Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 884

Capítulo 884: Ticking clock(2)

For most of his life, Alpheo had known next to nothing about Romelia , which was a strange admission, considering he had spent nearly half his years within its borders.

But most of those years had been lived under a hay roof or none at all, first as a farmhand, then as a slave. And in both lives, there was little time or need to ponder the greatness of empires. His world had been narrow: a hoe, a bowl of gruel, the lash. Only in the later years of his servitude had he even learned the name of the vast, decrepit giant that ruled over him.

One which by coming to his aid, had been sentenced to decadence by prolonging the civil war that already plagued it for a decade.

So, when the tide of fate finally allowed him to place a crown upon his head, and he found himself sitting among emperors and lords and senators, he still regarded Romelia with a kind of stubborn awe.

And though decay had chewed through its marble bones, some part of him still refused to believe it could truly die.

Some empires, after all passed through even worse periods where they thought the end was here; the Romans had that with Hannibal, and then once more with the Fourth century crisis.

That illusion shattered the moment he set foot in the great hall.

Whatever reverence he once felt for Romelia bled out of him then and there. The high lords of that Great Corpse, clawed and barked at one another like starved dogs over a carcass. The vaulted ceiling caught every echo every insult until the room became a pit of noise.

The gilded eagle above the dais, once proud symbol of empire, now seemed to hang crooked on the crimson walls, drooping like a sick bird too tired to fly.

Alpheo resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears. The roar was constant, exhausting.

Traitors! Filistine dogs! Turn-cloaks!

Each word spat out like it was to mean something. But wasn’t Mesha himself a pretender? After all, it was the eldest who had completely left the picture to play with the snow, that was the legitimate emperor.

By semantics they were all traitors.

He turned slightly, letting his gaze wander to his own companions, all used to the quiet gravity of the war councils he led, where words were weighed and opinions exchange, not hurled like stones. They, too, looked unsettled, as if they had stumbled into a madhouse rather than the heart of an empire.

What passed for debate in this place was a brawl of tongues. The lords shouted not to be heard, but simply to drown one another out. Already, factions had begun to form, with the loudest and fattest voices belonging to the pater familias of the strongest houses, who further fractured an empire on the verge of falling.

It was chaos, and as Alpheo watched, arms folded, he came to believe that perhaps this was how this empire would fall, not so much with swords and flames, but with men too proud to listen to one another.

His eyes drifted down to the table ,the map that sprawled across it like a bleeding wound, temporarily forgotten by the lords who were still bellowing over one another about matters which, Alpheo chose for the moment, to ignore.

The Fingers, that narrow stretch of valley and pass ,was what all this madness revolved around. It was the only direct route an army could take from the Eastern Provinces into the Romelian heartland and viceversa. The only other way lay far to the south, through four squabbling princedoms, which would make it a logistical nightmare.

So, in truth, there was no other way.

Whoever held the Fingers held the Empire’s throat. As long as they controlled it, Romelia’s core could sleep with or without fear of an invasion creeping up its spine.

Mesha had begun his campaign on the back foot, aware of this disadvantage and seeking to even it out the best he could. His first move had been to reinforce the garrisons in the key cities that bordered the Fingers. The plan was simple enough: whichever path the rebels chose, these cities would stand firm, buying time until the Emperor’s main host could arrive.

It was the same strategy Lord Marthio had used the last time the Second Prince marched upon them when the Finger fell. And so, everyone assumed, it would serve again.

That assumption was their undoing.

A week. That was all it took to ruin the illusion of control they had so carefully constructed.

The marks of their defenses, Dubrina, Veivepon, and Linnaris , had been crossed out in black. All three had surrendered or defected before the third day of the campaign was done.

That was bad ,extremely bad. Their fall gave the rebel not just ground, but months of breathing room , time to fortify his rear, to gather grain and men, to make the next advance. Worse still, it left him with a clear and unbroken road to the capital itself.

The enemy could leasurely come toward them instead of the opposite.

It was not defeat yet, but it had the smell of one.

Alpheo leaned closer to the map, watching the lords around him continue their useless shouting. How many of these men would still be shouting loyalty once the tide turned fully? How many would still claim the Emperor’s cause when their own lands began to smolder?

The ship they were on is already taking water, he thought. And all they were doing now was nailing fresh planks over mold and rot.

That thought unsettled him. Not even on the Bleeding Plains, when he had faced twice their number under open sky , had such doubts crossed his mind. There, the danger had been clear and close, the enemy a shape one could stab or shoot or curse. But here… who would be the enemy in a month?In a week?

He preferred to have five enemies ahead of him, rather than a hidden one in his fold.

Finally he decided to sharpen his ears to what was being discussed, and to his pleasure it finally evolved from insults to some regard of strategy.

“All of our defense lines have burned in less than a week! It won’t be long before the neighboring provinces are tempted to follow!” declared a lord whose flushed, anxious face Alpheo recognized after a moment , Lord Isidor, his breastplate marked by the sigil he’d once seen on the envoy sent to Yarzat during the debacle of Harmway.

“It is clear we must contest that momentum now, before the breach grows wider than we can mend.”

“Lord Isidor,” came a sneer from across the chamber, “are you suggesting more spineless cowards would follow the Pretender?” Lord Vratinius dabbed at his glistening forehead with a handkerchief, his rings flashing in the candlelight.

“Why not?” Isidor shot back without flinching. “In recent years, oaths have become more moving than the wares of merchants. I would not be surprised if the surrounding lords start bending their knees before the week is done.”

That stung.

“My cousin’s fief lies east of Dubrina,” another lord shouted, rising from his seat. “Are you calling him a turncloak?”

Isidor didn’t even glance his way to defend his words ” I believe we should strike now, before hesitation costs us the whole frontier. We must march, reclaim what can still be reclaimed, and show the crown’s strength while we still have something left to show.”

A chorus of agreement erupted , in the form of closed knucles rapping on the table. Even Lord Croxiatus, the father in law of the Imperator, threw in his voice and that of his faction behind Isidor’s call.

Across the table, Lord Vratinius’ jaw clenched. He waited for the noise to subside, then pushed himself halfway up from his chair, the effort setting his cheeks quivering. “The lands surrounding the Fingers are lost,” he rasped. “And it would be madness to march there, blind to where loyalties truly lie. We had no forewarning of those who turned to the Whore Prince .

How can we trust the rest? For all we know, half the strongholds between here and the front will shut their gates and strike our rearguard before we even draw swords.”

He paused, scanning the faces around him for allies. A few nodded….too few.

Undeterred, he pressed on. “We know what the Pretender seeks. The capital. He will come here, as all would-be usurpers do. And we, my lords, are blessed with a city that has never fallen. Its walls are the strongest in the world, its heart unbroken through centuries of siege. We must make our stand here. Man the battlements, restore the Palatine forts, fortify the food warehouse . So I say we let him come and break his will upon our stones.”

Then, turning deliberately toward the dais, he bowed his head slightly. “This is what your father did, Your Imperial Majesty. He too was outnumbered against his brothers. He too was abandoned by lords who thought the wind had shifted against him. Yet we all remember whose banners flew over these walls when the dust settled.”

The chamber erupted again .

Half with jeers of coward! and craven! from Isidor’s side, half with murmured assent from the more cautious lords. He was after all deserting half an empire to make its stand on the capital, that was expected to receive disgruntlement to those that stood on the losing half.

Vratinius raised his voice above them. “There is no dishonor in survival! There is only folly in pride. To preserve the heart of the Empire is not cowardice, but wisdom. Let the enemy bleed himself on our walls! I say we shall eat what reamain of them.”

With that, he sank heavily back into his seat, eyes fixed on Mesha ,not on his rivals, not on his peers, but on the boy who wore the crown. It was a clever move of politics; he knew his faction’s applause could never drown out the others, so instead he thrust the burden of decision where it truly belonged.

Silence rippled through the hall.

One by one, the lords turned their gaze toward the Imperator. Even the air seemed to grow still. The crackle of torches, the faint hiss of wax, the scrape of a chair,all went silent.

Every eye , of friend, foe, and opportunist alike , fixed upon Mesha, waiting to see whether he would march to reclaim his empire or retreat to guard its heart.

Either forward or still.