master, even a crippled one, was a mercy compared to that of four.

But gratitude was absent in her eyes.

Instead there was relief when, at last, Cain slammed his fist against his chest and barked the command again, pointing toward the armor laid neatly on the drawers , helmet, chainmail, and swordbelt. The girl flinched at the noise but obeyed this time, moving with quick, frightened steps.

He saw the small flicker of relief cross her face when she realized what he wanted. That look that fleeting thought that she had been spared made Cain’s teeth grind.

She would have time to share bedding with the cripple; there was no need to fret for that.

She brought the armor to him clumsily, her thin arms barely managing the weight. Cain extended his arm and lowered his head with an imperious tilt. The girl understood quickly enough, fumbling as she wrapped the chainmail about his shoulders and settled it into place. The cold metal pressed against his skin, unfamiliar and heavy as always. She fastened the buckles, hesitating once, then corrected herself under his glare. At last, she placed the helmet into his free hand, bowing her head low as if to ward off the storm of his temper.

Cain adjusted the straps with practiced motions.

“Come,”

He gestured toward the door with his cane.

The girl froze, clearly hoping she might be left behind.

“Now.” His eyes narrowed, and that was enough. She lowered her head, clutching her shift about her, and followed.

Cain pushed through the double doors of the mansion, sunlight stabbing his eyes. Outside, the air was thick with smoke from yesterday’s fires, the stink of blood and charred wood lingering in the streets. Corpses still lay piled in corners, flies buzzing over them in lazy clouds.

It had been three days since most of the city had fallen, three days of fire and blood. What remained of resistance had long since been crushed, save for the imperial court itself. The keep had collapsed almost as an afterthought , the defenders too broken to resist. But the court was another matter entirely.

The great gate that guarded it was cast of iron, black and seamless, wedged deep into stone that mocked fire and hammer alike. Worse still, murder-holes and arrow slits crowned it, so that every attempt to approach left men crawling back bleeding or not crawling back at all. It was only a matter of time before it fell, Cain knew.

And when it did, the sultan, his wretched family, and all the vast treasury of this so-called empire would be theirs to plunder, defile, and scatter like chaff on the wind.

Until then, the city below festered. The streets ran red with blood that had dried and been spilled again, rivers staining the cobbles. The screams of women still pierced the air, high and brittle, though now they were joined by hoarse shouts of men and the shrill cries of children. Three days of slaughter, yet still the city coughed up survivors.

Or worse: sometimes what echoed was not survival but the sound of captives learning what “conquest” truly meant.

Something had shifted in Cain’s men once the capital had fallen. It was as though the knowledge of having broken an empire, of standing knee-deep in the ashes of a civilization that had ruled continents, had made them twice as cruel and twice as hard.

Their purses clinked heavy with stolen silver, their bellies full with stolen food, and their hands itched for more.

Blood slicked the gutters, and it did not all belong to civilians. Cain had seen enough to know that soldiers turned their blades on each other almost as eagerly as they did on the enemy. The air stank of wine and smoke and sex, of rotting meat and rotting men.

As he walked, leaning on his golden cane, he passed the sort of scene that had already become commonplace. Two raiders , faces still smeared with soot and gore , were locked in a bellowing contest over a prize. The prize was a woman. She knelt trembling between them, her shift torn down the front, her hair matted with blood and dirt, eyes wide with the look of a cornered animal.

One man shoved the other. The second shoved back. Then, without further warning, the first raised his axe and brought it down. The blow landed clumsily, biting deep into shoulder and neck, half-cleaving bone. The victim collapsed with a grunt, gurgling wetly as blood fountained from the split. He clutched at the ruin of his throat, rolling on the stones like a butchered pig, his voice no longer an argument but a series of strangled, bubbling whimpers.

The victor didn’t so much as glance at him. He seized the woman by the hair, twisting it around his fist until her scalp pulled tight and her shriek tore the air. She clawed at his hand, begging or praying in a tongue Cain did not know, but the man only dragged her bodily toward the nearest doorway. Her heels scraped on the stones as he yanked her inside, still screaming, until the heavy slam of wood cut her voice short.

For a heartbeat, silence held. Then came the muffled sound of meat striking flesh, her cries reduced to sobs that leaked out between the cracks of the shutters. Outside, the dying man continued to thrash weakly, eyes rolling back as his blood spread across the cobblestones in a widening stain.

Cain’s slave, meanwhile flinched closer to him. He heard her quickened steps behind, felt the tremor of her breath as she tried to stay near. Whether she clung to him because he was scared of watching the scene any longer or because even a cripple was safer than the wolves loose in the street, Cain did not care.

His cane tapped on the stones as he moved down the street, the slave trailing a step behind, eyes darting like a frightened doe’s.

“Oi! You there!”

Cain halted as a voice called for him, he turned his head, the golden tip of his cane glinting as he leaned on it. Two men stood a dozen paces behind him, a rough casket of wine slung between them, the wood dark with old stains. Both wore the swagger of raiders drunk on victory and theft.

The taller one spat on the ground, then jabbed a finger toward Cain. “Yes, you -hic- cripple! You sure you can manage that woman all on your lonesome? Or do you need a bit of help?”

Laughter followed.

The slave froze, eyes flickering between Cain and the men. She did not understand their words, but the tone was universal. She flinched back, then darted behind Cain’s shoulder, as if his broken frame and twisted gait could shield her from the jackals calling out.

Cain’s jaw clenched. He swept his gaze across the street. Not far off, he spied them: a small knot of Free Men wandering amid the chaos, blades still hanging at their sides.

Cain lifted his cane, stabbing it through the air as he raised his voice. “You there! By the word of Cain, of House Elia, come to me!”

The name of the house carried. Heads turned. The men straightened at once, expressions flickering with recognition. The house of the rising star of the Confederation was known to all, it didn’t take long to remember that the greatest man in the Confederation had a crippled brother.

The Free Men hurried forward, the clatter of their boots on stone echoing sharp in the narrow street.

Cain waited until they were close enough. As soon as they were, he asked, “Tell me, friends… are you willing to make some quick silver?”

They exchanged glances.

Cain did not wait for words, he loosened the pouch at his belt and tossed it forward. The heavy leather sack landed in one man’s palm with a solid, satisfying clink.

“See those two drunks, staggering with their cask?” He jabbed his cane toward them, the gold tip catching the sunlight. “Take them and Fuck them bloody if you’ve a mind for it. Then cut their heels and leave them writhing red on the stones like swines.

Once you are done, come and search for Cain Elia, I will make sure to recommend you to my brother, I am sure you know who he is.”

With that, Cain turned his back and resumed his pace, his crippled gait clicking steadily on the cobbles.

It didn’t take long for the screams to start.

He walked on, his shoulders straight, as though the shrieks of the drunkies were nothing more than gulls crying by the sea, he had after all a job to take care of.