Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The tribesmen had chosen the name Vogondhai for their people—a necessity imposed by the bureaucrats of Yarzat when it came time to file the legal documents for their settlement. After all, there were only so many times officials could refer to them as ”the tribesmen” before the records became a tangled mess of confusion.

And so, for the sake of clarity and governance, Torghan’s tribe became the Vogondhai.

The name was not chosen lightly, nor was it a mere convenience. Vogondhai meant ”those who come from gold,” a name steeped in meaning and reverence for the land they now called home.

As the farmers sent by the court questioned about the feritility of the field, would speak of how during summer each village would look like a settlement built from golden land.

To the normal eye, it was merely a harvest. But to the Vogondhai, it was a sign, a blessing from the spirits, proof that this land had accepted them.

Life for the Vogondhai was steady, if simple. Their bellies, once accustomed to the gnawing ache of hunger, were now filled each night with warm food—bread, porridge, or fish hauled in from the sea, just a few hours’ walk from their settlement. Some of the fish were even caught by the tribe’s own greenhorn fishermen, their nets clumsy but their determination unyielding. It wasn’t always a feast, but it was enough.

Enough to let children drift into sleep without the sharp sting of hunger in their stomachs. Enough to keep men and women strong for the work each day demanded of them.

Farming was foreign to the Vogondhai. Back in the western continent, they had lived by the rhythm of herding and hunting, their survival tied to the movement of beasts rather than the turning of the soil. But here, in the land granted to them, they had to learn a new way.

The farmers assigned to their settlement were patient teachers, showing them how to break the earth, how to plant and tend to crops, and when to harvest each type of grain or vegetable. It was hard work, unfamiliar and often frustrating, but the Vogondhai were quick learners. They had to be.

Yet it wasn’t just the farmers who brought change to their way of life. After a month in their new home, a long-awaited shipment arrived—one that sent murmurs of excitement rippling through the camp like a spark through dry grass. Crates were pried open, their contents gleaming beneath the morning sun:

Four hundred and thirty sets of chainmail and helmets.

Eight hundred spearheads.

Two hundred axes.

Two hundred and fifty daggers.

All of steel.

For a moment, silence fell over the warriors as they stared at the weapons and armor before them. Then, like a slow-rising wave, the realization dawned—these were theirs.

No longer would they fight with weapons made of bronze or stone. No longer would their defenses be stitched together with leather and hope. They, the Vogondhai, now bore arms of steel, armor forged to fit their backs, weapons sharp enough to bite through flesh and bone alike.

Some reached hesitantly for the chainmail, running their fingers over the interwoven rings, feeling the weight of it. Others picked up the spears, testing their balance, their grip. A few, unable to contain their excitement, raised the axes into the air, their edges flashing in the sun like shards of lightning.

”Steel,” one warrior murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly might break the spell.

Another had laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the ground beneath them. ”Steel!” he roared, lifting a helmet high.

The shipment of weapons and armor had been met with great excitement, but it didn’t take long for the Vogondhai to realize there wasn’t enough to go around. Out of the 2,200 people who had settled in their new land, about 600 were elders—wise and respected, yes, but well past their days of swinging axes or charging into battle. The largest group, 1,400 strong, were men and women between thirty and fifty, still capable of hard work and, if push came to shove, a good fight. The remaining 300 were the youth, the future of the tribe, full of energy and not yet worn down by life’s hardships.

But among them, 700 were prime fighting-age males—young, full of vigor, and now very, very aware that there were only 430 sets of armor to share between them. The unlucky 270 had to make do with what they had—tattered leathers, hand-me-down furs, or in some cases, just their own misplaced confidence. There was some grumbling, sure, but it was quickly drowned out by the news that another shipment was on the way. Patience was something the Vogondhai understood well—after all, they had waited this long to get proper weapons, what was a little more time?

That moment of happiness however didn’t last much.

But just as they were starting to feel good about their slowly improving armory, a much graver problem reared its head—one that no amount of sharpened steel could fix.

There were too few women.

The imbalance was staggering. For every three men in the tribe, there was only one woman, making it painfully clear that unless something changed, the future of the Vogondhai would be looking rather... bachelor-heavy.

What was meant to be a thriving, growing settlement was instead starting to resemble a very aggressive all-male social club.

This was no small issue—no women meant no children, and no children meant that in a generation or two, the Vogondhai would be little more than a legend, with future historians wondering if they were just a myth or if they were a real culture that settled onto the eastern continent .

Fortunately for them , promises had been made by their prince—women would be introduced to the tribe in due time. Some would come through from neighboring villages, others however would not go with goodbyes from their parents as the more ambitious warriors were already sharpening their swords and considering alternative recruitment strategies that involved kidnapping.

One way or another, the Vogondhai would endure.

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Torghan, leader of the Vogondhai, sat in the largest house in the village—a sturdy wooden structure built by the hands of his people, with a little help from the southern laborers who had overseen its construction. It was no palace, nor did it need to be. It was strong, spacious, and most importantly, his.

Three months had passed since his people had settled in this new land, and in those months, Torghan had taken on a challenge unlike any battle he had ever faced—learning the southern tongue and, more daunting still, learning to write.

For a man who led a people with no written language, the idea of trapping words onto parchment was as strange as catching wind in his hands.

His people had always carried their history in stories, songs, and the memories of their elders. They spoke their oaths, they did not sign them. They told their tales, they did not scribble them down. But here, in this foreign land, everything was different.

Laws were written. Deals were written. Even histories were chained to ink, so that the dead might be remembered not by the mouths of their kin, but by the scratch of a quill. If Torghan was to lead his people in this place, he had to master these southern ways.

At this moment, he sat hunched over a sheet of parchment, thick fingers gripping the edges as if the words might try to escape. He read aloud in a slow, deliberate voice, each syllable fought for and won.

As a matter of fact reading was easy , as Torghan had memorized the pronunciation of each couple of letters, the problem were their meaning

”A... wolf... was...” He scowled, jabbing a finger at an unfamiliar word.

The scribe sitting beside him—a thin southern man with ink-stained fingers and the patience of a man who had long accepted his fate—leaned in. With a quiet word to the translator, the meaning was relayed.

”It means ’hiding,’” the translator explained.

Torghan nodded, murmuring the word to himself as if testing its weight before moving on. Each new word was another weapon in his growing arsenal, another step into this world of parchment and ink.

The scribe, perhaps sensing that Torghan’s patience for letters was nearing its end, set down his quill and rubbed his hands together. ”That is enough for today,” he announced. ”We will continue tomorrow morning.”

Torghan was already rolling his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from sitting still for too long, when the scribe continued.

”For now, I have news to share.”

Torghan’s sharp gaze flicked up, his posture straightening slightly. He said nothing, simply resting his large hands on the table as he waited the words of his teacher.

”Soon, priests will be arriving at the settlement,” the scribe said, watching the chieftain’s reaction closely. ”They have been granted permission to establish a temple among your people.”

Torghan’s brow furrowed, his expression betraying no immediate hostility, but it was clear this news had his attention. He had known the customs of the south would begin creeping into his people’s lives. He just hadn’t expected them to march in so soon.

The scribe, perhaps sensing that an outright rejection was possible, quickly added, ”You will still be allowed to practice your own faith. The priests will not interfere, nor will they force conversion upon your people.”

Torghan’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer before he gave a slow, considering nod. That was good. His people would not take kindly to outsiders telling them which gods to kneel before.

The spirits of the Vogondhai had walked with them through storms and battle, had feasted with them in times of plenty, and had carried their dead beyond the earth. No southern priests would change that.

The scribe, sensing no immediate explosion of rage, pressed on. ”There are also a few things you should know regarding the privileges of the priests,” he said carefully. ”By law, they are protected from harm. No one may lay hands upon them, no matter the reason. They do not pay taxes. They are not required to work the fields. And should one of them commit a crime, they will be judged by an assembly made of their own, not by our courts.”

Torghan listened, his face unreadable. Some of it was new to him, but much of it was not. Among his people, priests were also exempt from labor, their hands meant for healing, for reading the will of the gods, and for leading the great ceremonies that tied the Vogondhai to their ancestors. They were respected, celebrated, and yes, protected—after all, to harm a priest was to invite the wrath of the gods.And none of course wished for that

So far, nothing sounded like cause for concern.