Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1064: Parting ways(1)
This was the first time he had ever truly laid eyes on a military camp, and it was nothing like the songs.
His eyes darted everywhere, fueled by a restless curiosity. He watched the legionnaires marching with a rhythmic, heavy tread through the dirt lanes of the camp. Most of them bowed their heads as he passed, recognizing the falcon stitched onto his fine wool cloak and the striking green of his eyes, a trait as famous in Yarzat as the Prince’s own obsidian armor.
The Sword of Yarzat was a cold and sharp tool that tended to silence anyone foolish enough to scorn the Prince, and its fame was about to be tested once more.
The camp wasn’t just made of soldiers, he had realised for along the way, he passed blacksmiths with soot-stained faces, hammering away at dented helmets or scraping rust from the edges of axes and daggers.
The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, wet horse, and hot metal.
Near the edge of the tents, a stable boy or a squire of some knight, was struggling to lead a massive war-horse, a proud stallion with a chest like a boulder. The beast suddenly let out a neigh so loud it sounded like a war horn, rearing up and scaring the boy right off his feet. The stallion’s front hooves danced in the air, its muscles rippling as it showed off its strength to the entire camp.
Basil watched with wide eyes, dreaming of the day he would sit in a saddle like that and ride down his foes, but he remembered his father’s warnings about the reality of blood and tempered his fantasies.
It was early morning, and the camp was a hive of activity. Almost every man he saw was already strapped into mail or plate. He had thought only a small part of the army would be leaving, but it looked like his father was moving the whole host.
Basil wondered where they were heading. The enemy was supposedly making way to Nonium, less than a week away from crossing the border into Yarzat proper. But as he recalled the plans he had shared last night, he noticed something strange.
His father wasn’t keeping the army together.
Instead of a tight, solid fist ready to punch, the Prince was opening his hand, spreading his "fingers" as wide as they could go. Small groups would be heading in different directions, disappearing into the woods and hills. Basil frowned. To his young mind, it seemed like madness to split your strength in such a way, but he knew his father wasn’t a man who did things without a reason.
"Young Master, the way out of the camp is that way," a voice called out from behind him.
Basil turned to see Sir Rodry Longspear, the knight pointing a gloved finger toward the main gate. Basil felt a prickle of annoyance.
Why did the man have to have such a good nose? Of all the guards in the army, it had to be the "nun-hunter" who smelled a bit of roasted meat and ruined Basil’s secret voyage.
His displeasure must have been plain on his face, because Rodry scratched the back of his ear, looking a bit embarrassed.
"Please, Young Master, don’t look at me like that," the knight muttered. "It wasn’t my fault I found you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. I was just doing my job."
"How ironic," Basil replied, his voice dripping with the kind of sharp wit he had inherited from his father. "Truly, it is only the most impeccable among us who are given the right to judge a sinner. You are doing the All-Father’s work, Sir Rodry. I’m sure the nuns would agree next time you go praying with them.Make sure to light a candle for me when you are done kneeling to the Star."
He didn’t wait for a response, turning his head away as something much more interesting caught his eye near a line of heavy infantry.
"Young lord!" Rodry called out, sounding exasperated as he hurried to keep up with the boy who was already weaving through the ranks of the legionnaires.
Word of the young prince’s presence had spread through the tents like a wildfire, and just as the Lord of Bracum had predicted, the frontline soldiers didn’t see him as a burden. To Basil’s surprise, his arrival was met with a warmth that felt nothing like the stiff, forced bows of the palace servants.
Everywhere he turned, men in mud-stained mail smiled and inclined their heads. They looked at him with a kind of genuine pride, as if his presence made their hardship more meaningful. He knew the troops held a half-divine reverence for his father, and it seemed that by the simple law of blood, they were more than happy to extend that devotion to him.
Basil stopped in front of a legionnaire who was sitting on a low stool. The man’s eyes went wide as he realized who was standing there, and he scrambled to his feet, tucking a dented helmet under one arm while bowing low.
"Your Grace," the soldier grunted.
The man was as rough as a cobblesand road. He had the legion’s emblem stamped proudly into his chest plate, and his face was smeared with the morning’s grease and dirt, untouched by the water barrel.
"Am I disturbing your work, legionnaire?" Basil asked, trying to sound as regal as his father.
"Disturbing? Not a bit. An honor, truly," the soldier said. He glanced down at a small skin of vinegar sitting near his feet. "A sip for His Grace? I’d heard you took a liking to the tart stuff yesterday.Don’t know when we going to get the next refill, ought to drink while it last."
"You heard wrong, I fear," Basil said with a small grimace. "But I thank you for the offer. I was actually wondering... what are you doing with that?" He pointed to the helmet and the oily rag in the man’s hand.
"He’s oiling his gear, obviously—" Sir Rodry started to interject from behind.
"I didn’t ask you, dog-nose!" Basil shot back, not even looking at the knight. He kept his eyes on the legionnaire, who was glancing back and forth between the Prince’s son and the frustrated guardsman.
"Just like the ser said, I’m oiling my kit," the soldier said, his voice deep and gravelly as if he had swallowed sand. "Rust is a bitch, if you’ll pardon the tongue,your Grace. It eats through your protection faster than a worm through apple. If you ignore it and the metal fails in a fight, you might realize your mistake, but you won’t be around to fix it next time."
"How often do you have to do that?" Basil asked, watching the man rub the dark oil into the steel.
"Regulation says once a week, but most of us do it more if the rain’s been heavy," the soldier explained. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦
Basil’s eyes widened. He did a quick bit of math in his head, once a week for a thousand of men, thousand of helmets, thousand of breastplates. How much does Father spend on oil alone? It was a fortune just to keep the army from turning into a pile of orange flakes.
That was astonishing...he wanted to know more about it.
"My father always says that on campaign, a general ought to eat what his soldiers eat," Basil said,apparently but not really changing the subject as his stomach gave a faint, hopeful rumble. "He says it’s the only way to know the health of the host. What do you usually be eating? If I’m to stay, I’ll be sharing your table."
The soldier wiped his hands on his breeches and gave a rough laugh. "Well,we be eating better than most folks think, I reckon.Once a week, the cooks find us some meat, salt pork or beef if we’re lucky. Most days, it’s a big pot of pasta with potatoes to keep the belly full, or a thick soup."
"Soup?"
"Aye, pea porridge mostly, with a hunk of bread,soft one. Prince be praised for that, grew with bread hard enough to kill a man if thrown right. Gods bless your father little lord, got myself a hefty pay and a full stomach." the man grinned, showing a missing tooth. "And we get eggs sometimes,never had eggs before..... Truth be told, when we’re back at garrison duty and not marching through the muck, it’s a proper feast. They even give us milk and fresh eggs for breakfast twice a week."
Basil stood there for a moment, his mind whirling. He had always seen the carts and the bags of grain, but he had never truly thought about the sheer mountain of food needed to keep thousands of bellies from crying out. To get pasta, potatoes, eggs, and meat to this many men, out in the middle of nowhere, was a task so big it made his head spin.
"That must be a lot....’’ Basil muttered, mostly to himself.
The legionnaire’s smile faded just a little, replaced by a grim look. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping an octave. "It’s good for now, little lord. But our sub-centurion came by the tents this morning. Told us we’ll soon be eating differently from what we’re used to. Said the carts are staying back and we’re going light."He spat on the ground before realizing what he had done and apologizing.
"It’s a bitch, it really is," the soldier admitted, using his oily rag to buff a shine into the brow of his helmet. "No man likes a growling gut when he’s trying to sleep. But life is what it is, and we aren’t the types to whine about it. Mean we the legions, if we cannot suffer bit of hunger we ought to pack our shit and crawl back home.
The same muck that goes in our mouths goes in his grace. If he can march on a half-ration of pea-water, then by the gods, so can we.
Through blood, shit, and hunger we with him.As we did for the last decade, so we ought to do for another and another after that."
Basil looked at the man’s dirty face and wondered from where so much respect for a man he would rarely see could ever come from...
"Thank you for your time, legionnaire," Basil said, nodding with respect. "And for the lesson on the oil. I’ll try to remember that when I am prince"
The soldier grinned, his rough face crinkling at the corners. "The honor was mine, little lord. Truly." He reached down, picking up the small skin of vinegar and holding it out one last time with a hopeful glint in his eye. "You sure about a sip? It’s got a kick that’ll wake you up better than any morning bell.
You are young little lord, ought to get yourself a sip to grow better and straight...my mama always gave me one when she could, and I came tall as a tree and thick as a wall. And the ladies loves that, aye they do...."
