Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 939: Rat’s war(4)

For a long moment, Marcus simply looked at Alpheo. No accusation moved his features, no resentment curled his lips. There was only a deep and bone-soaked tiredness, the kind a man earned after climbing out of grave after grave and finding the world still demanding he dig another.

He was tired.

That Alpheo had long realised.

"Yeah... I figured," the bed-ridden man said at last, exhaling through a sigh that fluttered into a weak little chuckle. "Gonna die in the field. That’s my destiny, I guess. I’ve got to make it right for the boys."

"I’m going to make it right with you too, Marcus," Alpheo insisted, forcing conviction into his voice as though he could mold truth with tone alone. "You’re a hero."

Marcus snorted, not derisively, but with the kind of soft amusement a man uses when humoring a child who doesn’t know better."Nah...you are wrong, Cap. But that’s all right."

There was no venom in the words.

He said it the way one states a fact of nature. The sky is blue. The river runs south. And I’m going to die alone. When he noticed the flicker in Alpheo’s eyes, Marcus raised a hand slightly."Really, it is all right. I’ve made my peace with it. No way a rat can be a hero.Each one has his place in life. This is mine"

Alpheo leaned forward, refusing to let the matter drop. "I’ll make you a lord. I’ll find a noblewoman with lineage reaching back to any further that you and I care. You’ll walk into the world of silk and candlelight, Marcus. I’ll see to it."

"Cap... no." Marcus shook his head, the movement slow but steady, final as a sealing of a tomb. "Give the rewards to the others. And let them retire. The mission rattled us. Don’t think they’ve got the stomach left for another one of your bright ideas."

"I’ll give them the choice," Alpheo agreed softly. "A pension. A house. A long and rich life."He rose from his chair, though a part of him felt heavier for it, as if the conversation had ended, yet the heart of it had never truly begun. "You’re a good man, Marcus."

Marcus gave a hoarse laugh that dissolved into something somber."I’m not drunk enough to believe that lie. If I were good, I wouldn’t enjoy doin’ half of all the evil things we do. It’s writ in the stars. No way a good man can laugh when sparking the flame that devoured half a thousand men."

There was no answer to that, not one that wouldn’t sound hollow.Still he felt as if he were to say something to that.

’’I am thankful for all you have done.’’

With that, he simply turned away and headed toward the flap of the tent, away from the life he was ruining, to the thousands he was ending today.

"Your Grace!" Marcus called suddenly.

Alpheo stopped instantly, turning on instinct, as though pulled by a string.

"I lost half my squad for this," Marcus said, the tremor in his voice barely contained but unmistakable. "I believe I’ve earned the truth, at least. Is it gonna be worth it? Just... don’t lie to me." He forced a crooked smile. "I can take the truth. I’m a big man."

Alpheo felt the question settle like a stone in his chest. Because the truth was that he did not know. Even if the mission succeeded in its immediate purpose, the larger plan depended wholly on his reading of the political terrain, on the weaknesses he believed existed beneath Mavius’s feet, on whether or not the enemy thought and reached where Alpheo predicted.

The entire thing could fail, even now. Even after all that blood. Even after all those whails...And Marcus... deserved more than a lie.

"You’ll have a long rest ahead of you, Marcus," he said at last, choosing his words with care. "So sharpen your ears. If the earth begins to groan... if it sounds like the world is splitting open and trying to swallow every living soul, then you’ll know. You’ll know their deaths meant something."

The wounded man took a breath, steadying himself."I know you’re not a religious man, but... this last act of theirs? It’s worth a prayer."

He inclined his head, a gesture far more intimate than any bow. "Rest well, Marcus."

Marcus’s smile returned, thin, battered, but real."Give them hell, Cap."

Alpheo allowed himself the faintest echo of a smile, though it never reached his eyes.

I certainly will.

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

"Forty-five degrees south, twenty-eight meters in length..." one murmured, crouched so low his beard nearly brushed the dust. He measured the earth with the kind of reverence a child would have when finding glass in the ocean.

Sir Pontus, Minister of Infrastructure of Yarzat, scratched his dust ridden jaw. "Have you used the instruments properly?" he asked, voice flat as a whetstone. "Mathematics is like a mother-in-law: she’ll call you a bastard even when you obey her rules, and she’s usually right."

Lith, the boldest of his former students, opened his mouth. Pontus narrowed his eyes.

"You know what?Shut it. I’ll check it myself."

The disciples stepped aside as their master walked forward. Pontus lifted the clinometer, a wooden rod with an iron pin and a plumb line that swung freely in the faint draft rising from the newly carved shaft. He angled it, watching the cord drift, settle, and point. Then he scribbled numbers on his slate, muttering the arithmetic with the softness of a priest whispering a prayer.

The only difference being that Pontus was part of that apparatus.

The miners stood behind the group of engineers, helmets tucked under arms, shirts blackened by the deep-earth soot. Even they held their breath. Everyone, from the highest planner to the lowliest shovel-man, waited for the result.

Pontus finally let out a grunt.

"...Acceptable."

Relief rippled through the ranks like wind over tall grass. A few shoulders sagged. Someone exhaled loud enough to earn a glare from a foreman.

But Pontus himself lingered, staring at the slope and the wooden ribs reinforcing it. A month of work. Thousands of hours. Sweat measured in buckets. He felt the tug of sentiment unwanted, like a loose stitch on a good coat.

He shook it off.

"Bring the oil. And mind your hands," he said. "We’re done with this place."

At once, a chain of miners scrambled up the ladders surrounding the pit . Above, sunlight glimmered off the ceramic oil urns as they were passed hand-to-hand. When they reached the edge, the men tossed them inward with perfect timing.

Below, another team caught each urn mid-air, cradling the fragile vessels as if holding newborns. Pontus barked, "Careful! Break one and we repair the whole damned section. There’s a thin line between watching something burn and joining it when dealing with short spaces."

Everyone nodded. That was a lesson none of them wanted to learn firsthand.

The workers hurried then, uncorking the urns. The reek of oil filled the tight space, overwhelming even the dump air. They splashed it across the wooden pillars supporting the old tunnel that would soon support no more.

Up top, more men descended with bundles of resin-soaked cloth, weaving them between beams, letting them hang like funeral ribbons. Others laid dry tinder in piles along the walls.

When everything gleamed wet and ready, the fire crew assembled near the mouth of the shaft. Each carried a torch wrapped in pitch-soaked rope, flames guttering in the afternoon wind.

They waited, no one daring to breathe too loudly, watching Pontus as he stood with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the dark maw they had created. He was silent, weighing the month of toil against the moment of destruction, as all engineers eventually must.

He felt as if this moment were in need of a speech.,

"Men, there is always great sadness in a man when he has to watch what he has built be destroyed, even if that was its use since its birth. In our part, we did our work for the creation of it, take pride in knowing that it was in you that the outcome of this siege would rely on.

It does not matter where one dug, where one planned, one measured; we are an equal part fathers of this. We spent the better part of this month making it,so I hope you’ll all feel my same pain as we give our goodbyes to our creation.’’ he clears his throat as he prepares a poem. He doesn’t see nor hear the sighs coming from the others.

’’Farewell thee, my son, born of dust and will,

whose breath was the hammer, whose cradle the shit

A month’s fleeting labor , soon ashes, soon dead.

Your ribs made of timber, your veins lined in dirt,

You stood by our calloused hands, shaped by our own.

Yet sons of the earth must return to her breast,

So crumble, my child, as all proud works must,

Let fire unbind you, return you to dust.

We mourn, but in mourning, your purpose is won

Farewell thee, my labor. Farewell thee, my son.’’

He opened his eyes with a slow, self-satisfied nod.

The others stared at him expectantly. One miner subtly raised a torch.

"...Sir?" He whispered.

Pontus sighed, annoyed that the moment couldn’t linger longer. "Yes, yes. Engineers first." He waved them toward the ladders as he took the lead for safety.

The engineers, grateful to escape, climbed behind.

Below, the miners tightened their grips on their torches. They looked up, waiting for the final signal. When Pontus reached the mid-height platform, he paused, one hand on the rung, the other lifted.

He gave a solemn nod, as if concluding a grand ceremony.

"Light it."

And so it was , the final words accompanying the fall of the Great Rock.

Farewell, my son.

It would become a famous poem.