Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He was wrong. In the end, they indeed had lunch.

Two magnificently done sandwiches, boasting thick slabs of crisped bacon, fried eggs, and savory sausage laced with a heavy helping of melted cheese and ripe tomatoes, were waiting for them, nicely packed in a small wicker chest beneath the seat.

"Mmh," Basil moaned around his first massive bite, his fingers instantly catching a drip of cheese. "This is good."

The King nodded, taking an initial bite that was easily twice the size of his son’s. His father had always lived on the fast track when it came to eating, a trait that set him apart from all his brothers. There were uncles in the family with double the thirst, and certainly others with double the stomach, but there was not a single man in there who could match the terrifying speed of his father’s jaw.

Basil supposed it was just one of those behaviors perfectly explained by the horrors of the man’s past. If Basil had spent his formative years starving in ditches and fighting for scraps, he too would probably ravage every meal in his path, even when sitting in a royal carriage knowing the castle cellars were well-stocked. One had to be realistic about the scars men carried, and doubly so if one was just a boy trying to understand a warlord.

Basil carefully pinched a rogue slice of tomato that was threatening to slide out from the bread and ruin his tunic. Despite the weight of their earlier conversation, it was genuinely fun to be eating like common soldiers inside a rattling box with his father. A small wave of sadness washed over him at the realization that he wouldn’t have such casual experiences often, so he did his absolute best to relish the opportunity while he had it.

"Fafah," Basil tried, his cheek bulging with food. He caught himself, swallowed vigorously, and tried again. "Mother was telling me about a grand tournament being planned for after the coronation. Is that true?"

His father’s dark eyes moved slowly from the half-eaten sandwich in his hand to his son’s face.

Basil was immensely relieved to note that the great King of Yarzat was currently having the exact same trouble keeping a stubborn slice of tomato inside his bread , just as he was. But the relief lasted only a fleeting moment, for Basil’s attention quickly shifted to the cold, dead irritation hiding just behind his father’s eyes. He caught the answer well enough in that heavy gaze before a word was spoken.

Still, his father was king enough to spell it out in plain, biting prose.

"It is."

From the tone alone, Basil collected the King was about as happy about this tournament as he would be about a breakout of the bloody flux.

"We already have every manner of trouble a kingdom can conjure," the King grumbled, swallowing his bite with a harsh snap of his jaw. "Wherever I lay my eyes, I see a hand stretched out begging for coin, and my treasury sack is already as empty as a beggar’s stomach. But yes! ’Let us have a grand tournament!’ they all scream in council. Let us see grown men stick expensive wooden lances into each other’s arses while we cheer for the ones who manage to stand and weep for the fools who manage to die. Let us blabber on endlessly about chivalry, honor, and glory!"

He let out a sharp snort, nearly choking on a piece of bacon before clearing his throat. "Let us waste silver feeding an army of lords, and carry hundreds of painted lances just to watch them splinter. Let us waste precious time that could be a sight better used than the coin itself. But by all means, let the smallfolk have something to cheer for , gods know how pitiful they life are. Perhaps a tourney will make egg cheaper, and the harvest more bountiful..."

"I take it you are not pleased about the arrangements, Father?"

"Does it show?"

"Only a tad bit," Basil said, offering a small, brave grin. He gave another bite "I was actually going to ask if you were planning to participate in the lists. I am certain the people would love nothing more than to see their king in action. The very first king in the South."

Basil spoke the words playfully, though he was already half-aware of the sharp buckler of an answer he was about to receive.

"They are going to be thoroughly disappointed, I fear," the King said, wiping a smear of egg yolk from his thumb onto his trousers. He leaned forward, squinting. "Tell me. Does this look like the face of a vain warrior looking to strut for maidens?"

Basil looked at his father’s face for some time.

... It actually was exactly the face of a warrior. But Basil also knew that was not the philosophical answer his father expected from a prince.

"A tournament was originally designed to be a mock-war," the King lectured, gesturing with the crust of his sandwich. "A clever way to give restless knights a chance to strut on their high horses and show the court how terrifyingly good they are at fighting, in hope of getting a invitation to serve in some lord’s retinue. And with some luck giving them something to look forward , something that wasn’t raiding villages and roads like common bandit.

Well, we just finished our greatest war, and quick enough we are going to have another in the ridges. If the people wanted mindless entertainment, if the high lords wanted to be amused, if your lady mother and my prestigious legates truly needed a grand show... then I could have very well accommodated a traveling circus to set up their tents in the palace square."

The King leaned back, his mouth twisting into a dark sneer. "They could see trained dogs dance on their hind legs, and watch naked men stand on each other’s shoulders to jump through flaming hoops. It is far more dignified than a joust, and a hell of a lot more affordable."

The heavy silence lingered back into the carriage cabin. Basil chewed thoughtfully, staring down at the greasy parchment wrapper of his lunch before raising his eyes again.

"I still think you would be a remarkably good jouster, Father," he said softly.

The King’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. The casual irritation drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, bone-chilling cold that seemed to lower the temperature inside the wooden carriage.

"The last time I thought I was exceptionally good at something, Basil, I came back from the field with one less brother," his father said somberly, his voice dropping to a low, quiet rasp that cut sharper than any steel. "That is the hard, unvarnished truth of this world. You don’t get a proper lesson in ruling until you pay a blood price to learn it."

That was as magnificent and terrifying a conversation-killer as any man could devise. Basil quickly lowered his gaze back to his half-eaten sandwich, the remaining bites suddenly tasting a great deal like ash.

They remained silent for the rest of the journey. The carriage rolled steadily along the highway, and their surroundings gradually shifted from the deep, suffocating tree lines of the royal woods to sprawling military camps, interspersed with a few small farming villages that seemed to sprout like mushrooms on the green grass.

They must have been still close to the capital now. They had only been traveling for a few hours inside the wooden box.

Will the farmers go to the capital for the tournament? Basil wondered, his eyes tracing a young boy herding geese along a ditch before gazing at the rolling carriage.

After all, a grand tournament meant an immense influx of visitors, high-born lords, hedge knights, squires, and wealthy merchants, all of whom required food and a place to lay their heads. And in the South, it was always the farmer who provided the bread.

For once, Basil privately believed his father was wrong. A tournament certainly wasn’t without its practical uses. He surely wasn’t as knowledgeable as his father regarding the economy and the flux of coin and wealth, but he to could see it working.

There would be a great deal of country folk returning from the capital gates with hands filled with silver and brass, their wooden carts entirely emptied of goats, pigs, potatoes, and winter grain. The knights would break their expensive lances, and then those very same knights, their hungry squires, and their massive destriers would need to eat. The capital’s taverns and markets would be absolutely flowing with silver coins and bronzii, and knowing what was happening the smartesst of them would stock their whole store with food and ale, and wine. It was a circle of coin that even a king shouldn’t dismiss.

Before he could mull over the economics of chivalry any further, the carriage pitched forward with a heavy groaning of iron springs, halting to a sudden stop. Outside, the muffled shouting of the drivers echoed through the wooden walls.

The King rose from his seat, his frame nearly brushing the low ceiling of the carriage. He dusted a few stray crumbs from his heavy woolen surcoat.

"We have reached the end of the line it would seem," Alpheo said flatly.

Without another word of explanation, the King reached for the latch, threw open the heavy carriage door, and stepped out into the crisp midday air.

Basil blinked, hurried to adjust his cloak, and scrambled out right behind his father. He dropped from the iron step onto the packed earth, his eyes widening as he looked around.

There was.... nothing?Except of course some run down shitty wooden stable.

Were there horses inside?Some royal bred stallion and mares?If that were so...where were the guards?

So many questions he had, that he thought it right to receive some answer.

"Why are we here, Father?" Basil asked, his curiosity finally overriding his caution. "What is this place?"

The King turned back to him, his scarred face twisting into a smirk. "I was beginning to wonder when you would finally ask the damn question," he muttered.

Alpheo turned away, his boots crunching loudly on the gravelly dirt as he marched behind his father. The white cloaks immediately snapped to attention,though there was no danger a mile each way.

"Come along, boy," the King called back over his broad shoulder passing over the trail of white men in armor.

’’Where to father?’’ Basil asked.

His father turned to him with all the joy of a child asked of his favorite toy.

’’To see our biggest weapon yet. And you’ll be glad to know it isn’t a painted lance."

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