Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Alpheo stood near the crest of the inner wall, watching the extraction, deep in the bowels of The Fingers,as his men were already about organizing the high-value prisoners.

Normally, captured lords would be treated honorably, their arms and fine armor kept intact, awaiting a massive ransom from their terrified families. There would be no such courtesies today. There was no reprieve for rebels, and Alpheo had no intention of interceding for them, as there would be no profit on that.

Deprived of their steel and their pride, the nobles were made to march out in only their garments, stumbling under the contemptuous eyes of the victorious Southern soldiers, who were given the honor of building a spear arch under which the nobles were forced to lower their head to pass through.

One of them had stubbornly refused to do so.

To that one, a decurio had gone, smashed the back of his knee with a rod, and waited until he complied with the order.

After the second hit, the pain overcame his shame. These were men who believed honor to be a living organ, the legions had been enough to teach them otherwise.

The campaign had finally shuddered to an end. It had been long and brutally hard for all parties, the Southern forces above all. They had suffered grievous casualties during the earlier Battle of the Two Eagles, and even though Alpheo had made calculated use of his forces sparingly during the final assaults, the butcher’s bill for taking The Fingers did little to staunch the damage already done to his army.

Despite the tactical successes, the prizes were meager. Disappointingly so, both strategically and monetarily.

The loot they had gotten from the fortress, once renowned for its flourishing tolls, was pitiful. The Fingers controlled the choke point for merchants moving between the core of Romelia and wealthy East of the Empire or the North where grain was always in high demand.

The Emperor of each dinasty always made sure to make it a personal fief so that he could have made great coin rallying such tolls. However, the plague of the civil war was felt by everyone. With the war raging so close to the trade route, merchants had long since refused to pass through The Fingers, preferring instead the long, expensive sea voyage to Arlania and a further detour back East, if they dared to buy the Eastern delicacies of wine and oil at all. Those few merchants who did brave the seas then sold their wares at an exorbitant price to recoup the travel costs, while still managing a healthy profit.

As a result, it was with a sinking sadness that the victorious army found only dust and echoes deep within the castle’s coffers. The the treasury vaults scraped clean by Mavius’s collapsing regime.

Speaking of the other primary way to make money in war, the prisoners they had captured weren’t even a spectacular sight. Except for Lord Willios, the nephew of the Lord of Red’s Rose and the father-in-law of the Usurper, there was little of value to look at. With only some minor knights and distant cousins to the lords sworn to the rebel banner, there wasn’t much coin to be made from ransom either.

Something that raised a lot of questions among the army.

So it was with increasing sadness that the troops would receive little looting at the end of such an expensive and bloody campaign. Alpheo could already feel his ears bleeding, anticipating the grumbles and demands of the lords who had followed him here. While none would deny the glory they had won for Yarzat in this campaign, which would be a significant marker for Alpheo’s political standing, few could relay the same joyous news when looking at their purses.

And there wasn’t really much to speak of strategically either, or at least, not what they had originally hoped for. The Fingers was a ruin, a debt, and a logistical nightmare waiting to be fixed.

Still, that was none of his business.

As he was not to be the one to inherit that rock.

This campaign was planned to be the blow of the axe that would cripple the Mavius rebels for at least half a decade, giving the Boy Emperor of the Romelian Core, Mesha, enough time to finally meddle his hands in the precarious situation that had plagued him since the civil war began.

Alpheo knew the Imperial court would have to draft many letters and organize many heavy punishments for the powerful lords who had ignored the crown’s summons. At the very minimum, Mesha would be demanding hostages and crushing fines for them to pay. He needed to make a show of strength after all; starting a tradition of ignoring Royal summons would be disastrous to an empire already with one foot in the grave.

This assault was supposed to be a decisive, crippling victory. Instead, it would only be a big one, but not fatal to the core of the rebellion.

Now, that may have sounded obnoxious, like a rich man complaining about a single fly in his wine. The reality, however, was that Alpheo had pushed this campaign so aggressively, absorbing painful casualties, specifically so he would not be forced to repeat it again.

He was not a dog to come at Mesha’s whistling after all.

He desperately hoped this would be the last time he would set foot on the ground to save a foreign crown. There was, of course, a certain advantage in having a weak ally, a dependent Emperor, but there was no glory or profit in having a pig as a companion. After all, an alliance was supposed to have both sides gain something, wasn’t it?Well what was he to gain if he so weak as to not be able to stand on his own two feet?

And yet, as Alpheo looked behind him, contemplating all that he had wasted and lost. He wondered if it had been truly worth it...

Thud. Thud. Thud.

”Come on, move it! We don’t have time to waste!” a Subcenturio shouted, his voice hoarse, as the low-born prisoners of war were marched through their sprawling camp.

Each man was bound in rough rope, their hands cinched tight, sporting some degree of injury ranging from minor cuts to badly broken bones.

Their fear was not of the moment, but a deeper, settling terror for what was to come. They already knew their fate. Given how small the tactical loot was, the prisoners would be sold immediately into slavery to gain as much coin as possible from the situation. For now, they would be fed meagerly and well-guarded, timed perfectly for the slave-merchants to flock their way, eager for fresh stock from a major victory.

Still, that was not the most surprising sight of the day.

For ahead of the soldiers and the Lords, Yarzats and Romelians alike, despite the feat of breaching the enemy lines, opening the gates, defeating and capturing the Marshal of the Romelian army, and decreeing the fall of the city, Lord Edric Legate of the Legio IV Ardita, stood begging to his prince.

His head was bent low, his gaze fixed upon the polished boots of the man to whom he swore allegiance.

”Your Grace... I would like to apologize,” the hero of the field announced, his voice surprisingly subdued, apologetic.

The tired legionnaires who had just conquered a castle renowned for its impregnability stood at various degrees of attention, observing the curious display.

”I have disobeyed your orders and taken personal command at the very front.Of that I am guilty.”

The various captured Romelian lords watched the event too, their eyes wide. This man, Edric, had just gained unparalleled honor on the field and should have been lauded and rewarded by his liege. Now, instead, he was lowering himself before him.

That was unthinkable in their eyes.

”I believe I had myself well-explained on the proper level of command a Legate should attend to in the field. Is my voice wind for it to be disdained?” The Prince finally spoke, his voice cool and even, apparently giving no heed whatsoever to the many honors Edric had just won.

A low-born prisoner raised his head to observe the spectacle before the shield of a legionnaire from the Fourth straightened him with a sharp, brutal nudge.

”I have no excuse, Your Grace,” Edric replied, his voice a low monotone. ”I hope you will not think less of me.”

”I do understand your noble desires,” Alpheo muttered, his gaze fixed on the plumes of Edric’s helm. ”I truly do. But it should come secondary to the will of your Prince. Do you assume that disobeying my direct orders is acceptable as long as you succeed in racking up honors and glory for yourself? Is that truly your meaning in doing so?”

Edric said nothing; he only lowered his head further.

Some of the Romelian lords seemed to be struggling with whether to voice their support for the kneeling Legate. They opted against it instantly when the giant Legate of the Primogenia, Jarza, stepped silently among them, his immense frame silencing any conversation they might have had.

Jarza had done more than well to impart the notion that this was not a matter for foreign nobles to mingle about. As much as Jarza bore great love for his ex-ward, the man he had trained under his own wing, he understood the immensely awkward position Edric had put his Prince in.

He had gone to great length to meet with Edric before the Prince could, impressing upon him the political reality of what the Legate’s rash actions meant. Jarza believed his disciple had understood, as he looked at him now.

Still, differently from the other spectators, Jarza knew his friend well enough to know of the hidden currents below the sea. So, with great, heavy interest, he too continued to observe the spectacle.

It was under such circumstances, that all,Romelians and Yarzats, nobles and lowborn, bore witness to the most humble, humiliating action a lord of high command could take.

With both knees he threw himself on the ground, with that, he then bowed his head until his brow rested against the cold, conquering mud where he had sent dozens of soldiers to rot in.