Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1041: Slight(2)

The sound of a closed fist meeting solid oak echoed through the sealed chamber like a crack of thunder from a clear sky.

"In what fucking brothel did that coward find a whore with a skirt big enough to hide under while he pulled this shit!" Edric roared, his face a mask of purple fury. He paced the length of the room, his two sets of teeth grinding against each other with the sound of a hydraulic press crushing bone. "Attacking caravans bearing the insignia? We ought to take that falcon and shove it so far up Sorza’s crownless arse he tastes iron for a month! Had I found that little shit at Apurvio, I would have shown him exactly what happens to runners!Fucking Swift foot!"

"Calm the fuck down, Edric," Asag’s voice cut through the air, heavy and immovable as an anchor dropped into a storm. "It is a fool’s venture to make decisions while drowning in anger. We need an answer born of calm minds, not bile."

"They pissed on the insignia, Asag!" Edric spat, slamming his hand down again. "The same steel our legions hail in the air before we dye the dirt red. They didn’t just kill merchants; they pissed on us. That little princeling gets his arse nailed by the Habadians and suddenly he’s grown a pair of iron stones? I won’t have it."

"I agree with Edric."

The voice belonged to Rykio. He sat in the shadows, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a scowl. "This is a provocation, plain and simple. They are rattling the cage because they want a war. I say we give it to them, but on our terms. We strike first. We lay waste to the Oizenian borderlands before they can even muster their hosts. If we burn their fields now, they’ll have nothing but ashes to eat when they march. We used those scorched-earth tactics against the Herculeians and it crippled their logistics for half a decade. I say we do it again."

"Crippling them before they can even mount an expedition would do us wonders," Jarza added, his voice low and thoughtful. "If we are to resist a multi-joint assault, we cannot allow them the luxury of a full stomach." He turned his gaze toward the head of the table. "I say it is worth a thought, Alph."

The room fell into a sudden, vacuum-like silence. The generals realized, all at once, how long the Prince had been quiet. Alpheo hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed on a single grain of wood on the table, his index finger tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the oak.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"This is not a raid," Alpheo finally said, his voice devoid of the heat that filled the rest of the room. "It is an invitation. They are standing on the edge of the ravine, waving us forward. They want us to make the first move so they can point to the blood on our hands and declare the treaty void. They want to be the victims, so they can move with the world’s blessing."

Edric looked aghast. "So we’re just supposed to ignore it? Let them walk over our dead and foul our colors?"

"They want war... that much is plain," Alpheo continued, his eyes finally rising to meet theirs, cold and predatory. "If we do not rise to this bait, they will simply set another, and another, each one more bloody than the last, until the pressure forces our hand. Already now if we do not answer the merchants won’t trust we will protect them anymore.

But a boy in our halls is not enough proof for that. We need more."

He took a deep breath, the weight of the coming years settling into his features. "As we speak, Kakunia, Oizen, and Habadia are whetting their blades. They are coordinated, waiting for the singular moment, the avalanche, to drown us in ash. They seek a joint invasion, a total erasure of everything we have built."

"Do we call for the Romelians?" Shahab asked, his voice tight. "We saved their collective asses at the Battle of the Two Eagles and again at the Fall of the Fingers. We bled to keep their borders intact when the easterners rose. I think it’s time we called that favor back. They owe us a debt of blood."

"To call for actual reinforcements at this stage would be to invite a parasite into our own veins," Alpheo said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone. "Bringing foreign soldiers into our territory now would turn our strategy into a muddy mire. They would not understand our pace, they would not follow our signals, and the moment their bellies grow empty, they would pressure us into a pitched battle just to end the discomfort."

He took a deep, weary sigh, the sound of a man weighing the lives of thousands. "And a conventional battle is a game we cannot hope to win. Not against four crowns united."

He turned his sharp gaze toward the old lord. "Shahab, do not ask the Romelians for men. Ask them for the bones of war. I want weaponry, heavy plate, and grain. Especially the steel. We have been more than generous with our own armories with our other ally, we’ll eagerly receive anything we can get. Send our fleet north immediately to coordinate the transportation routes.

We may not need their warm bodies cluttering our camps, but their food and their forges are more than welcome.Besides, Romelia is red in the coffers and trembling in their boots. They cannot mount a meaningful expeditionary force even if they wished to. They will be more than eager to send iron instead of sons, it’s a cheaper way to pay their debt of blood."

"Very well," Shahab nodded, already mentally drafting the scrolls. "I shall write to the Emperor’s court then..."

"In a month’s time, perhaps less, this world will be on fire," Alpheo continued, standing up and leaning over the map, his shadow stretching long across the borderlands. "Send the summons to the nobility. Tell them to prepare to raise their levies. We are late in our preparations; there is no use lying to ourselves about the disadvantage. This will be our hardest war yet."

And who knew perhaps the last...he found himself with the sudden urge on praying to gods he did not believe in. But that was a foolish thing. This was the realm of men; gods had no place in it.

He looked around the circle of his most trusted generals, his expression hardening, "Our only advantage is the map. The Habadians may be as proud as peacocks, but they are not fast. They will need at least a month to march their weight across the continent to reach the Oizenian staging grounds, so much land to cover so big a train to haul behind.... That is the window fate has given us. That is the time we use to set our own pieces on the board."

He tapped a finger on the eastern side.That, he admitted to himself, was thruthfully small advantage...but they needed to make use of it, nevertheless.

"We need every day of that month to coordinate with our agents in Kakunia and to prepare the Bastion. When the avalanche comes, and make no mistake, it is coming, the Bastion must be more than a fortress. It must be an eater of armies."

"That is all well and good, the maps are marked and the levies are called," Edric interjected, his voice still vibrating with that restless energy of his. He leaned over the table, his knuckles white. "We know the war is coming, so we brace for the impact.

That’s fair.

But we are still left with the stench of that road. We still have no answer for the slight. You want to preserve this stillness, this ’peace’ of yours, so I take it military retribution is off the board for now? What then do we have to answer with? A well-written accusatory letter? A diplomatic wag of the finger , meanwhile, our flag is made of use as a latrine?"

"No," Alpheo replied, the word dropping like a stone into a deep well. He didn’t look at Edric. Instead, he turned his head slowly toward the far corner of the chamber, toward the man who had remained so still and so silent he had almost faded into the walls. "Lucius?"

"Yes, Your Grace?" A neutral tone rose.

"The Oizenians and their Habadian shadows believe they are the only ones who can dance in the dark," Alpheo said, his eyes locking onto Lucius’s pale gaze. " I believe it is time we ran a counter-operation. It is time to see exactly what our years of ’efforts’ have actually bought us. Don’t you think?"

At that the Carrion Raven gave a deep, fluid bow, his dark robes sweeping the floor like the wings of a scavenger.

He, too believed it was high time.