Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 891

Chapter 891: Final act(3)

The enemy camp was not far, just a short march upriver, where the water curved like a great mirrored serpent between the plains.

Two mirrored armies, two mirrored brothers, waiting for the same dawn to decide which reflection would shatter first.

The scouts had spoken of twelve thousand under the rebel banner. Alpheo had yet to see the full host himself, but the sprawling camp below left little room for doubt. Even from this distance he could make out the the dark clusters of tents and the slow crawl of smoke from countless fires. It was an army worthy of the War Emperor’s bloodline, one that might have made their father proud if it weren’t marching to spill the blood of his sons.

Hope he dies in the mud, like the old bastard….

He turned his gaze from the sight, letting it drift over the open fields between them. Green now,but by the morrow, that same grass would drink deep of red. He could already see it in his mind.

And on the far ridge, like a dark omen rising from that imagined carnage, came the enemy party.

They bore the same imperial eagle, gold on purple, as the banners flying over his own camp. It felt wrong to see it. The request for parley had come from the Second Prince himself, and though Alpheo had counseled against it, Mesha’s curiosity had overruled him.

The boy-Emperor wished to meet his eldest brother, face to face, after nearly fifteen years.

And so, here they were, brother facing brother.

Alpheo glanced up at the sinking sun, now bleeding into the horizon. Tomorrow there would be battle.

He doubted he would sleep well tonight, few would. The Romelians would lie awake, while his own veterans had already burned away such illusions in a dozen other campaigns, they would sleep. He’d need extra patrols; if the enemy struck before dawn, panic would spread through the Imperial levies faster than any fire.

A sound of hooves broke his thoughts,the rebels cresting the summit.

No greetings, no shouts, not even the ceremonial exchange of courtesies. Just the wind between them and the dull rhythm of horses breathing.

Then the two brothers locked eyes.It was Mesha who broke the first.

Alpheo did not blame the boy…his brother was a man-made monster. Not bothering to describe how all those rumors were true, about him wearing a mask, about his patches of black skin, his hollow eyes, and soon to be soon-to-be-proven-right coarse voice of a sick elder. It was just…. the air? It flew around him in a wrong way, reeking?Why would a prince reek of all things?

Alpheo turned slightly to gauge the others to see if they smelled and saw the same. They did not.

The monster clicked his fingers. A man in threadbare livery shuffled forward, knees knocking so hard Alpheo could hear the clack. He held a scrap of paper and stared at the ground as though the words would jump back into the page if he dared look up.

When he finally raised his head, his eyes darted nervously to the masked prince, then to the assembled ranks on the other side, and then he began.

When the words came out, he realized he was reading the letter they had sent them.

“Oh – oh dog, servants of devils, women of witches…” His voice trembled on the first syllable, and he swallowed. “What kind of knight are you who cannot even slay a dog with your naked arse and comes south to challenge us?The courage on your thighs!”

“We do not fear your army for they eat your shit and call it honey! We fear not your magic, blacker than your arse! Pig’s snout, mare’s arse, slaughterhouse cur, heretical feces , that is what you are!”

He ended in a hiccup, eyes flicking back to the prince, pleading for mercy he knew he would not get. “Screw a pig, hopefully more beautiful than those whores you are known to lick!”

“Yo- y-you grandson of all the devils below , you are their whore, their relative, a beaten dog. What they shit, you eat. Not even worthy of their seconds.

May the worms that take your shits be thick with diarrhea, for your face is so ugly that only the blind would screw you.”

He gripped the paper until his knuckles went white and forced himself on. “You come south to take the bread of His Majesty’s people; we declare you unworthy to drink their piss. But do not fret soon you will be sent to the underworld that made the mistake of letting you go, you filistine turd, king of all feces and owner of all pisses. You come and ask for surrender, as if man could yield to dog.

You won’t even herd pigs for us, unfaithful . No, we shall kill you and mount your arse on a pike, smaller than all the cocks you have taken.”

He tried to finish evenly, but the tremor returned. “N-now we conclude. We do not know the exact day you shall receive this , the days are the same here as there, but when the fire comes for you,it will not be the same for us.

Kiss our arse as a parting gift before you die!”

The man’s sentence broke off into a wet gag as a guard’s blade slid across his throat. Blood fountained in a brief, red arc; the fellow buckled, croaked once, and fell silent. Where his voice had been, only the wind answered now.

The masked prince clicked his tongue as he peered down at the dead man . “In case you did not know who that was, little brother,” he said, voice like iron rasping through a sieve. “One of your spies in our ranks. I’m delighted truth be told, to see you again.

When I finally have you, I will have your soldiers read that scrap to you while you are made to answer for it…slowly.” His stare swept the circle of Mesha’s men and landed, with cold amusement, on the smallest faces among them. “Same goes for those that stand beside you like beaten whores.”

He tilted his head at Mesha as if to invite a private quarrel. “I came to take what is mine. I would have spared you if you’d surrendered, but surrender is no longer an option.” He tapped the strip of paper, and a guard passed it up. The prince flicked it into the air and let it flutter like a foul leaf.

“Who penned this abomination?” he mocked as he sniffed it. “It reeks of low birth , far too vulgar for any of you.” His lip curled toward Alpheo. “But I see my brother keeps low company with him. Who else but a peasant could write such filth? Do not worry little peasant, I will make sure to visit your family once I am done here and with you.

I know you are husband and father.Do not worry, at the end of the month you shall be dirt.”

Before Alpheo could answer or react, a horse’s snort cut the air, and Egil rode forward, face all grin and rotten charm.

“Blind because you’re ugly,are you?” he shouted, spurs chiming. “Is that why you wear that mask , because there’s no one left willing to fuck you without it? Heard you lost your firstborn , surprised you had one with that piss for a face.

I swear I bet people would pay to be fucked by my horse than to lay eyes on you” He gagged with a smile.

The audacity of it slapped everyone quiet.

Still Alpheo gave Egil the biggest smile he could as the man continued.

“The words aren’t his grace’s,” he called back, voice steady. “He’s worth ten of you , and that’s charity. Those lines that so offended you? Mostly mine.

Proud to see how well they worked.” He ran a finger along the haft of his axe for emphasis.

“Don’t waste your breath with little threats, for they are not worth the air they are used on. I’ll tell you this: this axe has your name . I will paint it red with your blood and hang it from my prince’s gate so the whole world can see whose hand felled the shit-for-a-face who thought himself Imperator.

Your father had wronged me. Since he is dead, your head will suffice. My name is Egil, but do not worry, the devils will tell you of it as they craddle you away from the ground toward fire when my axe is in your skull.”

He finished by spitting two paces short of the rebel line.

None spoke for a good ten seconds, except of course for the sound of swords coming out of the sheath. It was the rebel imperator who stopped them by raising his hand.

“I will have you bound, your tongue cut out, and force you to eat a quarter of my army’s shit, given how spoiled your mouth is, I am sure it will taste like honey. You will die in filth, whatever your name was.”

Egil’s answer was a single, theatrical fart, a trumpet that burst across the ranks like a dare.

Then he wheeled his horse, gave the masked prince a rude bow with his backside hanging out as if it were a salute, and burst into a foreign song, loud and off-key.

A ripple of laughter following that , spread through Alpheo’s close companions. They could do nothing but cheer; then,following his example, they gave the enemy the crux with their fingers and turned their horses around, only then to be followed by Mesha and his own party, leaving the rebels alone to face the middle fingers of those , whose tomorrow they would be fighting against.

Decorum was truly the first victim of this war.