Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Willios had been a proud young man in his youth. And why shouldn’t he? He had a long history of high breeding in his blood coming from an house that had been kings in old times, the reckless foolishness of youth, and a strong body perfectly matched to its ambition.

He was the one who had successfully conquered The Fingers nearly a decade ago, wresting the fortress from the old Lion’s clutches and beginning the terror that the Core had lived under for the better part of that decade. He had thought, in that glorious night, that he would be given an entire, gleaming page in the history books.

Now? After nine years of grinding, pointless war, that he himself had caused against the state he had once proclaimed he would die for?He long wondered where that youthful hope had gone.

All that fierce, young pride had gone down the drain, washed away by the blood and the mud of a losing cause. He wouldn’t be known as a conqueror. He would be known as the man who lost The Fingers at best, and The Great Traitor at worst.

He was so tired.

Like a cornered bird inside the cat’s patient mouth, he peered up at the black slits of the iron helmet. He saw the better foe peering down on him, not with malice, but with a deep, focused satisfaction, the look of a man claiming his victory against a figure known to be a legend, and in doing so, forging his own.

His younger self would have raged, spitting fury at the very idea of being the stepping stone of another man, a mere footnote in another’s saga. His current self?He thought it would have been inevitable.

It was not so bad. It had been a long, glorious fight, and he would be given the honorable way out, a quiet end amidst the chaos. He closed his eyes, shutting out the swirling carnage of his men and the burning shame.

He began to recite a poem of youth, finding it worthy of his last moments, as cheeky as that sound..

’’First Spring, she gifts a sudden, bright and short mirth,

Then Summer comes, where wine and pleasure gleam,A sun-soaked, fleeting, perfect, fragile dream.

The Autumn finds the fruit too ripe to hold.A bitter taste of rot and coming cold.

But Winter’s path is truth, serene and deep, for as sad as it may be

For quiet death is just a form of sleep.

Come warrior, take your bloody due.’’

The man who witnessed this final, silent act made no move to interfere. Edric held his breath, his arm momentarily suspended, allowing Willios to make his peace before putting all his strength into the thrust that would claim the Marshal’s life.

Before he could commit, before the sword could kiss the flesh,he believed his own to claim, fate believed it right to show Edric the final damning act of the man he had just defeated.

The strength drained from Edric’s arm when he did. The fragile, tender silence he had granted Willios dissolved. He heard the sound that terrified thousands for the third time since the siege had started.

”What have you done?”He demanded, looking down at Willios with a sudden, scorching rage that eclipsed all respect.

In response, Willios simply opened his eyes. He looked up, directly into the unseeing slits of the iron helm, with the best serenity he could muster in the face of his impending death.

It was his last, good, brave act.

”My duty.”

And as he said so, he closed his mouth and answered no more, simply waiting for death’s kiss upon his tired lips.

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Edric stood over the defeated, unconscious Marshal. The respect he had just consumed had curdled instantly into pure, concentrated rage. He pointed his clean sword not at Willios’s neck, but at his own guards.

”Bring him to camp. He’ll have many questions to answer.”

Two of his bodyguards nodded, taking quick, professional hold of the man and beginning the path back toward relative safety.

Edric spared one brief, furious look at his surroundings. His men had successfully routed the majority of the enemy forces and were already wheeling, executing the second phase of the plan: securing the main gate. They were winning.

He had just succeeded in capturing the enemy general, the highest-value target in the castle. And yet, the unknown of what was happening tugged at his soul.

What had he done?

The action Willios had taken must have been monumental if it distracted him from the honor of their duel. The sudden sound he had heard was horribly familiar to the Legate, but the reason for its deployment was far from him, he could not make sense of it.

He mused over the puzzle for a precious minute before spitting onto the ground and deciding that, for now, the most important step was taking the gate. He brought down his iron visor and rejoined the fighting once more.

They made short, bloody work of the enemy.

The knowledge that their general had been felled had been cheerfully echoed by the soldiers of the Fourth who once more rejoiced at having a legate that mirrored their own legion’s fire, whose collective shouts made it sound as if they were summoning some primordial demon from the depths of hells.

Skipping away from the methodical brutality the Voghondai were known for,like all the dismemberment and scalping, which were all veryprivately praised by the Prince to be, the soldiers of the Fourth did not lower the bar one inch down.

After days of chafing boredom, they were finally given their stage to shine. And shine they did, led by their commander, who knew he would most certainly be reprimanded by the Prince for the brazen risk he was incurring in leading the charge. Edric used the moment to bleed out all the frustration and confusion that Willios’s final act had caused him.

So, following the lead of their commander, the Fourth Legion gave one hundred and twenty-five percent of their usual performance.

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He swung his sword diagonally, a final stroke that severed trachea and sinews, claiming the last of the light resistance they were dealing with.

As was his personal, brutal tradition, after the kill he splattered the bloodied sword onto his breastplate, the fresh crimson leaving its trace like a painter’s wild brushstroke on his canvas.

He looked mildly amused as the remaining enemy soldiers were finally overtaken by pure, blinding fear and routed. No doubt the sheer ferocity of the Fourth’s killing spree, the knowledge of the fall of their commander, and the surrounding air of doom were simply too much for them to bear. They scattered like insects beneath an overturned stone.

The victorious assaulting troops let out a massive, tearing roar of victory, perched on the absolute edge of their utmost triumph that would be most certainly inked on the ledge of their legion’s honors for all to bear witness.

Edric joined the cry, even though his heart felt far heavier than those of his exultant troops. He burned with the need to race to the opposite side of the castle and verify if his worst fear, triggered by Willios’s final act, was true.

For now, however, they adhered strictly to the plan.

Under the terrified, wide eyes of the few remaining men holding the upper wall, the massive gates of the fortress, a castle that had become the stubborn, bloody symbol of their long defiance, finally began to swing inward. The groan of the ancient iron bars and the grinding of the wooden gate announced to everyone, friend and foe alike, precisely to whom The Fingers had finally fallen.

Then came the retribution for its cost.

Through the yawning gap charged the Crown Hounds, Egil’s and now Rykio’s light raiders. They moved with pure rage, cutting down the scrambling defenders who were attempting to flee from the center to the courtyard.

For what?Safety? If there was really any to be found in this field.

They broke their spears, splintered enemy’s shields , claiming heads and limbs as they fought with the palpable anger of sons who had just lost their father, wielding their blades and riding crops with an unforgiving hatred.

Delivering the retribution they had nurtered inside for so long.

’’Run the bastards down!’’

”On it, friends, on it! Good hunt to you!’’

’’SVYYYR MORNAEE’’

’’Calidum et Ignis!’’

The sight of the Hounds charging was cheered by Voghondai and Legionnaires alike. The tribesmen hammered their axes against their shields, and the Fourth screamed their war-cry in unified salute. It was the release of every tense, bloody hour of the siege, finally culminating in this moment of absolute, devastating entry.

Edric let out a slow, tired sigh that escaped through the thin air-slits of his helm.

He mused little on the sight of the Hounds running the enemy down, already having foreseen that sight the very first moment that they had opened the gate.

He was tired, it had been a long campaign and they had lost so much.... They were all tired in fact, tired of the siege, tired of its cost , and tired and yet joyful of the weight of what this all meant.

They had after all made history.In one way or the other this would change things.

But now, perhaps, they could finally get their long yearned reprieve.

The Fingers, after all, was finally theirs.