Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 872

Capítulo 872: Duty

“I would have preferred to march straight to Romelia,” Alpheo admitted, easing himself down into the wide-backed sofa that had been prepared for him. The silk cushions sighed beneath his weight, perfumed with orange blossoms and the faint musk of incense.

Before him lay a table draped in purple cloth, a color rare and costly enough to make any merchant sweat. Upon it sat a silver platter of tangerines, their skin glistening with dew, a bowl of pomegranates split open like wounded hearts, and a goblet filled with wine the color of old blood.

For a moment he could almost have been mistaken for one of those soft, perfumed lords he had spent his reign defeating.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

At heart, though, Alpheo was still a man of appetite. A customer of high tastes, yes.

War was just one of those.

“It is nice to make a stop of rest along the way, however,” Asag remarked, voice muffled as he leaned forward, biting into a pomegranate. A rivulet of crimson juice traced its way down his chin and dripped onto his sleeve. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.

Alpheo’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before turning to their host. “We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Xanthios,” he said, inclining his head in polite recognition.

“Nonsense, Your Grace,” Xanthios replied, waving a hand as if to brush the formality aside. “It is I who should thank you. My lands have never known such honor as to host the first southern army marching to Romelia rather than repelling one from it.”

He grinned, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Since the day you allowed me to take that bastard’s head, I knew you’d make history. I simply didn’t think you’d do it so soon.” His laughter cracked, more memory than mirth.

The sound faded, replaced by the creak of old joints. Xanthios shifted his leg, and the movement twisted his face into a grimace. “And yet,” he said bitterly, “so late. Two years earlier, perhaps I’d have ridden with you still. But time…is a thief.”

He tried to move the leg again, and it spasmed as if mocking him. He looked down at it, sighing, the old soldier’s pride withering into something like sorrow. “Only myself to blame. The years and the gods both tire of men like me.”

His eyes flickered up, catching Alpheo’s gaze.

From Apurvio, Alpheo had earned his victory, his songs, his crown of laurels.From Apurvio, Xanthios had earned a shattered knee and an empty saddle.

He’d gotten that ruin when he’d led his heavy knights into the maw of Abellio Oizen’s personal guard, breaking them like kindling. They’d slain the second son of Shamleik’s pride, but Abellio had escaped, just as his brother had before him.

Now Xanthios sat with a leg that refused to bend and hair more silver than black, the ghost of a stallion trapped in a failing body.

“We would have loved to have you with us, old stallion,” Egil said, his grin wide and wolfish as he slung an arm over Lord Xanthios’ shoulder. The touch made the old lord’s silver hair shimmer in the light of the sun. “We go back a long way, don’t we?”

“A long and bloody way,” Xanthios said with a small laugh that ended in a cough. “But I fear you’ll have to make do with my son this time.” His gaze drifted to Alpheo. “He’s eager to earn your blessing, Your Grace. You’ve already given our house much, more than coin or land. You spilled blood for us, and that’s a debt not easily forgotten.”

He raised his cup, hand trembling slightly. “The Silver Stag of Bracum will always follow the Falcon of Yarzat.”

That was all it took. The others raised their own goblets, metal clinking together like the prelude to a march. The toast started as a polite gesture and ended as a pledge, sealed with the warmth of wine and the quiet pride of men who’d survived too much to pretend at ceremony.

Egil leaned back, eyes glinting over the rim of his cup. “I still remember,” he said, voice thick with nostalgia, “when you held the rear at Arduronaven. What was it, three hundred against six?”

Xanthios chuckled, shaking his head. “Closer to four, if we’re being honest.”

“Aye, and twice as ugly!” Egil barked. “I can still see you in my head, standing there, knee deep in mud and blood, swinging that hammer of yours until the bastards started praying. You got the head you wanted that day, and we all got to bloody the nose of those self-righteous fucks.”

He paused, his grin curling sly. “Speaking of which… how fares that bald fuck these days? I presume the good life didn’t follow him into the monastery. Going from feasts and fine wine to porridge and prayer, gods, that must be a hell worse than death.”

”I don’t know it sounds peaceful.”

Egil waved the thought away with a snort, his tongue already running faster than his mind. “Peaceful? Bah. It would’ve been better to cut him off from what made him a man before handing him to the gods.You were too kind to him.” He laughed, biting into a tangerine and talking around the fruit. “I still remember,Thalien was the loudest voice calling for it. Too bad you didn’t humor him, Alph. Would’ve been something to hear the shrill of a royal gelding. I imagine it’d sound like a sow giving birth.If only you’d allowed me to lead the first example”

He made an exaggerated hoink, spraying bits of fruit across the table.

Jarza grimaced, dabbing his sleeve. “That’s disgusting.”

Egil wheezed mid-laugh, choking on a piece of tangerine. His eyes bulged, face reddening as he coughed and thumped his chest.

“Turning away from the dying fucker,” Jarza grunted, eyes hard as flint as he pivoted toward Alpheo, “why did we bring half our stored weapons and armor with us?”

Alpheo set his cup down, the wine sloshing faintly. “They’re accounted for,” he said simply. “We’ll outfit the levies the lords bring. We’ve got too much riding on this to skimp on the little things that win battles.”

Egil spat the last pulp of his tangerine to the floor, unconcerned as a servant scraped it away. “You really going to hand all that kit over?” he asked. “If you planned to give it away, we could’ve raised volunteers from the capital. There are plenty who’d take up arms for a turn, your name opens doors.”

Alpheo’s mouth twisted. “I’m not giving them away. I’m loaning them.” He tapped the rim of his goblet. “Each cuirass and helm is marked with a streak of black. When the campaign ends, they come home with us. But now is not the hour for stinginess. If lending gear buys us a disciplined levy instead of a rabble, I’ll lose the armor and gain an army.We will use the time before the Romelians call us to drill the arriving troops.We have too much wagered on this to be stingy.”

Lord Xanthios leaned forward “And how much is this ‘lot’ of yours?”

Alpheo counted off possibilities the way other men counted coins. “Think bigger than a single battle. Under my best read of things, the next real clash against the other princes of the south could come in as little as three years. Or sooner if the political balance in the north collapses and the boy on the throne is overthrown, the war could ignite in months.

If that happens, we could face the entire south and the Romelian new ruler at once.” He let the words sit between them. “The imperative is simple: the young Emperor must remain where he sits.Whatever coin we spend now will pale in comparison to that we could spend next years if things go bad…”

He watched their faces, each a map of worry and experience. “Plus…an emperor who is dependent on us is worth more than any treasure.

With a friendly ruler in the palace to the north, our merchants keep their routes, our markets hum, and our taxes flow. If that ruler falls and a hostile power takes the seat, our trade partners will be free to make deals with our enemies. They’ll choke our markets and strip us bare. The Romelian market is the artery that keeps our economy alive, lose that, and we starve without a sword. Many asked me why I considered giving half a monopoly to our neighbour in the north,and honestly that was preferable to have rather than an embargo against our products”

Jarza’s voice dropped, he did not like talking about their doom, be it if it came from war or trade. “So what are the Romelians’ chances? Do they stand a fight?”

Alpheo’s face darkened. “Not great. Last time they survived by the skin of their teeth. Now that the old regent is dead, their house is weaker, the empire fractured, leaderless, and poorer for it. I doubt they can raise the same numbers they once did. That means we will be the deciding factor whether Romelia lives or dies.” He leaned in, eyes bright with a hard light. “And if they survive even if they lost the battle but are exposed as a broken power, the word will spread like wildfire. Our enemies will see the shield between us and annihilation crumble. Everybody who wants to pry our throat open will smell blood.”

Silence grazed the table before Asag declared the unsaid. “So it boils down to one thing?”

“In short,” Alpheo said, his voice a single, cold instrument, “Mesha must not fall, either that or we shall follow him in short order.”