Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 611: Helper in , informer out(2)

It’s fucking awful, Valen thought grimly as he stepped into the chieftain’s living quarters, his boots sinking slightly into the uneven dirt floor.

He had tried — really tried — to keep an open mind about their way of life. But this... this was little more than a barn with walls. The structure, if it could be called that, was made of stacked logs lashed together with sinew, and the roof was a sagging mess of dried hay, more fit for sheltering cattle than the supposed ruler of a people.

There wasn’t a single proper decoration in sight. No carving, no banner, no painted totem or symbol of station.

The only nod to wealth or comfort was the pelt of an old stag stretched out in the center of the floor — and Valen was fairly certain that was what passed for the chieftain’s bed. The thing was moth-bitten and smelled faintly of wet dog.

Gods’ Grace, Valen cursed inwardly, his lip twitching. There isn’t even a bloody fireplace.

It was summer, yes — warm enough not to need a fire — but still. The absence of a hearth in the dwelling of a chieftain was beyond strange. It meant, come winter, this hut would turn into an icebox. A man could hardly scratch his own arse without it freezing off.

They probably don’t even know how to make proper chimneys, Valen thought, casting a glance up at the ceiling. Green-stained thatch loomed overhead, ready to collapse in a soggy heap at the first good rain.

Or maybe they avoided fire indoors for fear of burning the entire village down. A fair concern, considering how the whole place looked ready to catch with a single spark.

Whatever he was thinking, it must have shown plainly on his face. Sevarim, standing just behind him, gave him a discreet nudge with his elbow — the kind of jab meant to remind him where they were.

Valen grunted in response but hid his sneer as the chieftain entered.

The man was tall — easily a head above Valen — with long braids tied with bone and beads, a patchy beard. He looked more like a man about to lead a raid than one about to conduct diplomacy.

Varaku stood silent, looming like an ancient tree as he studied Valen from helmet to boots. His gaze lingered on the polished steel breastplate, the leather straps tight across his broad shoulders, and especially on the vivid red plume sprouting from the governor’s helmet — like the proud crest of a fighting cock. A bold piece of ornamentation, that. Loud. Confident. Almost inviting a challenge.

The chieftain’s face, lined by wind and weather, was cast into a scowl that might have sent lesser men shrinking behind their retinues. But if the old warrior was trying to unnerve the Governor of Salthold with sheer presence — with his impressive height, the furs draped over his shoulders, the glint of animal teeth strung around his neck — he would find no such reward.

Valen returned the look without so much as a twitch, his dark eyes as impassive and unforgiving as worn stone. His jaw was set firm, his back straight, his hands clasped neatly behind him. He looked not like a guest in another man’s hall, but like a commander inspecting a fresh recruit. There was no fear, no submission, not even a flicker of discomfort in his expression. Just cool appraisal, the kind of look a man gives a bear before deciding whether to draw his sword or walk away.

If Valen was a diplomat, it was only by temporary assignment — and both men knew it.

Aron, the former envoy, had warned Valen well before he set sail for the tribes: these people respected courage more than silver, and saw fear as weakness. For the mountain folk, valor wasn’t just a virtue — it was currency, law, and lineage. One didn’t negotiate with them from behind silk and scrolls. You looked them in the eye, you stood your ground, and if needed, you bled on it.

This moment, Valen knew, was merely a test — a silent ritual of measuring. And from the way Varaku let out a short, approving snort through his nose, the governor had apparently passed.

The chieftain’s hard gaze eased just slightly. His shoulders shifted, less like a beast ready to lunge, and more like a man willing to talk. That sharp exhalation wasn’t frustration. It was satisfaction.

To Varaku’s credit, the tactic often worked — even on seasoned warriors of his own tribe. That wordless stare, that towering presence, had cowed more than a few into bowing or stammering. But not Valen. Never Valen.

Valen was of the old core. He served as a slave for the campaigns of the War-Imperator Gratios, and when the time had come, he spat in Romelia’s face and raised the banner of rebellion following a starved boy. He hadn’t inherited the command he now had through noble blood or polished manners — no, his rise was carved through grit, scars, and the slow, bitter coin of experience.

Alpheo had seen that in him. Had seen the cold nerve, the sharp edge of discipline, and the iron behind his eyes. That was why he chose him — not just to be a subcenturio, not just a governor, but the man entrusted with Yarzat’s foothold in these untamed lands.

With the chieftain’s attempt at intimidation clearly having fallen flat, Sevarim stepped forward in haste, trying to smooth over what he assumed was a rising tension. Ever the diplomat, he mistook the chieftain’s prolonged silence and piercing gaze for brewing displeasure — rather than what it truly was: an appraisal. A test of weight.

He gestured respectfully, bowing his head slightly, and spoke up with the translator at his side, his voice careful and measured.

"Great Chieftain," Sevarim began, "this is Governor Valen, chosen representative of Prince Alpheo, here to observe and accompany your campaign as a witness of goodwill."

The translator, a young tribesman dressed in simple hide garments but sharp-eyed, relayed the message in the guttural, rhythmic syllables of their tongue from the Azanian tongue.

Varaku gave another sharp exhale through his nose — less a snort this time, more a grunt of disinterest — and turned his back to them without ceremony. He moved toward a squat wooden table tucked along the far wall, where a carafe of Yarzat wine stood half-empty, the rich scent of fermented grape still hanging in the warm air of the chieftain’s home.

He poured himself another cup and took a slow sip. At least he likes the wine, Valen noted dryly. That carafe had not been full when they entered.

Then, in a low voice rough like gravel under boots, Varaku muttered something to the translator who then ralayed it in Azanian, gesturing slightly toward Valen with the edge of his cup.

The translator hesitated a beat, blinking, before leaning toward Sevarim and whispering quickly. Sevarim’s brows lifted ever so slightly in relief before turning to Valen and saying in the Southern tongue:

"He says... It seems your Great Chieftain has sent a good warrior to us."

Valen allowed himself the ghost of a smile — barely a twitch of his lip — and gave Varaku a nod of appreciation, his tone still hard but not ungracious.

"Tell him I thank him for his words."

The translator relayed it. Varaku gave a grunt of acknowledgment, more focused now on swirling his wine than any further formalities.

Then the chieftain looked over the rim of his cup and asked something else, his voice rougher, more direct.

Again, the translator whispered to Sevarim, who cleared his throat and said, "He asks if you intend to contribute in any meaningful way... or if you are simply here to watch."

Valen’s eyes narrowed slightly, amused rather than offended.

"I would have contributed more if I’d been allowed to bring more than ten men," he said, with a slight edge of sarcasm undercutting his otherwise calm tone.

The translator repeated the words dutifully. Varaku did not respond — he simply took another long drink, the wine washing down whatever opinion he had of the statement.

Valen continued after a breath, his voice steady, louder now to be heard clearly by the chieftain.

"My men ride light and fast. They’ll serve well as scouts, far better than men on foot. You have seen their steed and I am sure that you people are familiar with them. As for myself..." He let the words hang briefly before finishing, "I’ve seen more battles than most of your warriors have winters behind them. If allowed, I can offer humble counsel on how best to wield the steel the prince gave your people."

That, at least, earned a glance. Varaku didn’t answer immediately — didn’t rush to fill the silence like a lesser leader might. He studied Valen over the rim of his cup as though re-evaluating the man.

Still, he said nothing.

Instead, the chieftain downed the rest of his wine in a single, long pull and set the cup down with a quiet thunk. The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.

Varaku finally lowered the empty cup from his lips and placed it back onto the crude wooden table with a deliberate clack. He spoke in his deep, gravelled tongue — slow and measured, though not without an edge of command. The translator leaned forward to catch every word.

"He says," Sevarim translated, "that he will listen to your advice... and then decide for himself."

Valen gave a curt nod, neither pleased nor offended. That was more than he expected, honestly — and more than most foreign commanders would have been given.

Seeing the air slightly cleared, Sevarim stepped forward with a more diplomatic posture, clasping his hands before him and casting a meaningful look toward both men. His tone took on the warm cadence of practiced formality, his voice rising just enough to carry across the hut without sounding intrusive.

"Great Chieftain," he began, "let me take a brief moment to express how honored we are by your continued friendship. The goodwill between your people and ours has grown stronger with each passing season — steel for strength, salt and wine for spirit — a bond both practical and, we hope, enduring."

He paused to let the translator catch up, watching Varaku’s face for any hint of emotion. The chieftain’s eyes were unreadable — but he was listening.

"However," Sevarim continued, "there is a matter of concern. We know you march soon to reclaim your hills — your true home. But... once you return to those highlands, the distance between us will grow. Trade will no longer flow through the tribe as swiftly, and with such distance, bonds can weaken."

He opened his hands slightly, as if to offer the problem for joint contemplation.

"We hope... something might be done to preserve what we’ve built together."

The chieftain listened, silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he spoke — low and deliberate. The translator straightened as he parsed the words.

"He says," the young man began, glancing toward Valen and Sevarim, "that they like trading with the outsiders. That will not change — even when they take back their hills. He says they will leave some of their kin behind, down here in the lowlands, to keep the path between them open."

Varaku now looked directly at Sevarim, his voice more assured as he added a final line. The translator didn’t even wait for prompting.

"He says the time it takes to carry goods will change... but their friendship will not."

Sevarim exhaled softly through his nose, bowing with genuine gratitude. "Then all matters of business are concluded — and I could not be more pleased."

With that, he stepped back with a small smile and gave Valen a subtle wave of the hand, as if passing a torch.

"I’ll let you handle things from here, Governor," he murmured, just loud enough for Valen to hear. "War is more your craft than mine, and I’ve said all I needed to say. Now I can sit back, drink a bit of their wine, and thank the gods diplomacy doesn’t require hiking through hills in chainmail."

’’Do as you wish,’’ Valen spat, as he waited for whatever accommodations could be given to him and his bodyguards, knowing very well that in the prince’s best interest to see Varaku’s tribe overwhelm their opponents, as after all war created business and business created interest for all parties.

As for what the prince wished for now was for the tribes to be at war, at which point they will see the outsider as the only source to level the field between the warring parties.

After all the last thing a weapon dealer wanted was to have peace at his time

The source of this c𝓸ntent is fr(e)𝒆novelkiss