Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 866

Chapter 866: Damocles sword

They all knew it was coming.As night stalks the day and spring claws its way from winter’s corpse, so too did everyone know the reign of Mesha would be born in crisis.

The first great hurdle…

The chamber was stifling, Mesha did not like to stand there but he was the Imperator so he had to. Shadows clung to the high stone walls, and every breath seemed too loud when it was completely silent. He sat at the head of the small council, the table stretching before him, his heartbeat quickened when he caught the strain tightening his uncle Keval’s jaw.

“How reliable is this information?” he asked,believing he was to say something, anything really…

They weren’t in the grand hall tonight. No gilded courtiers or perfumed flatterers here, only the men who truly ran the Empire.

Lord Vratinius shifted his massive frame in the chair, the candlelight glinting off the sweat that slicked his bald head. He had eaten and schemed his way into the title of spymaster, ousting his cousin by mother’s side Croxiatus, in the process. “Very, my lord,” he wheezed looking toward Keval. “I fear this has been long coming… especially after your father’s passing.”

“Peace to his soul,”His uncle murmured. His voice cracked on the words. The grief still lingered on his face like a bruise even after two months.

“The bastard didn’t even wait for the body to grow cold,” Mesha replied “He was never the filial type. He preferred to lie with whore than with love.”

“The pretender will face justice, Your Imperial Majesty,” Vratinius replied, puffing up as if the gods themselves were listening. “As he was thwarted before, so will he be again.”

Mesha looked at him, really looked. That was my grandfather, he thought . And this sack of meat dares speak of victory?

He schooled his features into calm. “The gods may watch,” he said evenly. “But it is men who must see it done. Tell me my lords, what preparations have been made?”

He let his eyes drift across the council table, over faces carved deep with age. These were the same men who had advised his father, then his mother during her madness of a reign, and now him. The Empire endured barely; only the face at the top changed.

Croxiatus, Lisidor, Vratinius, all still here. Only Lord Marcellus had been removed, his punishment an unofficial exile from the palace. The man had backed Mesha’s mother during her ill-fated coup, commanding mercenaries against her own kin. Calling for another civil war now would’ve been suicide, so Marcellus was fined, his eldest son taken hostage, and sent into his keep to rot.

Mesha himself would soon cast off the title of ward and assume the purple’s cloth . Sixteen next year. A man, by law and tradition. And with manhood would come marriage to his bethrothed, he hadn’t even met her , not even once.

He was Imperator and theoretically he could marshal troops, launch decrees and call lords, on paper it was so, in reality?Not so much.

A ruler without the nobles’ support was not to last long.

His grandfather and uncle had tried to weave his alliances carefully. He’d married Lord Croxiatus’s daughter, binding one of the strongest houses to his blood.

Lord Lisidor’s great fleet had been shattered at Harmway,he needed imperial gold and favor now more than ever, he received the latter of them so it was safe to consider him loyal. Vratinius instead had been born with his new title when Mesha took the crown.

Turns out the real danger for a new ruler isn’t what comes from beyond the border, Mesha thought. It’s what festers inside the walls.

Lucky him….he had both.

If he failed to keep the nobles on his side, he’d lose everything before his first true year as Imperator even began. And if he misjudged Mavius’s move, the Empire would burn before he reached manhood.

His first trial. His first storm.

Was he ready?

He tried to believe it. He told himself he was. But as the council droned on about supply lines and troop levies, Mesha felt the cold truth whispering in the back of his mind…

He didn’t feel ready at all.

”Our soldiers wait only for your word, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Lord Lisidor, bowing his head slightly.

“It is of utmost importance that by the time the Whore Prince descends from the Finger, our banners already stand ready to meet him. If we yield him the advantage of time, I fear he’ll gather support, or worse, recruit men whose loyalty wavers.

I advise that you summon the lords to send their men to the capital. From there, we can drill the levies, harden them before winter, and advance as soon as we hear of the enemy’s movement.”

Mesha leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the wood. Visinor’s words made sense. They had a rhythm to them, a confidence that reminded Mesha that his father-in-law had been born to lead men, while he himself was still learning what kind of man he was supposed to be.

It reminded him of his grandfather…

On parchment, the plan gleamed well. Still, what shines in theory often rusts in the field.So he waited to hear more opinions before giving his.

“Can our stores sustain that?” came Lord Vraetinius’s nasal chirp. “We don’t yet know when the traitor will strike. My informers report increased transport of grain toward the Fingers, and the blacksmiths taking on extra contracts from the crown. If we muster too early, we may find ourselves short of supply before the first sword is drawn. What if Mavius simply sits in his fortress? Let us drain our coffers, feed our armies through an idle winter, and then strike once hunger forces our hand. He need only wait. Then, when we disband, he’ll come roaring down from the north while our barns stand empty.”

Mesha frowned. That made sense, too.

Everything in war seemed to make sense until blood touched the ground.

Still, doing nothing felt like cowardice.

His eyes slid unconsciously toward Keval. The man gave no signal, only stared back with the weary patience of one who had learned to wait through tempests.

Finally he spoke

“My lords, your counsel is wise, both of you. We do not yet know if the traitor has begun his muster, though I believe the time draws near. There’s little left before the first snow falls on the green, and once winter binds the passes, any movement will be slow and costly. I say we call the levies now. Let them come to the capital and be drilled. ”

Visinor’s lips curled into a satisfied smile.Vraetinius merely sighed and dabbed at his forehead with a perfumed handkerchief, his jowls quivering as though in protest.

“As for supplies,” he continued, “our granaries can sustain an army for the first month of winter. And I doubt even Mavius is mad enough to march through snow and ice. We’ll have time to replenish once the spring roads open.”

For a heartbeat, it almost felt like the plan was made, Mesha envied his uncle’s confidence in this moments.

Then it was Mesha’s father in law who spoke spoke again, cutting through the fragile calm.

“There remains the matter of coin,” he said, his voice smooth but pointed. “Raising troops means raising expense. We should declare a war tax before it’s too late, we could call for some mercenary company perhaps..”

Vraetinius groaned before the words finished leaving Lisidor’s lips. “A tax? On top of the levies? The lords are already strained by the call to arms. To demand coin as well will only drive them into resentment.”

Lisidor inclined his head, supporting the objection. “He’s right. We need their men first, their loyalty second. Empty their purses now and you’ll find fewer swords willing to fight.Plus the current….status is unstead as best”

Mesha listened.

Were they truly worried about the lords’ burdens or just their own? He doubted any of them would gladly part with a single silver from their coffers. Yet their excuses carried the scent of reason, and reason had always been the prettiest mask for selfishness.

Still, even if he agreed to the tax, it would still have to pass through the Wise Council. And that body was as predictable as cats and dogs sharing a bowl

The young Emperor sat in silence, the voices around him blending into a murmur.He was learning that ruling was less about giving orders and more about balancing daggers on your fingertips.One slip, and they’d all draw blood.

Was this how Alpheo felt?Mesha wondered as the lords argued around him, their voices blending into a dull storm of pride and fear. He thought back to the calmness in the man’s tone, the quiet gravity that seemed to anchor every word he spoke.

Alpheo could command a room without ever raising his voice, without even needing to remind anyone who he was. His strength wasn’t in shouting; it was in certainty.

That’s the kind of ruler I want to become, Mesha thought.

He leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting the murmur of debate wash over him. Does Alpheo bicker with his aides like this? Or does he bend them with the weight of his will?And if he does, could I ever do the same?

The council continued its endless tug-of-war, old men protecting old interests, until Mesha finally spoke, quietly, but with purpose, mimicking a certain man.”What of our ally in the south?” he asked. “We’ve worked long to build that alliance. I believe it’s time to use it.”

A silence settled. It wasn’t hesitation so much as discomfort, like a room full of lords being forced to swallow something bitter.

A furrow passed through the gathered faces, displeasure, perhaps even shame. How strange, Mesha thought, what were the chances that he, the youngest among them, the least proven, was the only one willing to ask for help. He was Emperor, yet carried less pride than any man in the room.

Do they still think the Empire stands as great as it once was?Can they not smell the rot in the air?

Keval shifted in his seat, watching his nephew carefully. “Our ally is strong,” he agreed at last.

Mesha rode the wave ”His Grace is more than a skilled commander.His army is among the finest in the South.”

Probably the finest on the continent, he added inwardly, though he didn’t say it aloud. Better than ours, better than any we could muster from half-trained farmers and proud fools.Only thing that could march with them would be our clibanarii…and we have very little of them

“It would do us only good to have him marching beside us,” he finished.

The choice was made “We’ll send word to his Grace. With any luck, he’ll lead the troops himself. Between us, I’d rather have his mind than his men.” Keval declared.

”the man’s known to pull victory from his own ass.” Lisidor added

A ripple of uneasy chuckles moved through the council. Mesha allowed himself a faint smile. The tension thinned just enough for the air to move again.

“Then it’s settled,” he said. “We’ll call on him.” He turned to his uncle “He’ll make fast friends with uncle Tyros, I wager. Two men of such… reputation rarely fail to find common ground.”

Keval chuckled softly. “My brother always wanted to meet the man. Perhaps he will, on the same field where they both shine best.”

The decision was made, the council adjourned. But as the lords began to rise, gathering their papers and pride, Mesha stayed seated.

When the last of them had gone, he looked to the chair he sat, the seat his father had once occupied. He tried to imagine what the old man would’ve said.

Would he have called him wise for seeking allies, or weak for admitting he needed them?

He didn’t know. But for the first time since taking the crown, Mesha felt something close to resolve stir in his chest.

Who knows?

Perphapse he was just happy that he could finally have word with the prince again…he was such a nice man to converse with.