Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 919

Chapter 919: Rat catcher(2)

If there was one thing Laedio loved about his job, one thing that warmed his ego with a satisfaction almost tender, it was the silence that dropped over a room the very moment he stepped through the door.

Eighty men. Cramped shoulder to shoulder in the old gate hall, the air stinging with sweat and leather and the cold breath of early winter pressing through the cracks in the shutters. Moments before, the room had been alive with chattering voices, half-stifled laughter, the scrape of boots, the clink of gear. But now?

Now a silence so complete settled over them that the faint buzz of a fly drifting lazily near a window seemed loud enough to echo.

They all turned toward him. Even those who thought themselves fearless tended to swallow when Laedio fixed his gaze on them. Yes, he was eccentric. Yes, he complained often and drank early and shouted at pigeons on the rooftops.

But no man in this garrison was foolish enough to take him lightly, not when every guard in Yarzat knew exactly how close he stood to the fox, their prince. One word from him and heads would easily roll, if he wished.

People gossiped endlessly about the prince’s circle.

Jarza, always unflinching and massive. Egil the hound,who had been the terror of enemies and the delight of every drinking bench in the capital. Asag, dour and sharp who would first break than bend. And then Laedio,whose position, on parchment, was much less glamorous.

Head of the garrison was not a post of glory, an influential for sure, but not filled with glory. It lacked the shining laurels and the battlefield prestige of a legate. It lacked the praise sung by legionaries returning from the marches. It certainly lacked the heroic stories whispered in taverns about the prince’s chosen few.

But Laedio had never cared for parchment glory. What he cared for was his city, the stink and charm of Yarzat, its crooked alleys, its noisy markets, its people. And in those same alleys, his own reputation had bloomed like mold on bread.

They called him the rat-catcher.

Not as grand as Aracina’s mountain or the hound. But fitting. He knew the sewers, the dens, the corners where villains thought themselves unseen. And he caught them, every last one. Or nearly every last one.

Except for the one rat that always slipped away.

He pushed that thought aside and strode toward the front of the hall, boots striking sharply against the stone. He didn’t bother posturing. Didn’t strike any dramatic pose. He simply began to speak. His men leaned forward as if he had hooked them by the chin.

This was not the joking Laedio. Not the one who rolled dice with street kids or argued with bakers at dawn. This was the man they followed into cellars with dripping ceilings and onto rooftops with loose tiles. This was the man who had broken the worst gangs Yarzat had ever endured, many time leading the charge himself.

“When I first laid eyes on you,” Laedio began, voice carrying cleanly, “my first thought was: what a sorry, pathetic lot I’ve been cursed with.”

A few chuckles escaped. But none survived longer than a heartbeat, not once they realized no smile touched Laedio’s lips.

He was in no laughing mood.

“This city was in an even sorrier state than you,” he continued once silence was there once more. “While you were lazy and stuffed with bribes, Yarzat was rotting from the inside. Rats ran its streets. Gangs carved it up and painted the walls with each other’s blood. They taxed the poor, they beat the weak, they stole from the desperate. And all the while, they forgot one simple truth.”

He lifted a hand slowly, deliberately.

“All that the sun touches belongs to the royals.They were parasites.”

A ripple moved through the men at their achievement.

“You stopped them,” Laedio said, lowering his hand. “You strung up the scum who once strutted through the markets. You cleared the dens where children were traded like cattle. You cracked down the slave chain that snaked beneath this city.

People can walk the streets at night again. Mothers can close their eyes without fearing their sons will vanish by dawn. And when common folk see men in steel marching past, they no longer hide. They no longer tremble at the sight of a white plume.”

He let that sink in.

“You did that,” he said. “You, the sorry lot I once pitied.”

They puffed out their chests, pride swelling like a bellows.

Laedio crushed it with a single breath.

“If you think any of that is worth praise,” he said, “then you are crestless cocks. Your salaries have doubled these last years, your numbers have grown, and with the coin and manpower you have, even the dullest idiot could’ve scraped up what you scraped.”

The silence grew sharper.

“Anyone can shovel filth out of a barrel,” he went on. “The true feat is cleansing it of the stink. And in that” his gaze swept the room like a blade “I am ashamed to say we have failed.”

The words hit harder than a baton. These were not common watchmen. They were his personal strike squads, men who followed him into cellars black as ink and fought through dens. Being told they had failed was a blow to the chest.

“For four months we’ve been made fools of by rats who are too well-fed, too well-armed, and far too organized. Every time we catch their scent, we storm the den. And every time…” He flicked his fingers. “Nothing. Just the goons. Never the heads. Give them a few months, and the whole nest crawls back out again.”

He walked among them as he spoke, boots tapping between rows of tense shoulders.

“Normally, I wouldn’t fuss overly about it. Gangs try to rise all the time. It’s the nature of vermin, they always think they can be wolves.” He stopped at the center of the hall, raised a sheet of parchment between two fingers. “But things changed a month ago. Because of this.”

The men leaned forward. The parchment looked harmless and their confusion was almost palpable. Laedio saw it and took upon himself the duty of enlightening them.

“One year ago,” he said, “the Crown launched an arrangement with the merchant guilds. Whoever pays the proper annual sum receives permission to bear the royal banner on their carts. It spares them taxes in Yarzat and Ozenia both.”

He shook the parchment lightly.

“This is a counterfeit.”

A murmur rippled, quickly stilled.

“A very well-made counterfeit,” he admitted, giving it a thoughtful look. “So well-made that unless you placed it beside an official scroll and had a royal clerk sniff it, you’d never know the difference. The only mistake these fools made was the paper. Too light. The real ones are forged from four sheets pressed together.”

He passed it to Hypatio, who tucked it carefully back into its box.

“And gods only know how many others are already circulating.”

He let that settle, cold and heavy.

“With this little stunt of theirs, our rats have jumped from a risk level of three… to a level of five.”

Several men inhaled sharply. Level five was reserved for matters that threatened the realm itself.

“By using forged banners,” Laedio said, “these merchants steal from the Crown. They shirk their duties while honest traders pay what is owed. As for the rats making these counterfeits, what they do is not only illegal, it is a deliberate insult to the royal family. To your prince. To your princess.”

His voice dropped.

“And we have allowed them to spit on that crest for months.”

He let the shame simmer before striking with the final spark.

“But the wind has changed.”

A pulse of energy moved through the room.

“We have at last pinpointed their true nest. Not the false dens they used to distract us. Their real base of operation.It took more time than I would have liked but in the end we did it.”

He snapped his fingers. Couriers moved swiftly, distributing papers through the hall. Each man unfolded a crude but detailed map of where the tunnels went, notes, crossing points scribbled all over.

“We managed to slip spies inside and for months they have worked without being captured. And now we know the truth. Those bastards have built an entire city beneath this one. Tunnels, that goes through half the city. Every time we struck, they slid out through another tunnel and were halfway across Yarzat before we even reached the cellar stairs.”

He let the map speak for itself for a beat.

“That ends tonight.”

His voice rose, not in a shout, but in a steady, iron promise.

“We hit them on every side. Every tunnel they can run through will have steel waiting. And the central blow, there.” He pointed to the largest chamber on the map. “That is where the counterfeiters lie. That is where the heads hide. That is where we cut out the heart.”

He stepped back, loosened his shoulders, and took in the entire room, eighty men, silent as stone, determination blooming where pride once sat.

“Do not fool yourselves. This is not another raid. This is not another shove to send them scurrying.”

He drew a slow breath.

“This is their beheading.”

A chill swept across the room.

“I want every last one of them uprooted and dragged before the prince. I want no mistakes, no delays, no openings for escape. Tonight we end the rats that mocked us and dared insult the Crown.”

A long pause, then:

“Arm yourselves. Steel and discipline both. For tonight, we descend into the dark and make these mongrels fear us once and for all.”