Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

War had finally begun in earnest as Alpheo led the Yarzat army to the frontier, crossing the border that separated the two princedoms, moving towards the city of the turn-cloak lord , Arduronaven.

Serving as the gates to the capital , Arduronaven was the fortified stronghold that blocked Yarzat’s path to the Herculian capital. While his change of sides was an insult and a blow to the princedom of Yarzat, for the Herculians, it was instead a genius move, as they effectively had a barrier that Yarzat would have to take if they wanted to take the city.

The journey from Bracum to Arduronaven covered just forty-eight kilometers, the land was basically all flat which meant that Alpheo could have no worries about walking into any ambushes, not that he had any prior to this, as there was no way that the prince of Herculia could coordinate a border ambush so soon from the start of the war, as the prince at this point should be waiting for his army to assemble.

Alpheo had laid plans for the main force to reach the stronghold in three days. Ahead, his soldiers marched steadily, moving as a unified force, while supply wagons rumbled behind them

The rear guard away from the bulk of his army , however, had a slower pace. Burdened with the onagers—a series of siege engines freshly constructed in Bracum—the rear guard trailed significantly behind, their pace reduced by the weight and bulk of the weaponry. Alpheo knew he would need those onagers to break Arduronaven’s defenses and more , yet he expected it would be at least five days before the siege weapons would arrive at their position.

At the head of the army rode Lord Shahab, leading the vanguard with his men.The position usually being the most prestigious, was given without half a thought by Alpheo to him , given him being close family with his wife.

In contrast, the rear guard usually the one with less prestige, held the troops of Lord Xanthos, who had delegated leadership to his son, Caelum. Xanthios bore no ill will for it , as he was personally told by Alpheo the importance of the things he was to protect, while also promising him that during the battle his troops would have the most important job of all.

At the center of the army rode Alpheo himself, flanked closely by Lord Xanthos. Riding a few paces behind to allow space for conversation, Alpheo’s knights and guards shadowed them, vigilant and ready.

Lord Xanthos adjusted his reins slightly, bringing his horse closer to Alpheo’s and inclining his head with the respect due to a prince. ”Your Grace,” he began, his tone polished and deferential, ”forgive my saying so, but I wonder if it might have been wiser to permit me to lead a raid along Arduronaven’s outskirts as the first stroke of our campaign.

Had we struck before winter and the declaration, the people would have fled to the city gates, the panic spreading like flame through straw, driving them to overrun villages and strip resources as they passed. Even Vroghios would have been forced to scramble for supply, his storehouses likely drained by now.I still do not understand why you had not allowed me to.”

He allowed a pause, his eyes scanning the rugged landscape ahead. ”Instead, by granting that turncoat a peaceful winter, we’ve given him months to fortify himself behind walls, his stores still half-full from the last harvest. It was a generous delay that perhaps he did not deserve, if I may say.”

Alpheo turned to Lord Xanthos, a subtle smirk playing at the edge of his mouth as he met his advisor’s steady gaze. ”Perhaps, my lord , if we’d conducted those raids, that blasted prince might have started drawing connections—a bit too easily, I’d say—to that ’gift’ we sent during the royal marriage,” he said, voice low but firm. ”And If they suspected even a hint of preparation for war,than our chances of victory would have greatly diminished.As a simple letter to his liege would have undone everything.

As it is, I assure you, Arduronaven’s gates are presently crowded with desperate peasants scrambling for refuge, complicating his ability to focus on defending the city , precious times that he currently does not have...’’

Lord Xanthos kept staring at the young man

”That may be True, Your Grace, yet by allowing so many to flee there, we may have swelled Vroghios’s ranks by default. ” he argued, his voice as calm as it was earnest.

Alpheo looked sideways at Xanthos, his eyes glinting with a sudden, almost playful curiosity, the same one that anyone that had to do anything with Alpheo would have to deal with . ”Tell me, Lord Xanthos—do you like mushrooms?”

The older lord furrowed his brow, unsure of where this was going. ”Mushrooms?” he echoed, caught off guard.

”Yes, mushrooms,” Alpheo repeated with a faint smile.

A chuckle escaped Xanthos’s lips as he relaxed, nodding. ”In fact, I do. Quite fond of them, actually. They’re a delicacy when prepared properly.”

Alpheo’s smile broadened. ”They’re a versatile food, aren’t they? Easy to find, easy to cook, and perfect for our foraging parties to bring back to the camp. They add something to that communal stew... something familiar and comforting to make it taste better.”

Xanthos tilted his head, still not seeing where the conversation was leading, what did mushroom had to do with their argument? Alpheo leaned in slightly, his gaze sharpening. ”Now, what happens if, among those foraged mushrooms, a few poisonous ones end up in the pot?”

Xanthos’s expression shifted, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes, though he remained silent, listening intently.

”The entire pot becomes deadly,” Alpheo murmured, a glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes as he leaned in toward Lord Xanthos. ”And perhaps... I may have accidentally slipped a few of those into Arduronaven’s stew already.” He paused, savoring the moment before adding, ”Soon enough, we’ll see what sort of effects that may bring....”

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Outside the towering walls of Arduronaven, a sea of refugees pressed tightly together, desperation etched across their faces as they waited for entry. Men, women, and children clutched what little belongings they’d managed to bring with them

At the gate, a line of guards stood firm, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords as they shouted for order. Their voices rang out over the noise, harsh and unyielding. ”Stay back! Don’t move forward unless called!” The guards scanned the huddled masses and, every so often, called out or motioned to fifty people at a time, gesturing for them to step forward. As each small group was selected, the gates opened just wide enough to allow them in before slamming shut again, leaving the others to press forward, hoping they would be next.

Inside the gates, the chosen refugees were herded through narrow streets, past watchful townsfolk who eyed them with wary curiosity. The guards led them to the central square, where a hastily constructed refugee camp sprawled across the cobblestone. Tents made of rough canvas and makeshift shelters patched with tattered cloth filled the area, offering scant protection from the elements.

The soldiers dropped the group off with a quick, gruff warning. ”Stay here and don’t cause trouble,” one barked, his voice carrying a sharp edge. Without waiting for a response, they turned on their heels and marched briskly back toward the gate, leaving the newcomers to find a spot among the crowded camp as they anxiously waited for a semblance of normalcy in this temporary haven

A small knot of people settled together near the edge of the camp, weary faces shadowed under the dim light. They sat close, shoulder to shoulder, forming a huddled circle as they took in the scene around them: lines of exhausted refugees slumped against makeshift tents, children curled up on scraps of cloth, the murmur of low voices thick with worry.

Their own voices were low as they exchanged nervous whispers, casting wary glances at the guards and the other refugees.

One of the men in the group leaned in, a faint glimmer of excitement in his tired eyes. ”This will be easier than I thought,” he murmured, barely moving his lips.

Immediately, the older man beside him gave a sharp look and hissed, ”Keep your voice down. Act low, or you’ll get us all killed.” He adjusted his own cloak, making sure it draped fully over his form.

”Cover yourself. Don’t let anyone see your steel,” he warned in a low, stern whisper. The younger man nodded, tucking his cloak close to hide any sign of a weapon, and lowered his head, forcing a blank expression as the guards continued to make their rounds through the camp.

These men weren’t weary refugees seeking shelter but soldiers—disguised among the desperate to slip past the city gates. With rough-spun cloaks and worn boots caked in dirt, they blended in seamlessly, appearing no different from the rest of the ragged, displaced crowd. But beneath those cloaks, they carried short swords and daggers, carefully hidden from sight.

Getting inside had proven surprisingly easy. The guards at the gates, focused more on the strength of arms than on suspicion, had chosen the able-bodied adults first, likely intending to enlist them for the defense of the city. This oversight had allowed the disguised soldiers to slip in among the first wave of accepted ”refugees,” bypassing scrutiny with by sticking their head to them and avoiding eye contact, doing everything they could in order to not gain their attention

They resisted the urge to move or adjust their weapons hidden beneath their cloaks, each man aware that any shift might betray them. Instead, they mimicked the defeated postures of the people around them, slumping as if exhausted, blending into the suffering and exhaustion etched on the faces of the true refugees. The square was crowded, loud, and chaotic—the perfect cover—yet each of them was aware that any misstep would unravel everything.

And so, they waited, keeping to the shadows as the minutes dragged by, eyes fixed on the gates, the guard rotations, and the movements of the city watch, any information that could have helped them on the next part of their plan.