Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Alpheo stood at the prow, the sharp wind whipping his hair back, carrying with it the briny tang of the open sea.

The bow cut through the swells with steady rhythm, each crash of the waves sending a cool spray of odors to his nostrils. The scent of salt and pitch was heavy in the air.

Gods, how much he loved that....

They were moving fast. For the better part of a week, the winds had favored them, filling their sails and driving the fleet onward like an unseen hand urging them toward their prey. It was almost tempting to believe that nature itself had chosen to see him triumph.

He knew it was nothing more than wishful thinking... but still, he let the thought linger, as it was a pleasant one to have.

If the wind held, the admiral claimed, they would make landfall in four days. Four days until they reached the chosen shore. Four days until the real gamble began.

The plan was ambitious, bordering on audacious. He and Jarza would land their banners on an unfortified stretch of Oizenian coast, seize a nearby city, and transform it into a supply hub for the campaign’s remainder. From there, they could drive into enemy territory from an unexpected angle, feeding their army directly from the sea and bypassing the heavily garrisoned border fortresses to strike inside the Oizenian belly .

But everything—everything—hinged on the landing’s success.

If they were repelled, if the enemy bottled them in their harbor, they would have no choice but to retreat immediately. No prolonged fight, no stubborn last stands, only a swift escape to the safety of the fleet.

Accepting defeat in order to avoid catastrophe.

To remain ashore without securing a base would be suicide; they would be surrounded on all sides by hostile land, with every road barred by castles loyal to the Oizenian prince.

A general, Alpheo knew, must always plan a battle as though it would end in retreat... yet fight it as if victory were the only acceptable outcome.

Only a fool or a man without other options, would commit to a battle without an escape. Should the landing fail, they would have to vanish back into the sea before the trap could close. Otherwise, it would not simply be a defeat.

It would be a military disaster of the highest order.

A catastrophe to rival Napoleon’s march into Russia, save for one critical difference. Napoleon’s men could, in theory, retreat back into safe land.

Alpheo’s army had nowhere to run but the waves, and most certainly, Alpheo did not wish to give his army a Viking funeral.

As he stood at the prow, watching the hull cleave the rolling waves, Alpheo’s thoughts drifted north toward the half of his army he had sent away and to the man commanding it.

I wonder if he’s already made landfall, he mused.

Jarza’s landing point lay well north of Alpheo’s own, chosen for its easier approach and lighter defenses. By all logic, Jarza should already be ashore, perhaps even making his first incursions into enemy territory. Yet until Alpheo’s own boots touched sand and a ship came from the sea, there was no way to know for certain.

Splitting an army was always a dangerous gamble, one that could end in triumph or disaster. The disadvantages were obvious: a divided force was easier to overwhelm piecemeal, each detachment unable to draw on the full strength of the other, while if defeated, it would effectively deliver a harmful blow.

There was a reason Alpheo normally kept his army whole until after a victory, only breaking it into smaller columns when the enemy was already in flight and the time came to press the advantage in land terms.

Still, there were moments when the gamble was worth it. If there weren’t, no commander would dare take the risk.

A divided army strained its supply lines less, could cover more ground, forage more efficiently, and most importantly could besiege multiple strongholds at once.

In this campaign, Alpheo had two aims in mind. First, by striking along separate routes, they doubled their chances of success. Should one landing fail, the survivors could fall back and link up with the other force. If both succeeded, they could converge inland, squeezing the Oizenians between them like a vise.

The second aim was more opportunistic: to seize as much ground as possible before the enemy even realized where the blow was coming from.

With the Oizenian prince still convinced the attack would come across the fortified border, Alpheo hoped to carve out a secure swath of coastline before the man understood the danger. Land taken now, while surprise was still on their side, could serve as the foundation for the next campaigns

Still, the waiting was excruciating.

Alpheo let his gaze drift from the endless swell of the sea to the life on the deck. His men moved with the sluggishness of the seasick, their faces pale and eyes hollow. This was not the first time his legions had traveled by water, he had ferried the First Legion and Egil’s riders during the First Coalition War.

The Third Legion was not so fortunate.

They were land-fighters true and through, and it showed. A dozen soldiers leaned limply over the railings, shoulders heaving, the sound of retching barely lost under the hiss of the waves.

He stepped down from the prow, the boards beneath his boots shifting with the roll of the ship, and made his way toward the man clinging to the side like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

”Fix your eyes on the horizon,” Alpheo advised, resting a steadying hand on the man’s back. ”Don’t look down.”

”Oh, thanks, Your Grace. This is just the —ugh, the fourth—bluergh—” The words broke apart as Asag’s body convulsed in another bout of vomiting, his grip tightening on the rail.

”I’m sure it’s just your worry for Jarza that turns your stomach,” Alpheo said lightly, letting his own gaze sweep over the water and nodding as if understanding the pain.

”No, it’s the fucking sea,” Asag muttered, spitting into the foam. His face was drawn and damp, and he took a deep, steadying breath before adding, ”You should’ve let me cross the border on foot. I’d rather take an arrow in the ribs than taste my own vomit again.”

Alpheo’s mouth curled faintly. ”I wonder if the Fourth is faring any better on the other ships.”

”Probably not,” Asag said with a grimace. ”Did Jarza and Egil suffer this much when you sailed to Aracina?”

”Jarza was fine. Egil... was worse than you. I swear, his horses took the voyage better than their commander.” Alpheo allowed himself a chuckle at the memory, the sound briefly warming the salt-heavy air.

A weak smile tugged at Asag’s mouth.

”Still... are you not worried about Jarza? This is the first time he’s commanded such a force.”

”Not really,” Asag added quickly, straightening just enough to meet Alpheo’s eyes. ”Seems like you’re the only one losing sleep over it.”

”Is that so?” Alpheo asked, raising an eyebrow.

”Yes,” Asag said, lips pale but voice firm. ”You’re like a father fussing over his child the moment he’s out of sight. Jarza will manage just fine. In any other case, the lords you sent with him would’ve chafed at taking orders from a man of his birth, but none of them will risk your wrath by playing at blood superiority now.”

Alpheo’s expression shifted to something more thoughtful. ”Even so, I can’t help worrying. He’s out there without any support from us. If something happens—”

”You should stop trying to lead all of us by the hand,” Asag interrupted gently, leaning on the railing for balance. ”We’re not children, and you’re not our father. We’ve watched you for the better part of a decade, learned from you.

Hell we are older than you....

We’re not about to throw it all away the moment you’re not looking. Trust your men’s skill, especially Jarza’s. He’s been your shadow long enough; if anyone has half a chance at succeeding alone, it’s that man. You’ll never get the best out of us if you don’t let us work without you breathing down our necks.

Mistakes are part of the path to mastery and an inevitable stone on the road to learning.”

It was a pointed sentiment, and Alpheo might have answered with due seriousness, had his eyes not been drawn to the thin strand of vomit still clinging stubbornly to Asag’s lower lip.

”You’ve got something,” he said simply, breaking the moment while holding out a folded cloth.

Asag muttered a thank as he wiped his mouth , after that he glanced at the mess he’d made, and snorted. ”I’ll have this washed before I give it back.”

”Do that,” Alpheo replied with a faint smile. A beat later, he added, ”And I understand your point. I’ll trust you, and the others ,to handle yourselves.”

They fell into silence then, standing shoulder to shoulder at the railing.

Alpheo let his gaze wander over the horizon, appreciating the raw beauty of the sunlit sea. Beside him, Asag kept his eyes fixed there too, but only to keep his stomach from rebelling again and puking his lunch onto the blue waves of the sea.

Neither of them spared a thought for the storm they were about to summon, or for the plan, whatever it was to succeed or fail.

As yet, in that single, almost casual decision of Alpheo’s, the course of the South’s history shifted, subtly at first, but irrevocably and forevermore in his existence, as his actions would inevitably cause a war that the whole South would be part of.

Whetever they wished or not.