Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 610: Helper in , Informer out(1)

The tribe was in high mood for war.

That much was clear to Valen as he strode through the heart of the settlement, his eyes sweeping across a sea of frantic movement and half-shouted orders. Fires crackled in open pits, men shouted chants in their guttural tongue, and children dashed between tents bearing bundles of arrows and sloshing waterskins.

It was a strange sort of joy, the kind born only when men were about to risk everything for something they believed in.

Dozens of warriors bore short swords, spears, and curved axes forged from Yarzat steel, the polished sheen of the metal a stark contrast to the coarse hides and hand-woven tunics they wore beneath.

The finest equipment had been given to the elder warriors — those grizzled veterans whose scars traced the story of a lifetime of raids and mountain ambushes. The rest were clothed in more meager fashion: animal pelts thrown over wool-padded tunics, feet bound in leather strips, helmets fashioned crudely from hide.

In truth, much of their gear was barely more than ornament — ceremonial in spirit, functional only in name. But none of them seemed to care. No one complained. No one hung back. Even those who bore only clubs or hatchets marched as though they already heard the songs that would be sung of their deeds.

What truly stood out — what made Valen pause more than once in silent contemplation — was the morale. It surged like a river through the camp.

It’s worth noting, he thought perhapse reasoning that he should tell this to the cribe, watching a trio of young men paint crimson stripes across their faces in front of a fire, that they lack the timidity of our peasants; perhaps the hard life in the mountains toughed them up.

In Yarzat, he’d seen how levies fought. Poor farmers dragged from their fields and handed spears too long for their arms. Morale was low, resentment high. They fought because they were told to, not because they wanted to.

Only the Black Stripes — the professional army that made the princedom rise under Alpheo — approached war with anything like zeal. Even then, it was greed and duty, that drove them forward.

Yet here, among these so-called savages, the feeling was different.

Perhaps it had to do with their rites — the way a boy became a man through blood. Perhaps it was because they weren’t fighting for coin or order but for something elemental: land, identity, pride. The hills they sought to reclaim weren’t just territory. They were home. Sacred. Stolen.

Valen made another mental note to record that once he was alone.

In truth, he felt out of place here. A soldier by trade, a commander of men. The ink and quill had never felt natural in his hand. He could read, yes, and even write if pressed — the basics taught to any who achieved the rank of sub-centurio or decurio. But words felt too soft in his grip, like trying to fence with silk.

Thankfully, he had a workaround. A servant of the diplomat assigned to the Yarzat trade fort had been given to him — a quiet man with quick fingers and sharp eyes, who scribbled down every word Valen dictated. Together, they would record the flow of this war: how the tribes marched, how they fed themselves, how they chose their campgrounds and most importantly how they fought.

The Prince had instructed him personally. This was not merely an observation mission. It was an investment. Half the tribe had agreed to settle in Yarzat lands in exchange for steel, wine, salt, and shelter. The rest had stayed behind, unwilling to abandon their sacred mountains. Now, with the steel they’d been given, they were marching to reclaim what had once been theirs.

And Valen? He was here to make sure they didn’t waste it.

He knew very well that Aron — the young diplomat who had first made contact with the tribes — had already documented much of what could be gleaned from their way of life. Customs, trade habits, familial structures, rites of passage, the gods or better yet minor gods they prayed to — all had been diligently recorded in neat columns of script.

Captain Valen, however, was the sword.

His duty was not to learn how they lived, but how they fought.

Does the Prince believe conflict between us and them is in the future?, Valen wondered, adjusting the clasp of his cloak as he walked purposefully through the dust of the tribal camp, headed straight toward the Chieftain’s hut.

That was the official reason for his mission — one delivered with all the cold precision of military bureaucracy.

But of course Alpheo hadn’t sent him merely to record tribal tactics in case of a future war

No — the Prince was chasing something else entirely.

Curiosity.

A hunger not for conquest, but for understanding.

Only the few that entertained proper dialogues with him , had seen it in the man’s eyes: that glint of a scholar’s mind buried within the sharp frame of a ruler. Alpheo might wear the silks and crests of power now, but he had once worn the robes of study. He had once been a historian before he was a prince and before he was a slave — and he had never truly put down that mantle.

Truth be told, Valen would have felt more at ease with a full century at his back.

Yet, he had been told he was allowed to bring no more than ten men as his personal guard — a meager retinue, in his view, considering he was to walk among warriors whose blood still boiled with songs of conquest, still given that they had horses he could make use of them as scouts.

He didn’t voice his displeasure, of course. He understood that those savages they traded with were on their guard with them, so it was already kind enough to allow him to follow, though he believed it was more of a concession given the loan that they were given .

Besides, his hands were already full: not only had he been chosen as the Prince’s eyes and ears for this tribal campaign, but he had also been promoted.

Governor of Salthold.

He hadn’t expected it. The official seal had arrived with little ceremony, affixed to a document that smelled faintly of wax and sea-salt, bearing the Prince’s signature and the crown’s sigil . Apparently, Alpheo had no intention of leaving the foothold on this continent as a temporary outpost. Yarzat had planted its banner here — and it meant to let it fly.

Governor... The word still felt strange on his tongue, but a promotion was a promotion, and Valen wasn’t the sort of man to look a warhorse in the mouth.

He was no fool either. If trade increased — and it likely would, given the sudden influx of settlers from the tribes that had accepted the Prince’s invitation — Salthold could swell into something greater than just a fort of stone and spears. It could grow into a town. A city, even.

A new Harmway across the sea. frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

There was something intoxicating about it — the idea of shaping a city from raw earth, of being the first to draw lines on a map where no border had been inked before. This was a virgin land, untouched by the fingers of commerce. No toll roads, no merchant guilds squabbling over tariffs, no noble families staking claims over the gains that will be made here

Yet.

Of course, for now, dreams of city walls and golden markets were still dreams. Reality was far simpler — and far leaner. The garrison survived largely off the sea, fishing when the tides were kind, and drying what they could for the lean weeks. Meat was bartered from the locals — goat, mostly, though sometimes he also had half a mind to buy living animals and make a herd.

Wild vegetables were also foraged in the mornings, and the rest was grain brought in by ship, though the voyage was long and the wind not always cooperative.

It wasn’t exactly the bounty he were used to when he served as a sub-centurio, but it was enough to keep men standing and swords sharp. Still, if this land was to bear fruit, a more stable means of sustenance would need to be found.

Farming, perhaps — though the soil was stubborn — or breeding livestock inland, provided the tribes could be persuaded to give up a portion of their herds.

There was much work to be done, and Valen knew it. But he also knew the shape of opportunity when he saw it.

Finally , ahead loomed the chieftain’s longhut, a crooked, smoke-darkened building adorned with antlers, bones, and streamers of faded cloth.

It was barbaric — but not without its own kind of dignity. Like a war hound that didn’t care how many fleas it carried, so long as its teeth were sharp.

At his side, the new diplomat Sevarim, though the position resembled more that of a royal merchant, walked with considerably less martial grace, though his pale robes were fine and his steps light. He cleared his throat — not too loudly — and tilted his head toward Valen with the air of a man about to deliver a delicate warning.

"Captain, I would only ask," he began, voice smooth like polished silver, "that you remember these people are different from us. Their ways may seem crude, but they hold honor in things we do not. It would... help the Prince’s cause if we did not seem hostile."

Valen’s eye twitched, but to his own surprise, he didn’t immediately bark the man down. There was something refreshingly calm about Sevarim — unlike his predecessor, Aron, whose tongue was too sharp and pride too swollen to last long outside Yarzat’s polished courts. At least this one seemed the sort who could be brought to heel with a look, rather than a fist.

He liked that.

Still, his patience had its limits.

"Don’t speak to me like I’m a whelp fresh from the womb" Valen muttered without looking at him. "I know well enough how deep the Prince’s interest runs in the chieftain’s greed for our steel and our wine. If you think I’d risk that over a poorly timed grunt, then you’ve taken me for a fool — and I don’t like that."

Sevarim bowed slightly, hands clasped before him like a court priest. "Forgive me, Si- Governor. I only meant to express my gratitude for your prudence."

Valen snorted, more amused than irritated now. "If you want to show gratitude, then do your job right. We don’t need our only trade line snapping because they decided to migrate...."

Sevarim’s smile faltered slightly, a flicker of concern darting behind his otherwise serene expression. "I understand. But I do believe the chieftain values this relationship as much as we do, despite the soil that may soon to be between us. Trade brings him power, and power is a language he speaks fluently."

Valen finally glanced at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Let’s hope he doesn’t suddenly decide to start speaking in another."

Visit freewe𝑏n(o)v𝒆l.𝑐𝘰𝑚 for the best novel reading experience