Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Aron knew that persuading a tribal leader to trade his own people wouldn’t be as simple as flashing steel and making demands. If anyone thought otherwise, they were a fool. At best, he could hope to strike a deal for prisoners of war.

It had been done before—across history.

The African slave trade had functioned in much the same way, with tribes raiding one another and selling their captives to foreign traders in exchange for weapons, glass, salt, or other coveted goods. But that was a system built over centuries, reinforced by the lure of power and profit.

This, however, was different.

These mountain tribes, lingering in the rugged lands behind the Azanian Sultanate, were naturally isolationist. It was no accident—it was the result of a long, bloody history of resisting the Sultan’s rule, of fighting tooth and nail for their independence. That struggle had bred deep distrust, making them wary of any outsiders, no matter what they brought in their hands.

And that meant this trade would take more than just words.

The only reason Aron had managed to establish contact at all was desperation—Varaku’s tribe was staring down the barrel of a harsh winter, one they knew would bring famine. Hunger had a way of making men reconsider their principles, and in this case, it made them willing to listen. That desperation was sharpened further by their thirst for vengeance against the Jugundai people. So when an outsider force arrived, offering steel, salt, and food, the tribe had been more than eager to open a dialogue.

If the negotiations went well, Aron had far greater ambitions than a simple trade deal. His true goal was to establish a permanent foothold—a small settlement that would serve as a harbor for trade and, more importantly, as a gateway for transporting people from the western continent to the eastern one. If he succeeded, this wouldn’t just be a one-time exchange. It would be the foundation of something far larger, after all the arable land in the crown’s lands were just that much.

Under normal circumstances, the very moment Aron so much as hinted at the idea of purchasing people, he would have been dragged outside and gutted without a second thought, like a fat fish for the soup.

That was the reality of dealing with proud, warlike men who saw outsiders as little more than enemies or opportunists. To them, the notion of selling their own peoplewas a disgrace. A man who dared to utter such an insult was a man who would not leave the village alive.

And yet, Aron had done just that. Not bluntly, of course. No, he had spent efforts carefully weaving his web, laying the foundation for this very moment. Every move he made, every word he spoke, had been calculated. The gifts had been generous but deliberate—exotic wines, fine salt, barrels of cider. Things they could not easily obtain on their own. Then came the final stroke: the steel breastplate. Not merely a token of goodwill, but a symbol of superiority. A reminder that the prince he served could afford to clad his soldiers in steel, while they still fought with bronze and hardened leather.

It had been a masterful game of power, one designed to shake Varaku’s confidence. Aron had wanted him to feel the weight of his own insignificance, to realize that he was not dealing with just another merchant looking for simple goods. No, this was something different. This was a negotiation where Varaku held very little, and the longer it went on, the more he would come to understand it.

And Aron had succeeded. He saw it in the way Varaku hesitated, in the moments of silence between his words, in the subtle shift of his posture. The tribal leader was beginning to grasp the imbalance between them. He was beginning to see that what he desired—wine, steel, and salt—was completely out of reach unless he was willing to play by Aron’s rules.

But knowing and accepting were two different things. Varaku might have begun to understand the reality of his position, but that didn’t mean he would take kindly to the words Aron was about to say next. No amount of careful maneuvering could erase the fact that he was treading on dangerous ground.

The anger was coming. Aron had no illusions about that. But he had played his hand well, and now, it was time to see just how far he could push.

As soon as Aron’s words were translated, the air in the hut thickened. It was not the usual tension of negotiations, nor the unease of an uncertain deal—it was something far more dangerous. Aron saw it the instant Varaku’s eyes darkened, a flicker of old defiance burning behind them. These were the eyes of a man whose people had spent nearly a century and a half resisting the giants of the sands, defying the sultans of Azan who had tried to break them. They were eyes filled with pride, with the stubborn refusal to bend, no matter the cost.

For the briefest of moments, Aron even entertained the thought that he had pushed too far. That Varaku, despite his careful maneuvering, would grab the very blade Aron had gifted him and slit his throat where he sat. A foolish way to die, he thought, but not an unthinkable one.

He remained still, unreadable, though his muscles tensed beneath his fine cloth.

But Varaku did not reach for the blade. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, a slow, heavy breath, before muttering something low and sharp in his rough, guttural tongue. His voice carried the weight of a boulder, steady, unshaken, but laced with something close to fury.

Aron turned his gaze to the translator, who hesitated for a moment before speaking. ”He says...” The man’s voice was careful, cautious, as if he too was aware of the fire smoldering in the air. ”That they will never sell their people into slavery. Not even for all the steel that you outsiders possess.”

Varaku’s eyes locked onto Aron’s, daring him to challenge the words.

The translator continued, ”He says, if you wish to trade, decide on something else. But this... this will never be.”

Silence fell over the hut, broken only by the distant crackling of the fire. The rejection was absolute. Unyielding.

Aron let out a sudden, hearty laugh, the sound breaking through the thick silence like a blade through cloth. He raised a hand in mock surrender, shaking his head.

”My deepest apologies,” he said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. ”It seems there has been a miscommunication between us, and that is entirely my fault. I should have explained myself better.” His tone was light, disarming, as if he were discussing nothing more than an amusing mistake rather than a subject that had nearly gotten him killed.

He gestured around them, to the hut, to the rough, simple way of life they lived. ”Your tribe, as I see it, has no arable lands. You are herders, strong and proud, raising your flocks upon these mountains. That is the way you have survived, and it is admirable.” His eyes flicked to Varaku, watching the tribal leader’s reaction carefully before continuing.

”But where I come from,” Aron said, his voice taking on a more measured, deliberate cadence, ”there is too much land to cultivate. Almost all of it is fertile, rich, ready to bear crops—yet there are not enough hands to work it.” He let that settle for a moment, ensuring they were listening before pressing on.

”Nearly a year and a half ago, there was a great change in leadership.” His lips curved, a knowing smirk playing at their edges. ”The man who rose to power is... let us say, a warrior. A warrior who led our ’tribe’ to victory against many enemies, a warrior who has made us rich with trade—rich with the very goods you have tasted, the wine you have drunk, the steel you have held in your hands.”

Aron’s gaze remained fixed on Varaku, reading his expression. ”And this warrior, my prince, realized something. He realized just how much land there was to be cultivated, but how few people there were to do it.” He spread his hands, palms open. ”That is why we are here. Not for slaves. Not to take your people in chains.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. ”We are here for men and women who will own land. Who will cultivate it for our leader and keep the fruits of their labor. Our land is rich—fertile beyond imagination. For every ten sacks of grain, those who work the land will keep eight for themselves.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle, before delivering the final blow. ”They will not be slaves. They will be citizens, protected under my prince’s rule, their livelihood safeguarded by his strength. He will guard them, as he guards all his people.”

Aron reclined slightly, his expression relaxed, yet his sharp eyes studied Varaku’s face for any sign of a shift.

As the translator began to speak, Aron kept his eyes fixed on Varaku, watching every flicker of emotion that passed across the tribal leader’s face. At first, there was resistance, the same hardened defiance that had been there from the beginning. But then, as the words sank in, Aron saw something else—uncertainty.

Varaku’s expression shifted, subtle but telling. His brows furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together in thought. He was weighing it, Aron could tell. The warrior’s pride was warring with the reality of his people’s situation. Aron had given him something to consider, something he could not immediately dismiss.

This was the moment. He had cracked the surface. Now, he needed to drive the final nail in.