Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 644: March on

He had accounted for everything.

Every man who would march under his banner, every horse that would carry them forward, every mule that would haul the supplies behind. There was not a single figure Alpheo had left uncalculated.

If logistics was a carpet, Alpheo had woven each trend with care.

He had issued explicit orders to each of the great lords who owed him fealty.

This time, each house had been given a precise quota. Not one man more. To most, it might have seemed a strange command—lords were accustomed to arriving at mustering grounds with inflated retinues, hoping to curry favor with their liege by showing off their strength. But Alpheo knew better. He wasn’t looking for political theatre—he was preparing for war.

And war did not reward useless vanity considering that whatever troops they could bring would just be used as cannon fodder at best.

A larger army in this case would be more detrimental than anything, as it meant more mouths to feed, more horses to water, more wagons to keep in repair.

Traditionally, lords would bring just enough provisions for the march and a few weeks of campaigning, expecting the crown to pick up the burden of supply thereafter. It was a practice that drained coffers and left entire campaigns starving in the field by the end of the second month.

But not this time. Alpheo was determined to command a force that could last.

Fortunately, the land had smiled upon them that year. The harvest had been full, golden, and timely.

The grain yield for the crown had risen by a staggering seventy-five percent, bolstered not only by favorable weather but also by the newly claimed tracts of fertile land that had been added to the crown’s holdings after the last campaign, which was the land he has seized from the rebels, plus of course, all the taxes he received from his new vassals.

As it stood, the royal granaries brimmed with wealth: 5,500 bushels of grain, 3,300 bushels of oats, and a staggering 7,200 bushels of barley. These stores had been swelled not just by the most recent harvest’s tax levies, but also by the prudent preservation of last year’s surplus.

Not all of the bounty had been hoarded, of course. The realm had expenses. Though war loomed on the horizon, a crown must always govern for both the present and future. One such investment had been the resettlement of a new labor force—1,800 souls acquired from the trade with their new ally.

Of those, only 500 were grown men capable of taking the field, yet Alpheo had seen the value in every pair of hands, young or old. Most would be settled across the crownlands, scattered in small plots and villages where fertile but untilled earth waited. He did not see them as burdens, but as seeds. Given time, they would yield harvests at every year.

Feeding them had cost a portion of the grain, certainly, but Alpheo considered it an acceptable expenditure. freeweɓnøvel~com

He was building the future. And the first bricks of a strong realm, he knew, were not made of stone—but of people.

Still, those were the worries of peace.

Now, Yarzat was facing war.

"Do you reckon Egil is doing fine?" a voice called out, light in tone but heavy in concern.

Alpheo turned mid-stride, his boots crunching against the gravel of Arduronaven’s ancient courtyard. The voice belonged to none other than Jarza, walking briskly to catch up, his brow furrowed beneath the shadow of his hood.

"You worry too much, Jarza," Alpheo replied with a faint smirk, adjusting the fur-lined cloak draped over one shoulder. He slowed his pace so the two men could walk side by side through the once-proud estate, that had been stained with the color of conquest 4 years ago.

Jarza frowned, unappeased. "It’s been nearly two months since Egil rode out. If it were just a raiding party, I’d sleep soundly, knowing he’d be back with twice the loot and half his men drunk. But that wasn’t the mission, was it?"

Alpheo remained quiet, letting Jarza’s words hang in the chilly morning air.

"He’s not just burning fields or stealing livestock," Jarza continued, his voice low. "He’s herding a damned sea of prisoners behind him. Thousands of them—starving peasants, ragged runaways, women and children. Not soldiers. Dead weight."

Alpheo finally nodded. "Yes. But that weight serves a purpose, and you know it very well."

"A sword is lighter,and currently Egil is moving slowly" Jarza muttered bitterly.

Alpheo stopped walking, turning to glance at the scorched remains of a once-elegant marble colonnade, that had never recovered.

"This place," Alpheo said at last, "was the first stone in the wall we now sit upon.And now it will be the first stone that we will throw to the enemy.I do mean to be the architect of their ruin.

It will be a hard siege that will be plain for all, and yet this is the best moment to go on with it than it will ever be."

He resumed walking. "Tomorrow we leave. We’ll ride out and finally join Egil on the plains west of the Great Jewel. Once we link with him and secure the captives, we’ll have the manpower and leverage to choke the whole city. Then, we take the jewel of the Herculeians . Brick by brick, breath by breath."

He glanced at the surrounding buildings—the once-grand villas now turned into barracks, storehouses, and command posts.

"Lord Vroghios had good taste," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Shame he didn’t have better guards when we came calling."

Jarza chuckled grimly. "A shame, yes. Though I suppose it worked out well for you."

The wind picked up, blowing a swirl of dust through the cracked courtyard stones.

The conversation between Alpheo and Jarza faded naturally, like smoke carried off by the wind. For a long stretch, the two men walked in silence, their boots tapping against weather-worn flagstones.

The only sounds were distant—hooves clopping, iron striking wood, the rhythmic creaking of ropes being tightened. As they passed under a half-fallen arch and into the central plaza, the reason for that creaking became clear.

Before them stood the crown’s siege arsenal for the next few months , now in the midst of careful, almost reverent dismantling. Dozens of men labored in sweat-stained tunics, prying apart the enormous iron joints of counterweight catapults , and coiling thick, sun-dried ropes into manageable bundles.

At the center of it all, standing atop a short rise of stone steps that once led into the estate’s great hall, was Pontus.

Who, upon seeing Alpheo and Jarza approaching, turned immediately and at once stepped down from the stone steps and bowed low.

"Your Grace, as you requested, the preparations are nearly complete," he said, approaching with a sheen of dust clinging to his brow and shoulders. He bowed briefly, then straightened with the quiet pride of a man who knew his work had worth. "By this time tomorrow, all will be in readiness. As per your demands, I’ve drilled my apprentices to perfection. They can now dismantle and reassemble all twelve catapults in a single day."

Alpheo nodded, the corners of his mouth tightening—not quite a smile, but something close. "Very good," he said, his tone clipped as always, but not unkind. "And the stones?"

Pontus gestured behind him toward a growing mountain of misshapen boulders. "We’ve enlisted help from the townsfolk. Quarrymen, stablehands, even old men with mules have done their part. We now have enough stockpiled to fire ten volleys per catapult, per day, for two full weeks."

At that, Alpheo turned fully to face the engineer. His gaze held a flicker of approval.

"You’ve exceeded expectations, Pontus. You’ve done well. But know this—your true task in this war is only just beginning.If you really desire to speed up the building of that sewer , then all will depend on you."

Pontus raised an eyebrow, intrigued rather than intimidated.

"In a week," Alpheo continued, "the entire outcome of this siege may rest on your craftsmanship. As you will be assigned a work so ambitious that it has never been attempted in the history of sieges.If you succeed, your name won’t ever be forgotten in the future.’’

As a response to the proposition, he stood straighter, the weight of the words seeming to embolden him rather than weigh him down. He bowed low, one fist across his chest.

"Then nothing will be amiss, your Grace. Whatever task it is, I will commence upon it with all my efforts."

Alpheo held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a short nod of finality.

"See to it."

And at that he obeyed immediately and as Pontus returned to his men, barking orders once more, the sun dipped below the towers of Arduronaven.

In the hush that followed, Alpheo looked out toward the east—toward Herculia.

There, behind those distant walls, lay the future of the crown that he desired so much.

And soon, stone by stone, as each enemy’s wall crumbles, the pillars that he envisioned for his future kingdom shall be built, a foundation built on corpses and war.

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