Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

A young child leaned over the edge of the old stone well, arms stretched down to grip the coarse, frayed rope attached to a wooden bucket. With a determined furrow in his brow, he gave a strong tug, starting the slow pull of the bucket up from the deep, cool darkness below.

The bucket swayed and sloshed as he drew it closer, spilling droplets of water that caught the early morning light. Finally, with one last pull, he lifted it over the rim, carefully balancing it on the edge of the well. The child’s fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the bucket, tiny trails of water spilling onto the dusty ground and dampening his bare feet,as he tried to drip the water into his bucket.

A sharp shout came from the boy’s right, slicing through the calm morning. He turned, wide-eyed, to see a woman sprinting down the road, her face pale and panicked. ”Bandits! Bandits!” she cried, her voice rising in terror. In moments, others burst from their homes, clutching children and old people, as they starting moving toward the village’s head house, their footsteps a thunderous rumble on the dusty road.

The boy stood frozen for a heartbeat, the heavy bucket slipping from his hands and splashing onto the ground as it tipped, water soaking into the dirt at his feet. Then, his pulse pounding, he turned and began running alongside the others, his small legs pumping as he raced toward the village center, his heart racing with the same frantic beat as the shouts filling the air.

A steady, thunderous pounding filled the air, like distant drums growing closer with every heartbeat. The boy’s ears rang with the rhythm, and he turned, his eyes widening as a sea of horses surged into the village. Leather and iron-clad men rode high upon them, their weapons glinting under the morning sun. Terror seized him, and he spun, legs churning as he ran with all his might.

But it was no use. The riders overtook him effortlessly, two of them pulling away from the rest to circle around him like wolves cornering their prey. The boy stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he fell backward, his small hands slapping against the hard ground. His chest heaved as he looked up, his gaze filled with the sight of towering men clad in chainmail and steel, faces shadowed under iron helms, their swords and axes gleaming as they regarded him with dark, unreadable eyes.

One of the riders loomed over the boy from his saddle, a hulking figure wrapped in dark iron, face shadowed beneath his helmet, eyes like slits of steel. His voice was a rough, jagged bark that seemed to cut through the air. ”Where are the others, boy? Where did they run off to?”

The boy’s throat closed up, his mind blank with fear, legs frozen as he stared up at the towering figure—a monster of metal and scarred flesh. He tried to speak, but no words would come. The rider leaned closer, his shadow swallowing the boy, his voice rumbling louder, sharper, as he repeated, ”Where did they go?”

Hands shaking, the boy finally raised a trembling finger, pointing toward the large house in the center of the village, unable to tear his eyes from the glint of iron at the man’s side. The rider’s harsh gaze followed his finger, and then he looked back down with a sneer.

”Good,” he growled, his voice low and menacing, like the snarl of a wolf. ”Now, get yourself in there and tell whoever’s in charge to get out here, or we’ll burn the whole lot of you inside.”

The boy scrambled to his feet, but before he could move, the rider let out a thunderous shout—”Go!”—and the boy shrieked, fear propelling him forward as he sprinted toward the house, the monstrous figure still burning in his vision.

The child took off running, stumbling at first, his feet pounding the dusty road as he made a desperate dash for the central house. Egil watched him go, leaning back in his saddle with a heavy sigh, one gloved hand resting lazily on the pommel of his sword.

At his side, Rykio, his second-in-command, glanced over, brow raised. ”What’s wrong?”

Egil groaned, stretching his shoulders. ”It’s just bloody boring, isn’t it? All this... waiting around. Can’t even put a torch in one or two houses to liven things up. Takes all the fun out of it.”

Rykio began to murmur a cautious reply, but Egil cut him off with a roll of his eyes. ”Yes, yes, I know what Alpheo ordered. ’Show restraint. Be diplomatic.’ But tell me, Rykio, where’s the thrill in that?”

Egil flashed a wicked grin, his fingers drumming idly on the hilt at his side as he watched the child vanish around the corner. ”Besides, sometimes a little smoke gets things moving faster.”

A few minutes later, the heavy doors of the central building creaked open, and a middle-aged man stepped out, his face pale and eyes wide with fear. He took cautious steps toward the line of horsemen, his gaze flicking from the soldiers’ armored forms to the stern faces staring down at him. He swallowed hard, voice shaky as he began, ”We’re... we’re just simple folk here, good sirs, we—”

Egil cut him off, his voice dismissive. ”Spare me. I’ve heard it a thousand times. ’Simple folk and we mean no harms—same story in every town we ride through.” He pointed back at the dozens of mounted soldiers at his rear, each one a disciplined figure draped in iron and steel. ”In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not some common band of brigands. We’re soldiers under oath, in service to her grace, the Princess of Yarzat.”

The villager’s mouth opened and closed, clearly at a loss, and Egil leaned forward, his tone dripping with a mockery that barely veiled the menace underneath. ”Now, normally, a village belonging to a traitor’s domain would already be smoke and ash by now. But her grace’s commander—kind-hearted soul that he is—seems to think mercy is due to loyal subjects of traitors. So here’s the deal. You’re free to leave with enough food to make it to the city of Arduronaven.”

The man dropped to his knees, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touched the dirt. ”Thank you, good sirs. Thank you, thank her grace—”

”Enough,” Egil snapped, reining his horse in and gesturing impatiently at the wagons behind him. ”Load up whatever food you’ve got left onto those carts. And then get out of my sight. You’ve got until sunset to clear this place.Also make sure to keep your women inside until we leave , as I don’t want to beat any of my men to death for trying to claim one of them.”

The old man bowed low again, nodding fervently, and scurried to follow Egil’s orders. He led a handful of riders to the village’s small, aging warehouse, where dusty sacks of grain and bundles of dried vegetables were stacked in haphazard piles. His hands shook as he hefted the grain sacks onto his own rickety cart, struggling under the weight but determined to comply without a word of protest.

Egil watched with a satisfied look as the villagers hurried to empty out their stores, his men working efficiently to round up what they’d claimed as spoils. Some of his riders guided lambs from a nearby pen, securing their legs with thick ropes before binding the animals to their saddles, each lamb bleating pitifully as they were tied. It was all done in swift silence, but the faintest hint of a smirk played across Egil’s face as he imagined the feast that awaited them tonight.

The old man hesitated, his voice a weak murmur. ”We...we’re done loading, my lord. All you asked for.”

Egil gave him a curt nod, barely sparing him a glance. ”Yes, we can see that. As promised, you’re free to leave.Make sure to tell everyone how merciful his grace is for allowing you to live”

Relieved, the old man started to step away, but Egil raised his hand, halting him. ”Ah, one last thing. Nearly forgot,” he said with a feigned casualness that felt as sharp as a blade. ”Where’s the nearest village?”

The man looked back at him, fear flickering in his eyes. ”The next village?”

Egil’s expression softened just slightly, almost in amusement. ”Don’t fret, old man. We’ll treat them just the same as you. Only gathering what we need, that’s all.”

The man swallowed hard and nodded, raising a shaky hand to point eastward. ”If you follow the road that way...a few hours’ ride, perhaps. It’s not far.”

”Good,” Egil replied, a grin flashing across his face as he waved a hand in the air, signaling his soldiers. ”Mount up! We’re headed east!”

With a last look at the villagers left behind, Egil spurred his horse forward, his men quickly following suit, the sound of hooves beating against the earth as they rode off toward their next destination.

The army moved steadily along the dirt road, their pace kept purposefully slow to allow the cumbersome carts loaded with supplies to keep up. Wagons creaked under the weight of sacks of grain, barrels, and bound livestock as they followed the soldiers’ columns, trailing through the countryside in a long line. Egil rode near the front, his gaze sweeping over the men as they rode, occasionally throwing them a nod or a wry grin.

Beside him, Rykio nudged his horse closer. ”Some of the men are getting restless,” he muttered, glancing back at the troops. ”They’re not used to this...restraint.”

Egil huffed a low laugh, glancing at Rykio with a sly glint in his eye. ”Tell them that on last village we stop at, they’ll be given all the rewards they’re craving. Let them know that when we reach the final place we’re to raid, they’ll be allowed to choose women for the night before we depart.” He gave a half-smirk. ”That should satisfy them.”

Rykio nodded as he knew that the soldier’s interest and grumbles were shared by Egil, as such they knew very well that if the situation allowed, he would turn a blind eye to some of his men’s fun, a small upside of being part of Egil’s riding units.And so the bands of soldiers went forward to each village surrounding the city of Arduronaven , taking the food and sending its inhabitants to the city as they had done to the one before, not understanding why their commander wouldn’t just let them completely sack and burn everything on their path.