Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1057: Yarzat might(2)

"Seems the young Lord of Bracum will soon join our dance," Alpheo commented, his eyes fixed on the horizon where a rising plume of dust heralded the approach of the Wolf.

Aye, good blood in that line, Egil would have probably commented, sounding like a muffled howl from behind the visor of his mastiff-head helm as it often was.

The helmet had been his own gift to Egil for the man’s thirty-sixth birthday, and it always made him uneasy whenever he wore it.

Egil had laughed when Alpheo once admitted the helm spooked him, claiming that if it could unsettle a friend, it would make a foe defecate in his breeches. Alpheo missed that crude, comforting wisdom every single day.

It seemed everything that was lost looked better than it was.

Lord Xanthios had always been one of Egil’s favorites, probably one of the few lords in Yarzat who did not cry foulness at the new blood. The two men shared a certain edge on their way to see life, a brand of madness that made them thrive where others withered. Xanthios had earned his reputation at the Bleeding Plains, where he had intercepted a sortie from Arduronaven with half the required numbers, saving the Yarzat host from a flank attack they hadn’t even realized was coming.

He was a man of visceral, and above all violent loyalty. Early in Alpheo’s reign, Xanthios had buried an axe in a minor lord’s chest simply for whispering an insult toward the Prince Consort.

And as the man lay dying, Xanthios had wiped the spray of blood from his face and proclaimed that he would sooner keep his fingers locked around a traitor’s throat than leave them empty of steel while the Crown had enemies. How could Alpheo not love a man like that?

It had pained him to think he would be greeting Xanthios’s son instead of the old wolf himself. He stepped to the side of the road as the herald of Bracum approached, followed by three hundred men-at-arms, a good veteran addition to the host, seasoned by years of border skirmishes they had had before Herculia became a junior title of the crown of Yarzat.

"Sers!" Alpheo called out to the mounted vanguard. "Would you care to point me toward Lord Caelum? I would give the young son of the Old wolf a proper welcome to my host."

The air hung still for two long breaths before a voice drifted from deep within the ranks, gravelly and thick with age. "The pup is not here."

Alpheo frowned. "Then who leads this company?"

"Who else but the father?"

The ranks parted, and there he was.

In the same suit of plate Alpheo had last seen at Apurvio. It was dented and scarred, the metal bearing the deep gouges of the battle where he had unhorsed the Lord of Calpia and ended the life of the heir to Aragustaven with a lance on the young man’s neck. He had clearly refused to have the armor repaired; no doubt for he had thought that one to have been his last battles.

Clearly something had made him choose different.

"Are my eyes playing tricks, or is that the Finger-Keeper himself?" Edric shouted, a wide, genuine smile splitting his face.

"I fear you use a name that is out of date, Red-Breast," Xanthios said, snapping up his visor to reveal a face as weathered as a cliffside. "I stopped holding onto my brother eleven years ago! Though I heard of how you stormed the Fingers. Had I been there, it would have been a sight to make the gods weep."

"I recall you telling us on the march north that you were hanging up the sword for good," Asag noted, his eyes bright with respect. "You said the pup was ready for the weight of the steel."

"I remissed my thought, my dear friends," Xanthios said, his voice dropping into a jolly one. He vaulted from his saddle with a grace that defied his years, landing heavily in the dirt. "When word reached Bracum of this ’Coalition’, when I heard that four silk-wearing princes were coming to try and put a leash on our Fox, my blood began to boil in a way the hearth-fire couldn’t match. I thought to myself, if I were to sit in a chair and hear of this battle from a messenger rather than feeling the spray of Oizenian blood on my shield, I would rue the day until the dark took me."

He stepped toward Alpheo, his eyes burning with a dark, bloodthirsty light. "I’ve spent a lifetime teaching men how to die, Your Grace. It would be a waste of talent to stop now. I want to see the look on the Habadian’s face when he realizes that the ’lowborn’ he mocks is guarded by old wolves who haven’t forgotten how to tear out a throat. You’ll have me, won’t you?"

Alpheo felt a surge of iron-clad confidence. "I’d sooner put my hand in a latrine than deny Xanthios a taste of this slaughter," the Prince said, as the old wolf bowed low before him.

"How did Lord Caelum take your sudden return to the harness?’’

"As well as you could expect for one of my blood!" Xanthios boasted, his voice echoing with a rough, prideful thunder. "I had nearly feared I’d have to taste my own son’s steel just to get out the front gate. The boy shouted, and raved as he claimed I was taking everything from him! But in the end, he is my seed, and he knows that when the old wolf growls, the pup yields. I left him brooding in the hall, nursing his pride, while I came to claim the glory for myself."

He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, though it died down into a more sober rasp. "Besides, I can’t leave his infant son as the only heir to my house. Someone with sense ought to stay back and ensure the line doesn’t disappear entirely in a blaze of magnificent stupidity. If we all go to the pyre, who is left to tell the tales?"

"That would be a sad end to a house that has given so much for Yarzat," Alpheo agreed.

"Fitting, perhaps, but sad," the Lord of Bracum conceded with a sharp nod. He then turned his gaze toward the retinue standing behind the Prince, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the two brothers. "And who are these? Standing there like a pair of beaten whores in the rain?"

Arnold bristled instantly, his face flushing a deep, dangerous crimson. "We are—"

"I am fucking with you, lad! Keep your shirt on," Xanthios interrupted, his laugh lacking the sincerity of his previous one. "How could I not recognize the spawn of Lechlian? I may be old, but I am not yet demented.But do not worry; my sword has drunk enough Herculian blood to last three lifetimes. I’ve no more bone to pick with your lot, so long as you give me no reason to find a fresh one."

"That was unnecessary, my Lord," Alpheo interjected smoothly, stepping into the space between the veteran’s aggression and the brothers’ pride. "Both Arnold and Thalien have proven themselves far removed from their father’s shadow. They have fought valiantly whenever I have called. They are Lions of Yarzat now."

Thalien placed a steadying hand over his elder brother’s chest, sensing the heat radiating from Arnold. He offered Xanthios a polite, razor-thin smile. "My Lord, I recall you suffered a grievous wound at the Siege of Apurvio? A mace to the joint, was it not? I can only hope it has healed well enough for the march."

"Hah! Heal? Fuck no!" Xanthios roared, smashing his armored fist against his right knee with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil. "It hurts like a bitch every time the frost settles! I swear, I feel as if a rusted needle has taken up residence in the bone, dancing a jig every time I move to take a piss.Bloody bastard, where the fuck is the Warrior when you need a blessing?"

The circle went quiet. Every man present looked at the old Lord’s leg, then back to his face. All of them wondering the same thing.

If you can barely walk in the cold, why in the gods’ names are you here at the edge of war?

Xanthios took in their stares as if they were nothing more than a passing fart in a gale. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a manic, terrifying light that suggested he was indeed quite ready for the end.

"I said it hurt during the winter, didn’t I?" he growled, a predatory grin splitting his weathered face. "It’s nearly summer, is it not? I am quite certain the crisp hot air, the long days, and the sight of Oizenian and Habadian blood spilling into the dirt will do wonders as an alleviative. There is no medicine like the sound of an enemy’s ribcage snapping under an axe.No soother music than the screams of enemies dying."

He looked around at the assembled host, the sun catching the silver and black of the various banners. The levity was gone now, replaced by the grim, focused gravity of a predator that had finally found its scent.

"Since you’ve seen fit to drag your aching bones back into my service, Xanthios, stay close," Alpheo muttered, his gaze drifting southward. "I may have a task for you.’."

Xanthios paused, his hand hovering over the hilt of his weathered axe. A slow, hungry spark ignited in his eyes, chasing away the weariness of the road. "A task, Your Grace?" he rasped, his grin widening to show a clean line of teeth were it not for a front one that was chipped. "Tell me plain: will it be bloody?"

Alpheo didn’t blink. The sun caught the hard, obsidian finish of his armor as he gave a single, slow nod. "Deadly so. And you won’t be going alone. I’m putting Asag and his Third at your side. I need the mountain to hold the line while the wolf tears out the throat."

At the mention of Asag Xanthios let out a laughter.

"Gods above," Xanthios whispered after taking a breather minding himself of his age, shaking his head with a terrifying sort of delight. "I’ve been here less than five minutes, and I am already more happy than I have been at home for the last year. Let the boy have the hearth and the infants; I’ve missed the smell of a brewing slaughter."