Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 627: Trial by combat(1)

The dry September air thrummed with excitement as eight hundred voices rose in a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and raucous laughter.

The newly inaugurated royal arena, bathed in golden sunlight, had become a stage for a spectacle of speed, pride, and folly—a race for a simple laurel branch that had somehow ignited the competitive spirit of every noble, knight, and holy man present.

Hands shot into the air, some cupped around mouths as spectators shouted themselves hoarse. Below, the runners—muscular, oiled, and gleaming with sweat—dug their feet into the sand, their bodies straining as they pushed forward in a desperate bid to catch the prize.

The white mare ahead of them, her coat shimmering like fresh snow, carried the coveted laurel just out of reach, her rider a master of playful cruelty. With a smirk, he would slow her to a teasing trot, luring the runners into thinking victory was within grasp—only to spur her forward at the last moment, leaving the most eager competitors to crash face-first into the dust.

The crowd roared with delight each time it happened.

Gods, they’re like children, Alpheo mused, leaning back in his seat as he surveyed the scene. The royal pavilion buzzed with energy—his wife, Jasmine, clutched his arm, pointing and laughing as one particularly overzealous runner ate sand in spectacular fashion. Even his usually stoic in-laws, namely Shahab and Rosalind , were caught up in the frenzy, their refined manners forgotten as they bellowed encouragement to their favored athletes.

Most of all, his close friends were behaving more unseemingly than usual, shouting and cheering in a voice that thundered in Alpheo’s ears.

Even Jarza, usually the most mild mannered cheered with a beaming smile.

Which reminds me, perhaps I should introduce some recreational sports, especially for the troops, it would do god to let hame have some activity that did not involve vices.

Still, it was a good start. A perfect start, really.

The arena, once a forgotten relic, now stood as proof of the prince’s vision, charming as much as the bloodless spectacles shown to the guests.

Well, mostly bloodless.

Soon enough, the sands would bear witness to a far darker contest: the trial by combat between Lord Gregor and young Talek, a duel that would decide guilt or innocence in a matter of steel and spilled entrails.

But for now? For now, the nobles were too busy being entertained to remember that small thing they were all there to witness.

Alpheo’s fingers drummed against the armrest as he considered the future. Gladiator games, perhaps? Rich merchants would pay handsomely for the privilege of watching trained warriors battle—and even more to sponsor their own champions.

Annual tournaments could keep the restless nobility occupied, their thirst for glory satisfied in controlled bouts rather than petty border wars with each other, as it had happened many times during Arkawatt’s reign , as the crown’s power and image were not as solid as they are now.

A particularly loud cheer snapped him from his thoughts. One of the runners—a broad-shouldered knight with the unfortunate luck of tripping over his own feet—had just face-planted directly in front of the royal box, sending a spray of sand into the first row of spectators. Jasmine nearly doubled over with laughter, her grip on his arm tightening as she gasped for breath.

The rider, sensing the race had reached its crescendo, cast a glance over his shoulder at the pack of gasping, sweat-slicked runners. A smirk tugged at his lips.

With a subtle shift of his weight, he eased the mare into a slower gait—just enough to kindle hope in his pursuers.

The runners, sensing their chance, dug deep. Muscles burned, lungs screamed, and with a final, desperate surge, they launched themselves forward. One—a bull-necked knight with the scars of a dozen tourneys—threw himself through the air like a man diving into battle. His fingers brushed the laurel, tangled in the leaves—

—and then the rider kicked his heels.

The mare burst forward, but not fast enough. The knight wrenched the branch free with a triumphant roar, rolling through the dust as the horse pulled ahead.

’’I HAVE IT!I HAVE IT’’ he shouted as he hoped for the rider to stop carrying him around.

Sand erupted around him in a great golden cloud, swallowing the other runners as they stumbled, coughed, and collapsed around him.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then the knight was on his feet, laurel thrust high, his bellow of victory splitting the air like a war horn.

The crowd exploded. A deafening wave of cheers and stomping feet shook the stands, so loud it seemed to ripple the very banners overhead. In the royal pavilion, nobles and dignitaries rose as one, their applause thunderous. Jasmine, her cheeks flushed with excitement, clapped with unladylike vigor, while Alpheo offered a more measured nod of approval—though even he couldn’t suppress the faintest quirk of a smile.

The knight turned, chest heaving, and with a flourish, bowed to the royal box—then, with a grin as sharp as a dagger, bit into the laurel leaves like a man claiming his spoils.

The crowd lost its collective mind at the sight .

"Oh, how marvelous!He truly deserve a reward!" Jasmine clapped her hands together, her emerald eyes alight with delight as she turned to her husband. The sunlight caught in her black hair "When you first described this spectacle, I confess I imagined something far less... thrilling."

Alpheo leaned back in his gilded chair, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "I live to exceed your expectations, my dear. Though I suspect your enjoyment stems more from watching proud men eat sand than any appreciation of my organizational skills."

Jasmine swatted his arm playfully, her jeweled bracelets clinking like wind chimes. "Must you always see through me? Very well, yes . ’’ She admitted ’’But that’s beside the point!" She leaned closer, her perfume - something expensive and floral - mingling with the scent of sweat and sand.

"We simply must do this again. The court has been insufferably dull lately. When was the last time we had proper entertainment?You have your wars and your long walks in the garden.I just have some ministrels playing lousy songs."

"Careful," Alpheo murmured. "Your disdain for courtly matter is showing. What would everyone else say?"

"Everyone said that I had married far beneath my station," Jasmine shot back without missing a beat. "And yet we had never been as strong as now."

Alpheo studied his wife’s face - the way her eyes sparkled with mischief, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that she so despised. For all her noble breeding, Jasmine had always possessed an irreverent streak that both charmed and occasionally alarmed him.

Alpheo chuckled, watching as the victorious knight made his rounds, still clutching his battered laurel branch. "Tell me, does your enthusiasm extend to bloodsports as well? Because in some minutes , this same sand will host a rather less... festive competition."

Jasmine’s smile didn’t falter, though her eyes darkened slightly. "Gregor and Robert’s brat. I’d wondered when you’d get around to mentioning that." She took a deliberate sip of wine. "Will it be messy, do you think?Rarely saw you so acid as when you mentioned the whole ordeal, you looked as if you ate shit."

She gave him a long look as she continued ’’I suppose you did something about it? Seeing how calm you are now...’’

’’You suppose well.’’ Alpheo admitted in a small voice , "You would be surprised at how easily someone holding a proud role can be swayed with just simple things like silver."

------------------------

As the arena was erupting in celebrations, inside the tents the warriors were getting ready to give their all.

In one of those tent , a physician’s gnarled hands trembled as he extended the goblet, the murky liquid within sloshing precariously near the rim. "Your medicine, my lord," he murmured, his voice as thin and cracked as old parchment.

Lord Gregor barely glanced up from where his squire—a gangly boy with the unfortunate habit of flinching—struggled to fasten the pauldrons over his broad shoulders. "Set it down," he grunted, flexing his fingers as the armor tightened.

The wound beneath, a scar from the battle that had ended with him on his knees before Prince Alpheo, throbbed in protest.

The old man obeyed, placing the concoction on the side table with exaggerated care, as if handling poison. Which, in a way, it was—a bitter brew to dull pain, both of the body and the pride.

A tense silence settled over the chamber, broken only by the clink of metal and the squire’s nervous breaths. The entire household had been walking on eggshells for weeks, their moods darkening in tandem with their lord’s.

Defeat was a stench that clung to a man, and Gregor’s had been particularly humiliating: paraded through the capital like a trophy, his lands carved up like a feast-day roast, his vassals peeled away one by one without so much as a by-your-leave.

But worse than all of it—worse than the lost war, the stolen lands, the sneering faces at those damned feasts—was him.

That little shit, Talek.

Gregor’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. The boy’s face swam in his mind—youthful, defiant, smug—a mirror of his traitorous father, but with twice the gall.

He could still feel the sting of that gauntlet striking the ground , the echo of the challenge ringing in his ears, as if the feast that had been launched to celebrate his humiliations was not enough.

"Tighter," Gregor snapped as the squire fumbled with a strap. The boy jumped, yanking the leather with enough force to jostle the old injury. A bolt of pain lanced through Gregor’s shoulder, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath.

"Damn it—!" He backhanded the squire without thinking, sending the lad stumbling. "Do you mean to cripple me before the duel?"

The physician stiffened. The squire mumbled apologies, scrambling to right himself.

Gregor exhaled through his nose, flexing his shoulder with a grimace. The wound had never healed right—a loyalist mace had seen to that. With a grunt, he snatched the goblet from the table and downed its contents in one swallow.

The taste was foul, thick with herbs and something metallic, but the heat of it spread through his chest, dulling the edges of his pain. And his fury.

For now.

The physician watched, hawk-like, as Gregor drained the last drops .

Gregor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thrust the empty cup at him. "Out," he ordered.

The physician bowed, retreating with the silent, shuffling steps of a man used to being dismissed.

Alone, lord Gregor collapsed into his chair like a felled oak, the weight of his armor—and the last twenty years—suddenly unbearable. At forty eight, he was no longer the young lion who had once rallied armies with nothing but the force of his voice. Now, every breath came harder, every scar ached deeper, and the world seemed determined to remind him of it.

The stress of recent weeks pressed down on him like a physical thing—the humiliating defeat, the loss of his lands, the way his own vassals now looked at him with pity instead of fear. And Talek—gods damn that boy—flaunting his defiance like it was nothing. The memory alone made his pulse hammer in his temples.

But then, the medicine.

A slow, creeping relief spread through his shoulder, the pain receding like a tide. For the first time in months, the old wound didn’t feel like a brand pressed into his flesh. A small mercy, almost divine. He exhaled, long and slow, his fingers unclenching from the arms of the chair.

"Perhaps," he muttered in a tone that displeased him to even mutter’’ I’ve just grown old."

Still I will cleave that boy’s neck in two, before I retire, he adamantly vowed as he pictured cutting down both father and son with the same blade and in the same way.

As he wondered whetever the son would scream as the father.

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