Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It was not by chance, nor under the public light of a rising sun, that the four thrones of the South had knit their fates together. They came like wolves driven by different hungers to the same kill.

The Sun of Oizen sought to cast a shadow not of their making alone seeking to swallow those who had dared to dim its luster. The Bull of Kakunia moved in, fearing the sharp-toothed cub he had once nurtured in his own pen. The Twin Towers of Habadia stood tall , demanding the South look to them as sheep look to the shepherd, while the Cock of Ezvania crowed a shrill accompaniment, a bird bought and paid for by Habadian gold.

With oaths of friendship that tasted of copper and lies, they had marched. They sought to put the torch to every forest and thicket where the Fox might find his hole. Four armies. Four crowns. One enemy.

Yet, in the shadows deeper than any alliance, there stirred a fifth.

He did not march for the vanity of the Bull or the hollow future of the Towers. Ambition was the hound that snapped at his heels, and he followed it with a hunger that knew no bottom. Long ago, a plate had been offered to him in friendship; a covenant of bread and salt had been sworn in the Fox’s halls. But the fifth throne had spat upon the remnants of that meal the moment his boots crossed the border.

Behind him marched four thousand souls, steel that shone in light and silk that snaked through the mountain passes like a slow-moving viper, were at their hands. They did not bear the Sun or the Towers. Instead, numerous banners rose in the air.

A field of silver with a sable fist. A golden eagle, its wings clipped by iron shears. But tallest of them all, snapping with a sound like a whip, was the great standard of the Ringed Oak. An eternal tree bound tight within a heavy circle of verdant green.

The Prince of Sharjaan had come to claim more than his portion.

He had spurned the half-loaf Alpheo had freely shared, for his eyes were fixed on the golden crust that remained. He did not march for the Bastion, nor did he care for the Fox’s head, both of them he left to the others.

His prize lay elsewhere, nestled in the teeth of the earth where the wealth of a princedom was birthed in sweat of slaves and stone of the dirt.

While the four thrones bled themselves white against the Bastion’s stone walls, the Prince of Sharjaan turned his back on his ally and set his sights on the Malshut Mines. He had come to choke one of the Fox’s treasury, turning a covenant of friendship into a conqueror’s claim.

And yet, even with his new ally, treachery was in the air, for a man who betrayed once has no qualms of making daily bread from it.

”Your Grace,” a voice rasped, cutting through the low hum of the camp. It was a voice devoid of warmth, carrying only the brittle shell of courtly respect.

Zayneth, the envoy of Habadia, stepped into the light. His eyes, rimmed with the grey circles of sleepless nights and long rides, fixed upon the Prince of Sharjaan. Shaza of Sharjaan met that gaze with a smile that was too small and far too meek to be honest.

”The Habadian hawk has flown far from his nest,” Shaza purred, his fingers idly twirling the ends of a black mustache that curled like a sleeping viper. He patted his belly as he spoke. ”Have you come to share bread with me, Zayneth? If so, I must offer my humblest apologies. I have already had my fill.Had you announced yourself earlier me may had broke supper together.”

”It is not bread I hunger for,” Zayneth muttered

”Is it not? Then what does our friend find himself lacking?” Shaza reached for a hammered silver chalice, the dark red vintage staining his royal lips as he took a long, slow draught. ”Has his Grace of Habadia finally deigned to answer my humble request? I should hope so.The ringed oak’s blood runs as thick and ancient as much as the Tower of Habadia. To see it passed over for the mud-stained lineage that hail the bull... well, it wounds a man’s spirit. Imagine what friendship could bloom if only his Grace looked my way with open eyes.”

”His Grace has already extended his hand in friendship,” Zayneth replied, his patience fraying like a worn rope. He had not ridden through mountain passes to haggle over dowries and betrothals.

”A brittle hand,” Shaza countered ”I seek ties of blood, Zayneth. Familiar bonds. Or does your master think royal blood so diluted that it can be bartered on par with half-bastards and base-born upstarts?”

It is not the purity of your blood my liege fears, but the rot in your soul, Zayneth thought as the recent events only proved that right, though he kept the insult behind his teeth. ”I am not here to speak of weddings. A promise was made. A covenant sworn in the eyes of the gods. I have come to call that debt due.”

Shaza’s only answer was another sip of wine. Zayneth felt the urge to swat the cup from his hand, to see the red stain the fine carpets like the blood of the men currently dying at the Bastion.

”Which promise?” Shaza asked innocently.

”The war! You swore your steel to the League, Your Grace. You promised to join the march against the Fox. I have come to ask why your army sits idle amidst the rocks of Malshut while our men bleed against the granite of the Bastion.”

”Ah, yes... the war.” Shaza rose from his silk-cushioned seat, his eyes wandering lazily across the tent until they landed on his house sigil painted upon a shield. ”War...War.... Wars. A plural thing, isn’t it? Tell me, Habadian, how many wars do you think are being waged this day? Four? Five? Or perhaps only one?”

”I am not here to answer riddles, Your Grace,” Zayneth snapped. ”I am here to call what is due.”

”And yet, you will answer all the same,” Shaza murmured. He picked up a quill and a scrap of parchment, beginning to scratch aimless lines upon it. Both men knew he was writing nothing of substance.

He was just trying to unnerve and insult him. Who would know that the man had such a fragile pride?

”One war!” Zayneth shouted, his voice echoing off the canvas. ”There is only one struggle that matters. The war you promised your aid to. The war I am calling for right now.”

”Oh, yes. A war against the Fox,” Shaza said, finally looking up. ”Is that not who we are all against? On one side, the Princess....well, more likely the Prince Consort of Yarzat and on the other, our noble League. Oizen, Kakunia, Habadia, Ezvania...”

”And Sharjaan,” Zayneth added firmly.

”Oh, yes. And me.I could I forget?Except I didn’t...” Shaza drained his cup and set it down with a deliberate clack. ”I fear I am still failing to see the point you are making. Apologies my good man.”

”The point, Your Grace, is that your spears belong at the Bastion. You must strike camp. You must march your army to the front where the real war is waged!”

Shaza looked at Zayneth with a sudden, feigned perplexity. He ignored for the moment the must, some people would think that an order after all.... and he was a prince, and as a prince, he ought be patient.

Yes that was the word the Habadian man must have used, ought to.

He gestured vaguely toward the window of the tent, pointing toward the high towers of the castle that loomed over the valley.

”March to the war? Ahhh....yes the war. But dear friend, look out of the tent.” Shaza tilted his head, his eyes widening in mock confusion. ”See the banner snapping in the wind above those battlements? The blue field? The black falcon with the open wings? Is that not the sigil of Yarzat? Is that not the Fox’s own colors?”

Zayneth looked, his mouth a hard line. ”It is. It is the Falcon of Yarzat.”

”Then I am confused. If that is the Fox’s castle, and my army is currently surrounding it, am I not waging war? Am I not striking at the very heart of his wealth? Why would you have me march a hundred miles to the Bastion when the enemy is right here, within reach of my sword?”

”Because it is at the Bastion where the Fox’s neck shall be broken!” Zayneth’s voice rose cutting through the heavy scent of incense and wine. ”What you do here is a distraction, a pittance that serves no master but your own greed. The treaty you signed was written in ink and honor, Your Grace. It promised you seventy-five parts of every hundred that come from these mines but only after the Bastion is reduced to rubble and the Fox is dragged to the table in chains.”

He leaned over the Prince’s table, his knuckles white. ”I have come to call in your debt. Or would you have to ringed tree be remembered for his treachery?”

Shaza leaned back, the silk of his robes whispering against the chair. He let out a long, slow breath, and for a moment, a flicker of something like understanding crossed his face. ”I see... well, fear not then, ser Zayneth.I understood your position and I am a man of my word.”

The tension in Zayneth’s shoulders began to bleed away. He felt the phantom weight on his shoulder lift, if only by an inch. Perhaps the man was not entirely made of salt and spite.

”As soon as Malshut falls,” Shaza continued, ”I shall immediately set my course for the Bastion. I crave nothing more than to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my dear allies as we settle our accounts with his Grace of Yarzat.I assure you it will be a short time before I reach you.What songs they will write about us!”

Zayneth’s eyes narrowed, his relief vanishing like mist in a gale. ”Your Grace promised to aid the League by following the main host. You were to be the hammer to their anvil, not a scavenger picking at the outskirts.”

”Indeed,” Shaza mused, tilting his head as he studied the dregs in his cup. ”Though I do not recall the parchment stating when my shadow must fall upon your camp. I am a man of my word, be assured of that. I will kill with my own hands any that says the opposite.’’ he gave the habadian a long look. ’’ I shall join the might of your host the very moment this small parcel of land belongs to me. Once the mines are mine, I will send my men to the ends of the earth, even to the bottom of the Crossed Sea, if that is what your Grace desires.We may dine with crabs, or share oil with the Romelian if that is where your master wishes me to join.”

”His Grace of Habadia, and no doubt every other Prince who has bled for this expedition, would look far more favorably upon your presence than your excuses,” Zayneth hissed. ”Be assured, you will have your mines. The League honors its bonds. But if you fail to hold up your side of the scales, I cannot say what my master might think... or what he might do.”

The air in the tent suddenly went still. The low crackle of the brazier sounded like the snapping of bones. Shaza’s smile did not vanish; though it clearly took another air.

”Is that a threat I hear, Habadian? A shadow of a noose cast from the Two Towers?Did he forgot that he is just a prince, as I am?” Shaza rose slowly. He walked a slow circle around the envoy, his hand resting idly on the hilt of a curved blade. ”I have told you: I will join your army when Malshut is won. If your master and his illustrious allies find my pace too leisurely, then the solution is simple. Tell them to send three thousand of their own swords to my side. With their help, these walls will fall by dusk, and we shall all march to your precious Bastion together.”

He stopped directly in front of Zayneth. ”But I must ask... why is it that my presence is craved with such desperation? I was told the League marched with twelve thousand swords. Twelve thousand! Against a single fort and a Fox with his tail caught in a trap.”

Shaza gave a short, mocking bark of a laugh. ”Tell me truly, Zayneth, is the League so toothless that they cannot put down a few stone walls without the Prince of Sharjaan to hold their hands?Perhaps he wants me to sooth his spirit?

Are you truly struggling so much to slaughter a cornered beast?What is it? The league’s host that is too weak or is Fox’s shadows is so great than even silence proves a peril to them?If that were the case then perhaps your odds are not as assured as you would have me believe...”