Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Jarza had known the sounds an army made since he was but a lad of fourteen, though even then, he was larger than most grown men. The gods had seen fit to craft him from stone and oak, it seemed, broad of shoulder and thick of arm.

A gift, or perhaps a burden considering just how much food he needed to eat, but one he'd put to good use for the better part of three decades that he served as a mercenary.

He had never hoed a field, never cast a net into the sea. His hands had only known the heft of a spear and the weight of a shield. The songs of his youth were not the lullabies of home, but the snore of men huddled in cloaks and the harsh chorus of mail and steel rattling at dawn before the daily march.

Once, he had been part of the orchestra that played those war-tunes, now, he was the composer.

The cold breath of winter rode in on the wind, nipping at the skin of his neck and slipping beneath the folds of his cloak. Instinctively, he clenched his jaw and raised his shoulders, bracing against the chill. Frost crackled at the fringes of the tents, and the muddy soil of the camp hardened beneath their boots. Every breath hung in the air like ghostly smoke.

He hated winter, and its cold.

He was a man made for warm and hot air, and felt himself more at ease in the boiling sand rather than ahead of a warm fire.

He never imagined Alpheo would choose to lead an army in the dead of winter. It was madness, most of the times.

Jarza could only guess at the rivers of silver and gold that were bleeding into this campaign, feeding thousands of mouths that could no longer forage or raid. The earth slept beneath the frost now, and only coin could rouse the bellies of men.

Still, he kept the goats, Jarza noted, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he watched one particular white-fleeced beast nosing through brittle grass beside the cook tents.

Stubborn little thing, no matter how many times they kicked him away from there , he always came back. But it gave milk, and that was no small gift in these bitter months.

He didn't complain. Jarza had always loved milk and the men had grown fond of it too. Each morning they'd rise to steaming bowls of grain and milk, a small comfort against the cold. A strange tradition perhaps, but one Alpheo carried from the court to the camp, and now it belonged to them all.

Even in the capital, the soldiers had heard, the prince began his day with milk .

But food and frost were not on Jarza's mind today. His blood quickened at the thought of what lay ahead.

They were marching south-east to meet the Prince of Herculia.

But if Alpheo was right, then this was more than a battle.

It was a gateway.

Should they win in the valleys of Sitanum, the gates of Herculia would be flung open. The whole princedom would collapse in weeks, months at most. The last true bastion of resistance would be shattered. That thought stirred something deep in his chest ,hope, yes, but something darker too. Hunger.

He was not the only one. Across the camp, men honed their blades, tested bowstrings, whispered boasts, and laughed too loudly. There was a fever running through the tents, not of illness but of anticipation. The cold couldn't freeze it, nor could the wait dim it. They were dying for it—not the battle itself, but the moment after, the rush of triumph after splattering the enemy's blood in the ground, offering the earth its due drink.

His men longed to plunge axes and maces into enemy shields, into enemy skulls. To test themselves again in the ancient rite of war. This wasn't just conquest; it was vindication. It was destiny on the edge of a blade.

Still the battle was not there, so all they could do was feed the fire to make sure it did not dim.

Jarza approached the heart of the camp with long, confident strides, the icy wind tugging at his cloak as he neared the quiet perimeter of Alpheo's private tent.

Two guards stood outside the flap, clad in thick winter cloaks, their hands resting on their weapons. They were still, but their eyes tracked Jarza as he approached.

He offered a brief nod which they returned the gesture with professional stillness, stepping slightly aside as he drew near.

Just as Jarza lifted a hand to part the heavy woolen curtain that marked the entrance, the flap stirred from within, and out stepped a boy, barely into his fourteenth year.

Thalien.

The young prince's son's breath curled visibly in the morning air, his face pale from the cold but composed, his dark eyes momentarily widening as they landed on the giant figure blocking his path. He froze for a moment, clearly startled, then quickly remembered himself or maybe who the man was . With a swift bow, low and practiced, he greeted Jarza.

"My lord " he said, voice calm, though faintly high with youth. "Good morning."

Jarza stared down at him, expression unreadable beneath his thick beard and weathered brow. He gave a low grunt in response.

Thalien seemed to understand. He straightened, eyes lingering for a moment on the older man's scarred features, then gave a polite nod and moved aside, as if fearing to become his breakfast

Jarza watched him go for a second, before entering.

"I still don't understand why you keep that little shit with you," were the first words he said as he entered, his voice filling the tent before his eyes had even settled on Alpheo.

Alpheo looked up from the table, where he had been studying a map under the glow of a gently flickering oil lamp. He sighed, nasal and restrained, pinching the bridge of his nose as though already regretting the start of the conversation. "Should I take it that he is not in your favor?"

Jarza didn't bother to sit, looming instead like a disgruntled bear before a fire he wasn't invited to. "He's a snake, Alpheo. A little shit who sold the city where he was born for a taste of land and title. Should I kiss his cheek and call him brother? He doesn't even walk like a normal person....he just slithers, do you know anyone that slithers like him?That's a thing of snake not of men"

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, his brow raised with the faintest trace of amusement. "Well, that 'little shit,' as you so kindly put it, is proving to be quite useful. Silver-tongued, clever... and, most importantly, useful.

Do not put against him the reason for why he is here; everyone has their hunger to feed. You are here for the love you bear to me. I am here for the bricks that shall hold the futre and the hate I hold my enemy in.

And the boy at least shares one of my hungers.''

He said with a smile before tapping his nose with his index'' Still, I thought you'd be pleased to hear that it's thanks to him that Lechlian now has the nerve to give us battle."

Jarza snorted, the sound thick and disbelieving. He took a few steps further into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him. "I wondered what had taken hold of him to answer to your challenge. The same man who abandoned his capital like a coward, tail tucked between his legs? You'd think he was allergic to the smell of iron. Just what did that boy say or do to get him so riled up?"

Alpheo turned his gaze toward the tent's entrance, where the cold still clung to the seams like ghosts. His smile was thin but present, as though he, too, hadn't quite decided whether to admire Thalien "I've never seen you in such a foul mood," he mused, then added to respond to his friend's question

"And yes—Thalien is responsible. Almost entirely hence the reason for this good mood of mine ."

Alpheo moved his head around as he cracked his neck "Because this time... things are falling where they need to. You see, we needed something to coerce the old coward to come outside.Threat would have of course not work, humiliation neither, the only way Lechlian would come out of his shell was to make him think he had the chance to win."

Jarza grunted again, though this time the sound was more thoughtful than irritated. He scratched the thick beard on his jaw, a gesture as habitual as blinking, his eyes drifting to the tent's heavy canvas wall.

"So…" he said at last, voice rumbling low. "How did you pull it off?"

"By moving a few pawns that had been lingering at the edge of the board," Alpheo replied, his tone calm but sharpened by quiet confidence. He leaned forward slightly, fingers tracing an invisible path along the map. "In a week's time more or less, the valleys of Sitanum will be our stage. And thanks to Thalien's visitations, made as per my command, there are cracks forming in Lechlian's ranks, without him even knowing of them. With luck, we may find some parts of his line soft enough to fold."

Jarza finally dropped into the chair across from him. The wooden legs creaked beneath his sheer size as he reached for the flagon of wine, pouring himself a full cup without waiting for an invitation. He raised it, paused just before sipping, and muttered, "Still don't like him. And how sure are you about this?"

Alpheo gave a faint shrug, the barest lift of his shoulders. "I don't intend to stake the battle on hope. I know better. The lords on Lechlian's side, if they turn, will only do so once the tide of battle favors us. Once they commit , there's no turning back for them . But we'll not plan for their help. We'll fight as if they were all loyal to him."

Jarza took a long gulp of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and nodded slowly. "Good. I was starting to think you were planning on betting a crown on half-hearted promises."

"I don't gamble," Alpheo replied, his gaze focused now on the end of the table. "Or at least I do when I only have overwhelming odds on us."

"So," Jarza said, setting his cup down with a soft thud, "do I take it you have a plan then? We're a week away from engagement, and so far, we've got more wine than strategy."

Alpheo smiled faintly. "I need to see the ground first. Terrain will shape the fight more than numbers ever could considering we will be the one attacking. I've already sent scouts ahead into the Sitanum valleys. In a few days, we'll know where we'll bleed, and more importantly, how to make the enemy bleed more."

The tent was quiet for a moment, save for the whisper of wind against the walls. Outside, the muted sounds of camp life continued, boots crunching frostbitten grass, the faint laughter of men, the jangle of chainmail. All of it felt distant, suspended, like the calm before a storm.

Jarza stood slowly, heavy hands gripping the edge of the table before he rose. "Just don't keep me waiting too long," he said. "The men are hungry for this. They've marched through frost and mud for a chance to drive their axes into Lechlian's lapdogs. The sooner you give them the chance, the better."

Alpheo gave a single nod "Soon," he murmured. "Very soon."

And as Jarza left the tent, the flap swinging closed behind him, Alpheo remained seated, his fingers tapping the table and his mind already racing through the plans he thought of implementing next.

In a future not more distant than his past.