Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Every man, more or less, carries the dream of battle.To stride into the fray, carve down foes on every side, and rise crowned in glory, dispatching of dozens alone with his own arms as swords.

Even Cain had dreamt it.

But for him, it had always been the dream of a worm longing to sprout wings, of a rat envying the eagle, of something born to crawl imagining the sky and how it felt to fly . And like the worm struck by the bird, reality had come down fast and hard.

His back hit stone. His breath fled his lungs in a single wretched wheeze. The world spun. And in that dizzy instant, Cain understood the truth he had known all along but never dared name.

He was not built for that shit, any of it.

And the Azanian above him meant to prove it.

Cain scrambled, panic flooding his chest. He tried to rise, clawing at the ground with his hands, forcing his good leg beneath him. But he was too slow. A booted foot slammed into his stomach, folding him in half, driving bile up his throat. He toppled back again, wheezing, arms thrashing uselessly.

Was he back at square one? No. Worse. Square zero considering he now had a boot on his chest, pinning him. He gagged for air, mouth opening like a fish hauled from water, and the weight only pressed harder.

Anxiety roared through him, the feeling of not being able to breath burned him. He was not meant to be here. He had no place among killers, no place in the roar of steel and blood. What was he doing here?

Then the thought struck him like another kick.

Mother.

He was here because of her. Because she could not be left with only him , a cripple, a useless wreck of a son. He had wanted, just once, to be something he was not. Just once, to be more than the boy who soiled his sheets and stumbled like a drunk.

And here he was, pinned in the dirt like the rat he was.

Cain flailed, swaying his chest to try and shove the boot aside. Nothing. He swung his fists against it, striking leather and iron, and only succeeded in earning a greater weight pressed into his ribs until it felt like his chest would cave.

The Azanian above him wrestled with his lance, forcing it down again and again, trying to find Cain’s moving throat. Once the steel skittered off his breastplate. Another time it struck stone and splintered, sending sparks across the ground. For his trouble, Cain earned more pressure, more weight crushing him into the earth.

He could not breathe. His vision blurred. His chest screamed.

I am not going to die here. Not like this!Not now!

The words shrieked inside his skull, silent but desperate. His hand fumbled at his hip, and by blind miracle he caught the hilt of his dagger. With the strength of terror, he ripped it free and jammed it upward into the Azanian’s thigh.

The blade bit deep and drew blood.

The soldier screamed and spat curses in a tongue Cain did not understand. Blood gushed hot across his hand as the Azanian staggered, his weight faltering, his balance breaking. He collapsed forward, knee smashing against the stones beside Cain’s armpit.

For a heartbeat, Cain saw salvation. A chance. The man’s throat was there, close enough to bite. His side open, his ribs unguarded. If Cain could only wrench the dagger free, drive it again and again—

But his hand was slick, his fingers weak, and the dagger slipped from his grasp.

Panic took hold of him. His eyes darted, searching for anything, anything. His hands found the only thing left , the warm, vulnerable flesh hanging between the soldier’s thighs.

Cain felt no shame as his fingers clamped down on the man’s balls.

They said a man’s true nature revealed itself at the edge of death. Cain’s was not the eagle, nor the wolf, nor even the shark. His was the rat. The rat that bites, claws, gnaws anything within reach when the trap slams shut.

He squeezed with all the strength left in his arms, his nails digging into the soldier’s groin as though he could wring life itself from that soft flesh.

The Azanian shrieked, high and broken, thrashing against him.

Then came the fist.

A wild, furious punch cracked against Cain’s cheekbone. His skull whiplashed sideways, his head smacking hard against the stone beneath. Stars exploded behind his eyes, his jaw split with pain, and his grip faltered.

Another blow followed, harder, driving his head back again. His vision went white, then black at the edges. His fingers slackened. The last chance at survival slipped from his hand.

And in that dizzy void, Cain tasted the bitter truth of it: even at his most vicious, even when cornered like an animal, he was still a cripple.

Still a rat.

Still nothing.

His head swam. Heat bloomed in his skull, spreading down his spine until it felt as if his whole body had been set alight from the inside. The pain was unbearable, blinding, each heartbeat a hammer strike against his temples.

Cain shrieked. Not the cry of a warrior, not even the groan of a man, but the shrill wail of a boy. A child beaten bloody in the yard. The Azanian above him rained fists down again and again, each blow cracking bone, snapping his head side to side until his vision dissolved into stars.

By the second punch, his strength was gone. His arms flailed weakly, slapping against the man’s side with all the force of a drowning rat pawing at water. Useless. Pathetic.

The soldier seemed to realize it too. With a grunt, he straightened, his shadow rising tall over Cain’s body. His hand went to his hip, drawing a dagger, the steel catching what little light passed through that cloudy day. He lifted it high, point poised above Cain’s throat.

Cain’s eyes fixed on the blade. And in that instant, he felt the warmth spreading through his breeches.

He was truly leaving this place without any dignity...he was pissing himself. The heat pooled beneath his back, soaking through his garments, carrying with it the last ale he would ever drink.

It tasted like shit.

But he was not crying. He told himself that mattered. At least when his brother found his corpse, he might think Cain had pissed himself after the dagger struck , not before. Not from fear. That pathetic lie gave him the faintest reprieve, a shred of comfort in the face of death.

So he closed his eyes. He waited for the cold bite of steel.

And instead, he felt... lightness?

Confusion dragged his eyes open once more.

The Azanian was no longer standing tall. He was convulsing on the stones, his body jerking and thrashing in spasms that mirrored Cain’s own fits. An axe was buried deep in the back of his skull, haft quivering from the force of the blow.

He would have probably heard his whimpers, if his ears had not already been busted and ringing .

Blood fountained around the wound, thick and black in the firelight, spraying across Cain’s armor, across his face.

And looming above the corpse was a face that would have frozen any other man where he lay. Red and furious, eyes wild, teeth bared like a beast. His brother. Blake.

Any sane man would have pissed himself then and there, but Cain had already done that. He had nothing left to give. And strangely, staring up at that terrible face that was no longer smiling, all he felt was happiness.

Because he had managed to buy his brothers some time....he still had a chance at saving him...

-----------------

’’All troops to fall to the third wall!”

The words of Shuaa rolled through the chamber like thunder. Her command echoed against carved marble, leaving the eunuchs and bureaucrats with their mouths agape.

The third wall. The last line of defense. Once they had called this city impregnable. Now even stone was with child.

How swiftly eternity crumbled.

Shuaa’s dark gaze swept the gathered men, her eyes sharp, merciless. ”If you have time to gape, then you have time to labor. To the defenses or to the granaries , I care not which. But if I see a man without a barrel or a plank in his hands, he will wish the sea-scourge take him before I do!”

The chamber dissolved into frantic motion. Eunuchs scrambled like frightened birds, scribes and treasurers tripped over their robes as they fled her wrath. All but one.

Arkath remained. Head bowed, eyes fixed on the stone at his feet, as though he hoped mushrooms might sprout there and give him reason to stare. He barely stirred when another figure approached soft steps, silks whispering and clinging to her figure.

”Arkath,” she whispered.

He lifted his gaze, and his breath caught. The Sultan’s mother. The wife of his dearest friend, Bayezid.

And now, in her eyes, he saw how badly the heavens had darkened.

They were truly lost...

”It is time,” she said, her voice quiet as a prayer, ”to honor the oath you made me.”

Yes... yes, he still had something to cling to. Not all was ash. There was gold hidden, enough to keep them safe, enough to buy them a good life or another road to power. Trusted servants could be gathered. They could slip away under cover of night. The child-Sultan and his mother would live, the line preserved. The sea-scourge could not hold Azania forever. And when they were gone, Arkath could return.

He could still face Bayezid in the afterlife with something more than failure.

”Yes,” he breathed, hope quickening in his chest. ”Yes, you are right. I will summon men I trust. We will leave the city tonight, take the gold, wait until these sea-wolves are driven out of our sacred land. Then we will—”

A touch silenced him. Warm fingers beneath his chin, lifting his face until his eyes met hers.

He had always thought her beautiful. Yet in her gaze he saw not the steel of command, nor the fire of witchcraft long spent, nor the beauty Bayazid had always held. What he saw instead hollowed him to the core.

Sadness.

And beneath it, fear.

When she spoke, her lips trembled ever so slightly, but her voice was as harsh as rock

”I will not be coming with you.”