Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 930: From the other side(6)

Atop the steed that had carried him faithfully through nine years of war and wandering, the whole place sat beneath his scrutiny.

The horse, white as the first snowfall of the winter that was yet to come, and armored in dust and sweat, breathed slow and steady beneath him, and Alpheo let his gaze wander across the vast face of the Great Rock, where the first ring of stone now lay wounded and half-claimed.

No longer was there the flurry of movement that had been constant since his arrival beneath those walls; the battlements where figures had scurried like ants over spilled honey stood strangely barren, emptied of purpose, as if a great breath had blown life from them.

He brought him little pride the knowledge that he had been that wind.

From every angle his eyes could reach, he saw only signs that the first ring was slipping from the hands of the defenders and falling into the custody of his own. It baffled him that the retreat had come so suddenly, without the fierce resistance he had braced himself to meet, without even a token struggle to stall his advance.

Was there something he missed?

Did the enemy’s head truly possess so little faith in his own strength that he would abandon the wall the moment it cracked? Did he mean to spare his men needless bloodshed, or was this some deeper piece in a game not yet visible to him?

His mind was a machine, pulling every known fact into alignment, filling what gaps remained with reason, suspicion, and memory of his known behaviour.

But it didn’t reach any real notion.

Concession of the wall was fact, yet understanding eluded him like smoke above a fire, for though a second ring still waited to be manned, no ruler with the faintest claim to martial sense would yield the first without cost.

It was not in the nature of desperate men to give ground they might yet soak in the blood of their enemies.

He questioned trap, but found no hook on which to hang the thought.

There existed no position within the ruin that lent itself to ambush, no pathway that could draw his men inward only to break their bones beneath a hidden counterstrike, no cunning layout of streets or corridors that would allow the Romelians to sever a limb of his army and feast upon the wound.Was it a mistake to send the Fourth?Shoud he have sent some probbing levies ahead first?

The clibanarii were nowhere to be seen which they would be needed for a quick sortie, not that it was a mistery, for Mavius had attempted many times to throw open his gates and spill forth his remaining heavy cavalry in some last glittering charge. Yet any further attempt had ended at once, one bloody night where the hounds tore through enemy rider, repaying past debts with screaming interest.

The Great Rock, second only to the Bane, keeper of the Fingers, guardian of the path into the Empire, yielded like damp parchment.

He had given the Fourth the honor of entering first. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Yet it had not been needed. They swept through ash instead of flame, silence instead of steel, and now Edric rode toward him with that somber smile a soldier wore only when victory tasted strangely flat, as though destiny had forgotten to resist.

One glance at the towers confirmed what his instincts already knew.

Gone was the eagle of Romelia, talons shorn and feathers scattered to the wind, and in its place the white and black of the legions unfurled like a proclamation carved into heaven. They claimed no sovereignty over this fortress, but they nonetheless marked it as the first stone won by their hand.

They deserved that glory.

Still, he knew glory was smoke; banners were only cloth; songs fed no hunger. He had not come for fame, nor for applause.

There was only one thing he wanted from that old Rock. There was a heart waiting to be cut out.

It did not take long for the roar of celebration to reach them, rolling through the battered ranks like a wind that carried joy, disbelief, exhaustion and a hunger for more.

Those who had taken the brunt of the diversionary assaults, the latecomers who were forced to climb ladders slick with blood while arrows fell on them like rain , now bellowed loudest of all.

Behind them came the engineers, pale-eyed and weary.

They trudged forward not as conquerors , for they did not have the prestige for that. In truth the victory belonged to them more than any soldier with a polished helm or noble with twenty names, for the wall had not been conquered by bravery but brought down by craft.

The engineers’ corps had been dismissed for years as little more than clever servants wrapped in military leather, an auxiliary of thinkers rather than killers, yet Alpheo had known from the first day he forged them that their worth would not be measured in skulls cracked but in towers broken and in bridges built.

If Rome had left any lesson upon history’s skin, it was that armies win battles through muscle,but strategy was always complemented by good engineering.

And so, while the legions were raised, Alpheo had ensured that beside every two hundred fifty men bearing steel marched twenty who bore parchment, compass and the mind , men trained beneath the watchful eye of the Yarzat Marvel Head of Ponthio.

Then to the feast came the nobles.

Their approach slithered rather than marched, they were vultures who smelled carrion.

Disgust coated Alpheo’s thoughts like oil spilled atop clear water, refusing to sink, refusing to be washed away.Had he been a dog he would have bared teeth at the company.

They were roaches in silk, scurrying from shadow to shadow until they found where the sun shone brightest, then swearing they had always lived within its light. They were moths drawn blind toward the heat , fish turning in every shifting current of fortune, loyal only to the tide that carried them safely to shore.

Three days before, these same men had whispered venom behind his back, dismissing him as hesitant because he had chosen not to partake in the assaults, sneering at him. Now those very tongues curled around cheers of his greatness, hands reached as though to embrace a brother, and Alpheo felt only the instinct to recoil as one recoils from flame.

He wanted to be done with it and return home.But he still could not.

So he turned instead to his true companions. He saw on their faces not exultation but a tempered sobriety, half-smiles that flickered down as soon as they came, eyes slipping beyond celebration toward the second wall looming inside the first, the towers set like teeth, the unfilled ditch where any wise defender would have dug death into the ground.

They took in every detail with the careful calm of men who had already buried too much of themselves to waste breath celebrating a victory that could yet sour into tombs.

He was proud of that, he had after all trained them well.

He did not deserve them, he was sure of that.

They had followed him from chains into war, he had them for half his life and yet they were everything he had.

When they were slaves, it was by blood and flesh that he stole food. When he was hunted and starving, it was their hands that lifted him up.

Without him, they would not have eaten. Without them, he would not have lived.

There was no time left to mourn those who had fallen, they had a job to take care of, for if they did not, more death would follow.

One had already hit him hard; another would break him.

"The first wall is ours," Edric of the Fourth Ardita announced at last "The enemy has fallen back fully. No hostile remains that has not already fed the ground."

Alpheo answered with a single nod, though it was a tired one, for victory tasted less like wine and more like ash when one could already see the next wall rising ahead.

Edric pressed before silence could settle. "Permission to lead the next assault? They reel from the breach, they are winded as they fear water on their knees. Send the Ardita, and we will drag them down until the water reaches their lungs.They found great sport in their wall, seems time someone let them find their fun below.Let that be me, Your Grace and I shall deliver unto you as many heads as you wish from the enemy."

His eyes held the earnest hunger of youth, fierce and bright as steel fresh-forged, the same expression he had once worn under Jarza’s gaze, back when he was under his wing.

No matter, the prince’s afterbattle were always with his name on a piece of paper dictating some feat of honour and valour. The man was a rabid dog...

Now he understood the pride Jarza must have felt in him, just as he felt pride now in Ratto whose rise among the Crown’s hounds had shaped him just like Alpheo desired.

Perhaps his time was coming sooner than he expected; he needed someone to take the reins of the Golde Cloaks.

Mereth was growing too old and was far too conservative.

Reform demanded youth, and Alpheo, ever practical, knew that if the army was to change, then its captain must change first.

It was time the White Army got its own heavy cavalry detachment perhaps....

Alpheo exhaled, long and slow, and shook his head. He may have been an hunting dog before, but now he wa sa legate.

"Your courage honors you, Edric, but courage alone is not coin enough for the second wall. An assault there would be little more than slaughter thrown like grain into a mill." His tone remained steady, held firm by the authority of someone who had watched too many brave men die beautifully for no reason but pride. "Give the Fourth rest. Their time will come again, and when it does, they will strike where it matters. I will not throw legions into stone teeth, nor spill blood where earth and shadow will do the work better than steel."

"You mean to bring it down again the same way? Will they let you so?" Edric’s surprise was genuine, for even victory tastes strange when repeated in the same shape.

Alpheo allowed a thin smile to lift one corner of his mouth. "When it ends, they will name this siege the Rat Battle.I hope that will be answer enough."

Understanding immediately reached Edric’s eyes like flint striking iron. He bowed his head

’’Then the worms will dine well. If you need blood spilled, you need only speak. The Ardita shall answer, for our blood is nothing if gladly traded to see theirs run deeper.

We got a name to measure ourselves after all...I hope you will recall that when times come."