Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The rising star of the South, the princedom of Yarzat, had, in less than a generation, become the subject of every court’s whisper and every merchant’s gamble.

It was not every day that a state, scarcely more than a provincial backwater half a decade ago, could double its dominion, transform itself into a thriving commercial hub, and force even the great powers of the continent to respond to this evolution.

There had been a time, not so distant, when all trade flowed inevitably through Romelia. Roads paved in her stone, seas patrolled by her fleet, commerce bent to her rhythm.

But those days had withered, and with their passing came a sobering truth: the tide of wealth and power had turned, and it now swelled toward Yarzat, a realm barely a quarter of Romelia’s current size.

The fall of Romelia’s industrial dominion of oild and wine had torn a void in the markets. Once she boasted her hand in every craft, every trade, every caravan and ship that carried goods across the continent. When that hand faltered, opportunity arose. Into that breach stepped Yarzat, through the singular ambition of one man.

At first, it was nothing more than a production monopoly of a few selected and yet researched items.

It controlled the making of paper, the brewing of cider and strong liquors and the crafting of soap.

Merchants from every corner of the continent crowded into Yarzat’s capital for their share of this golden vein. What began as export soon transformed into import as well; for those who came to buy inevitably came to sell.

The city swelled, its markets thick with dialects and wares from every shore and place.

Most telling was the shift of the Azanian traders. For centuries, they had trodden their pilgrim’s route to the halls of their old rivals. Now, caravans turned, sails angled southward, and their wealth poured instead into Yarzat’s coffers.

The world was changing swiftly, faster than many dared admit. Romelia, once unchallenged, now found herself forced to adapt, to ride the wave she had once commanded, or risk being swept beneath it.

The very fact that Romelia’s current coffers were being kept afloat by nothing grander than a local Romelian monopoly on cider and soap spoke volumes about just how vital the friendship of the southern prince had become. A friendship, Mesha’s grandfather had made certain to remind him, and his uncles, was to be pursued and preserved at any cost.

Reunification, trade policies, all of it apparently paled in comparison to the necessity of securing Yarzat’s goodwill.

Mesha himself had never seen the man, nor exchanged so much as a single word with him. His grandfather, however, had carried on entire correspondences with the so-called Fox of Yarzat and, to Mesha’s quiet astonishment, seemed to genuinely like him.

Political interest, of course, played its part, alliances were rarely born of affection, but Marthio Achea, the Lion of Romelia, was not a man to waste his praise lightly.

More than once, in the privacy of his study, the old lion had lauded the Yarzat prince’s talents, not merely his gift for war, but his political cunning and economic foresight.

”A man who knows how to wield coin as deftly as the sword,” Marthio had said or something like that.

And if the Lion of Romelia spoke with such regard, then one was compelled to paint a mental image of this prince as larger than life: a conqueror, a statesman, a master of his age.

So Mesha had braced himself for someone formidable.

What he did not expect was to end up sitting across from the legendary Fox of Yarzat, conqueror of Herculia, while the man sipped daintily at a steaming cup of honeyed milk... and insisted Mesha try some too.

He awkwardly obliged, lifting the cup to his lips and letting the warm sweetness of honeyed milk wash down his throat. It sat oddly with him, pleasant enough in taste, yet doing little to settle the knot in his stomach.

It was still early morning when the Prince of Yarzat himself had appeared outside the chamber where the young Imperator resided. The setting was far from resplendent: no gilded halls or marble courts, only the rough stone of a conquered keep hastily converted into quarters fit for royalty.

And yet, because the invitation came directly from the prince’s own lips, Mesha had been in no position to refuse. Not after all his grandfather’s urgings.

What if he took it as an offense? What if he single-handedly destroyed all the goodwill that his granfather had manage to cultivate?

Of course, the worries were misplaced, but in those few seconds in which Alpheo was waiting for the Imperator’s response, they did not seem so wrong...

So he followed. Followed without his envoy, without the counsel of seasoned voices, and with only a handful of guards shadowing at a distance.

Now here he sat, alone, face to face with the man who had stolen Romelia’s primacy on the continent, who had redrawn the map with his ambition and left a once-great empire scrambling to keep pace. A man whose will alone could plunge Romelia further into economic collapse... or, perhaps,in most recent times throw her a lifeline.

Well, at least the milk was really good....

Alpheo leaned back in his chair with a smile. He lifted his cup as though it were fine wine rather than milk.

”I must thank Your Majesty for accepting my invitation on such short notice,” the Prince began smoothly. ”When I sat down this morning, I thought perhaps it would be a shame to enjoy such a comfort alone. Imagine my delight when fortune allowed me to share it with the Imperator of Romelia himself.”

Mesha, who was doing everything in his power to mask the anxious rhythm of his chest, forced a smile. He wanted, needed, to make the best of this meeting. ”The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” he replied evenly, setting his own cup down with deliberate care. ”Honeyed milk is not what I expected to be greeted with, but it is a comfort I will remember. I can see why you begin your mornings with it.I may start to do the same from now on.”

”Ah, then Romelia has not yet discovered the secret?” Alpheo chuckled, his eyes glinting with sly amusement. ”You are decades ahead of us in iron and ink, yet in the art of sweetness, I dare say Yarzat is leagues ahead. I am sure you will find our cuisine to be much more palatable to the taste in the days to come.”

”Perhaps so,” Mesha answered with a small laugh, though he knew it to be true; it was not a coincidence that the Imperial cooks had been sent to Yarzat to learn about their cooking recipes.

Their cuisine was just that good.

”Though if it were my uncle Keval here instead of me, he would already be wondering where the honey was imported to and then see if there were value in investing in local one instead of importin it before finishing his cup.”

Alpheo let out a low, amused hum. ”A man after my own heart. But tell me, Your Majesty, is it true what I hear, that your grandfather still drinks nothing but the sour Romelian wine every dawn?”

Mesha’s face softened at the mention of Marthio not understanding the political jab. ”That is true, yes. Though the years may have bent his frame, his habits have not. Even now, he swears nothing sharpens the mind like bitterness first thing in the morning.”

Though I fear it won’t be long before he stops, even with that.

Gods what will we do without him? The thought scared the young emperor more than it should have.

He knew too well how unready he still was.

”I would like to extend my gratitude,” Alpheo began suddenly, ’’It was rather vulgar of me to summon Your Majesty on such short notice, but the princes of the South must have forgot such a thing, so I believe it was long needed for the presence of the Protector of the Faith into their quarrels. Especially since Prince Sorza”—his lips curled into a wolfish grin—”has been kind enough to drag every limping prince and meddlesome foreigner into his corner. Poor sod could not best me on the field, so now he hides behind a wall of borrowed tongues.”

Mesha inclined his head, completely missing the other political jab, which he noticed how the princes had not even bothered to call for a representative from the Great Romelia.

Which was a spat in the face of the great Giant.

”It is our pleasure to ensure that a just peace is found at this conference. Truly, we are more than happy to lend a hand to a friend, particularly one so clearly surrounded by those less than so.” He made sure the word friend rang with emphasis, reminding him of the sea of benefits Yarzat enjoyed by having Romelia on its side, and that they alone stood as such an ally.

Alpheo chuckled lightly, ”That is our desire as well, Your Majesty. It is only right that neutral eyes witness the noble princes’ desperate, if uncalled for, efforts to broker peace.” He paused, sipping the last trace of honey from his cup. ”Of course, neutrality,” he added, voice laced with irony, ”is a rather slippery concept, is it not?”

Mesha managed a thin smile, though inwardly he admitted the truth of it. Neutral he was not. Both feet of his Empire stood firmly in Yarzat’s camp, whether he liked it or not. Every word he spoke here would fall like a weight upon the scales, and those scales were tipped already against Alpheo’s hand.

And so he needed all the help that an old power like Romelia had.

There was, after all, a certain kind of strength that only blood could give, a power Alpheo, for all his cunning, could not wield.