Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Basil blinked up at his father, his jaw slightly slack. He could scarcely credit what he had heard.

A weapon? In this miserable, isolated shithole?

Looking at the weathered timber , Basil could hardly believe there was anything inside the perimeter but old mud and horse shit. What could it possibly be? Had his father somehow hidden an entire secret army inside these wormy woods?

And what was it his father had just called it? The mightiest weapon yet? Weren’t the King’s own hardened iron legions supposed to hold that proud title? Basil knew for a fact that a few general legates would have their hearts thoroughly broken if they ever heard the King’s statement.

So many questions flooded Basil’s mind that he didn’t even know where to begin. Nor, as it turned out, did he have the luxury of starting, as his father was already striding toward the only proper building for miles around,a long, low-slung structure that looked suspiciously like an oversized livery stable.

The damp green grass bent obediently beneath the King’s heavy boots. Basil noticed with a spike of unease that the royal house guards were not following them this time, preferring instead to fan out and stand watch near the perimeter. Whatever was inside, it was meant for the bloodline alone.

"Aren’t you going to come, boy?" his father asked, turning back just as he reached the entrance.

Basil nodded quickly and followed at his heels. He braced himself, fully expecting his father to knock code on the wood or exchange some whispered secret passphrase with a hidden sentry. Instead, the King simply raised his leg and kicked the heavy door open with the flat of his riding boot. The wood slammed against the interior wall with a resounding crack.

Did he really put no security on our greatest weapon? Basil wondered, peering into the gloom.

Whatever the case, Basil quickly followed close, desperate to finally get an answer to the questions burning a hole in his tongue. Once again, as if it was a pile of coin that was looking to get taller, he was left disappointed.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. It wasn’t just bad; it was nauseating, as if someone had rudely shoved two fingers up each of his nostrils and begun to vigorously rotate them. It smelled of sulfur, sour rot, and a sting that made his eyes instantly water.

He glanced sideways at his father and noticed the older man paid the stench absolutely no mind. The King was calmly breathing through his nose, his expression as peaceful as if he were walking through a royal rose garden.

A sudden heat crept up Basil’s cheeks. If the King could endure it, then the Prince ought to at least give it a proper try. He clamped his jaw shut and forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose. One. Two. Three breaths in, and he almost gagged right then and there. Luckily, he managed to choke back the heave silently. His father’s broad back was turned to him, so at the very least, the great warlord hadn’t seen his heir make a complete fool of himself.

From that moment on, Basil strictly breathed through his mouth.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim, shadow-drenched interior, Basil looked around. The building wasn’t housing soldiers or horses. Instead, rows upon rows of sturdy wooden crates, bound in iron and sealed with thick wax, filled the entire stable-thing from floor to ceiling.

"Father," Basil said, his voice sounding small and slightly nasal as he tried not to inhale the air. "What is all this?’’

’’The reason why you are here’’

’’Can I... can I open one?"

The King stopped, turning his head slightly. "Go ahead."

Basil approached the nearest crate, but before he could even look on how to open it, his father stepped up beside him. With a fluid, casual motion, the King drew a heavy, broad-bladed dagger from his belt. He jammed the steel tip beneath the sealed lid, gave it wrenching twist of his wrist, and popped the top off with a loud pry of splintering pine.

The lid clattered to the dirt floor, and the box revealed its contents.

Basil leaned over the edge, and the mystery evaporated instantly. The horrific, eye-watering stench did not merely drift through the room, it nestled tightly within the straw packing of the box.

"Gods above," Basil coughed, stepping back a pace. ’’Is this really the weapon?’’

His father nodded, a rare glimpse of genuine pride in his dark eyes, accompanied by something Basil had almost never seen on the warlord’s face before: genuine excitement.

But for what? What earthly use did a stable full of foul-smelling dust have? Why was there so much of it, and why did it smell sowrong?

"Is it... is it safe to touch?" Basil hesitated, hovering his hand over the open crate.

"Aye. Safe enough. Take a handful," the King urged, giving him a slight, playful shove on the small of his back.

Basil obeyed, cringing as his fingers sank into the gray, granular mixture. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. It had a bizarre, unsettling texture, both coarse and strangely soft at the same time. He looked closer, squinting in the dim light. And... is this hay?

He tried to mold the stuff in his palm, but it crumbled as easily as wet sand on a riverbank. He racked his brain, desperately trying to fathom the military application of weaponized dirt. Perhaps it was meant to be packed into clay jars, set ablaze, and catapulted into an enemy’s stronghold? Perhaps when burnt, it released a choking smoke? Or maybe it was some exotic, slow-acting poison?

No, he reasoned, if it were a lethal poison, his father wouldn’t be letting him mingle with it like a toddler playing in a sandbox. Basil had been tutored enough to know that many toxins could seep right through the skin. One microscopic cut on his thumb, and he’d be a corpse on the floor.

Yet, how in the five gods’ names was this the realm’s greatest weapon? He briefly considered lifting his hand to take a proper sniff to analyze the ingredients, but he knew that if he did, he would immediately vomit up his lunch. And that would be a tragedy. It truly had been a proper sandwich that one.

Instead, Basil let the dirt-dust pour through his fingers back into the crate.

"Father," Basil wheezed, his eyes watering fresh tears. "I do not mean to question your strategy... but this stuff smells like shit.What is it?"

The King stepped up beside him, crossing his heavy arms over his chest.

"That’s because it is shit, Basil. Or at least, a very large part of it is."

Basil froze. He slowly looked down at his hand, then back up at the King of Yarzat.

"What?"

"Goat droppings, mostly. Mixed in by the barrelful," the King explained, sounding entirely too proud of the fact. "Mixed with stable sweepings, wood ash, dusted bone, and of course, a healthy helping of dried hay."

The exact same time a stray breeze whirled the foul stench right up his nose, Basil gagged.

He frantically began scrubbing his hand against the rough edge of the wooden crate, the feeling of utter betrayal burning hot in his chest. "Why the hell did you make me touch it then?!" he spluttered, his voice cracking.

"Come now, boy, it’s just shit," Alpheo said, entirely amused by his son’s misery. "It comes out of you at least once a day. Do you get this squirmy every single time you do your business?"

"It is not the same, and you know it!" Basil snapped, desperately wiping his palm down the thigh of his breeches now.

His father simply laughed, the booming sound echoing off the low rafters of the stable. Well, that was it, Basil supposed. He certainly wasn’t going to act like a spoiled brat about the matter. Well... maybe just a little bit. He would tell his mother about this the very moment they returned to the keep. He deeply wished to see if his father would still have the gall to laugh about it while the Queen glared him down.

But for now, he swallowed his pride and simply scrubbed the residue off his skin the best he could, keeping his mouth firmly shut.

Once his stomach settled enough to prevent a catastrophic loss of his lunch, Basil looked back at the rows of crates. "Alright. Fine. It’s dung and ash. But you called it a weapon, Father. What sort of weapon can you possibly make out of this?"

Alpheo’s chuckles slowly subsided, though the dark, knowing smile remained fixed on his face. The King stepped closer to the open crate. Without a hint of hesitation, he rolled his heavy sleeve up to the elbow, plunged his thick hand straight into the gray mixture, and brought out a massive dump of the stuff.

He held it out, turning his hand over so the light from the open door caught the crumbling grains. He smiled down at it as if he were holding a king’s ransom in solid gold.

"The best weapon of all, " the King murmured, his voice dropping into a low, reverent tone that made the hairs on the back of Basil’s neck stand up. "A dangerous weapon. A mighty weapon. One that is far too dangerous to ever be used lightly... and one that is far too useful to ever leave sitting in the dirt.And that is where the trouble begins, for what is to be done of something that too useful and yet also likewise dangerous? The answer is simple, you make it so , that only you could use it.

I always dreamed of this moment you know?And finally, I have it.Right here in my hand, ready to be spread through all the four winds of the state. Wanna know the best thing?"

’’What’s that?’’

The king’s smile widened, as if admiring a private joke that only he knew.

’’This is ,perhaps the biggest weapon that Yarzat will ever have in all its history, and yet, it is a thoroughly harmless one..’’

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