Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 871

Chapter 871: Departing

“How many legions are we going to raise, then?”

“All”

One thousand three hundred and fifty helmets. Twenty-two banners catching the wind like wings. Two hundred horses stamping the dirt, snorting steam into the crisp air. Twenty-six officers standing in perfect formation, the chain of command forged and polished even more than their blades.

The air was filled with the mingled scents of oil, sweat, and steel. Beneath that, the faint sweetness of food wagons lined along the rear: sacks of flour, salted meat, beef jerky cured till it could outlast the months, coils of smoked pork and sheep sausage. Barrels of honey and dried fruit packed alongside wheels of hard cheese and jars of pickled vegetables.

Enough to feed an army for four weeks, or starve one for five.

It was a banquet fit for the gods, if the gods had ever needed to march, to bleed, to kill.

Alpheo had ordered the majority of the honey to be used for cakes, this food after all was not be used as much to feed the troops as to sate them for a banquet.

That had been a pleasant surprise of the troops.

He had worried that there could be discontent among the legions from marching once more for a war so close since the last one.

If there were any, not one was reported to him.

What he saw now as he walked between the lines wasn’t certainly any of that.

He walked with his family beside him, his black helmet tucked between arm and chest, the plume at its crown glinting like a raven’s wing. His cloak rippled in the morning breeze, catching motes of dust that shimmered like sparks.

They watched his, their hero, their prince, the maker of ten thousand graves. Rows of eyes tracking him in silence as he passed. He met as many of their stares as he could, nodding, sometimes even smiling. Some looked away too quickly, as if fearing his gaze might brand them; others held it, wide-eyed, drinking him in.

He could feel their faith like heat on his skin.

These were not just soldiers. They were men who had crawled through the mud of certain defeat, who had buried friends in shallow graves, who had seen the nation Alpheo had made bless and rise.

They would follow him anywhere at any time.

Alpheo turned his head just as the sound of softer footsteps reached him. Behind him, Jasmine walked with that same effortless poise she had worn since the day they crowned her, trying her best not to appear uncomfortable of men who had made a vocation of war.

Her stride was unbroken, the silks of her dress flowing like a dark river in the morning wind. In one hand she held Rosalind’s tiny fingers, guiding her through the uneven earth. The little girl’s eyes darted everywhere, wide and alight with wonder. She stared at the forest of spears and the mirrored gleam of armor stretching across the plain, a thousand faceless giants shimmering under the sun, each one ready to spill blood , be it theirs or not, for her father.

A hush followed in their wake, reverent and unspoken.

Basil walked a few paces ahead of his mother, chin raised, chest puffed out in an imitation of the men around him. The boy was trying to look older. His small hands clenched at his sides, his steps measured, his jaw set in stubborn pride.

And so, of course, with his eyes set on the clouds he didn’t see the stone beneath him.

His boot caught the edge of it, and he stumbled, his hands shooting out as he crashed to the dirt with a muted thud. For a heartbeat, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.

A soldier to Alpheo’s right sucked in air through his teeth, the sound may have very well been thunder in the silence. His eyes went wide when the prince turned to look at him.

The contours of fear tightened his face like a noose, as he already imagined the axe hanging above his neck.

Alpheo stopped before him, his shadow falling across the man’s polished armor.

Still, he was lucky that the prince was in a good mood, so he simply smiled . His gloved hand came down on the soldier’s shoulder, the weight of it light but steady.

“Falling down,” he said, voice aloud for all to hear, “is no matter… so long as you stand again.Do not get your arse up your head only because you never fell behind me, there is always once in one’s life.”

The soldier blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. Then he nodded, relief flooding through him like blood after frostbite. Alpheo turned away before the man could stammer a reply.

His son was already on his feet again, red-faced, brushing dust from his tunic as if the earth itself had offended him. Jasmine hid her disappointment behind a composed mask, though her eyes betrayed her amusement. Rosalind clapped as she walked to her brother , patting away some dust from his legs.

Thousands of hearts melted at the display.

That was not pre-planned, still the effect was a pleasant surprise for the prince, after all in case he were to die the duty of protecting his family would fall to them, so it was good that they saw with their own eyes the royal house they fought for.

Together then they walked weaving through the ranks of the waiting legions toward the wooden pavilion that crowned the plain like a throne upon a sea of steel.

Alpheo ascended first, each step hollow and heavy beneath his boots.

Below him stretched the entirety of part of Yarzat’s host. Thousands of eyes lifted as one toward the figure now standing above them , their prince, their commander, their fox.

Behind him stood his family, to his sides his friends.

The wind carried the faint creak of banners, the rasp of armor, the murmur of breath shared among thousands.

He closed his eyes for one fleeting second.

Then he opened them again, and the man vanished.

Only the prince remained, the result of a boy who had clawed his way out of hell and was trying to hoard all of heaven for himself.

“EIGHT YEARS!”

The prince’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. It rolled across the plain, bounced against the city walls, and came thundering back, cold, commanding, and alive. The legions stiffened. Even the banners seemed to halt their restless flapping in the wind.

“It has been eight years,” Alpheo continued, his tone steady now, his voice carrying over thousands of helmets, “since I took you from your huts of mud and dust and raised you to the sky. Eight years since I asked you to trade the plow for the sword, the peace of your home for the honor of your name.

And look what you’ve done!”

He raised a hand, sweeping it across the horizon. “You stand tall, you eat well, and you are feared. The streets of our great city whisper your name. Children stop in their play to stare at you as you march past, at the guardians of their hearth, at the men who made this land a jewel cut from chaos.

When you returned from war, the people greeted you with garlands and laurel wreaths. Maidens placed flowers on your necks, and you marched through the gates not as killers, but as saviors. I have seen those flowers upon you, and felt them upon my own brow. And by the gods, I was as proud of you then as I am now.”

The soldiers shifted, a murmur rippling through them like a low tide.

“A long list of victories,” Alpheo said, lowering his voice until the legions leaned in to catch every word, “is the finest decoration a man can wear. And you have written a legend that even time will struggle to forget.

You are the light that burns against the dark. The sword that gives a name to a people who once had none.When the world thinks of Yarzat, they think of you. When I think of Yarzat, I think of you. You are the spine of our nation, the blood in its veins, the reason it breathes at all.”

He paused, let the words settle, then said, quiet, almost wistful”Those who came before you were mercenaries. Sell-swords. They came here for coin and stayed for hunger. We now have somewhere we belong. You have made this land your home. You have made me proud to call it mine.”

A roar began in the back ranks and rolled forward until the air shook with it.

Alpheo let it build. Then he raised a gauntleted fist, and silence fell again.

“You bring woe to our enemies. That much the world knows. You broke the Herculeians. You scattered the rebels that wanted the crown that elevated you so high. You crushed the Oizenians beneath your boots. Your valor is carved into the bones of this land.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “But tell me, brothers, what of our friends?”

A murmur of confusion rippled through the ranks.

“Do you even know,” Alpheo asked, voice hardening, “that we were alone? That when the south gathered against us, when princes signed away our blood in the name of ‘peace’, none came to our defense? None!

You who lost your homes, your brothers, your sons, you were to be punished for surviving! For daring to strike back!” His tone rose with fury, each word hammered into the soldiers like nails. “They would have stripped us bare, robbed us of everything we built. I saw the walls closing in. And when I feared I would be crushed beneath them, I found no hand reaching from the south.

“No hand” he slammed his fist against his chestplate “except one!”

The sound rang like a bell.

“One man, a world away, saw the injustice and refused to turn his head. Not for gain. Not for glory. But for the love of right. When all others turned their backs, he stood with us!”

He raised his voice until it carried beyond the walls. “That man, brothers, was the Emperor of Romelia!”

The legions stirred. Some straightened. Others frowned, confused, trying to grasp what their prince was building toward.

“He stood beside us when no one else dared. When every lord in the south plotted to chain us, he broke their lines and their pride. The reason you feast today, the reason you march through your city as heroes, the reason we are free, is because that man raised his sword to protect us!”

He let that hang in the air, his breath visible in the chill morning light.

“Now,” he said, voice dropping low and dangerous, “that same man calls for our aid. The gods have rolled the wheel once more, and this time, it is our turn to stand for him.”

He stepped forward, the boards beneath his boots groaning.

“Every coward in the south ignored our cries when we were drowning. Will we now become them? Will we spit in the face of honor and turn our backs on the one man who did not?

“No. We won’t.” His voice sharpened into iron. “We are not princes of comfort or lords of excuses. We are men of blood, men of debt, men of gratitude!

“We can abandon them,” Alpheo said, his voice low, his words cutting through the air like steel drawn from its scabbard. “We can leave them to their fate, just as the world once left us.”

He paused, letting silence bloom between his words, watching the soldiers shift uneasily beneath the weight of it.

“That,” he continued, “is the choice before you. Do not mistake me, this is no order. You have earned your rest, your home, your peace. You have the right to stay. The right to be cowards, if that is what you wish. The right to turn away, to forget the hand that lifted us when all others turned their backs. You have the right to be false friends, to breathe easy while another burns.”

His eyes swept across them, thousands of faces, hardened by war and pride and memory.He saw doubt there. And fear. And something else: the old hunger.

“You have every right,” he said again, quieter now, almost sorrowful. “Every right to choose comfort over courage. I will not chain your hands nor command your hearts. The time of orders is past.”

He drew in a slow breath, and when he spoke again, his voice thundered across the plain, shattering the hush that had fallen.

“But I know the path I will take. I know where my sword shall point.” He raised his fist, the metal gauntlet catching the sun, a single spark of light igniting over him.

“Not for honor. Not for glory. Not for songs sung in marble halls or for feasts beneath gilded roofs that await me. I will march not to save an empire, but to save myself. To stand true to the man I swore to be!I will choose this because it is RIGHT!”

He struck his chest with his fist, the clang echoing through the ranks. “Because if I must die, I will die standing righteous, not living false!”

The words rippled outward like fire licking dry grass. Men’s throats tightened. Eyes burned.

“I know my way,” Alpheo roared. “I will march, even alone! I will take my banner, and I will walk into the storm, whether you follows me or not!”

He spread his arms wide, his voice cracking with the force of it. “But you, each of you, must choose! Will you stand idle as your prince rides alone into battle for the honor of your name? Or will you march beside me, as brothers, as Yarzat men, as the sword of justice itself?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath awaiting the answer. Then, somewhere in the front rank, a single voice broke free, hoarse but unshaken.

“We march!”

Another joined. Then another.

“We march! WE MARCH!”

The chant grew, thunder rolling from a thousand throats, swelling until the ground itself seemed to tremble with it.

“WE MARCH! WE MARCH! WE MARCH!”

Helmets were raised, blades lifted high, banners whipped the air.

Alpheo stood above them, the sun flashing off his armor, his family behind him, his brothers-in-arms at his side, and for a heartbeat, he felt like a god among men.

He drew his sword, raised it toward the blazing sky, and shouted one last time, voice breaking, heart burning:

“Then march, my brothers! MARCH! MAKE THE WORLD KNOW OF OUR LEGIONS. LET US DINE IN THE PALATINE HALLS OF ROMELIA. LET THE WORD KNOW OF OUR NAME AND LEARN WHAT COULOURS ARE THE LEGIONS THEY SHOULD FEAR!”

And the world roared back his name.