Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Given everything—the risks, the uncertainties, and the cards I was dealt—I’d say I’ve pulled off a great success.

Aron sat in the small hut that had been granted to him by the tribe, his fingers idly tracing the rough wooden beams that made up its frame. It was a meager dwelling, barely large enough for a man to stand upright without brushing against the thatched roof. The walls were little more than crude wooden pillars, lashed together and reinforced with dried mud, while the roof was layered thick with hay. He frowned slightly as he glanced upward. I wonder how well it holds against heavy rain.

But discomfort aside, he had no right to complain. Only a day ago, the warriors of this tribe had been ready to slaughter him and his men, to pile their corpses in the dirt and take whatever they pleased. Yet now, not only had he averted bloodshed, but he had secured an agreement—one that could prove far more valuable than any desperate fight for survival.

Trade.

That single word changed everything.

If he played his cards right,they would trade people, not forcefully their own. And to his great surprise, the tribe had even declared him Friend of the Tribe. Aron wasn’t entirely sure if it was an honorary gesture or if it came with actual significance.

Still, he appreciated it nonetheless.

Resting his head against the wooden support beam, he exhaled deeply. The fire in the small hearth before him flickered, casting long shadows along the cramped interior. For the first time since their landing, he felt something close to relief.

With nothing to do Aron reached for the small bundle of paper he had brought with him, carefully untying the string that held the sheets together. The firelight cast a warm glow over the parchment as he dipped his quill into the ink, preparing to tackle the second task his grace had assigned him—the documentation of anything worth noting about these people.

He had been surprised when first given this duty. That the war-prince of Yarzat, a man famed for his cunning in battle , would have such an avid thirst for knowledge seemed almost at odds with his reputation.

The Little Fox, as he was known,mostly by foes.

Aron had difficulty picturing him as a bookworm, pouring over notes and accounts of foreign customs. Perhaps the fact that he was a commoner made him realize the power of knowledge?

And yet, he mused as he put ink to paper; the newest creation of the great sage of Yarzat, here I am, writing as he commanded.

Since he was the one writing the first written document about these people, he also had the honor of naming it , which after a bit of time at sea, he had chosen the title:A treaty over the people beyond the sea.

With a deep breath he started writing , begining with his first impressions of the village.

”The settlement as I was honored to lay eyes upon as guest, is simple, yet sturdy in its own way. The dwellings are huts, built of wooden beams reinforced with mud, with roofs thatched thickly with hay. There is little uniformity to their placement, as they are scattered in a haphazard manner, yet all seem centered around a communal space where fires burn day and night, smoking meat to conserve for winter”

He paused for a moment, adjusting his seat on the rough wooden floor before continuing.

” I have seen no fields of grain or crops cultivated here. There are no plowed lands, no irrigation channels, nor any sign of the farming tools one might expect in a village of this size. Instead, their wealth seems to lie in their herds—sheep and goats, numbering in the hundreds, perhaps more. These animals are watched over by children and younger men, who guide them through the hills with practiced ease.As for the older men, they are sent hunting.

The quill hovered over the page for a moment before he added another thought.

”I do not know yet if this is a peculiarity of this specific tribe, who dwell in these rugged mountains, or if it is a broader trait of their entire people. If it is the latter, then it would explain their warlike nature—without fields to tie them down, they live by their herds, moving where they must and taking what they need. Such a life breeds men who are unbound by walls or kings, who answer to no law but that of the strong.”

Aron set his quill down for a moment, flexing his fingers as he leaned back against the wooden beam. He had barely begun, and yet he already felt as though he were beginning to understand these people—at least, in part.

Aron dipped his quill back into the inkwell, tapping off the excess before returning to his writing.

”It is clear that these people are warlike by nature. Their first instinct upon encountering outsiders was not curiosity, nor caution, but immediate violence. Had I not managed to establish communication, they would have slaughtered us without hesitation, or at least attempted to. There was no thought given to discourse or reason—only the desire to kill what they did not understand.”

His lips curled into a small smirk as he continued.

”It is not unlike a wild beast, whose first reaction to something foreign is to bare its fangs and bite.”

He paused, considering whether to soften his words, then decided against it. They would never read this, nor would they ever know what he truly thought of them. He doubted they were even capable of such things. Civilized people read and write. Savages wield spears and grunt at each other like animals.

What was the point? These people did not keep written records, did not seem to grasp the concept of history beyond the songs they howled by the fires at night. He doubted they even had a word for ”scribe.”

Aron exhaled through his nose, a quiet amusement flickering in his chest. It is fortunate they do not know our tongue.

He glanced toward the entrance of his small hut, where the flickering shadows of tribesmen moved past, speaking in their guttural, rough language. Yes, he thought as he turned back to his parchment, very fortunate indeed.

Aron suddenly heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the crunch of boots against the dirt floor just outside his hut. His fingers twitched, and with a quick motion, he gathered the pages of his writing, tucking them away beneath a small bundle of cloth. Almost instinctively, something that he found himself surprised by, as after all it wasn’t like they could read it.

Before he could fully compose himself, the wooden door creaked open without so much as a knock or an announcement. It was certainly not a cordial thing to do but he masked his irritation as he turned to see the familiar face of the man who had spoken Azanian before.

”The leader calls for you,” the man said, his voice rough as he remembered

Aron studied him for a moment, searching his expression for any sign of what this summons was about. There was nothing—just a blank, expectant stare.

Well, it wasn’t as if he were a fool who couldn’t guess the reason. What else would they want from traders, if not to trade?

The last time they spoke, he had carefully laid out the goods they could offer—wine, silk, salt, iron weapons—but he had been wise enough not to mention the one thing he had truly come for. His prince had little interest in wool, cheese, or furs. No, the only thing Yarzat desired from these people was something far more valuable.

People.

Yet, when he first stood before them, with their weapons drawn and their eyes filled with suspicion, he could hardly have looked them in the face and told them outright that he had come to take their people. The moment those words left his lips, he would have been a dead man. No, this was a matter that had to be approached with patience, like a hunter stalking prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

First, he would let them realize the truth on their own—that they had little else to offer. That their herds, their simple crafts, were of no interest to men like him. He would make them see the futility of their position. And when they did, when they were desperate for something worth trading, he would present them with the answer they had not yet considered.

Besides, he told himself, he was not here to buy slaves. The people he had been tasked with acquiring were not forced to be truly theirs to begin with. Prisoners of war. Spoils taken in raids. If anything, he would be doing them a favor by taking such burdens off their hands.

Still that was an option, he did not miss the way their leader’s eyes widened when he showed both the salt and the grain.

Perhapse they lack in food...

With a measured breath, he pushed himself up from his seat , which was on the ground, and gave a small nod. ”Lead the way.”

Without another word, the man turned, stepping back outside, leaving Aron to follow into whatever awaited him.