Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 956: Barred roads(6)

"I had the misfortune of witnessing the Emperor’s Specials since the very beginning of the campaign. Ah, that is what we called them...those monsters you spoke of," Willios said, his voice carrying a hollow, mocking lilt. "If you are waiting to hear how they behaved like demons from the start, then I am sorry to disappoint you."

He pressed his knuckles into his cheek, his gaze drifting as he attempted to reconcile the dull, sluggish creatures he had first met with the nightmares they became. It was the horror of hindsight, the realization that the fuse had been lit long before the explosion and they could not see any signs before it.

"They were not monsters who fed on the flesh of their own kind back then. Though I do admit they showed a complete disregard for death or pain. It was not that they were brave," he searched for the words, his hands tracing shapes in the air, "it was simply that the very concept of suffering had become... unfamiliar to them? That may be the best way to describe it. ’’

He struggled to define the void where their humanity should have been, his metaphors falling short. Had Alpheo not seen the slaughter himself, the Marshal’s explanation would have sounded like the ramblings of a man lost in wine.

"I understand your meaning," Alpheo interjected, his voice cold. "I saw them already. They did not have the capacity for thought’’

Willios seemed unsatisfied with the Prince’s summary, but he let it pass with a weary nod.

"They drooled. They swayed as if they were perpetually drunk on some foul wine. They heard nothing. Not the officers, not the horns, not the screams of the wounded. The only thing they responded to was the bell that signaled the feeding of their... smujk? I think that was what the servants that carried it called that black slurry. Once, when their dinner was an hour late, they became so agitated we nearly drew steel on the logistical staff just to keep the peace and have them feed those things. Perhaps, looking back now, putting them to the sword then would have been the kindest thing we could have done."

He smiled, an expression devoid of joy. "We thought little of them then. We did not understand the reason for their presence, or the purpose of their rot. They simply made us uncomfortable, which is a feat among men who have made war their only vocation. Somehow, the sight of a man disemboweled made us less skittish than the sight of those fucking... things standing perfectly still in the rain with their drool mixing with the water."

"Blood seemed to rejuvenate them instead," Jarza rumbled, speaking for the first time. The old giant’s voice was like grinding stones. "I saw two of them latch onto a bowman. They didn’t stab him; they bit into his cheek and tore the flesh away like wolves before the First and the Fourth could pull them back. We taught those things some manners before the end. They did not survive the lesson, but they certainly gave us a glimpse of the Hells."

"I most certainly think that is where they were spawned," Willios whispered. "The day of the battle, the servants gave them their meal early. This time, however, one of the Emperor’s toys, a heretic from the wastes, was on the frontline. I did not want to believe the man I served had clenched hands with black magic."

He opened his palms and stared at them as if he could still see the grime of that day coating his skin.

"He captured that shaman after breaking a raid from the barbarians of the old Sarlon Kingdom. By the time the heretic finished his chanting and his draughts, demons were let loose among men. You could say I am a bit reassured by the knowledge that those things will never appear ahead of me again." He furrowed his brow, his voice trailing off into a haunted breath. "Except, of course, in the nightmares I have yet to dream."

With that, his recount came to a shuddering end. Willios turned his head toward the Prince, his eyes searching Alpheo’s face for some sign of satisfaction.

He found none.

Alpheo felt a cold, hollow irritation rising in his chest. He didn’t know what he had expected from this interrogation, but he had hoped for a thread some tactical secret he could exploit. Instead, he had received nothing. All the words he had heard were the same frantic reports Agalosios and the traumatized captives from the earlier battles had delivered.

Is that what I am supposed to believe? That fucking magic did that? He scoffed internally at the sheer waste of time. He was a man of steel and logistics, not fairy tales. There had to be a rational explanation, a drug or a conditioning they simply did not understand. Yet, if there was a recipe for such madness, the Shaman held the ink.

Still, for now he had nothing...however, could it be actually possible? He had after all woke in this world, did he not?Was that so hard to believe that magic could exist?

He tried to deny it, yet could not do so with the clarity he would have had months ago.

"What happened to that heretic?" Alpheo asked, his voice sharp with the desperate hope of finding a silver lining. If they could capture the creator, they could understand the creation.

Willios regarded him tensely, his posture stiffening. "We haven’t seen him since the battle lines broke. I had hoped he was run down by one of your riders and trampled into the muck. I’d say good riddance to him and his kind. We have no need for black magic here in the lands of the Star. I would suggest Your Grace drop any thought of mimicking my liege’s work. Power bought with such coin is not worth the debt it incurs."

Even that was a dead end. The trail was as cold as the rain outside. A creeping, cynical thought echoed in Alpheo’s mind, and he let it manifest in his gaze.

"Are you telling us the whole truth, Marshal? Or is this just a refined way of defending your liege?"

The man who had been betrayed and deserted by his liege, his family, and his peers seemed genuinely offended by the accusation. A flash of the old Marshal’s fire returned to his eyes. "I said I would speak only with honesty, and that is what I have delivered. Do not take it against me if the truth was not the one you hoped to receive. My words are as straight as a line.’’ he calmed himself realising he was still a prisoner

’’Having said that, is there any other business you have to attend to with me?"

Alpheo stood, his shadow looming large against the tent wall. He paced a small circle, his boots thudding softly on the rug. He looked at Willios, the man’s dignity, his quiet resolve, his refusal to break even when broken.

"I will ask you one final time, for your own sake. Will you truly not serve me? I am not a man who offers twice, but for you, I would make an exception."

Willios did not even hesitate. The answer was already etched into his soul. "My previous answer stands, Your Grace. My loyalty may be a ruin, but I will not build a new temple on the bones of the old one."

"You are a fool," Alpheo hissed, his frustration finally boiling over. He leaned across the table, his face inches from the Marshal’s. He hated stubborn men who were so resistant to his wishes.

"Do you not understand? I am the only thing protecting you from the chopping block. The Imperial court wants a trophy. And the Hammer of the Fingers will be a fine one. If you walk out of this tent without my herald upon you, you walk straight to the headsman. I am offering you a sword and a future; the world is offering you a rope and a hole."

Willios looked at him, a strange, peaceful sadness in his eyes. "Then I suppose I shall have to see how well the rope fits."

Alpheo regarded him for a long time, the silence stretching until it was frayed at the edges. He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to age him.

"If that is your choice, so be it. I have always found it a pity to burn a library simply because I could not own the books." He paused, glancing back at the shadowed corner where his commanders stood. "Still, Edric has beseeched me to show mercy. I will speak in your defense to the Imperator. I suppose you shall evade the indignity of a traitor’s death. I will convince him to offer you a more merciful path, perhaps a life of quiet exile?’’

Willios looked at the Prince, bewildered, his mask of stoicism finally cracking. Before he could speak, before the gratitude could find a voice, Alpheo beat him to it.

"No need to thank me. Edric should be the subject of your gratitude; he has a soft heart for a man who almost took his head. This is the last time we shall meet, Willios. Consider it a final courtesy coming from a man that admires you."

Willios remained silent as the prince and his subordinates moved toward the entrance of the tent. The heavy canvas flapped in the wind, a herald of the cold world outside. Before Alpheo pushed through to the rain, he paused, his hand hovering over the fabric. He turned back, a sudden, sharp curiosity igniting in his eyes.

"I forgot to ask," Alpheo said. "What made that dog of royal blood so short in courage? What was the final blow that broke Mavius’s spine and sent him scurrying into the night?"

Willios looked up, his expression hardening into a look of pure, unadulterated loathing for his former master.

"He had the misfortune of finding one of the letters exchanged between your camp and a lord of our own," Willios said, sparing no kind word for the coward who had abandoned him. "He got cold feet, convinced that betrayal was lurking around every corner, breathing down his neck in the dark. Apparently it made him more comfortable betraying one of the few people who would have gladly died for him...may the flames take him.’’

Hearing that, Alpheo went perfectly still.

The rain still thundered on and yet Alpheo’s mind was cleared of all.

He, after all, didn’t have any of his spy do so...