Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 632: Goods(2)

Vashen was the first to step into the chieftain’s newly conquered hutt, his frame tall and proud as the blood of victory still pulsed hot in his veins.

Behind him came Valen, slower, more measured—his eyes scanning the interior not with awe or reverence, but the cool detachment of a man whom of the fall of a tribe only cared about how many slave he would get out of it.

The so-called hall was a disappointment, though Valen had prepared himself for little.

Still, it struck him how ordinary it all looked—the uneven wooden beams, the faint smell of ash and old animal hide, the fire pit choked with last night’s embers, as this one actually had a fire pit at least.

He had seen this place before, or one just like it, back in the old , and probably now soon to be deserted Chorsi settlement .

At the time, he’d chalked up the sparse furnishing and plain architecture to the desperation of wartime—makeshift shelters to weather the long exile. But now, in the very heart of a newly reclaimed homeland, he realized this might not have been an exception. It might have been the norm.

Is this how all their chieftains live? he wondered, lips twitching slightly with condescension. Or was this once Varaku’s home before the Duskwindai took it—and they simply kept it the same, like dogs in a stolen den?

Whatever the truth, the place left much to be desired. But then, Valen hadn’t come to inspect architecture. He’d been summoned—requested—by the very man who now ruled these hills again.

So he stepped further in, letting the musky dimness of the chieftain’s hall wrap around him. His boots echoed faintly on the packed earth floor. As he entered, he gave a curt nod to the figure seated at the far end.

Varaku.

Even seated, the man was a wall of muscle and scar, his presence pressing against the air like an avalanche waiting to fall. Firelight glinted off his bronze skin and the streaks of blood still drying on his leathers. It was said that during the final charge he had taken an arrow through the side and simply snapped the shaft off and kept going.

Until this moment, every time Valen had spoken with the man—whether at the edge of a famine or days before the doomed march into exile—Varaku had been a stone. Cold, impassive, always simmering with a quiet rage that never quite broke the surface. Even his voice, when he’d spoken, was like a slab being dragged across gravel.

So when Valen saw him smiling now, genuinely smiling—his scarred face split by a wide, toothy grin—he nearly stopped in his tracks.

It wasn’t a smile of courtly performance. It wasn’t forced, nor polite.

It was the satisfied smile of a man who had walked through hell and emerged with his enemy’s bones crushed beneath his heel.

"You seem surprised,sea-man" Varaku rumbled, voice like thunder rolling through stone. "Did you think I had forgotten how to smile?"

As soon as the words were translated, Valen allowed himself a thin chuckle. "I actually am, great chieftain.I do not know you as a man of easy smile"

Varaku leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, as his eyes gleamed. "It has been a long time since I sat in my father’s hall. I thought I would die before I smelled the firewood of this hearth again."

Valen took a step closer, nodding with measured respect, though his gaze flicked once more across the bare surroundings.

Varaku leaned back, the wooden bench beneath him creaking faintly under his massive frame which for a moment made Valen, think it was about to break.

The firelight danced along the scarred ridges of his face as he regarded Valen with the air of a man finally unburdened.

"Their backs are broken," the chieftain said, voice low but resolute. "The Duskwindai will not rise again, not in these hills at least not again." He gestured vaguely outside, where faint cries still echoed through the ruins of the settlement. "As promised, the captives are yours to decide on. Their men, their women... all of them. You may take what coin they buried, or what flesh still breathes. Once a price is named, they belong to you."

Valen nodded slowly, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

"I’ll send word," Valen said coolly. "Sevarim will ride in toward here to oversee the exchange."

"Good," Varaku rumbled, eyes narrowing with approval.

There was a moment’s quiet, thick with the smoke curling from the central hearth. Then Valen allowed himself a small smile—not warm, but appreciative.

"You’ve done well, great chieftain. A fine victory... and a fine reclaiming of your homeland. I’ll see to it that word of your conquest reaches the court. "

Varaku chuckled softly—again with that smile that still unsettled Valen.

It was not mocking , the strange thing is that it wasn’t either of appreciation.

"You flatter me, outsider" Varaku said, his gaze sharp despite the grin. "But I would be lying if I said it was all done by our hands. Your plan of baiting their warriors into an attack... That is what won the day. When their chief realized he had been flanked, his spirit cracked before his lines did."

" You agreed when I said your warriors would not join the fight," he said, slowly. "But still..." His eyes narrowed, sharp with suspicion. "It was your plan that won the day. By our customs, that gives your men the right to share in the loot. And yet I saw none of your soldiers among the fires. Why?"

Valen didn’t blink, taken back from the question.

"It would not have been right," Valen replied smoothly, his face a mask of diplomatic courtesy. "This was your war. Your home. We had no cause to join in the spoils."

A lie—but one carefully shaped and polished over the past few days.

In truth, the prohibition had come from the prince himself. A rather urgent—and bizarre—directive delivered a long time ago: "No mingling with the locals, under any circumstances."

Alpheo had feared that diseases were to spread like the Spaniards with the colonies.

This was how syphilis had, after all spread to Europe through Colombo’s man.

He, of course feared that the tribes harbored something similar, something festering beneath their skins, lying dormant.,

In his paranoia, Alpheo had even gone so far as to "test" the matter—forcing several Voghondai men and women to lie with Yarzats. When nothing unusual spread or festered, his fears were proven baseless. But like many things with the prince, the initial command had been barked out with such urgency that the act of rescinding it never followed.

He simply forgot about and as such Valen had never received the counter-order.

And so he enforced it still, holding the line through awkward silence and half-truths, despite his men’s grumbling. The troops under him weren’t hardened elites from the Black Stripes. These were conscripts and volunteers—young men from the Crownlands promised coin, land, or redemption.

Many had never marched beyond their home valleys. To deny them the flesh and gold they saw around them was no easy thing. More than once, Valen had found himself dragging soldiers by the scruffs of their collars away from wailing captives to receive lashes.

It had been a small miracle that the prohibition had held this long.

Varaku, meanwhile, continued to study him with those quiet, shrewd eyes. His smile had slipped a little, his brows knit with unspoken questions. But he said nothing.

Instead, the giant exhaled through his nose and leaned back again.

"Strange customs" he muttered. "To win a war and refuse the feast after."

Valen allowed himself the smallest, most diplomatic smile.

"Perhaps," he said, "that’s why we win so many."

At that the chieftain laughed, a deep-chested thing, and clapped his massive hands together.

Valen offered a slight bow of his head, concealing the tension in his spine. He knew this exchange wouldn’t be the last time he had to dance around the truth. Nor the last time he’d feel the prince’s unseen hand on his shoulder, pulling strings from far away—whether remembered or forgotten.

A quiet settled between the two men—not hostile, not tense, but curiously weighty. Valen tilted his head slightly, sensing something unspoken in the stillness. Across from him, Varaku seemed to wrestle with thoughts, his thick brows drawn together in contemplation, eyes drifting briefly to the dirt floor before returning to Valen’s face.

Then the chieftain spoke.

"Our vengeance against the Duskwindai has been... glorious," Varaku began, his voice deep but measured. "The shame of exile was theirs to bear. The price of humiliation, theirs to repay and delivered by us alone. That is why I refused your men for the campaign. This was a debt of blood owed by our hands alone."

His tone was not defensive, but deliberate—an explanation offered not out of guilt, but principle.

"But now," Varaku continued, his expression softening ever so slightly, "your presence here has shown the tribe you stand not as watcher, but as friend. And for that..." He dipped his head, bowing slightly, one great hand brushing his chest.

Valen blinked.

So did Vanesh, who stared slack-jawed at his father, his eyes wide, mouth parted in astonishment. It was clear the boy had never seen the old warrior bow to anyone.

Varaku, whose pride could crack bone, had bent his neck—for him, an outsider?

"It is our pleasure to count the Chorsi among our most loyal allies," Valen replied, schooling his features into a dignified mask, though some trace of wonder lingered in his tone.

The chieftain gave a nod at that, but did not sit back. Instead, he leaned forward once more, his voice now lower, heavier with meaning.

"If it is a pleasure to both sides," he said, "then perhaps it is time our peoples do more than trade steel and salt."

Valen’s breath caught.

"We would like to propose a formal alliance with your prince."

If the bow had been surprising, this struck like a blow to the chest. Not painful, but sharp, sudden—an impact that knocked the air out of him for a moment. He felt his posture stiffen before he could stop it.

An alliance.

By the gods if that wasn’t the best reward out of the whole ordeal

Updated from fr𝒆ewebnov𝒆l.(c)om