Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 556: Last effort(1)

The night sky stretched wide and black above the Rebel camp, a velvet tapestry pricked with a thousand cold-burning stars.

No moon rose to soften the darkness—just the glitter of constellations indifferent to the troubles of men. The distant hum of the camp, muffled fires, the low bray of horses, and the rustle of canvas was the only company for the two soldiers patrolling the outer ring.

Their boots crunched against frost-stiff grass, the air crisp enough to bite through their cloaks. A weak lantern swayed on a staff between them, casting a jaundiced glow across their armor and the dirt path.

"By the gods," muttered the younger of the two, a lanky lad with a crooked nose and a sharp tongue, "if that was supposed to be dinner, then I’d rather chew on my damn boot."

The older one, stockier, with a helmet that never quite sat straight, snorted. "That was your boot. Cook just boiled it first and called it ’stew.’"

"No, seriously," the younger went on, voice rising as though he were performing for the stars, "I swear there were three beans. Three! I counted. ’’

"Keep whining like that and they’ll serve you a fourth," grunted the older soldier.

"Wouldn’t surprise me," said the younger with a bitter laugh. "They’re cutting corners. I’ve seen it. You notice how the bread’s been getting thinner every day? The bread was as deep as my sword’’

The older one didn’t respond at first. He just stared ahead into the dark.

"They’re stretching what’s left," he said after a moment. "Trying to make it last."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, fool, that we’ve been eating the bottom of the barrel for days. We’re running out. I heard one of the captains whisper it—quiet, like it was a curse. Said the nobles are rationing."

The younger soldier blinked. "Rationing? Since when do they ration the rations?"

"Since the enemy refused to meet us in battle, and we have no way to get more food"

A silence fell between them, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic clank of their gear.

"Well, I wish they’d just get it over with," the younger muttered. "One way or another. This standing around in the cold, guarding sheep tracks and shadows—it’s the worst. I didn’t sign up for this to die of boredom."

"You didn’t sign up at all," the older man pointed out. "You got swept up with the rest of the town boys when the lord called banners."

The younger made a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, well, I still thought I’d get a bit of glory. Or loot. Or at least a decent meal."

"Glory, he says," the older one chuckled darkly. "Listen to me, boy, this is the second time I volunteered as a soldier. You want glory? There’s a field full of corpses somewhere, their eyes still open to the stars, each one thinking they’d get a statue. That’s glory."

"Fine," the younger grumbled. "Then I want to go home. My sister was going to have her first child. I missed the wedding, too. And harvest season. I’m tired. My boots stink. The latrines are cursed. And I haven’t seen a woman in four months."

"None of us have."

The wind whispered low through the trees beyond the camp, carrying the brittle sigh of dry leaves and the cold scent of soil. As the two soldiers walked their slow, circular patrol, still half-bickering about stew and starvation, a sudden crack echoed through the night—the unmistakable sound of a branch snapping underfoot.

Both froze.

The younger soldier reached for his sword, fumbling with the hilt. "What was that?"

The older one narrowed his eyes toward the brush, holding the lantern higher. "Who’s there?" he barked, voice taut. "Show yourself!"

For a moment, there was only the creak of the trees and the thudding of both their hearts. Then, from the shadows, a figure stumbled forward—half-shrouded by gloom, limping heavily. Blood streaked down the side of his face, matting graying hair and soaking into a torn collar.

"Stay your hands!I am not an enemy! I am Lord Robert," the man rasped, voice raw with pain but still bearing the hard edges of command. "Get someone of rank. Now."

The younger soldier blinked, stepping backward. "You’re—what? Lord Robert?Who the hell is that, where is your banner?"

The older one quickly raised a hand, ignoring the younger one "Alright then, hands up!" he barked, stepping forward. "You’re hurt, aye, but don’t try anything clever or gods help me, you’ll be limping with two legs broken."

Robert obeyed, albeit slowly, lifting his arms with visible effort. His breath was ragged.

"Looks like lordling cloth," the younger muttered, circling slightly, eyeing the embroidery beneath the muck and tears. "Or used to be. That ain’t farmer’s garb, that’s for damn sure."

"Could be a lord," the older one replied, not dropping his guard. " "Either way, keep your mouth shut and run, lad. Go wake the damn brass."

The younger soldier didn’t argue. He turned and sprinted toward the central tent,torch swaying wildly in the dark. The older soldier remained, sword half-raised, eyes fixed on the man in front of him—this limping ghost of a noble, standing under a sky of silent stars and waiting, either to be rescued or killed on the threshold of his own allied camp.

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The canvas walls of the medical tent flapped softly with the wind, carrying the faint scent of boiled herbs and old blood. Inside, under the dim orange glow of a few candles , Robert sat hunched on a low wooden bench, stripped to his linen shirt, the sleeves rolled high and blood-spattered. A surgeon worked briskly at his side, winding a fresh bandage around the right side of his forehead where a gash curved just above the brow—a clean slice, but deep, now tightly bound beneath linen and ointment.

Another assistant, kneeling near Robert’s leg, tugged gently at the fabric wrapped about his thigh, tightening the dressing around a wound . Robert barely reacted.

Then the flap of the tent was pulled aside.

In stepped a small procession—first Lord Niketas, behind him came Lord Gregor,, then Lysadros and Eurenis, all who looked as though they had just been roused from sleep. Lastly came Elios, his robes still marked by the dust of travel, his expression more curious than anything else.

They froze, briefly, as their eyes adjusted to the light—and then saw him.

Before them sat Lord Robert—alive when he should be dead, free when he should be rotting in chains. The last time they’d seen him or better yet heard of him, he’d been dragged away in the chaos of battle, his fate as uncertain as their rebellion’s chances. Now here he was, battered but breathing.

Niketas was the first to step forward, slow and deliberate.

"By the Gods" he murmured. "Lord Robert."

Gregor’s brows lifted. "I thought you were supposed to be rotting in a cell."

Robert let out a breath through his nose, his voice dry and faintly sardonic. "Either that or dead, I presume"

Elios moved closer, his sharp eyes missing nothing as they scanned Robert’s injuries. The priest’s voice was soft but carried an edge of something unreadable. "It’s good to see you alive" His fingers hovered near Robert’s bandaged forehead. "How bad are these wounds truly?"

Robert turned his head slowly, meeting Elios’ gaze with a look that spoke volumes of their complicated history.

"They’ll keep," he said flatly, though the way his jaw tightened when he shifted position told another story. He waved off the physician’s hovering hands. "Enough of this. I didn’t crawl through hell just to have my wounds poked at like some fragile maiden."

He leaned forward, the candlelight carving deep shadows into his face. "Listen to me, all of you. The prince’s camp is vulnerable tonight in a way it hasn’t been since this war began." His voice dropped to a rasping whisper. "They’re drunk. Not just a few men—the entire damn camp is swimming in wine."

The silence that followed was so complete they could hear the distant hoot of an owl outside. Niketas’ mouth opened, then closed again. Lysander’s usually serene expression cracked with disbelief. Even Gregor looked momentarily stunned.

Robert pushed himself upright despite the physician’s protests, his face pale but determined. "I saw it with my own eyes," he continued, his voice gaining strength. "Barrels being rolled through camp, officers singing off-key, sentries using their spears as walking sticks." A grim smile twisted his lips. "Half of them couldn’t tell a sword from a chamber pot right now."

Elios was the first to find his voice. "This makes no sense," he said, his tone sharp with suspicion. "Alpheo’s many things, but reckless isn’t one of them. Why would he allow this?"

Robert’s smile turned wolfish. "Because the arrogant bastard thinks he’s already won.He thinks that you are cornered and that tomorrow at first light you will surrender" He leaned in closer, the candlelight making his eyes gleam. "And because his precious Jasmine is with child again. He’s declared it a sign from the gods—blessed in war and at home both he had said at the banquet.

Arrogant cur"

Eurenis sucked in a sharp breath. "He said as much at the parlay yesterday," he murmured, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. "I thought it was just bluster..."

"It wasn’t," Robert snapped. "And now his camp is drowning in celebration while we stand here debating." He slammed his fist against the cot, making the physician jump. "This is our chance! The prince is there, surrounded by men too drunk to lift their swords properly. If we move now—tonight—we can end this war before dawn."

The tent seemed to hold its breath. Niketas’ face was a mask of conflicting emotions—hope warring with caution. Gregor looked ready to charge out that very moment. Even Elios’ usual composure had cracked, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Robert stood fully now, swaying only slightly as he met each of their gazes in turn. "We take every able-bodied man we have and hit them like a hammer to an anvil. Capture Alpheo if possible and end the war —" His voice darkened. "But if not... well, a dead prince serves our purposes nearly as well."

Niketas straightened, his spine stiffening with sudden purpose. "The scouts," he murmured, voice thick with revelation. "They reported hearing singing from the prince’s camp earlier. Raucous laughter—we dismissed it as some morale trick." His gaze locked onto Robert’s battered face with something approaching reverence. "But you’re telling us it was genuine?"

Robert gave a slow, pained nod that made the bloodied bandage at his temple glisten. "Every last fool of them," he confirmed. "From the lowest stable boy to Alpheo’s own captains—swilling wine like it was the last night before the gods’ judgment."

Elios stepped forward, his priestly robes swirling about him like smoke. "This is divine providence!" he declared, raising his hands toward the tent’s ceiling. "The gods have clouded the prince’s mind with hubris, delivering him into our hands like a lamb to slaughter!" His eyes burned with fanatical fire. "We must strike tonight—while they drown in their arrogance, we shall baptize them in steel!"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent. Gregor cracked his massive knuckles with a sound like breaking branches. Lysander’s usually serene face twisted into something feral. Even Eurenis, ever the cautious one, allowed a savage grin to split his beard.

The mood had shifted—from desperate defense to hungry anticipation. They were wolves again, not cornered prey.

Niketas turned back to Robert, his expression softening slightly. "You’ve given us hope where there was none, my friend. But tell me—how in the name of all that’s holy did you escape? And end up looking like you lost a fight with a mountain lion?"

Robert’s answering smile was more of a grimace. "Ah, that," he rasped, shifting painfully on the cot. "Turns out Prince Alpheo enjoys parading his trophies almost as much as he enjoys collecting them." His voice dripped with bitter amusement. "Even invited his prisoners to the feast—like we were honored guests rather than chained dogs."

He held up his bandaged hand, where dark stains were slowly spreading through the linen. "Drank just enough to play the fool, slumped in my chair like a drunkard. When they dragged me back to my cell, the guard was so soused he barely noticed me slipping his dagger." A dark chuckle. "Nearly bit my finger off when I slit his throat, the bastard."

The lords leaned in, captivated despite themselves. Even the physician paused in his ministrations to listen.

"I ran like all the hells were at my heels," Robert continued, his voice gaining strength with the telling. "Scrambled over the palisade—would’ve made it clean if not for the blood making my grip slip." He gestured to his battered form. "Hence this... unfortunate state of presentation."

Gregor let out a booming laugh that shook the tent flaps. "By the gods, Robert! You’ve got more fight in you than half my knights!" He clapped the wounded lord on the shoulder—gently.

Lord Niketas gave a grave nod, the firelight from a nearby brazier glinting in his eyes. "We will act on this immediately," he said, resolute. "You’ve done more than enough for one night, Robert. Rest. You’ve earned it."

If that was supposed to please him , it failed, as Robert’s scowl deepened into something almost feral. "Rest? I’ll rest when I’ve plunged a knife into the Mud Prince’s throat." His voice seethed with barely leashed fury. "That bastard paraded me like a jester for a month, made me toast him like I was some long-lost cousin at a wedding feast. I haven’t crawled through hell just to lie down before the fire’s out.

I’ll take a sword over a sickbed any day," he growled. "And I mean to personally deliver Alpheo his comeuppance—whether kneeling in chains or bleeding in the dirt."

Lysandros stepped forward, his usual calm replaced by battle fervor. "Then tonight you ride not as a prisoner returned, but as vengeance incarnate." He pressed a fresh wineskin into Robert’s hands. "Drink. You’ll need your strength."

Robert accepted it with a nod, taking a long pull before wiping his mouth. The wine left his lips stained dark as blood. "Just point me at the prince’s tent," he said, voice rough with promise. "I’ve a month’s worth of humiliation to repay."

Niketas surveyed the transformed faces around him—no longer the defeated commanders of a starving rebellion, but warriors scenting victory. "Sound the alarm," he commanded, his voice ringing with newfound certainty. "Rouse every man who can hold a blade. Tonight, we remind Prince Alpheo that no victory is won until the last sword falls!"

As the lords dispersed to prepare their forces, Robert tested his weight on his injured leg, hissing through his teeth but standing firm.

He limped to the tent entrance, watching as torches flared to life across the rebel camp like angry stars. His bandaged hand clenched into a fist as in one way or the other, this war was going to an end.