Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 551: Style of engagement

By the end of the day, the sun dipped behind the far hills, casting a long golden veil over the valley, while shadows stretched from tent poles and spears like silent sentinels. The camp had taken shape quickly—efficiently—clearly the fruit of the discipline of Alpheo’s army. Though the full wall was not yet raised, the foundation had been set in a firm perimeter, and ditches had been dug deep enough to snap an ankle or impale the fool who tried leaping across in the dark.

The planned palisade had already been driven into place: sharp stakes jutting from the ground like a crude crown around the white army’s claim to the land. It wasn’t the fortress Alpheo would have liked, not yet, but it would do.

What the defenses lacked in height, he compensated with vigilance. He had doubled the perimeter guards, posting the most alert, sharp-eyed men in shifts that would rotate at the stroke of every hour. No blind spots, no quiet corners.

Torches were strung like stars along the camp’s edges, their flickering lights reflecting off steel helms and watchful eyes. No one was getting close without someone noticing—and raising hell about it.

As night wrapped its cloak over the host, torches were lit and fires stoked to keep the chill at bay. And while the soldiers settled into rest or their night duties, Alpheo moved through the quieter paths of the camp, his cloak pulled tightly as the air cooled.

In a modest command tent set apart from the others he had called another meeting.

Jarza arrived first, nodding curtly as he took his place, followed by Asag, still limping slightly from old wounds but eyes sharp as ever. Then came Shahab and his son and finally Lord Xanthios followed shortly after, stoic as usual .

Alpheo didn’t speak at first. He waited until the flap was closed and the air inside had grown still and heavy with anticipation. Then he looked up at the gathered faces—men who had bled for him, planned for him, killed for him—and cleared his throat.

He stood near the center table, his hand resting lightly on the rough surface of the war map, the flickering lamplight casting long shadows across the lines and markers drawn over parchment.

"I’ve given it more thought," he begun, his voice cutting through the silence, calm but firm, "and I still believe the ideas we bounced around a few days ago simply aren’t doable. Jarza’s two-line tactic fails if they don’t bite the bait. Asag’s defection gambit would’ve been nice, but there’s too much risk and too little chance. And this"—he tapped the drawing of the rebel hilltop fortifications—"this cursed mound doesn’t give us much to work with."

He looked around the table. "We have to come up with something tonight. Like it or not, we have to present a coherent plan to the rest of the lords tomorrow. The last thing I need is for them to sniff out hesitation and start whispering about me fearing the rebels ."

The light flickered across the war map as Alpheo’s finger traced the rebel fortifications with the precision of a surgeon’s blade.

How much he hated having a problem ahead of him and not finding the solution....

"Every inch of this position was planned by someone who knows their craft," he murmured, his voice carrying the grudging respect of one warrior for another. "Ditches dug where they hurt most. Palisades angled to funnel attackers into killing zones. No blind spots, no weak flanks—just one big, bristling porcupine daring us to hug it."

His nail tapped the empty space behind the hill. "And our scouts confirmed what we all suspected—their cavalry isn’t up there. Which means..." He let the implication hang like a sword over their heads.

Egil’s boot scuffed the ground before Alpheo even turned to him.

’’The bastards are out here’’

The horselord sat straighter, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Every man in the tent could read the tension in his shoulders—the proud rider being told to hold his stallions back from the charge.

"Correct. Now for our response....we’ll split your riders along the flanks," Alpheo replied , watching Egil’s jaw tighten. "Not to throw them at that slaughterhouse of a slope—gods know their hooves would slip on blood before their lances found purchase—but to keep the enemy’s horsemen from doing what we can’t." He leaned forward, the lamplight carving shadows under his eyes. "Because mark my words, their cavalry isn’t missing. It’s waiting in those wooded draws like wolves circling a campfire."

Egil’s nostrils flared, his pride warring with his professionalism. Alpheo softened his tone just enough—the barest hint of steel sheathed in velvet. "I know this isn’t the thunderous charge you dreamed of, . But when their horsemen come—and they will come—your riders will be the anvil that breaks them"

A beat of silence. Then Egil gave a single, grudging nod—the sort of agreement that came with unspoken terms, he may not like waiting but he is always happy to give a good pounding.

If the enemy cavalry showed, there’d be hell to pay.

Shahab’s son , lord Jared broke the quiet with all the subtlety of a dropped gauntlet. "So we’ve got no plan at all then?" The words hung in the air like an accusation.

Alpheo’s lips curled "Not no plan," he corrected, stepping forward to loom over the map. "Just one that requires more patience than most warmongers can stomach." His finger began carving invisible lines around the rebel position. "Since they’ve chosen to turtle up like frightened barnacles, we’ll give them exactly what they want—nothing."

Everybody leaned in as Alpheo’s hands sculpted the air above the parchment. "Three camps. Here, here, and here." Each stab of his finger drove an imaginary stake into the map. "Far enough apart to avoid concentrated attacks, close enough to strangle every supply route. No food wagons reaching that hill. No water carriers slipping through. No messengers carrying pleas for help." His smile turned feral. "We’ll turn their fortress into a gilded cage.They want to be the turtle , then they can die like one..."

The fire popped as the implications settled over the group. Shahab scratched at his beard. "And when they get hungry enough to act?"

"Then they choose their poison," Alpheo purred. "Either they rot slowly, watching their men grow weak—or they charge one of our positions." His palm slammed down between the three imagined camps. "And before their war cries fade, the other two forces will be at their backs like a closing bear trap.Either way the end is all the same...."

Asag let out a low whistle that spoke volumes. Jarza merely nodded—the old campaigner had seen sieges break harder men than these rebels. Even Egil’s expression shifted from disappointment to grim approval.

Only Xanthios remained thoughtful, his fingers combing through his beard like a man searching for hidden thorns. "It’s a good plan," he conceded. Then his eyes lifted to meet Alpheo’s. "But you know the lords won’t love it."

Alpheo arched an eyebrow. "Because it denies them the chance to die heroically in some fool charge?"

Xanthios chuckled darkly. "Because in six weeks, the barley won’t harvest itself. Half those proud lords are already counting sacks of grain in their minds." He gestured to the map. "Every day we sit here is a day their peasants aren’t bringing in the crops"

"So?What of it?" he asked, amusement thick in his voice, as he did not understand the trouble of it . "Let them leave. I have no interest to have them stay here against their desire.They are grown men , they can make their own choices"

He waved a hand dismissively and turned to the gathered men with the gleam of mischief in his eyes. "But if they do, they’d best know they’re walking away from the feast. And I’m not talking about the kind with roasted boar and honeyed wine—I’m talking silver. Gold. Ransoms stacked like firewood. The coin we’ll squeeze from those poison-hearted Oizenain nobles once we have them hogtied and penned like the pigs they are.

We’ll be taking those—with interest."

He leaned in now, grinning like a wolf. "And don’t forget the spoils from this fight. If we play our cards right,by the end of this war we’ll be dragging chests down the hill so heavy we’ll need oxen to move them. Enough loot to make even a king drool into his goblet."

He straightened, voice louder now. "So yes—they are more than welcome to pack up, wave us goodbye, and leave their share behind. But I’d remind them: slackers do not eat. Not in my army."

A murmur of amused approval spread through the tent. Even the typically stoic Asag gave the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Besides," Alpheo added, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "we’ll have this done by August. Their imaginary walls broken, their pride shattered, their banners burning. Plenty of time for our noble friends to rush home and pretend they were farmers all along."

Jarza’s deep voice cut through the laughter. "Dangerous to let them think they can come and go as they please."

Alpheo turned, the firelight carving his face into something ancient and ruthless. "Every neighbor we’ve ever had," he began, voice building like thunder, "has thrown their best at us. Their shining banners. Their prized warriors. Their unbreakable confidence." A pause. "And we’ve broken them all."

He moved like a panther between the tables. "Not once. Not twice. Every. Damn. Time." His fist hit the map. "They come howling like wolves—and leave whining like kicked curs."

Now his gaze pinned each man in turn. "So if any lord under my command thinks he can stroll away without consequence?" A laugh like steel on stone. "Let him try. I’ll applaud his bravery—it takes special stupidity to piss into the wind and act surprised when it sprays back."

He strode to the tent flap, throwing it open to reveal the distant glow of rebel fires atop the hill. "Let them look at those dying embers," he said softly. "That’s the fate of all who rise against the crown. They burn bright for a moment—just long enough to light their own pyre."

Turning back, his final words fell like axe blows: "Any man may leave. But he’d best remember—the field of betrayal only grows one crop." His smile chilled the blood. "And it’s always harvested by sword-light."