Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 897

Capítulo 897: Blood of the eagles(5)

Mesha watched the world crumble around him.

Everything , all the plans, all the councils, all the speeches, burned to ash before his eyes.

He had prepared for this day. Gods knew how much he had prepared. He had hardened his heart, sharpened his will, convinced himself he could bear the weight . And yet, when the test came, when the moment that should have crowned his reign finally arrived… this was the result.

The day was lost.

His ears rang. The messengers spoke, their words spilling like meaningless noise. Names, numbers, directions , he heard none of it. All that reached him was the single truth that broke him like a hammer to glass: the army was gone.

Scattered like chaff in a storm.

He stared at the field, numb. The crown , the one his grandfather had spent the last of his soul protecting , seemed to fade before him, a ghost of gold slipping through his fingers.

He had failed him. Again.

“YOUR IMPERIAL MAJESTY!”

It was not the whimper of a servant or the whine of a frightened noble. It was the bark of a soldier.

Mesha turned, slowly, to face the man who interrupted his quiet collapse.

It was Asag.

He stood there , not in gilded armor, but in something plain. A soldier’s harness from another age, battered and dark with the dust of ten campaigns. Yet he stood straighter than any lord, his presence radiating a heat that the young Emperor could not match in his most glorious moment.

“You have heard your father’s message,” Asag said, his tone cutting through the stunned murmurs of the imperial guard. “The enemy has abandoned their trenches to pursue. They’re still marching. We can overtake the position and make our stand there.”

For a heartbeat, Mesha did not comprehend. His mind refused to turn. Then the meaning struck, and he almost laughed.

Even now, the foreigners still had the courage to fight. Still had hope.They were sitll better than he was

He despised it.

“You are barely eight hundred,” Mesha said, his voice weak, almost pleading. “You can’t possibly—”

“We most certainly can and will. And we also are eight hundred and fifty,” Asag corrected, his mouth curling into the faintest of smirks, the same one he had when he had stared death at Aracina.

he had come victorious and alive there, he would make a miracle once more.

Mesha stared down at him as though he was conversing with a madman. “You cannot hold against thousands.”

“We can delay them,” Asag replied. “Long enough for your father to rally, or for your flanks to press the advantage. The battle is not lost yet.Not until we have will to make it so”

Not lost?Will?

What was there to salvage? Eight hundred against four thousand?

Madness. But even as he scoffed, part of him burned with shame. He was supposed to be the Imperator. He was supposed to inspire such defiance, not shrink before it.

But all he felt was the hollow ache of failure.

Asag took a step forward, closing the distance. His gauntlet shot out, gripping the Emperor’s arm , hard enough that the guards drew steel with a hiss.

Asag gave it enough attention as if they were made of paper

“My prince is giving his all right now,” Asag said, his voice low but fierce, every word striking like a hammer. “He’s fighting a war that isn’t his , for you. And you sit here mourning a battle that isn’t even done. You’re the Imperator, damn it! Your duty is to meet his sacrifice, not waste it. Even if this ends in blood and ruin, at least it will mean something , because we gave everything we had.”

He leaned closer, his voice a growl now, eyes blazing.”My brothers are dying for your banner. If they can die for you, then you can at least be worth dying for.”

“THAT IS ENOUGH, FOREIGNER!” one of the royal guards barked, pressing a sword to Asag’s neck. “HANDS OFF THE IMPERATOR!”

Asag barely turned his head. He spat into the dirt, the gesture filled with more contempt than whatever fear man could have on that moment. His gaze never left Mesha’s,unflinching, judging, seeing through him.

And in that glare, Mesha saw everything he had failed to become.

A leader.A warrior.A man.

He wanted to be that

He looked down, feeling the heat of shame rise in his chest, and wished for the first time in his life that someone else had been chosen in his place.

Because nothing burned quite like realizing you were the wrong man for your own destiny.

Because that foreigner was right. Every word of it.

He was just a child wearing a dead man’s crown.

But if he could be that man, he could at least play that part….

As he steeled his heart, he could not help but feel envy for Alpheo, who had men who would follow him through fire and madness alike, men who did not question the cost, only the purpose. Men who made the impossible possible through sheer will.

Mesha wished he were more like him, like them.

The thought burned him from within as he reached up and unfastened his crown-helm. The golden metal gleamed faintly in the ash-colored light, heavy with the weight of a thousand oaths that he hoped not to break. He held it in his hands for a long moment, staring at the reflection of his own weary eyes in the polished surface.

He knew what had to be done now.

He had to wear the weight of the purple cloak , truly wear it. Not as a boy dressed in his father’s armor, but as the Imperator of Romelia.

“Sir Alaric,” he called.

The captain of his guard, the same man who had protected him since childhood, since the days when his grandfather had taken him from his mother’s arms , straightened immediately, spurring his horse forward through the confusion.

“Command me, Your Imperial Majesty,” Alaric said, bowing his head.

Mesha raised the crown-helm, its golden crests catching what little sun broke through the battlefield’s smoke.

“Take this,” he said quietly, but the tone carried like a blade through the wind. “Place it upon your head. Bear my banner. Rally the soldiers as best you can.Make all think you are the Imperator.I believe my father will not be enough to rally them”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

The guards stared in disbelief. The nearby lords murmured, unsure if they had heard right , the Emperor giving away his crown on the field of battle.

Alaric’s mouth opened, his voice faltering. “Your Imperial Majesty, I—”

“Are you loyal to this iron, or to the man who is wearing it?” Mesha interrupted.

The question struck deeper than word could.

Alaric bowed his head. “I am loyal to you, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Then heed my order and do your duty. I will do my own”

A silence fell, broken only by the groaning wind over the plain.

At last, Alaric removed his own helm and replaced it with the Imperator’s crown. The sight was strange, a knight clad in common steel now carrying the symbol of the Empire’s divine right. Yet somehow, it looked right.

“What will you do in the meantime, Your Imperial Majesty?” Alaric asked.

Mesha’s gaze turned toward the south, where the banners of Asag’s riders were already beginning to move. “Our allies are right,” he said, almost to himself. “It is time I earn this crown. I’ll ride with them , to turn the tide or die trying.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Alaric protested. “If you fall, the Empire—”

“The Empire falls whether I stand or flee,” Mesha said, his tone calm, almost serene. “Better an Emperor who dies with sword believing in what is right than one who’s dragged through the mud as a coward whimpering for his life.

I will not whimper. Of that in these time I am sure”

Alaric met his eyes,and in them, for the first time, he saw something that had never been there before.

Resolve.

The boy he had guarded for years was gone. What stood before him now was a man, one finally ready to bear the weight of the crown , even if only for one last act.

Alaric swallowed hard, pride warring with grief. He bowed low. “Then may the gods be with you, my Emperor.”

He called for a dozen of Imperial guards to follow him, rallying the banner high.

Mesha watched his old companion ride away, the imperial standard fluttering behind him .

Then he turned to Asag , who had shamed him into courage, and gave a single nod. No words. None were needed.

Actions could only mirror that courage

—————–

“Run these bastards down!”

Egil, Commander of the Crown’s Hounds, bellowed the words with a voice like rolling thunder, spurring his horse into a charge that tore the breath from the men behind him. The wind roared in his ears as he twisted his arm back and hurled his javelin with the full strength of his frame.

The shaft sang through the air, a dark streak of death that found its mark square in the chest of an enemy clibanarius. The impact rang out like a hammer on iron , the soft-metal plate gave way, and the rider was torn from his saddle, crashing into the dirt with a lifeless thud.

The Hounds followed their master’s lead.

A storm of javelins cut through the smoke-choked sky riders wheeling in, loosing, and peeling away before the enemy could answer. They struck like wasps, never lingering long enough to be caught.

But something was wrong.

Normally, the enemy would have taken the bait , broken ranks, cursed them, and given chase in reckless fury, the many knights they had fought against had done so. Yet this time, the clibanarii did not so much as flinch.

They moved as a single iron wall, shields locked tight, lances poised ahead as they made a small trot ahead ,giving them no heed as if they were simple flies.

Egil’s sneer twisted into a grimace. This was bad ,very bad.

Their whole tactic relied on goading the enemy into losing discipline, that now was clear was not happening.

And worse yet, their steady trot was aimed straight toward his allies’ line of heavy cavalry , fewer in number, and dangerously exposed.

If those enemy lancers broke through, the rear of their army would be torn apart. No amount of valor could patch that hole.

The thought made Egil’s blood burn.

He drew up his reins and turned in the saddle, shouting, “Come on, you armored whores! I’m right here!”

His men joined in, their taunts flying as freely as their javelins:

“Come taste my steel, you cowards!”

“Suck on this shaft for a change!”

“How’s it feel being drilled by us for once, eh?”

The words echoed across the field,, but the enemy gave them nothing. Not a twitch. Not a turn of a helm.

Just the steady beat of hooves and the dull shimmer of sunlight on iron.

Damn them and their discipline.

He knew what this meant.

If they failed his prince ,then the entire left flank would crumble. The enemy could sweep in behind Alpheo’s men like a scythe through wheat.

Disaster.

He would not allow it.He could not.

Not after they had finally mended what was broken.

Egil raised his voice again.

“Brothers!” he called out, his voice carrying above the chaos. “Steel your hearts and grip your iron! We’ve a duty to the Crown and to the blood we’ve shed before! Let the Romelian bastards know our name!Let them know what colours are the legions they should fear!Let them know the name of those that will make them ash”

A low growl rippled through his riders , a pack’s answer to its master.

“Run your javelins true,” Egil barked, taking up his last two. “Then every man on me! We ride to bleed the sun dry if we must!”

He hurled both shafts ,the first struck home, sinking into a clibanarius’s thigh with a satisfying crunch. The second clattered uselessly against the steel ball of the shield and buried itself in the dirt.

No matter.

He wheeled his horse, pulling back out of the engagement zone to let his men loose their volleys. Each one knew what that order meant and none dared speak of it aloud.

They had done this before.

At the Bleeding Plains, they had thrown themselves into the jaws of a force twice their number , and won, though half of them never rode back.

Now it would happen again.

Egil clenched his jaw. He knew the cost. Every rider here did. But Alpheo’s words still rang in his skull like an oath:

We’ve bet everything on this hand. There’s no folding now.

He had decided to support this, then he had to go all the way in.

He lifted his axe, the sun flashing against the blade as he shouted one final time , not for glory, not for revenge, but the warm duty of attenting to a purpose that was his.

“Hounds of the Crown!”

His horse reared, kicking at the sky as if knowing the hell he would enter in.

“Bite deep! And don’t you let go!”