Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Fenn stepped through the tent’s entrance, and his initial impression was complitely different to what he had expected. Instead of the grandeur or luxurious sophistication he thought might belong to a commander’s quarters, the tent was shockingly bare. There were no tables laden with maps, no racks of polished weapons, and no ornate furnishings. The ground was covered with little more than a few scattered patches of straw and dirt, except for a modest fur thrown across one corner, serving as a makeshift bed.

Beside the fur lay a sword still in its scabbard and an axe , casually discarded as though they were an afterthought rather than the primary tools of war. Fenn’s gaze lingered on it for a moment, noting its worn leather grip, before returning to the man sprawled on the fur.

The man didn’t bother to rise as Fenn entered. Instead, he propped himself up lazily on one elbow, his sharp eyes flicking up to size the boy up. A sigh escaped him, a mixture of exhaustion and faint annoyance, as though the arrival of yet another stranger was more a nuisance than anything else.

”Well?” the man said flatly, his voice low and steady. ”You’re not much to look at. What do you want?”

Fenn blinked, caught off guard both by the man’s appearance and his tone. He had expected someone regal or commanding, but this man radiated an air of relaxed indifference, as though he were simply waiting for the next interruption to pass.

Egil was a striking figure, even in his state of apparent disinterest. His tall frame was immediately noticeable, with long, corded muscles visible even through his relaxed posture. His blonde hair, neck-length and slightly unkempt, framed a face sharp and angular, his high cheekbones accentuating the intensity of his piercing eyes. Those eyes, cold , seemed to take in everything with an unnerving clarity, leaving Fenn feeling like he was being weighed and measured.

Though he was lying on the fur with a casual air, there was an undeniable presence about him, a latent energy that suggested he could spring into action in an instant if the situation demanded.

The tent itself mirrored Egil’s heritage and philosophy, resembling the style of his nomadic ancestors. There were no unnecessary adornments, just the bare essentials: a fur-covered bedroll, his weapons resting carelessly beside it, and a few scattered personal items.

Egil’s camp was filled with similar tents, as he had issued a command to his men to follow this nomadic principle. ”A man can only ride as the wind,” he had often said, ”if he is as light and empty as it.”

One of the riders stepped forward, breaking the silence. ”We found him during our scouting, Commander,” he said, nodding towards Fenn. ”He claims to be in the service of His Grace and says he has a letter to deliver to you.”

Egil’s sharp eyes turned to Fenn, studying him intently. ”And why,” he asked in a low, gravelly voice, ”would Alpheo send you to me?”

Fenn, nervous under the weight of the commander’s gaze, quickly clarified, ”I wasn’t sent by the prince directly, my lord. I’m here on behalf of one of his informants.” He paused, licking his lips nervously, before adding, ”The enemy prince, Lechlian, has sent a force to deal with you.”

Egil’s brows furrowed slightly, his interest now piqued. ”Go on,” he ordered.

”There’s more, my lord,” Fenn continued, his voice steadying as he spoke. ”The details are in the letter.” He gestured toward the small satchel at his side.

Egil let out a short sigh and rose smoothly from the fur-covered ground, his tall figure even more imposing when upright. He extended his hand toward the boy, palm open. ”Give it to me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for delay.

Fenn hastily retrieved the letter from his satchel and handed it over, his hand trembling slightly as Egil snatched it from his grasp.

Egil broke the wax seal on the letter with a practiced flick of his thumb, unfolding the parchment and scanning its contents. As his sharp eyes moved over the words, he muttered absently, ”Don’t call me my lord, boy. I’m no lord—just a knight.”

Fenn nodded quickly, murmuring, ”Understood, Sir.”

Egil’s expression remained neutral as he reached the end of the letter very slowly, giving away nothing of its contents nor if he had understood what it entailed inside, as he still had trouble reading. Once finished, he folded the parchment deliberately and tucked it into his belt. He turned his gaze to the guards still lingering by the entrance of the tent.

”You can leave,” Egil commanded curtly. ”And fetch Rykios for me. Now.”

The guards exchanged quick nods and exited the tent without hesitation.

Egil’s piercing gaze then turned back to Fenn. ”You,” he added, gesturing at the boy, ”stay here.”

Fenn shifted nervously, unsure of what was to come, but he swallowed his unease and remained where he stood as the flap of the tent fell shut behind the guards.

Egil leaned against the tent’s central post, fixing his sharp eyes on Fenn. ”How long have you been riding before reaching us?” he asked casually, his tone almost disinterested.

Fenn hesitated before responding. ”Two days, including the time I was... uh, brought here.”

Egil rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ”Hmm. The enemy’s army has footmen, hundreds of them. They’ll move slower. Three, maybe four days before they’re anywhere near us.” He paused, then straightened up. ”Do you know how to ride? And more importantly, do you know aroound here?”

The boy nodded quickly, sensing the importance of the question. ”I do. Do you want me to deliver a letter back?”

Egil chuckled, the sound dry and short. ”No. That won’t be necessary.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. ”Tell me, boy, do you know how to swing a sword?”

Fenn froze. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ”Y-yes,” he stammered, though he wasn’t sure his hesitant training with a dull blade counted as knowing. Fear prickled at the back of his neck as he began to suspect where this conversation was leading.

Egil grinned, a wolfish expression that sent a chill down Fenn’s spine. ”Good,” he said. ”Then buckle up, boy. You’re a soldier now.”

Fenn’s eyes widened in alarm. ”Wait, I—”

Egil silenced him with a single, pointed look. It wasn’t angry, but it carried a weight of authority that brooked no further argument.

”Yes, Sir,” Fenn murmured, nodding reluctantly.

The tent flap rustled as a man entered, his stride confident and purposeful. His short black hair framed a rugged face marked by a deep scar running across his cheek. Without preamble, he announced, ”You called me sir?”

Egil glanced up and nodded. ”Rykio.” His tone was almost amused as he continued, ”Seems the bastard prince finally found his courage. He’s sent 200 footmen and 50 knights marching toward us.We are finalle seeing some actions”

Rykio’s face barely shifted, though his brow furrowed slightly. ”Are we retreating, then?”

Egil laughed, the sound deep and hearty, shaking his head as though the very suggestion was ridiculous. ”Retreat? You think I’d pass up this kind of challenge?” He stepped forward, clapping Rykio on the shoulder. ”No, we’re not running. I want you to send out more scouts. I need eyes on every road, field, and path around here.”

Egil turned, gesturing toward Fenn. ”And while you’re at it, take the boy with you. Ride out and study the terrain. I want to know every advantage we can wring out of this land.”

Rykio nodded without hesitation. He had known, even as he posed the question, that Egil would not shy away from the fight. His commander was never one to back down when the odds were stacked against him—it was half the reason he followed the man so loyally.

Fenn, standing off to the side, raised an incredulous eyebrow. His thoughts raced as he tried to process what was happening. They really mean to fight a force three times their size? He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling the weight of his new ”recruitment” pressing down on him.

After all there were less than 80 riders in the whole camp, while the enemy had 250 at its disposal...

Egil stretched, raising his arms high above his head and letting out a satisfied grunt. ”It’s been a while since we had some real fun,” he said with a lopsided grin, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

Rykio crossed his arms, his dark eyes steady. ”Is there anything else?”

Egil sighed, his grin fading into something more contemplative. ”There is.” He ran a hand through his blonde hair, his tone tinged with reluctance. ”We need to send a letter to those bastards.”

Rykio’s eyes widened in surprise, his scarred cheek twitching as he processed the statement. ”Are you sure about that?” He asked as he already knew of whom he was talking about.

Egil nodded, his expression firm. ”I am. As much as I hate his guts, at the end of the day, we fight on the same side. No sense letting him blunder in blind.” His lips twisted into a grimace. ”Prepare a messenger. The missive will go to that golden fool.”

Rykio hesitated for a moment, his face a mask of conflicting thoughts, but he bowed his head in acknowledgment. ”Understood.”

Egil waved him off. ”Go on, then. I’ll put the words together. Make sure whoever you pick rides fast—I don’t want to waste more time on this than necessary. We will as much sword as we can get, even if it means fighting alongside those chivalrous and pompous baboons,” he finally said forgetting that he too was a man knighted by the princess.