Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He trudged through a forest of silken standards, the banners of the Yarzat lords fluttering in the high noon wind. They were beautiful treacherous things, each piece of cloth telling a tale of ancient glory that had no choice but to submit to one of lower station, either by might of sword or fake comfort of a rule that changed and yet stayed the same.

If such a thing was even possible.

The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, its rays seemingly dying as they struck the obsidian-black paint of the Prince’s plate. Alpheo raised his head, his gaze sharp and calculating as he cataloged the houses gathered for the slaughter. He recognized the Black Stag of Damaris’ house, the Megioduroli, whose lords lands would be the first to be raided if the Bastion fell, though raids would be sent even if it did not.

Nearby flew the Silver Star of Helvius, a house that had bent the knee only when they realized Alpheo’s legions would turn their vineyards into a graveyard if they did otherwise after the Bleeding plains.

His eyes drifted then to the Bloody Fist of Aligulae, whose allegiance he had accepted like many others during the ”Dog’s Supper”, title the bards had given to the night Herculian sovereignty was dismantled over a banquet.

Beside them was the Sword of Aesontia, the last and most reluctant to submit, joining only when it became clear that the winds of the south carried only one name.

But there was one banner that drew his feet, a sight that still felt like a triumph of the will.

The Golden Lion of Herculia.

Alpheo walked with his retinue toward the very banner he had once publicly desecrated to show his contempt for Lechlian’s line. Now, it stood among his own. Beneath that lion stood the two sons of the defeated prince: Arnold and Thalien, the latter of which was the youngest and most restless.

They were two-thirds of a broken legacy; the middle brother had fled to the Habadian court winters ago, a puppet-prince waiting for a Habadian string to pull him back home.

Habadia had refused to recognise Yarzat’s sovereignty over Herculeian lands, coronating the middle son as a legitimate prince in foreign rule.

Of course, he was neither prince, nor legitimate. All he was , always had been and always will, was just a slight Nibadur threw Yarzat’s way.

The man apparently was satisfied in staying as a guest for the Habadian prince, where he dined, whored and partied.

Hells, the Habadian prince did not even deign to give him a seat beside him as he rode toward Oizen.

Which was proof enough of just how little the middle son of the Dog Prince mattered.

None of the princes recognized Alpheo’s holding of Herculia; he had tried to see it ratified at the Princes’ Peace, but that was denied as soon as it came out of his mouth.

It was lucky for them that the one who should have legitimately held said crown instead passed it down to Yarzat. Prompting Nibadur to do what he had done with Arnold’s younger brother.

The coalition forces were impatient, Alpheo knew. They wanted a grand, heroic thrust toward the capital so they could catch the Fox in the open and write poems about his end. They wanted a duel of chivalry. Alpheo intended to give them a war of attrition.

Had they not been so impatient, they would have found the other road much safer, though of course slower.

Thalien and Arnold, both clad in battle-worn grey, began to sink to their knees as the Prince approached.

”No more of that,” Alpheo called out, his voice carrying over the bustle of the camp. His unhelmeted face was open, his black hair ruffling in the breeze. He reached out, his gauntleted hands aiding the two lords back to their feet. ”We are among friends today, are we not? Let the dirt keep its flatness, no need to have knees rattle it up.”

”We are honored to be considered so by Your Grace,” Arnold said, his voice measured and respectful, his eyes as always betrayed no distaste of a son whose father’s crown now sat in his master’s vault.

He had accepted his position without fanfare.

Thalien, the younger, rose with a cheeky smile that reminded Alpheo of when he had delivered the jewel of his father’s princedom to his hands.

”The Fox called for friends on the field,” he said, his voice bright. ”We answered the call to take up the hunt, Al—Your Grace.” He corrected himself quickly, remembering they were in a public field.

Truthfully, the brothers were a ”hot potato” in Alpheo’s palm. Keeping royal scions alive after annexing their lands was a textbook recipe for a future civil war, a poison pill for his successors. Yet, he had spared them. He needed them alive to allow for a quick annexation of the princedom.

Their lives were a bridge for the major houses to bend the knees. But bridges could be crossed from both sides. For now how they gave no hint on any treachery, so Alpheo was more than happy to let them stay on their fiefs with their lives.Perhaps he would yet marry his line with the Herculeians, just to strengthen his claim on the region...well, those were for more peaceful times to think over.

”I shall be honored to share the field with the Lions,” Alpheo said, clapping Thalien on the shoulder. ”I would much rather have those claws pointed at the Oizenians than at my own throat.”He jested though none of the three laughed. ’’It is time to see what such might can those from up close.”

”Your Grace is kind,” Arnold replied as he looked toward the northern horizon. ”My brother speaks the truth; we answered the call not just out of duty, but out of necessity. A great insult was delivered upon the Lion when the Habadian took our brother as a pet. There is no doubt in any man’s mind how that snake will be used.

Should the coalition succeed, Thalien and I would be the first whose necks would find the edge of a Habadian sword. After all, that snake is the middle son, the eldest will surely find a way to ’fall’ in battle to clear the path. It is a stain that can only be washed away in one fashion. I only hope to find him across the field.

He likes to style himself prince , we shall see if he has the mettle to back it up.”

Alpheo watched the man’s eyes, searching for a flicker of hesitation. ”You would truly trust your steel against your own blood?” He asked, realizing how little he truly knew of the internal rot that had plagued Lechlian’s household.

”There is no love lost between us and that viper,” Thalien piped up, not even batting an eye as he spoke of kinslaying .

”It seems he took all of our father’s penchant for treachery and none of his sense, though gods as witness he had very little of, so there wasn’t much to inherit. Do not misunderstand the situation, Your Grace, he would do the same to us had he got the chance. He would gut Arnold because he is the heir, and he would stifle me because he wants no rivals to his claim.”

Thalien adjusted his sword belt, a smile dancing on his lips. ”I wouldn’t mind the moniker. ’Kinslayer’ , I’d say it rings much better in the ear than ’The Betrayer.’

None say it in my face, but aye, facing my back their mouths run easy,” he shrugged as he continued without any change in tone, as he had little care for how his name went . ”I betrayed my father all the way. Never bore him love, just as he never bore me any at any point. I’d prolly do it again given the opprtunity.

I know it, the Yarzats and herculean lords know it. Gods’ hells, even the worms do.

Same goes for dear Lorens.

So long as he draws breath, the Habadian Prince will always have a pawn to play, and he will always hold a dagger to our throats. Better to cut the weed at the stem than give it time to grow. So, to answer your question, Your Grace: Yes.

I would trust my blade to find his guts without a second thought.The lions would be our herald, his late patriarch gave ill fame to it and we are made the subject of ridicule for that, as brave as lions we are called.

We wish to see it cleansed in our time, no better way for that than to cut loose thread...”

Alpheo gave a slow,satisfied and hopeful nod at these words. The ruthlessness of the Herculian scions cut in his favor. The middle son of Lechlian was a loose thread , one that Nibadur of Habadia intended to pull until Yarzat unraveled. Seeing that thread cut would solve a multitude of problems along the line...

Had the Herculeians chosen the other road for the campaign,rising a revolt in Herculia as they advanced, Alpheo would have found himself in great trouble. Yarzat hold on the fallen princedom was after all still shaky...and so it would be for a long time. The road for integration was after all slow...

”A practical outlook,” Alpheo murmured. ”In times like these, sentiment is a luxury we cannot afford.’’

”Speaking of luxuries and gutting,” Thalien said, his tone shifting as he made a theatrical show of peering over Alpheo’s shoulder, ”I trust the great Lord Jarza is... occupied elsewhere? I’d hate for our reunion to be cut short by his particular brand of hospitality.”

It was no secret that the Legate of the First held a special, simmering loathing for the youngest Herculian prince. Jarza viewed Thalien as a pampered gnat that gifted the city he was sworn to protect with the ease of throwing confetti.

”He is tending to the vanguard and other tasks I have seen fit to give him,” Alpheo replied, a dry chuckle escaping him. ”I value both of your lives, so I will make every effort to keep the two of you as far apart as the geography allows. I suspect Jarza’s patience for your royal wit, as delightful as it may be, is at an all-time low.”

’’No doubt of that,” Thalien replied before turning his head to the horizon as if noticing something.After a small hill-up of his highbrow he continued ’’Though I’d say that we may yet find someone who shall find it endearing. I see that at your side, your Grace, after the lion, you shall be fielding the wolf.’’

At those words, the prince immediately turned his back, noticing as he did, the sigil of the Wolf of Bracum rippling far on the horizon.