Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Before the imposing walls of Nabad, the grand capital of Ushandeia, an army of five thousand men stood in disciplined formation. The shimmering ranks of spears and shields glinted in the late afternoon sun, and the banners of Habadia fluttered proudly in the wind, each one bearing the sigil of the silver crown. The soldiers’ faces were hard, their gazes unwavering as they stared at the city that marked the end of their long campaign.

Between the imposing army and the gates of Nabad, a simple wooden table had been set up on the plain. The table was unassuming, almost laughable in its simplicity compared to the grand spectacle of the forces arrayed behind it.

At the table, two men sat across from each other. One of them wore a finely crafted silver crown, its gleaming surface catching the sunlight as though it was a star fallen to earth. His posture exuded arrogance and authority, his chin held high as his piercing gaze rested dismissively on the man seated opposite him. This was Nibadur, the Prince of Habadia, the man who had brought Ushandeia to its knees.

Nibadur’s armor, polished to a mirror finish, reflected his regal bearing. His every gesture spoke of a man who knew victory was already his. His lips curled in a faint smirk as he observed the man before him, the subtle amusement of a predator playing with its prey.

The man seated opposite him, clad in simpler garments, was the prince of Ushandeia, purposefully dressing less magnificent as a term for thier surrender. Though he sat with a rigid spine and clenched jaw, the weariness of six months of crushing defeats was etched into his face.

Behind Nibadur’s army stretched the scars of war. For six months, the armies of Ushandeia had fallen to Habadia’s relentless advance. Their proud banners had been taken as spoils of war, paraded through conquered lands as symbols of humiliation. Towns had burned, and once-proud fortresses now lay in ruins.

Nibadur’s army had marched unopposed to the gates of Nabad. What few remnants of Ushandeia’s military remained were scattered and broken, unable to muster a defense against the conqueror’s might.

Nibadur leaned forward, his hand resting casually on the table. His voice, rich with confidence, broke the silence. ”Let us bring an end to this farce of resistance. Your people have suffered enough, and your banners are but ornaments in my camp.

Nibadur leaned back in his chair, his silver crown catching the light as he fixed Aranith with an imperious gaze. ”You stand on your last foot, Prince Aranith,” Nibadur said, his tone casual yet laced with cutting certainty. ”No lord of Ushandeia will come to your aid. They’ve all knelt before me or fled like cowards into obscurity, some even offered me provision to go ahead. My armies have marched unopposed, and not a single sword has dared to rise against us. Even the wind itself carries tales of your nation’s ruin if you continue down this path .”

Aranith clenched his jaw, his lips pressing into a thin line to suppress the retort rising to his tongue. He knew better than to speak out of anger.

Nibadur’s smirk widened as he savored the silence. ”But, Prince Aranith, know this—I do not seek the destruction of Ushandeia. Your city, your people, and what remains of your shattered kingdom may yet endure. I have terms to propose, terms that will save you from annihilation.”

Aranith’s throat tightened as he swallowed his pride. His voice, steady despite the turmoil within, broke the tension. ”What terms you offer?”

Nibadur leaned forward, his gloved hands folding on the table. ”The terms are thus: Ushandeia will pay tribute for five years, ten thousand silverii annually. A truce shall be declared, lasting for ten years. Furthermore, you will recognize all lands beyond the Issharmir River as rightfully belonging to Habadia.”

The conqueror’s tone hardened as his piercing gaze locked onto Aranith. ”Understand, these are not negotiable. They are an ultimatum. You can either accept them and spare your people, or you can hole up in your city and face starvation, despair, and the inevitable fall of Nabad.”

Aranith’s hand tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as the humiliation of the moment bore down on him. Yet he knew there was no alternative. His armies were crushed, his allies scattered, and his people at the mercy of this man who held his kingdom in his iron grip.

Nibadur’s terms were merciless—half of Aranith’s princedom and more than half of Ushandeia’s annual revenue, laid bare in the ultimatum. Aranith felt the weight of it pressing down on him like a crushing boulder. Yet, in his heart, he knew there was no choice. The proud walls of Nabad could not stand forever, not against a foe with the means and patience to starve the city into submission.

Aranith’s voice was steady but tinged with bitterness as he spoke, each word heavy with the pain of betrayal. ”Your father and I had an understanding, Nibadur. For thirty years, I served as the shield that protected Habadia from the raids of the Latvians. It was my men, my blood, and my people who bore the brunt of their savagery. Not once in all that time did I give any sign of treachery or harbor any desire to lay claim to Habadia’s lands.”

Nibadur leaned back in his chair, his expression cool and unyielding. ”I am not my father,” he said dismissively, his tone cutting like a blade. ”In case you have not noticed I am younger. And I recognize the Latvians as no threat to my rule. They are nothing but gnats to be swatted if they dare to cross into Habadia.”

Nibadur’s lips curved into a thin, calculated smile as he added, ”But if you feel you cannot resist their invasions on your own, Prince Aranith, then there is another option. Take the knee to me. Swear fealty, and I will offer my protection. In doing so, I shall reduce the reparations to only two years, a fraction of what I now demand, I shall give you my armies if any Latviand dare mount an invasion, I will even allow your eldest to marry one of my daughters...”

Aranith’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching under the table. His pride and dignity would not allow him to stoop so low, not even for the survival of his people. His emerald eyes burned with defiance as he replied, ”No. I will not kneel to you, Nibadur. I will sign your deal, but my loyalty will never be yours.”

For a moment, silence lingered between them, heavy and tense. Nibadur studied Aranith, his expression unreadable, before nodding. ”So be it,” he said with a faint shrug. ”Both ways serve me well. You may keep your pride, and I shall take your lands and silver.”

Nibadur’s cold satisfaction was unmistakable. To him, Aranith’s refusal was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, for the outcome was still his victory.

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In the dimly lit confines of Nibadur’s private tent, servants carefully unfastened the clasps of his silver-inlaid armor, lifting the heavy breastplate from his broad frame and setting it aside with reverence. Nibadur stood still, his mind momentarily lost in thought, when the flap of the tent parted.

A figure entered—a lean man with sharp features, clad in dark, unassuming robes. His presence was as quiet as a shadow’s,and yet attracted the attention of the prince . Nibadur’s piercing gaze shifted to the man, and with a simple flick of his wrist, he dismissed the servants. They bowed quickly and scurried out, leaving the two men alone.

Nibadur crossed his arms, his expression unreadable but his tone firm. ”What is it? Have there been any developments?”

The spymaster inclined his head respectfully before speaking. ”Yes, my prince,” he said in a low voice. ”Word has reached us of revolts breaking out across the Herculeian lands. The peasantry in several fiefs have risen against their lords, emboldened by recent events that I am not privy to.”

Nibadur exhaled sharply, his sigh carrying a mixture of annoyance and weariness. He stepped to the side of the tent where a goblet of wine awaited him, pouring himself a cup with practiced ease. ”Herculeia was supposed to be stable,” he muttered, taking a sip. ”Few thought it possible that Yarzat could defeat Lechlian. The numbers alone made it unthinkable.Seems like my worries were not baseless.”

The spymaster gave a thin, knowing smile. ”And yet, that little prince has not only achieved victory but annihilated Lechlian’s forces. Castles have fallen to his banners, and his raids have left the Herculeian countryside in chaos. The peasants,probably under starvation now rebel after seeing their lands pillaged. They see their prince as weak and incapable of protecting them.No that they are wrong...”

Nibadur frowned, the lines on his face deepening as he processed the news. ”The boy prince,” he said with disdain, swirling the wine in his goblet. ”I underestimated him. As did many. And now Herculeia teeters on the edge of collapse.”

he spymaster lingered after delivering his report, his sharp eyes narrowing with curiosity. ”If I may ask, my prince,” he said carefully, ”why do you concern yourself so much with those two ? They are far from our borders and have little direct bearing on our affairs.”

Nibadur leaned back, his expression darkening slightly as he regarded his spymaster. ”It seems I am the only one who recognizes the boy for the danger he truly is.Am I the only one who has eyes among the blind?” He stood, pacing slowly as he spoke, his words measured and deliberate. ”Tell me, how much do you think he earns from his soap and cider?”

The spymaster frowned and shook his head. ”I couldn’t say, my prince.”

”Nor can I,” Nibadur admitted, stopping mid-step and turning to face him, ”but it must be a considerable sum. Enough to send entire markets into a frenzy for his wares. Enough that even we hear tales of it, despite the distance. And worse, the Empire is behind him.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. ”Even in the chaos of their civil war, the Empire’s word still carries weight—a dangerous amount of weight, diplomatically speaking of course. Enough to give even rulers like us pause.”

Nibadur’s eyes grew colder as he returned to the table and poured another goblet of wine. He swirled it thoughtfully, his mind racing. ”The boy prince is not only skilled but also resourceful. He has the means to build something far greater than anyone in Herculeia seems to realize.He is adored by his soldiers, whom our spies report that they fight like lions and are as disciplined as men made of Iron.”

The spymaster remained silent, watching his prince carefully as Nibadur made his decision.

”Prepare a caravan,” Nibadur said suddenly, his voice sharp and commanding. ”Fill it with food, weapons, and armor, anything that we have no yet used for this invasion and then send it to that foolish prince that lost in such blatant way . Make it clear that these are supplies meant to aid the Herculeian prince against the treacherous rebels plaguing his lands. Ensure the caravan flies my banner, and instruct the men to announce its purpose loudly. No one will dare interfere with it once they hear it is meant to support a fight against peasant rebels, not that they would dare either way, seeing my banner. ”

Nibadur set his goblet down with a decisive clink, his sharp eyes fixed on the spymaster still standing in the tent. ”From now on,” he said in a low, commanding voice, ”the boy prince must be recognized as our greatest rival. Increase the number of spies in his territory. I want eyes on every move he makes, every deal he strikes, and every whisper of dissent within his borders, especially the latter.Just because he is not our neighbor doesn’t mean he will not be in the future”

The spymaster nodded, his expression unreadable.

”And another thing,” Nibadur continued, leaning forward, his voice growing colder, ”provide second-level support to any who oppose him. Don’t worry about direct ties, even if we are discovered it will bring us no trouble, the boy after all has no way to launch a war again us, for now . But if his enemies need coin, weapons, or mercenaries, make sure they find them on us, from now on Yarzat has to have all of our attention and strenght against .”

”As you command, my prince,” the spymaster said, bowing deeply even though he believed that the boy did not require such attention before exiting the tent.

As the flap of the tent fell back into place, Nibadur leaned back on his cushioned bench, reaching for the goblet of wine once more. He swirled it absentmindedly, his gaze lost in thought as he stared at the flickering lantern light.

He understood the stakes all too well. If the boy prince of Herculeia was allowed to consolidate power and continue unchecked, soon there would rise a state capable of challenging his own. Nibadur took a slow sip of the wine, letting its bitterness spread over his tongue.

After all a low-born doesn’t take a throne and mantain in it without proper skills to shape the world at his will, and the last war he head waged, had given Nibadur just that proof that he needed to know that for the next decades all of his attention would be set to supress the boy at the stem before he could become a tree as the last thing he needed was for a kingdom, not a princedom, to rise without him as its ruler, the south was after all too little for two to share.