Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 403: Outsiders(2)

As the warriors crested the final hill, the outsider’s camp sprawled before them, a strange and unnatural sight against the rugged landscape. The murmur of voices rippled through their ranks, some filled with excitement, others laced with curiosity and skepticism.

"Look at that," one warrior muttered, gripping the shaft of his spear with anticipation. "We’ll be feasting on their weapons before the sun sets."

"They don’t even know what’s coming for them," another chuckled, running a calloused hand over the edge of his axe.

A younger warrior, barely past his first blood, squinted at the fortifications ahead, daunted by it, as he even thought he tried not to show it , he was a bit scared from the constructions in front of him.

Despite the bravado of many , the sight of the camp gave even the most seasoned among them pause. It was no mere collection of tents hastily thrown together, as they had expected. Instead, it was something else entirely—something built to endure and leave its mark.

Encircling the entire camp was a two-meter-tall wall of wooden logs, thick and reinforced, driven deep into the earth. The top bristled with sharpened stakes, positioned to skewer any who dared climb. But more unsettling than the height of the wall was the trench dug before it—a deep ditch, lined with wickedly pointed stakes at the bottom. Any man unlucky enough to fall while scaling the walls would not only find himself trapped but impaled, his broken bones the least of his concerns.

There were no banners fluttering, differently from what the scouts he had sent had reported to Varaku. Smoke curled into the sky from what must have been fires, though it was impossible to tell if they were for warmth, cooking, or something else entirely.

The warriors studied the layout in silence, their earlier chatter slowing as the reality of the sight before them settled in. This was not the camp of a band of lost wanderers.Perhaps they were truly in for a fight

And now, they would have to break it.

Varaku stood at the front of his warriors, his eyes fixed on the wooden walls rising before him. His grip on the hilt of his axe tightened, though not out of anger or anticipation—but uncertainty. This... this was something he had not seen before.

For a man who had spent his life leading raids, ambushing enemies in the mountain passes, and clashing against rival tribes in brutal, open combat, this kind of warfare was entirely foreign to him. A wall, a ditch, —this was not how battles were fought in the mountains. There was no open ground to charge into, no hidden paths to strike from, no place to lure the enemy into a trap.

He exhaled slowly, his expression darkening. None of them—not him, not his warriors—had any experience in storming a fortification. In their lands, enemy garrisons never lasted long enough to require such a thing. If the Azanians dared to send men into the mountains, they would hole up in whatever ruin or makeshift palisade they could, but it never mattered. The tribes knew how to bleed an enemy without ever facing them directly. fгeewebnovёl.com

It was simple: they would cut them off. Every foraging party sent out for food would be hunted down, every attempt at resupply would be ambushed. The mountains gave nothing to outsiders—no food, no shelter, no escape. Within weeks, starvation and despair would set in, and then, inevitably, the soldiers trapped inside would make their move. Desperate and broken, they would attempt to flee under the cover of darkness, trying to slip away before death claimed them. But the tribes knew the land far better than they ever could, and when the enemy finally emerged to escape, they would be waiting.

That was how wars were won here. Not with sieges or walls, but with patience and blood.

if there are no supply carts winding their way through the mountain passes, then how are these outsiders sustaining themselves? Had they brought enough provisions to last, or are they waiting for reinforcements and supplies to arrive by water?

His jaw tightened. The latter possibility troubled him, but even if it were true, it did not change the fact that these men were too few. Two hundreds warriors at most. A mere handful compared to the might of the tribe. Even if they had enough food to survive, they did not have the numbers to hold out against a full assault.

He allowed himself a small breath of confidence. They could still starve them if needed—their herds were safe, watched over by the children and elders deep within the hills. There was no fear of an attack on the villages, not from so few enemies. Time, as always, was on their side.

Still, Varaku clenched his fists. Why waste time when the answer was simple?

They would take the fort.

"They are only a fistful of men," he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around his axe. "We can easily overpower them."

He turned his gaze back to the walls, his mind already picturing the battle to come. Once their warriors reached the fortifications, they would scale them, break through, and slaughter the outsiders before they had a chance to react.

Varaku exhaled through his nose, his decision made. There was no need to wait—no need to waste time starving out an enemy so few in number. They would take the fort, and they would take it today.

He turned sharply, his fur-lined cloak shifting with the movement as he faced his warriors. His voice, rough and commanding, cut through the murmurs of the gathered men.

"Go," he ordered, pointing toward the nearby woods. "Cut down some trees. We’ll need ladders to get over that wall."

The tribesmen did not hesitate. At once, axes were pulled from belts and slung over shoulders. Groups of men broke away from the main force, moving swiftly toward the small patch of trees in the distance.

A sudden creak shattered the rhythm of axes striking wood.

Varaku’s head snapped toward the fort as a deep, groaning noise echoed across the clearing. The wooden gates, thick and heavy, were moving. At first, it was only a crack, but then, slowly—deliberately—they began to swing open.

A hush fell over the tribal warriors. Hands flew to weapons, fingers tightening around axe hilts and spear shafts. The excited murmurs died, replaced by tense silence.

"They’re coming," someone muttered under their breath.

The warriors instinctively fell into formation, shields rising, spears leveling toward the gate. Their blood pounded in their ears. If the enemy was launching a sortie, then they would meet them head-on.

But no charge came. No battle cries rang out from behind the walls.

The doors stood open, revealing only emptiness. No soldiers rushed forth, no blades gleamed in the morning light, not the glorious charge that they were expecting from the outsiders within.

The warriors hesitated. They shifted, glancing at one another, uncertainty flickering in their eyes.

From the dark maw of the open gate, five figures emerged.

Four of them moved together, shoulders hunched as they pushed a wooden cart forward, its wheels creaking against the uneven ground. The fifth man walked beside them, his posture unhurried, as if he were merely out for a stroll rather than stepping into the midst of an armed warband.

A heavy silence fell over the gathered warriors.

They gripped their weapons, watching in quiet disbelief as the strange procession advanced. No formation, no shields, no drawn weapons—just a handful of men and a cart.

Murmurs flickered through the ranks. Eyes darted toward Varaku, searching for answers. But their leader was just as baffled as they were.

His brow furrowed as he stared at the approaching group, confusion gnawing at the edge of his thoughts. Were they sending someone to talk? To negotiate?

The outsiders were few, hopelessly outnumbered. What did they have to bargain with?

And yet, here they were, walking toward his warriors, unarmed and unafraid.

Varaku’s fingers flexed around the haft of his axe as he narrowed his eyes at the cart. Whatever this was—he sure as hell did not have any idea on where it would go.

The man walking alongside the cart was unlike any the tribesmen had seen before. His garments shimmered slightly in the morning light, made of fine silk, a fabric so foreign to them that it almost seemed unnatural. His robes were deep blue, embroidered with golden patterns that wove across the fabric like rivers of sunlight. Perhaps if they were not in the middle of an armed expedition, they would have been awed more at clothes they had never laid eyes on, but at the moment, whatever sense of awe was present was overshadowed by confusion.

He moved with a calmness that did not belong on a battlefield, his posture untroubled, his steps unhurried.

Then, as he came within a few meters of the gathered warriors, he stopped.

And bowed.

The motion was smooth, deliberate—his arms at his sides, his head lowering slightly in a display of politeness that none of them could have ever expected

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Should they go forward and just slash the man to death?

It was an absurd sight for certain, a lone man, so richly dressed, standing before them with not even a dagger in his hands. He did not flinch, did not cower, and did not even seem to acknowledge the tension thick in the air, as it seemed he was simply there for a stroll.