Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

This was Torghan’s first time standing among the warriors and elders of the tribe—a privilege granted only to those who had proven themselves in battle. By tradition, only warriors and the council of elders could speak in a tribal meeting.

True, he was seventeen—a man by the count of his years—but not by his deeds. He had yet to spill an enemy’s blood, to carve his place among those who had earned the right to stand tall. Until he did, he was little more than a child in the eyes of the tribe. Without a kill to his name, he had no voice in council, no claim to spoils taken in raids. He was neither boy nor warrior—just another herdsman, another shadow on the fringes of their world.

Once, he had come close. A year ago, there had been war—a chance to reclaim what was theirs. But the Jagothai had come in numbers too great to defy, their warriors outmatching the tribe two to one. The elders, bound by duty more than pride, had chosen survival over slaughter. And so, the tribe had bent the knee, surrendering their ancestral hills and pastures to the enemy.

They had been driven to the lowlands. A bitter irony, for the ”lowlands” were no great plains, no fertile fields, but only endless mountains with sparse patches of green clinging to the stone like ghosts of what once was.

And yet, here he was now—not just standing among warriors, but standing at the very center of their attention. It was his words that had summoned them, his discovery that had called this gathering. And for the first time in his life, he had a voice.

At the head of the circle, Varaku sat motionless, his weathered face half-lit by the flickering flames. The fire cast deep lines across his features, accentuating the scars and wear of years spent struggling to keep his people alive. His sharp eyes, dark and unwavering, settled on his son.

”Speak,” Varaku commanded, his voice low but edged with expectation. ”Tell them what you have seen with your own eyes.”

Torghan swallowed, feeling the weight of a hundred stares pressing into him. The warriors—men who had bled for the tribe—watched with measured patience, waiting to see if the boy had brought them anything worth their time. The elders, wrapped in heavy furs, sat as still as carved idols, their expressions unreadable. Many of them knew, in the quiet of their bones, that this would be their last winter.

Torghan hesitated. His hands clenched at his sides before he turned, casting a glance toward his two elder brothers seated near their father.

Sharu, the firstborn, sat with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but for the flicker of curiosity in his sharp gaze. Beside him, Marhun leaned forward slightly, watching. Neither brother spoke. Neither offered him anything—no encouragement, no disdain.

He was alone in this moment.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Torghan straightened his shoulders and began.

”I was with Jandari,” he said, his voice firm but cautious. ”We were searching for Murthai’s lost sheep when we saw them.”

A few warriors exchanged glances, but no one interrupted.

”They came from the sea,” he continued, scanning the circle. ”Not on wagons, not through the mountain passes like the Thrazanie traders or their armies—but from the sea. Great wooden turtles, floating upon the water.”

That earned a few scoffs. A handful of warriors shifted, some smirking in doubt, but no one dismissed him outright.

”There were many of them,” Torghan pressed on. ”Not enough for war, but too many to be mere wanderers. And they wear steel—like the Thrazanie and like my father’s steel clothes.” His voice grew stronger, more assured. ”Every man we saw had steel wrapped around him like a second skin. Not just their warriors—all of them.”

A ripple of whispers passed through the council. This time, the murmurs carried weight.

”They work,” Torghan continued. ”They cut trees, dig the earth, raise walls. They do not move like lost men. They act as though they mean to stay. We have not seen more than two hundred of them.”

That sent another stir through the gathered men. Some muttered in curiosity, others in unease.

Torghan clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain steady. ”They are not like us. And they are not like the mountain traders. But if they have steel... if we had their steel...” He let his words hang in the air as he turned his gaze toward his father.

Varaku sat still, unmoving, his face unreadable. The fire crackled between them, throwing flickering shadows across the circle of men.

Torghan had spoken. Now, it was time to see what the elders would make of his words.

Murmurs rippled through the gathering like dry grass stirring in the wind. Some elders leaned toward Varaku, their faces shadowed by the firelight.

”Did you send men to confirm it?” one finally asked, his voice cautious.

Varaku gave a slow nod. ”I did,” he said simply. ”The boy tells the truth.”

A hush fell. If the chief had already acted on Torghan’s words, then there was no doubting them.

Among the warriors, the hush quickly turned into a low, eager rumbling.

”The boy speaks true,” a grizzled veteran muttered, rubbing his jaw. ”All of them wearing steel? That alone makes them worth taking.”

”We should go now,” another said, his voice thick with hunger. ”Steel like that... if we had it, we could carve a path straight through the Jagothai and reclaim our hills—our homes!”

A younger warrior, barely past his first battle, grinned. ”Imagine the loot! If they have that much steel, what else might they have? Food? Perhapse even wine?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but it was not the laughter of amusement. It was the laughter of men who could already taste victory.

One man clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his grin wide. ”This is it,” he said with pride. ”My boy will finally have the chance to become a warrior yet.”

Another warrior spat onto the ground, his eyes gleaming like a wolf scenting blood. ”They came from the sea? Then they have nowhere to run. We take them. We take their steel. And then...” His smile was a cruel slash in the firelight. ”We take back our land and make the Jagothai our slaves.”

More nods. More murmurs of agreement.

The embers of war had been stirred. Soon, they would catch flame.

But still, at the head of the gathering, Varaku remained silent, his expression unreadable. He had heard the eagerness of his warriors, the hunger in their voices. He had seen the desperate glint in the eyes of his people.

But he also knew that battle was never as simple as eager men thought it to be.

Still, the steel was tempting.

Very tempting.

His mind was elsewhere however , turning over the implications of what Torghan had reported.

Who are these men?

They came from the sea, yet they wore steel like the Thrazanie. But the Thrazanie, had never attempted to invade from the waters—only through the mountains, where their armies could march in force. If it were them, there would be far more than just a handful of men building their strange camp.

His brow furrowed. He knew the history well—three times the Thrazanie, which in their language meant from Outside the Moutain, had tried to claim the lands of the tribes. Three times they had come with their warbands, banners high, marching through the passes with their armor and their spears, seeking to break the scattered clans in the name of their sultan.

And three times, they had failed.

Each time, the tribes had cast aside their feuds and rallied together, fighting with spears, axes, and ambushes among the cliffs and valleys. Their warriors, hardened by the land itself, had driven the invaders back, forcing them to retreat beyond the mountains.

But he also knew why the Thrazanie kept coming back.

Some traders, the ones who risked their necks carrying goods between the lands, had spoken of what lay beneath the hills. Iron. Silver. Wealth hidden in stone. Enough to make kings greedy, enough to make empires reach out with their hungry hands.

If this new band of sea people had come for the same reason, then it would not be long before more followed.

Varaku’s fingers curled into his furs as he stared at the flames, his mind weighing possibilities.

Varaku exhaled slowly, his breath heavy with thought. He could sit here and wonder about who these sea-people were, where they had come from, and why they had come. But in the end, none of it truly mattered.

What mattered was their steel.

That gleaming armor, those weapons—it was exactly what his people needed.

Varaku looked down at his steel both of his cloth and of his axe, pieces of loot that his father had taken after their battle with the Thrazanians.

200 more of these...

The hills had been theirs for generations, their pastures stretching wide, their herds fat and plentiful. But the Jagothai had taken everything, forcing them down into the lowlands like starving dogs.

Without the hills, they had no land. Without the land, they had no grass, without grass no food. This winter would be cruel—he had known that before this meeting. The herd would starve and with it their herders. Unless something changed.

But with steel?

With steel, they could carve their way back. With steel, they could stand against the Jagothai, drive them from their stolen lands, and return to where they belonged.

That tribes had the numbers. But his warriors will have the will and, after tomorrow, the weapons.

Varaku’s jaw tightened, his decision taking root in his mind. It did not matter who these men were. They had come from the sea, into their lands, and by tomorrow they would return into those waters as corpses.