Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It did not matter.

It did not matter that his liege, had clearly pressed the hot potato of final command into his hands before taking the cowardly exit, leaving all the smoke, the fire, and the stench of impending defeat for Willios to deal with alone.

It did not matter that his uncle, Landoff, the closest thing he had to family alongside his cousin, of whose rumored abuse by the now-fleeing Imperator he had heard whispered accounts, had stood by and orchestrated the whole charade.

None of that mattered.

He was a soldier, Lord of the Fingers, and above his personal likings and grudges, he had a duty to attend to. Once, that duty had split, forking between loyalty to the Imperator of Romelia and loyalty to the ambition of his family. He had chosen the latter, supporting a pretender and fighting a war that had destroyed the very stability he was sworn to uphold. He had made his bed, a mess of it, but a bed nonetheless, and now he had to sleep in it.

Betrayed. Deserted. Condemned.It was still his bed.

It did not matter. He would still attend to his duty.

He had spent every last laborer, every effort, and every available resource under his new command not just patching the fortifications broken by the relentless assaults, but pouring all remaining effort into one hidden side project.Which he hoped the bastards outside would like.

Alpheo’s forces never rested.

They launched at least three major attacks a day. Two days ago, they had managed to repel the dogs without any critical damage. Yesterday, the dice of fate had been loaded against them.

The damnable Western barbarians that the Prince-Consort of Yarzat had brought with him, had managed to smash through three consecutive rings of timber stakes before allowing the less disciplined forces of the Core to get a clear, terrifying shot at their last remaining defenses. They had managed, by sheer luck and desperation, to stop the latest wooden palisade from burning down completely. Unfortunately, by the time the fires were smothered, half of the vital structure was already wasted, charred, and useless.

By the morning of the third day since Mavius had conferred the title of Marshal, the smell of defeat was no longer a stench from the field; it was making a home in Willios’s mind, settling deep into his sinuses. Hope was the first thing to die that day. All he did now was mindlessly trudge forward, commanding, counting the agonizing seconds until too much time had passed to logically resist.

While the spirit of the defenders seemed to wind down, sputtering like a damp torch, the enemy outside only seemed to grow bolder, leading greater numbers forward and utilizing newer, better equipment than the attack before.

Willios had been chosen as the captain of a sinking ship, a marshal with the full sight of the approaching iceberg. But the crew of that ship, the garrison of The Fingers, only felt the cold water rising on their knees. And as the chilling inevitability rose, they were easy to search for a way out.

Like rats in a burning house, they sought the cracks, the vents, and the hidden exits. They didn’t need a formal letter from Alpheo to know the time was short. They only needed the stench of burning oil, the sight of a fleeing liege, and the sheer, unending weight of the enemy charge to convince them to save their own worthless hides. The Marshal knew that betrayal was now not an if, but a when.

It was simply a race between the enemy outside and the collapse within.

He just didn’t expect it to come so soon.

”Lord Maelio, please reconsider.” Willios’s voice was strained.

He was trying to hold the reins on a whole army that felt their days were counted, and every small fracture threatened to shatter the defense entirely.

”Please, Lord Willios, I have already made my decision.” Lord Maelio, a fat, comfortable man whose armor had not seen a polish in a year, stood by the table, gathering his expensive, fur-lined cloak. ”I have done enough for the war effort as it stands. Winter is nearly here, and I have yet to confirm if this year’s income will be enough to sustain my own holdings, or if I’ll be forced to cut expenses else I’ll face a famine. It doesn’t help that I contributed monetarily to that disastrous Romelian expedition with the promise of loot, which I now believe it is safe to presume I will not receive.”

Money. Money. Money.

Was this the only vocabulary they knew? Did not one of them possess the vision to look beyond the tiny, immediate picture of their coin purses and their petty demesnes?

Willios hated him. He hated his uncle. He hated his liege. He hated that he was chained down in the castle everyone knew would be his tomb.

And yet, he was standing here, doing his duty. Why were they not? Why was he alone in this desolate patch of honor?

”My lord,” Willios said, forcing his voice low and hard. ”The campaign is not yet over. The enemy is literally at the gates. And you presume you can abandon the war effort and call it a day, simply because you have had enough? You cannot!”

Maelio gave a cynical, wet chuckle. ”It seems that His Imperial Majesty was of a different opinion when he evacuated his own royal person and left us here to clean up the mess he created.”

Willios would never have uttered such words before. Maelio’s casual treason was confirmation. They were to expect this man to be among the first to defect to Alpheo’s forces once the castle fell.

”The Imperator may not be physically present,” Willios bit out, his Marshal’s authority finally clicking into place. ”But he has vested me with full authority over this army. My orders are to be taken as his. What you are attempting, Lord Maelio, is a dereliction of duty and an act of treason.”

”Listen, Lord Willios, for what little my respect is worth, I do understand you.” Maelio actually looked pitying, a gesture that enraged Willios further. ”You have been saddled with all this mess. But only because you are, as honorable as it is, stubborn enough to see it through to the end. I am not of the same cloth.” Maelio bowed slightly, his gaze already on the door. ”If that is all, I will take my leave.”

”Has shame and honor truly deserted you, Lord Maelio?” Willios’s voice thundered, raw and sudden, as he rose violently from his seat, sending his chair scraping back across the stone.

”Mind your tongue, boy!” Maelio roared back, his flaring nostrils making him look like a pig startled from a trough. ’’Only because I am trying to be gentle here, doesn’t mean I can be made a fool of.” ’

”And you mind your actions,” Willios countered, stepping around the table. ”If you do not deter from your path and go against the order sanctioned by His Grace, then I have the full authority of the Imperial seal to punish you.”

”As you would dare!”

He indeed would.

”Guards!”

He had crossed the Rubicon.

The heavy oak door smashed open instantly, two of Mavius’s former Imperial soldiers standing ready. Maelio’s eyes went wide with pure, unprepared shock. He swung his gaze to the armed newcomers.

”Take the lord in custody,I believe he needs rest to clear his mind” Willios commanded, his voice sharp and steady despite the adrenaline surging through him and the whispers muttering that he was making a mistake . ”If any of his men attempt to stop you, you have my blessing to use force, to whatever degree you see fit! I will not tolerate treason in his Imperial Majesty’s army.”

”You cannot!” Maelio screamed, struggling as the guards seized his fat arms. ”This is a grand mistake, boy! A political disaster!”

Maelio’s protests turned into incoherent bellows as the guards dragged him forcefully from the command hall. The heavy doors closed again, cutting off the diminishing screams. Willios stood alone, tasting the victory and the bitter venom it left behind. He had arrested one lord.

He was not a fool; he knew that the seizure of Maelio, however necessary for discipline, was not the solution.

The pot was boiling, and his action had not vented the steam; it had clamped the lid down harder over the desperate, bubbling pressure. He could not foresee what the other frightened lords would answer to this blatant display of force. He had just imprisoned one of their own for the intention of flight.

He already knew, with the cold certainty of a man staring into a pit, that Maelio was far from the only one willing to abandon the post. The real question was how this matter would evolve now: Would the other disloyal lords see Maelio’s fate and be cowed into submission, or would they see his arrest as the final, brutal warning to coordinate their own escape, perhaps even turning their steel against Willios? The Marshal had traded certain, slow betrayal for a sudden, volatile crisis.

But that was a problem for the future, perhaps for the dawn. Right now, he had the present to worry about. The army outside was certainly not kind enough to grant him the day for his tragic musings and political calculations. They were a patient, hungry beast, and they were preparing their next meal.

He was caught in a lethal pincer movement. An army outside that was clamoring for their blood, and an army inside, his own commanded men, were craving the exit, their loyalties reduced to the lowest form of self-preservation.

One force sought to break the walls; the other sought to surrender them. He looked down at his own trembling hands, still smelling of the stale wine he hadn’t drunk and the sweat of fear he hadn’t shed.

Who, in the end, he wondered, would be the end of them?