Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It was past midnight, and the main road leading to the riverside warehouses was pitch-black.

It was dark, and it smelled absolutely foul. It always stenched like a rotting carcass by the storage docks of this shithole. The suffocating stench of fermenting, waterlogged grain mixing with the damp feces of a thousand pack mules and heavy dray horses was the main culprit for the misery.

In a few hours, of course, this entire district would look entirely different. Even a cynical street rat like Marcus knew the endless, exhausting thrum of the morning, the frantic frolicking in and frolicking out of sweaty laborers, shouting tradesmen, and heavy cargo sleds. But for now, the night belonged to the shadows, and everything was perfectly still.

Still as a grave, and smelling a sight worse than the corpses rotting inside one.

The perfect place to meet in secret, he supposed. A secret meeting for a thoroughly dirty mission.

Lucky me. Marcus thought, leaning his shoulder against a damp wooden beam.

He had genuinely hoped that after the bloody mess of his last assignment, he would finally be done with the King’s business. Unfortunately, he was not. Alpheo seemed to favor keeping a specific tool for every sort of low work, and it was Marcus’ supreme misfortune to be the monarch’s favorite one to deploy.

Is the bastard actually going to show?

He wondered for a moment, doing his absolute best to breathe strictly through his mouth to avoid gagging. He had passed too much time in Yarzat with its sewers. He was getting used to the good smell.

His thought lingered back to the preparation.

The crown might have held the man’s family hostage, but he would hardly be the first ambitious man to sacrifice his own flesh and blood for the sake ambition.

If the bastard were to refuse to turn the coat, there wouldn’t be a nervous target walking down the lane; instead, there would be dozens of iron-clad guards currently closing off every narrow alleyway around the docks.

Marcus strained his ears, listening intently for the telltale, metallic clinking of armor.

All the world offered him was the whistling winter wind, and, of course, the unrelenting smell.

He wondered idly if this foul stench would manage to linger all the way to the grand tournament. A magnificent, expensive tourney to celebrate a son or daughter that had yet to even be born, now wasn’t that a beautiful piece of comedy? If the gods possessed an ounce of dark humor, the babe would be a stillborn. That would make the fourth one the Prince of Sharjaan had buried in the dirt.

The fat sovereign didn’t deserve a second heir anyway. With any real luck, his firstborn boy would drop dead too; the child was a sickly, pale thing who could barely hold up his own head, or so the spies they kept embedded at court liked to report. Sharjaan’s brother most certainly hoped for the boy’s demise, and he made no secret of his hunger for the seat either.

Eh.

A fractured princedom with a dying heir, caught precariously between two aggressive great powers, and a ruthless brother just waiting, or perhaps actively working, for the child’s swift death. Now wasn’t that just a pile of dry cinders waiting for a match? With some luck, Marcus would be exactly that: the damn spark to set the entire royal house aflame.

Either that or the fool who would rot behind bars of a dungeon....

His ear caught the distinct sound echoing through the dark.

Tap. Scrape. Tap.

The uneven rhythm of leather boots ringing nervously against the slick, dirty cobblestones shattered the quiet of the alley. Marcus raised his eyes watching as the star of the evening finally emerged from the midnight veil.

It was none other than his way in the court.

Lucius could truly do wonder on his own. The head master of the house. Now wasn’t that a fucking fat trout to catch?The perfect linchpin for their own agents....

The man was fidgeting violently with the collar of his cloak, his head snapping left and right to stare at every dark corner, his breath coming in short, white puffs against the cold air.

Marcus didn’t move an inch, observing the man with the cold detachment of a hawk. He was practically sweating through his fine woolens before the conversation had even begun.

Better to fray at his nerves a little more, Marcus decided.

When Marcus judged that the target had sweated through his fine linens enough, he finally stepped out. He didn’t slip gracefully from the dark; he made himself known with a heavy, deliberate boot-heel against the stone made wet from the earlier rain

The man practically leapt out of his skin, spinning around with wide, frantic eyes. "You... are you the contact?"

Am I the contact? Is that any way to talk?

"I am," Marcus said, his voice flat as the cobblestones. "But if I were a common cutpurse, I would now know you were waiting in the dark for a friend, with pockets full of silver."

The man swallowed hard, the bob of his throat sharp in the midnight gloom.

"Get hold of yourself,I am not going to hurt you"

For now.

"It is an easy enough thing to play your part.No need for violence between colleagues. Come. ’’ he ordered ’’Come and take a seat."

"I would prefer standing," the man attempted, trying to summon a shred of noble dignity that he did not seem to possess.

That is what I get for trying to be gentle, Marcus thought. "Take a fucking seat."

A second later they both sat down upon a damp, splintered wooden crate. A pile of fresh dog filth lingered only two paces away, adding its sharp note to the harbor stench. The man squirmed beside him, though whether it was from sheer terror or the foul odor, Marcus couldn’t say. He was apparently high-settled enough in the world that he kept a silk, perfume-soaked tissue pressed tightly over his mouth and nose.

Actually, Marcus had to admit, that part was clever. He wished he had one.

"How are they?" the man asked after a tense silence, having finally scraped together enough courage to speak.

"For the moment, they are perfectly fine,they are well tended and sleep in warm bed." Marcus replied smoothly. "And they will remain so, provided you prove to be a good champion for our cause. And you will be, right? Now, I suppose—"

"I want to meet them first," the man interrupted.

"In time, you will. Right now, a task is required of you."

He thought that brief reminder of who held the leash would be enough to bend the fool. He was genuinely surprised to find the man didn’t immediately shy away.

"No," the target insisted, a stubborn tremor in his voice. "I will do absolutely nothing until I see them first. I need to know they are well."

Marcus turned his head slowly, looking him straight in the eye. The man held his gaze, bolstered by the desperate, foolish notion that a man of his standing actually had choices in a game like this.

He truly was high-settled.

Marcus disabused him of that illusion with a swift punch that sank in his gut.

The air exploded from the man’s lungs with a wet wheeze. He collapsed forward, his head dropping heavily over Marcus’s shoulder, his body trembling. It placed him in the absolute perfect position for Marcus to whisper directly into his ear.

"Well now," Marcus murmured, his breath warm against the man’s cold skin. "We’ll have absolutely none of that. That was wrong. Real wrong.’’ He tapped the men crown with his finger as if he were a dog’’I am a professional with a job to do. I don’t give two flying fucks about what you want, what you think, or what you hope. You will do exactly what is asked of you. You will prepare yourself to do it well. And that is the end of the matter. ’’ The man wheezed ’’As a reward for your splendid obedience, I will let you meet them, one at a time, when I decide you indeed deserve a proper reward."

Marcus tightened his grip on the man’s collar, his tone turning like iron. "If you do not cooperate, we start with their nail and we work our way up, until you finally grasp on your very hands the notion that they are, in fact, no longer alive, let alone fine. Do we get each other?"

The man nodded frantically against Marcus’s shoulder, tears finally spilling over his cheeks.

"Wonderful," Marcus said, his voice returning to its light, casual register as he pushed the man upright. "Now, if you would allow me to speak, Master Sevar... you are actually a most lucky man. We need you to do something for us, something that will last for a very long time, and that means grand opportunities." He flashed a bright, roguish smile. "Isn’t that wonderful? You are of enough importance for us to actually nurture and not throw away like that dog’s shit! Happy you!

Moreover, once this business is safely concluded, you’ll have a nice, quiet mansion waiting for you, your lover, and your son."

"That..." Sevar wheezed, clutching his bruised stomach as he struggled to draw breath. "...is truly wonderful."

"Now you get it," Marcus said, rising from the wooden crate with an easy grace. He reached down, patting Sevar’s trembling shoulder with a heavy, fraternal hand. "We will get into contact soon. Until then, I suggest you sober up, wash your face, and smile.And well of course get the right things ready."

He patted the man’s cheek playfully. "After all, master Sevar, we are going to be dear colleagues with one another for quite some time.I am sure you’ll be happy to command me here and there. Sober it well enough, that is the only grace you’ll have over our relationship. I’ll soon get into contacts with you."

’’Get things ready for what exactly?’’ He mouthed with fear.

’’You’ll be informed.’’ he said behind his back as he walked away ’’Of that you can be sure. We’ll always get you informed....’’

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