Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Most of the men Alpheo had killed had been dispatched with the edge of a sword. He was well-acquainted to the finality of it, his eyes locking onto a man’s in those final, bloody seconds as they traded desperate, hacking swings at each other’s limbs and necks, or thrashed like rabid dogs while grappling in the mud. In other cases, death came with a last, quiet lament as Alpheo gave the word and the executioner delivered his rhythmic swing, or the heavy length of the rope snapped tight.

It was not every day, however, that he killed a boy with nothing but a bottle of ink.

And yet, the blood would be shed all the same. Whether he drew it personally or left the butchery to others, his was the word currently being pressed into the parchment that would allow it to happen.

Owell Floria, eldest son of the Lord of Aligulae and the undisputed heir apparent to that ancient Heculeian lordship, was about to meet his end by a headsman’s axe. His father had tried every trick in the courtly ledger to see the boy saved, flooding the palace with letters and aggressively begging for a royal pardon to spare his son’s neck.

But all the King could do in good conscience was organize a formal tribunal to pass judgment on the young man. Murder, after all, was far too heinous a crime to be brushed beneath the rug with a royal signature.

Owell’s life was to be spent to repay the cost of another: a young knight named Ser Selmy Brownhook, cousin to the Lord of Mandie. An innocent man butchered for a crime he had never committed.

A rape of Owell’s bethrothed, the rumors had claimed.

The entire tragic business had come to a violent head in a crowded, smoky tavern where Selmy was accustomed to spending his coin for drink and service.

He came in late, specifically to catch his target unawares and drunk, and the murdered knight had been deep into his cups when their blades clashed.

The two young men had drawn steel, Owell screaming for the knight’s blood while Selmy desperately tried to parry the onslaught, cups , plates and tables cluttered to the ground as the other patrons of the tavern cried out and went to call the garrison.

The gods had not been kind then.

Selmy’s blood had seeped out onto the tavern floor easily enough.

A crime of honor, Owell had proudly claimed for all when Lord Benny Brownhook’s men finally dragged him down in chains. A cold-blooded murder, the high judge instead declared when a flock of cloistered nuns formally attested to the purity of the lady in question.

There had been no rape. But a murder indeed there was.

Word from the trial was that Owell had been left utterly agape, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth when the truth was brought to light. His father had come howling into the court, weeping and throwing himself at the magistrate’s feet for a crumb of mercy, but that display served the family precious little. For the crown to aid the boy now would mean actively protecting a murderer while spitting directly in the face of the powerful Lord of Mandie. And so, the grim date was set: in two weeks’ time, the axe would fall on the young’s man neck.

Alpheo sat in his private office, the heavy silence of the palace pressing in as he set the quill aside. A sudden, sharp shiver of winter cold rippled across his shoulders, cutting right through his heavy wool doublet.

With a small snort from his nose, he rose from his high-backed seat, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor as he made his way across the room to the grand fireplace. He grabbed the iron tongs, hoisted two fresh, heavy blocks of oak from the hearth-basket, and tossed them into the dying embers.

The wood caught with a loud, satisfying crackle, sending a shower of bright orange sparks dancing up the dark chimney as the warmth slowly began to fight back the chill of the room.

He had long taken off his heavy leather writing glove to properly pilot the quill, so he lingered by the hearth, stretching his bare hands out toward the growing heat.

A piece of the oak cackled and split clean in two just as a sharp, rhythmic rap echoed against the heavy wood of the door.

"Your Majesty," a muffled voice called out.

Alpheo mused that he would never truly tire of hearing that word. The voice belonged to old Vrosk, a veteran who stubbornly insisted on watching over the king’s threshold for a few hours each day, refusing to leave the task solely to the younger guards, as the captain of his king’s guard it was not expected, but yet well received.

"It is Lord Lucius. He awaits your pleasure."

Or my displeasure, depending entirely on what manner of rot he has dragged out of the dark today, Alpheo thought grimly. As of late, the Spymaster had delivered little but black news and political headaches.

Imagine betrayals and failures in the south.

"Let him in," the king ordered, dropping his hands back to his sides and turning to face the entrance.

Lucius strode inside with long, sweeping steps, a heavy winter cloak of midnight-black wool settled over his broad shoulders and falling away from his waist. Alpheo’s eyes narrowed immediately. The man had gotten a haircut. The wild, tumbling mass of blond curls that usually framed the Spymaster’s face had been aggressively shorn away, cut into a neat, short trim that barely grazed his brow. He looked remarkably cleaner, almost terribly civilized.

The Spymaster stopped a few paces away to offer a smooth, practiced bow before approaching the desk. He caught the king’s scrutinizing stare at once.

"To my wife’s absolute dismay... they were getting far too long," Lucius remarked dryly, a wry smirk tugging at his lips as he casually twirled a stray streak of blond hair between his fingers. "The fool with the scissors took my instructions a bit too literally and cut them too short."

"It looks well on you, if it is of any small consolation," Alpheo said, though he suspected it would be himself who would soon be in need of comforting. "Do you bring news, Lucius?"

The Spymaster nodded, the playful glint instantly vanishing from his eyes. He must have caught the subtle, heavy grimace tightening the king’s jaw, because he was quick to speak. "Good words, for a change, Your Majesty. My birds in Oizen have finally sung a welcome tune."

That, at last, caught Alpheo’s full attention. A flicker of hope sparked against his exhaustion.

Lucius continued unbidden, stepping closer to the hearth. "Our little joint venture with the blue cloaks has yielded spectacular results. Legate Edric and Commander Laedio and some of my men , have successfully exposed a massive, deep-rooted smuggling ring that has been systematically providing steel weapons, fresh food, and all manner of military equipment to the Vulture Lord and his tree-dwelling minions.

It all came crashing down on them a few weeks ago. Dozens of arrests have been made, warehouses have been seized, and it is entirely safe to say that the primary lifeline sustaining the Vulture Lord’s rebellion has been thoroughly destroyed by Laedio’s men."

A slow, rare smile broke across Alpheo’s face. He let out a breath he felt he’d been holding for months. "At last," the king murmured, leaning against his desk. "Some actual, good words. The Vulture Lord will finally have to face my legions on a hungry belly."

Lucius nodded, but his expression remained grim, the dark lines of his face catching the firelight. "Aye, Your Majesty. But the roots of the weed dug deeper than we ever could have anticipated. The smuggling ring was a massive operation, and the trail of silver stretches all the way past our borders, into the principalities of Sharjaan."

The smile instantly died on Alpheo’s lips. The brief warmth in the room vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy dampness that settled over his mood like cold rain. He stared at his Spymaster.

"Did the some sharjanii merchants really do this alone?’’

"Unlikely," Lucius replied, his tone heavy and somber. "The scale of the supply lines suggests high-born protection. The coin and the commands... it is highly possible they originated from Habadia, . The grand prince has been using Sharjaan as a convenient, untraceable base of operations to bleed us from afar, and to muddle his involvement if he was found."

"Possibly," Alpheo repeated, the word tasting like a curse on his tongue. He turned back toward the fire, watching the fresh wood burn, realizing the war in the mud was merely a shadow of the larger game being played against his crown.

"Was there some manner of help coming from my newly sworn lords, perhaps?" Alpheo asked, his eyes narrowing as he thought of the shifting loyalties in the conquered principalities.

Lucius shook his head, a welcome gesture that eased a fraction of the tension in the king’s shoulders. "Not that my birds have unearthed, Your Grace. And honestly, I do not believe the Herculeian houses possess the resources, nor the sheer gall, to try something so treasonous so soon after bending the knee. Let me assure you, the Vulture Lord’s feathers are clipped. It is only a matter of time before he is dragged to the noose. In the meantime, it seems Edric and Laedio have already had their bloody fill with some of his minions"

"Truly?" the king asked, turning back from the hearth. "A pitched battle?"

"Hardly pitched, Your Grace. A slaughter," Lucius corrected. "One of the captured Oizenian ringleaders was the rat tasked with transporting the bulk provisions into the borderlands. The rebels had established a fortified encampment deep within the thickets, complete with reinforced wooden palisades and watchtowers. A daunting nut to crack by standard siege, much easier when the gate are swinging open with cheers for you."

The Spymaster stepped closer to the desk, his hands gesturing to illustrate the trap. "We greased the wheels of the merchant’s trade wagons and packed the bellies of the carts with Voghondaii shock troops and their heavy-shielded cousins. The caravan rolled right past their timber gates without raising a single alarm. But the moment the tailgates dropped, hell itself was unleashed inside the compound.

My men reports It was a bloodbath of iron and splinters. Our men cut through the camp before the bastards could even reach for their spears. Those few who managed to scramble over the wooden walls met their match in the surrounding brush. Legate Edric had ringed the entire forest perimeter with waiting legionaries. The fleeing wretches were systematically picked off by a hail of heavy javelins, while the Voghondaii skirmishers ran them down with recurve bows and lead slings. None escaped."

"And the survivors?" Alpheo pressed. "Did they yield the location of the main host?"

"Those who were captured alive were turned over to the Ravens and thoroughly broken for information," Lucius sighed, the blond streak of his hair catching the firelight as he shook his head. "But alas, despite our attempt it seems the Vulture Lord is a remarkably clever beast. He keeps his commands strictly decentralized. None of the scum in that camp knew where the other hidden cells are located.

A lone messenger would arrive once a week to deliver targeted raiding orders or retrieve supply by carts, but for the most part, the cells operate in complete isolation.It seem that place was more of a warehouse to stock supply and send them to different parts.We would have cleaned the place and stocked it with our men to catch other unawares , but it did not work no matter how much we waited."

The king nodded slowly, his military mind instantly grasping the strategy.

Still, a wound was a wound, and this one was as deep and sweet as any they had dealt the rebellion. It was a victory made even sweeter knowing what would soon follow.

Unless the Vulture Lord wished to watch his small army starve to death in the winter frost, he would now be forced to abandon his secrecy. He would have to aggressively pillage the local villages and forage in the open territory just to feed his men.

And a desperate vulture, Alpheo knew, was a visible one. Every raid would leave a trail of blood and breadcrumbs, offering the legions a far easier chance to trap prisoners, squeeze their throats, and finally unearth the heart of the rebellion.

The Vulture’s time was at its end.

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