Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 602: Replenishing the ranks(1)

A sober mood settled heavily over the ranks of the White Army.

Watching so many of their comrades depart for retirement all at once was a bittersweet affair — like seeing a whole Chapter of their lives being closed in front of their very eyes.

These were the men with whom they had marched under the punishing sun, drilled until their muscles ached, shared meager rations, laughed over stolen moments of peace, and bled in battlefields far from home.Their bonds were not light things to be shrugged off, but chains of brotherhood forged in the fires of hardship and trust.

Of course, they were happy for their companions — glad that at last they could lay down their arms and begin anew.But the sight of familiar backs retreating toward civilian life left many hearts aching with a sadness they hadn’t expected.

Still, life has little patience for those who linger in the past.Duty, as always, called.

Their mourning was soon reined in by the steady rhythm of discipline.After the indulgence of their one-month-long leave — a rare reward in itself — the White Army was drawn back into its old, relentless routines.

Once a week, they would embark on full-scale drills that lasted two days and two nights, drilling every formation, every fighting tactic, every maneuver and siege practice as though the enemy might appear at their doorstep any minute.

Marching formations, weapon exercises, fort-building, camp-making — nothing was left untouched by the whip of repetition. It was grueling work, but it was what made them sharp, what made them feared.

For the rest of the week, their duties shifted toward maintaining the peace within the Royal Fiefs — the lands directly under the Crown’s hand.

Particularly important among these tasks were road patrols, especially carried out by Egil’s riders, whose light cavalry swept across the trade routes and country roads like hawks hunting for prey.The White Army’s mounted patrols became a familiar and reassuring sight for travelers and merchants alike, their white cloaks and shining arms a promise of safety in uncertain times.

Bandit-hunting was another duty assigned to the Black Stripes — though, truth be told, it was a task they rarely needed to commit to with much fervor.

Thanks to Alpheo’s policies — low taxes, generous harvest laws, the Royal Fiefs enjoyed something close to a golden age of stability.

Add to that the existence of a standing army which, unless war called it elsewhere, spent every day of the week training and occasionally hunting down troublemakers, and it became clear why banditry had all but vanished from the region.

After all who wanted to became an outlaw, when taxes were low and harvest were good?

In fact, it was no small boast that the Royal Fiefs had become one of the most peaceful and prosperous regions in the entire principality.Merchants passed through without fear. Farmers slept soundly at night and the Crown’s peace was upheld.

And as the White Army fell back into their rhythm — even with the bittersweet ache of farewell lingering — there was an unspoken pride shared between them:that their hands, calloused and scarred as they were, had helped build something worth protecting.

Something that, gods willing, would endure long after even they had laid down their spears.

After all, life was to go on, and so soon the ranks that were left empty by the retired soldiers had to be replenished.

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"Two hundred and forty-six seats filled," a voice announced dryly, "alongside one hundred and fifty new positions."

The speaker, Sir Edric, second-in-command under the sharp-eyed Jarza, sat hunched inside his campaign tent, the canvas walls fluttering lazily with the afternoon breeze.He read from a thin, crumpled piece of official parchment — one of the many offspring of the ever-bloating military bureaucracy. His voice carried the enthusiasm of a man listing funeral expenses.

Honestly he had no taste for such work, but given that his rank was high enough, plus he could be considered the right hand of the prince’s right hand, it meant that he should take on such a task with actual glee, since it meant he was important enough to be given actual power.

Ahead of him, standing stiff as a broomstick, was a younger man dressed in the muted colors of the prince’s burecracyThe man cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back, and added, "The last one hundred and fifty, Sir, are a new addition... personally ordered by the prince."

At that, Edric raised one thick, graying eyebrow. His face, worn by years under helm and sun, barely twitched otherwise.In the same flat, unimpressed tone he might have used to comment on the weather, he asked, "And who, exactly, are you supposed to be?"

The man straightened with the crispness of a man who had practiced this sort of thing in front of a mirror."My name is Lucan, Sir. I have been assigned as your assistant during the recruitment effort.It’s a pleasure to work fo-"

Sir Edric exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound halfway between a sigh and a suppressed snort."Ah. How very kind of them," he muttered, folding the paper with mechanical slowness. "They’ve sent me a valet... to mind the bloody paperwork."

Lucan, to his credit, did not flinch nor let offense darken his carefully neutral expression.He knew the rules of the game well enough: soldiers like Sir Edric — battle-hardened, blooded, and sworn into the brotherhood of the Black Stripes — stood far above the bureaucrats in the pecking order.In truth, most military scribes accepted disrespect as part of the uniform, much like ink stains and sleepless nights, honestly they had pretty good, given that their pay was high enough and their work rather peaceful and calm.

Besides, Edric wasn’t just a soldier — he was a knight and a subcenturii, a title heavy enough to crush any urge toward wounded pride.

Lucan merely nodded, hands still neatly tucked behind his back, the perfect image of a man resigned to being treated like a piece of well-dressed furniture.

Sir Edric leaned back on his folding chair, cracking his neck with a grimace."Right then," he said, tossing the parchment onto a growing stack of other equally miserable-looking papers. "Let’s get started before someone up there," he jerked his thumb toward the tent’s canvas roof, "decides I need a second valet to wipe my arse too."

Outside, the faint sounds of the camp — reminded both men that the real world waited impatiently beyond their small, cluttered desk of scribbled orders and nervous new recruits.

Sir Edric pushed back the flap of the tent with a rough hand, stepping out into the sunlight that hammered the training fields without mercy. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and nervous anticipation — the natural perfume of fresh recruits.

Before him, spread like a poorly organized militia of hopefuls, was the pool he had to peck through — pushing, questioning, testing — to separate the meat from the fat, the worthy from the wasted breath.

His face, carved in the same stoic lines as a fortress wall, betrayed nothing.But inside his head?

Gods spare me, there must be nearly two thousand here!"

The thought hit him with the same force as a mailed fist.He fought the urge to whistle, or worse, groan aloud.He wasn’t sure whether he should feel a flicker of pride that so many souls were willing enough , to want to join the army or simply sink into despair at the sheer tidal wave of paperwork and bellowing it would take to sort this mess out.

Two thousand thickheads, half of them no better than club-footed peasants, the other half with the spine of a boiled eel... he mused grimly, his eyes sweeping the crowd with the cold, precise patience of a butcher picking out pigs for slaughter.

Still, pride and bitterness warred inside him. It was no small thing, after all. The White Army, especially the Black Stripes, had become a name even the old widows in the mountain villages spoke with hushed reverence. That so many came, even at the price of blood, sweat, and the hard steel discipline they would face, spoke of the reputation they had carved into the world.

But that didn’t mean Edric had to like it. Especially not when he imagined the endless screaming he would have to do to turn the few grains of gold hidden in this muddy crowd into real soldiers.

He squinted at the mass of bodies stretching out before him, his arms folded over his broad chest. The recruits, standing in nervous clumps, shuffled and whispered among themselves like a flock of crows sensing a storm.

Do we even have enough bloody food for all these mouths?

He imagined the stores of grain and oats being eaten away like a candle burning at both ends, vanishing faster than a purse in a gambler’s den.

But no sooner had the worry sparked than he remembered — they did.The gods had seen fit to smile on them this year, and the timing couldn’t have been better.

It was the end of August.The great sweeps of barley, oats, and wheat had just been harvested, the carts rolling in day after day like fat little armies of golden bounty.The crown had already taken its share in taxes, piling up grain, vegetables and various other crops, and into its granaries like a greedy dragon sitting atop a hoard.

Which meant that for once, Edric could rest easy about supplies. There was food enough to feed a small war — or, in this case, an army of half-starved farm boys, runaways, adventurers, and bastards who fancied themselves soldiers, even after returning all the grains that Alpheo had been loaned by the Romelians for the duration of the war. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

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