Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Ten knights rode forward at a measured pace, their steeds’ hooves striking the earth with a steady rhythm that echoed through the vast, arid plains. Sweat trickled down their foreheads, not from exertion but from the gnawing tension that sat heavy in the pit of their stomachs.

It wasn’t every day that ten men, bound by duty and steel, found themselves tasked with confronting a horde of more than a thousand. The odds were almost laughable, yet here they were, their armor glinting in the sun like fragile scales before a storm.

Luckily for them they were not there to fight, though they did not know if it would come to that , after all many time reason and laws bend to the stronger.

At the head of the group rode Sir Eryndor the one tasked by Lord Niketas to deliver the ultimatum. He cursed under his breath as his horse trudged forward, dust rising with every step.

Of course, it had to be him.

Even though it was different he could’nt help but think of Herculia , peasants rose up against their lords and prince. Those whispers of rebellion were unsettling enough, but what if something similar could happen here?Sure they were not peasants and they were not from here, yet they got the weapons.... Eryndor shuddered at the thought, his hand tightening around the reins.

Still the man that they were to meet were not rebels; they did not raid around but instead they apparently simply marched around, be it in the south or in the empire.

Eryndor’s thoughts churned as his horse ambled forward, his mind thinking about the rumors he had heard. Apparently they were led by a priest, though he did not know the name.

They marched from the land of Romelia, passing through village and village conducting mass and sermons. The peasants, in their reverence, called it the Great Procession.

The priest’s followers, humble and ragged though they were, called themselves Pilgrims. Farmers along their path were said to offer donations willingly—food, grain, and livestock flowing into the throng like tributaries feeding a mighty river, sometimes selling everything the had and following him. Even the clergy in the temples they passed, often wary of such movements, had been reported to emerge with offerings of gold, though curiously, the priest had refused such wealth. Instead, the priest had asked for food alone, ensuring his people could keep moving, their bellies full and their faith unshaken.

Sometimes where they passed the built churches , helping with work around whenever village needed it , apparently one time the priest even delivered forgiveness to bandits , who swore under the five star to serve him. Other times they simply killed the bandits doing what the lord of the land refused to do.

More troubling were the whispers of miracles attributed to the priest. There were accounts of sick children rising from their beds to walk again, of barren fields suddenly yielding. Eryndor, pragmatic to a fault, dismissed such tales as the natural exaggerations of frightened or desperate people. A few coincidences and the seeds of legend were easily sown.

To Eryndor , such thing was more dangerous than any blade. As a knight sworn to his lord, he had no time for miracles or divine proclamations. His duty was to ensure that order prevailed, even if it meant confronting this enigmatic leader and his so-called Pilgrims head-on.

The first signs of the Pilgrims emerged as a hazy ripple along the horizon, the shimmering air above the dry path blurring the edges of the approaching throng. Eryndor straightened in his saddle, his heart thudding with unease. Beside him, the other knights murmured uneasily among themselves, their eyes narrowing as the details of the procession came into focus.

It was not merely a disorganized rabble of peasants trudging forward, as they had expected. At the head of the column were men clad in armor, their polished steel catching the sun with an almost divine radiance. They rode on sturdy horses, their surcoats emblazoned with the Star of the Gods, the holy symbol woven in shimmering thread. The emblem seemed to pulse with an unspoken authority, a celestial mark that set them apart from the common folk who shuffled behind.

”By the gods,” one knight muttered, tugging at his reins nervously. ”They’ve got knights among them? What sort of rabble is this?”

”They’re not knights,” another snapped, his tone heavy with disbelief. ”They must be peasants that looted both armor and horse. No true knight would march with peasants under a priest, actually no man would march behind a eunuch.”

Eryndor said nothing, his jaw tight as he observed the advancing group. The men in armor rode with an unsettling calm, their posture straight and their expressions serene, though he could feel their eyes on them.

Where could they get so many armors, if they were not knight before?

The Fanatics knights urged their horses forward, the clink of armor and the rhythmic clop of hooves filling the tense air. They slowed to a halt just a few steps from the priests at the head of the procession. Dust rose in faint clouds around the knights as the Procession also came to a stop, the collective silence of a thousand voices falling heavy over the scene.

Eryndor raised his voice, his tone sharp with command. ”Who leads this band? Step forward and speak!”

The knights exchanged wary glances as the tension hung thick between the two groups. Then, from the front of the priests, a man stepped forward, his movements calm and unhurried. ”There’s no need to shout, Sir Knight,” the man said evenly with the same tone one would use with a child ”I am here.”

Eryndor’s brows furrowed deeply as he looked down at the figure. This was the leader of the procession? The man before him was short, his head bald and gleaming under the afternoon sun. His frame was thin, almost frail, draped in simple robes that seemed to ripple slightly in the breeze.He had some spooks of a beard , like few grass coming out from the road of stones in the cities. There was no grandeur about him, no physical presence that suggested leadership over such an amount of man

For a moment, Eryndor simply stared, his disbelief plain on his face. This man? he thought, scarcely able to process it. The knights at his side shifted uneasily, exchanging whispers that Eryndor ignored.

”You,” Eryndor finally managed, his voice colored with skepticism. ”You’re the leader of this... band?”

The bald man gave a faint smile, his gaze steady and unreadable. ”I am. And you are the one sent to meet us, I presume?”

Eryndor’s gaze hardened as he steadied his horse, the reins in his grip. His voice, though still commanding, carried the edge of tension. ”You expected us?”

The man before him, the so-called leader of this horde, smiled faintly. His demeanor remained calm, almost indifferent. ”I have met dozens of lords walked through their land aiding the people that they forgot about,” he replied evenly, his voice carrying a quiet authority. ”All marching forward with their demands, with their laws. It would have surprised me if I had not been visited by someone such as yourself. But of course,” he continued, his tone shifting slightly, ”I am certain you are more than ready to deliver the words your lord has sent you.”

Eryndor’s jaw tightened, his hands instinctively clenching the reins as he steeled himself.

He pushed aside his discomfort, looking down at the thin man before him. ”Lord Niketas of Lonsium,” he began, his voice steady despite the growing tension, ”declares your presence in his lands as a clear transgression of his rights and authority. Your crossing onto his domain, with armed men and—” he glanced over the gathered group ”—with all these people, is a direct violation of his laws.”

Eryndor shifted his posture, sitting up straighter in his saddle, his tone growing firmer as he continued. ”As such, he demands that you turn around and leave his lands at once. Or, if you do not wish to leave, then you will immediately disband this horde and disperse. The choice is yours, but know this: you will not be allowed to continue on your path unless you comply with his command.”

The leader of the pilgrims met his gaze without flinching. There was no fear in the man’s eyes, no hesitation, only an unsettling calmness that unnerved Eryndor even further. The silence stretched between them, and Eryndor could almost feel the weight of the thousand eyes watching them both, waiting for the priest’s response.

The priest’s smile didn’t fade. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering Eryndor’s words carefully, before speaking with deliberate slowness. ”You come here, demanding that we turn back, disband, or leave. I have heard these words before and I will answer as I did then.’’

The priest’s calm gaze lingered on Eryndor for a moment before he spoke, his tone measured and steady. ”I will go to your lord personally and defend our case,” he said, gesturing slightly toward the procession behind him. ”In the meantime, my pilgrim brothers will remain here. They will not molest or harm anyone while we seek a resolution and his blessing to go ahead.We will not plunder , nor break his law, we will simply build churches in villages without one, and aid with whatever problem they may have .That is our temporary mission.”

Eryndor’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the offer. ”We will accompany you,” he said after a moment, his voice still firm. ”But understand this: I can’t promise what my lord will do or decide. Nor if he will even accept to meet you.

The priest inclined his head, accepting the warning with a faint smile. ”That is enough,and I am well aware of the great plague that befell the men of power,’’ he said simply. Then, with a small bow of his head, he added, ”Forgive me, sir knight, for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Elyas, humble brother pilgrim of what many call us the Great procession.”

Eryndor gave a curt nod, his grip still tight on the reins of his horse, as even though the priest gave himself voluntarly he could not help but feel the eyes of a thousand men looking through him.