Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It was a strange thing to consider.

A mere two months ago, Alpheo had been bleeding behind his visor, a splintered Oizenian lance sticking out of his helm in the middle of a mud-slick, blood-drenched field. The legions had been roaring his name like thunder, the Oizenians meanwhile were fleeing from the very sound of it, his blood was boiling , his body dying and failing, and the fate of a crown hung on every stroke of iron.

Yet here he was now, leading the state through a thoroughly miserable day. As miserable as any that had come before it. As predictably boring as the one after.

He always woke exactly one hour before sunrise. He worked until midday reviewing a relentless avalanche of administrative documents, allowed himself a rigid two hours of leisure, and then plunged straight back into the ink until dusk, listening to his ministers’ endless dry reports and drafting legal reforms he might introduce, or simply burn.

Out of every ten reforms he wrote , at least seven did not usually pass the cut.

Finally, he would leave his evening free. Five days out of every week, for the last fifteen winters, this had been his absolute rhythm, provided no sudden catastrophe or battlefield required his royal presence.

And as noted, it was another thoroughly miserable day.

Royal guards clad in heavy gray cloaks, their surcoats proudly emblazoned with the black falcon of Yarzat, hauled the massive oak doors open for him.

The first figure Alpheo noticed was, naturally, Jarza. The man was as tall as a hill and wide as a mountain. Usually, the great legate would be surrounded by a dense thicket of the realm’s other military legates. Unfortunately, with the Hounds and the Fourth deep in the mud of their peace-keeping,or more aptly, peace-forcing, missions down in Oizen, only Asag remained of the military faction within the council chamber. Nominally, young Ratto would belong to that iron party too, but he was conspicuously absent; though a legate in name, the boy had not yet breached any achievement significant enough to earn a permanent seat at this particular table.

Turning his head to the other side of the room, Alpheo scanned the royals. His wife, Jasmine, had thankfully deserted her previous white-hot wrath over his handling of her sister’s unwed status. She sat directly at his right, bringing her nail back and forth on the silk sleeve of her cloth. At her side sat her grandfather, who offered the King a stiff, perfectly courtly nod in greeting.

And finally, anchoring the far end of the table, was Pontus. The man apparently felt the winter chill far more acutely than the rest of them. He was buried two wool cloaks deep into his heavy clothing, making his shoulders somehow look even more massive and imposing than those of the legate of the First himself.

Alpheo had barely settled his weight into the high-backed chair at the head of the table when Jarza lurched forward with a burst of boundless energy.

”Has Edric or Rykio made contact with the Vulture Lord yet?” the big man demanded.

The King hadn’t even made himself comfortable in his cushions when he shook his head. It had been weeks since he had received formal word from Edric.

The last dispatch had been filled with auspicious news from the late capital of Oizen. Apparently, the blue cloaks of the city watch were painting themselves crimson with the blood of rebels and underworld gangsters.

Every single week, fresh dens of thieves were unearthed, criminals were dragged into the light, and mutilated corpses were flung open across the public squares for all the citizens to gaze upon. Some unfortunates even had their knees shattered open on the cobblestones before being stuffed into iron cages to be pitied by the crowd. They remained there for two days of public agony before finally being swung from a gallows.

The tactics were as unforgettably bloody as they were remarkably effective.The capital was getting pacified through fear and blood.

”No fresh news regarding the Vulture Lord, unfortunately,” Alpheo replied, his voice carrying a rare, small hint of pity. Edric had been deliberately vague in his written dispatches regarding the butchery at the refugee camp, but if a hardened rogue like Edric mentioned the corpses of his own soldiers without providing specific details, the scene must have been far too horrific for him to find it wise to describe to his king in ink. ”His time will come,” Alpheo reassured the tense room, though he knew the matter was entirely out of his hands for the moment, left to the iron wills of Rykio and Edric.

Still, he had not called them together to speak of their ongoing efforts in vermin-cleansing. He let a thick, monstrous stack of parchment fall onto the center of the table.

”This year is swiftly drawing to an end, and another is about to break upon us,” the King announced. He gave a brief nod to Aron, the royal diplomat, who was standing silently beside his throne. Aron held a smaller, matching bundle of documents, which he quickly and gracefully distributed around the room.

Aron may have been the crown’s chief diplomat, but whenever no foreign courts required his silver tongue, he was kind enough to always lend a hand to Alpheo’s civil administration, a gesture the King was profoundly grateful for, as he always appreciated another blade against his greatest, most terrifying enemy.

’’I suppose we all know exactly what these ledgers mean.” The king said as he stirred himself to life.

From the sudden, grim way his ministers and legates shared nervous glances between one another, the King was instantly aware that they were fully aware of what he was entirely aware of.

The lances were put away. The blood was washed from the fields.

A new fight gave rise.

It was Budget Day.

The first to break the expectant stillness was Asag, the legate of the Third. He leaned forward, tapping his calloused fingers against the fresh ink of his parchment.

”Should we truly be dividing the coin without Edric and Rykio at the table?” he asked, throwing a sidelong glance toward Jarza. ”I suppose they both harbor a rather vested interest in knowing exactly how much silver they can throw around next winter.”

Alpheo glanced at Asag before letting out a long, heavy sigh. ”As much as I would love for them to be sitting here with us to wrangle over the copper, it is simply not possible, I fear.”

He could read the immediate discontent written plainly across the faces of both legates.

”Or perhaps we could simply delay something this monumental for a few months?” Alpheo suggested. ”I am entirely certain the Vulture Lord will be kind enough to grant our boys a polite reprieve, just long enough for them to make a quick stop in the capital to secure their coin.” He offered a small, thin smile that possessed all the genuine sweetness of milk curdled in a midsummer sun. ”Indeed, that would be a wonderfully fine plan, my friends. Provided, of course, that we are perfectly content to receive tidings of a further, bloodier massacre coming north across the Magna Strata. Already that conquered land is nothing but a festering den of criminals, outlaws, and partisan violence. What those regions need right now is a firm, unyielding hand wielding an iron rod, and I have absolutely no intention of stalling that hand mid-strike.”

The King leaned forward, his dark eyes locking the dissent down. ”I shall write my personal apologies to both of them, but I will have them remain exactly where they ought to be, doing exactly what they ought be doing. Hanging bandits.”

With that particular matter firmly nailed shut, it was time to approach what passed for sweet news in a kingdom built on bones.

Alpheo reached up, rubbing the back of his stiff neck where the chill of the room had begun to settle. ”If you would all take a look at the second page...”

The crisp, simultaneous rustle of moving parchment whistled through the chilly air of the council chamber. ”...you will see our previous predictions for this year’s budget, set side-by-side with the actual revenues we managed to drag into the treasury vaults.”

The mathematical reality was plain enough for even the most battle-blinded soldier to see.

Across the table, broad smiles widened and came as easily as the winter frost outside. Though speaking of the biting cold, Alpheo inwardly reasoned that he really should have ordered a proper fireplace installed in this miserable room.

Mayhaps I could bother Pontus to make some architectural adjustments to the building, he thought, cutting his eyes toward the heavily bundled man. But he also knew that any comfort would come far too late to save his joints today. Besides, he had far more official, far more urgent business with the master builder than a simple fireplace.

”As you can see,” Alpheo continued, pointing a blunt finger at the ledger, ”last year’s projected budget came to a modest 205,000 silverii. The final tally from the tax-scribes last week, however, places our actual yearly income at 225,000.”

The raw gleam of greed instantly shined brightly and clear in the eyes of his councilors, like light through polished glass. ’’The main beneficiary of that was the increase in acceptance of the Regalia Ordinum. More than 250% this month than in the highest-scoring one of last year’’

”And how exactly did that miracle come to pass?” Shahab asked, a stark white eyebrow climbing steadily toward his hairline. ”If my memory serves me, trade across the channels has been utterly paltry these last few months. One would think a war of that scale would scare the coin right out of the markets, not invite it.”

The one who answered was not the King, but Jarza. The massive legate leaned his heavy elbows onto the mahogany table, the wood groaning slightly under his immense frame as he threw himself forward.

”Plain enough, it was exactly because of the blood we spilled,” Jarza said, a fierce, toothy grin splitting his scarred face. ”We fought the greatest war of our lives to protect those miserable, copper-counting traders. When a merchant sees a prince, now king,” he added, offering a respectful nod of his bald head toward Alpheo, ”personally lead a veteran legion into the mud just to avenge a raided convoy, it does spectacular things for his confidence.”

The King nodded in smooth agreement, a low, rumbling chuckle escaping his chest.

”Confidence is a fragile thing, however, and it rarely comes naturally to men of trade,more than coin merchants like security. Offering safe roads are much more enticing than offering wares at small price.” Alpheo murmured, leaning back in his high chair. ”Though of course this pattern had the crown’s hand in it, after all why merely watch a wave when you can ride it to the shore? Once the fields were cleared, a small army of wandering minstrels, that we generously funded, carried a very specific the tale across the north.

Their songs have become a plague in every tavern from here to the heart of Romelia. A man cannot enter a common room for a hot meal or a bed for the night with a whore without some poet screaming the lyrics into his ears.”

Alpheo’s smile widened slightly ”They are calling it the War of the Bloody Penny.

It has done wonders as state advertisement, I’ll grant you that. Merchants are practical creatures, they flock to where the spears are sharpest and the tolls are safest. Right now, they are crowding our ports and choking our highways by the hundreds, wealthy Romelians and southern traders alike.And why not? After all, everyone loves making coins and living to spend them....and besides there is a great hunger for grain as it of now, and everyone worth his weight can smell the odor of easy gold....”