NTR: Barbarian Harem Conquest

It was the time for preparation.

Checking every single padlock with a critical eye, Firlia stood by the tailgate, marking her ledger while grumbling under her breath about the sheer expense of buying an enemy army.

Over by the supply crates, Seraphine sat calmly polishing her wooden stiletto with a cloth, while young Sira practically bounced on her heels, wearing a newly fitted leather cuirass over her northern furs.

”I have counted three thousand silver coins and five hundred southern gold pieces,” Firlia stated, slapping her ledger closed before handing the iron key to Seraphine.

”If you kill them instead of bribing them, Seraphine, please remember to bring the chests back. I do not want my budget bleeding into the southern mud.”

”If I end up killing them, Firlia, I will bring you their captain’s armor as a bonus.” Seraphine slipped the key into her tunic without looking up from her blade.

”I hear eastern steel fetches a reasonable price on the trade market.”

”Can we kill just a few of them, Commander?” Sira begged, swinging two short, combat-sharp axes through the air with a vicious whistle.

”What if one of them insults my hair? Or your boots? Can I chop his legs off?”

Kane walked over, catching Sira by the shoulder of her new armor and turning her around to face him.

”You are going there to look like a dangerous guard, Sira, not to start a butcher shop. Keep your axes at your belt unless Seraphine gives you the signal. We want their swords pointing at Sylvander, not at us.”

”Fine.” Sira crossed her arms with a stubborn pout.

”But if they say no to the gold, I get the first swing.”

’Sending Sira into a delicate negotiation is like throwing a torch into a dry granary, but that is exactly why she is going with Seraphine,’ Kane thought, checking the straps on his own saddle.

’The Vanguard are seasoned killers; they will see through a standard diplomat instantly. A quiet, terrifying First Blade paired with a twitchy, bloodthirsty northern barbarian sends the exact message we need: we are not here to beg.’

As twilight settled over the southern pass, two columns departed the fortress in total silence.

Kane, Thora, Brak, and Kessa led the primary siege force down the main southern highway toward the Elven checkpoints, while Rutheus and his three thousand mountain berserkers vanished into the western tree line, scaling the steep ridges overlooking the mercenary encampment without lighting a single torch.

Riding beside Thora at the head of the ballista column, Kane kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Up above, Griselda flew high above the forest canopy, acting as an aerial scout to ensure the Elven border towers remained blind to their movements.

”The Elven border guards haven’t sent a messenger pigeon in twelve hours,” Thora noted, lowering her brass spyglass.

”Your siege ballistae have completely cut off their supply road. They are sitting in the dark waiting for orders that aren’t coming.”

”Let them wait.” Kane adjusted his reins as Brak lumbers alongside his horse carrying his giant iron tower shields.

”The longer they sit in silence, the more their imagination ruins their morale. How is Kessa handling the infantry pace?”

”My feet are fine, Commander!” Kessa popped out from the line of shield-bearers behind them, her tufted ears twitching as she grinned up at him.

”But the forest smells like roasted elk from the mercenary camp. It is making my stomach growl.”

”Hold your appetite, little tiger.” Kane laughed, patting his horse’s mane.

”By dawn, we will be eating breakfast in the Elven Queen’s outer customs house.”

Night fell over the valley, wrapping the Black Vanguard encampment in tension as hungry soldiers gathered around dim campfires, complaining bitterly about delayed wages and dwindling rations.

Without alerting a single perimeter watchman, Seraphine and Sira stepped out from the shadows directly inside the main command tent, where Captain Vane, a scarred eastern mercenary with a saber at his hip, argued with his lieutenants over a map table.

When the officers drew their blades in sudden panic, Seraphine did not even flinch.

Moving with effortless grace, she simply kicked a wooden chest across the rug until it slammed against the table hilt; the lid popped open, spilling a glittering cascade of southern gold pieces across the parchment.

”Who let you in here?” Captain Vane barked, his hand dropping to his saber hilt as he glared at the two intruders.

”Guards!”

”Your guards are currently arguing over a dice game fifty yards away, Captain.” Seraphine stepped into the candlelight, her hands resting casually at her sides.

”I wouldn’t call them. My little friend here has been waiting all afternoon for an excuse to test her new axes.”

”He looks soft, Seraphine.” Sira offered a wide, feral grin, resting her palms on her axe hilts while staring directly at Vane’s throat.

”Can I hit him?”

Vane looked down at the gold spilling across his map, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Seraphine’s cold, dead-calm gaze.

”You’re Kane’s people. The Barbarian of Menual.”

”I am.” Seraphine gave a slight nod.

”And my master offers you a simple contract. Three thousand silver and five hundred gold today, plus free passage back to the eastern trade roads. In exchange, you break your contract with Sylvander and walk away before sunrise.”

”The Elven Queen promised us double our rate once her trade route opens up!” Vane scoffs, stepping away from the table with a sneer. ”We are three thousand strong, girl. Why would we run from a border Warlord?”

Before Seraphine could answer, a low, terrifying vibration shook the canvas walls of the command tent.

Outside, along the entire western mountain ridge overlooking the encampment, three hundred bonfires suddenly ignited in unison.

A deafening, synchronized chorus of northern warhorns ripped through the night air, followed immediately by the blood-chilling war cry of three thousand mountain berserkers beating their weapons against their shields.

Vane rushed to the tent flap, his face draining of color as he looked up at the western hills glowing with fire and northern tribal banners.

”What... what is that?”

”That is Warlord Rutheus of the Blood-Horn tribe.” Seraphine appeared right behind his shoulder without making a sound, her voice a whisper in his ear.

”He brought a few mountain friends to watch our negotiation. Now, Captain Vane... do you want the gold, or do you want to explain to three thousand northern berserkers why you rejected their Warlord’s generosity?”