Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 312

Chapter 312: Great raid(1) Chapter 312: Great raid(1) The long-awaited call for a raid had finally come.

Virguth, the fiery son of Klarik, had summoned his people and that of common tribes , and 6,500 warriors answered, their blades sharpened and their hearts brimming with anticipation.  This winter had been unlike any in memory.

Far from the biting cold of their northern homeland, the tribes now thrived in the fertile lands of Sarlan.

Their bellies were full every day, thanks to overflowing granaries stocked with the spoils of conquest, and warm fires burned in their hearths each night.

It was a luxury that many had never imagined.

Some had even embraced this new life, trading the chaos of battle for the quiet rhythm of farming.

Fields sprouted under their hands, and herds of sheep and goats, taken from defeated Sarlani settlements, roamed the rolling hills under their care.

They were no longer just raiders but settlers, carving out a new future in the land they had seized.

Yet, for many, the peace and comfort were suffocating.

To warriors forged in the crucible of battle, such stillness was a foreign and unwelcome thing.

Inactivity gnawed at them, turning their restlessness into a roaring hunger for blood and glory.

Virguth’s raid was like a spark to dry kindling, igniting the hearts of those who longed for the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves.

For these men, the raid was more than a venture; it was a return to purpose, a rekindling of the fire that had always driven their tribes forward.

They were not made for peace, bur for a life leaning toward action and violence, of people who found their call in dominating others.

The 6,500 warriors were a congregation of three thribes : The Frosthides, the Embercloaks, and the Thunderhorns.  However, such a vast number of warriors could never move as a single unified force without slowing to a crawl.

To avoid this, the tribes divided themselves, each splintering into smaller raiding bands that struck out independently.  Their target was clear: the lands of Prince Mavius, ruler of the Eastern Secession state.

The prince’s territories, rich with crops and livestock, were a tempting prize.

Villages fell to chaos as the three tribes carved their way through the land, their efforts coordinated not by a single hand but by the unspoken understanding that the spoils of conquest would flow freely.

The Frosthides, Embercloaks, and Thunderhorns shared no love for one another, but for now, the prospect of glory and plunder kept their alliances strong.

Each band raided as they saw fit, their leaders trusting in their own strength and cunning to make the most of the campaign —— Virguth sat on a rough wooden stump, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his sharp, weathered face.

At 30 winters, he was in his prime-a towering figure with long, ash-blonde hair tied loosely behind his head, and a beard braided with beads of bone and copper.

His piercing blue eyes seemed to burn with a restless intensity, and the scar running from his left cheekbone to his jawline added an air of menace to his presence.

He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin, his muscular arms bare despite the chill in the air, adorned with faded tattoos.

In his hand, he held the roasted leg of a pig, tearing into it absentmindedly as his gaze wandered over the flickering flames.

The meat was tender and flavorful, but there was no pleasure in it for Virguth.

Food and livestock had once been treasures in the harsh winters of the north, where every meal was a battle won against starvation.

But now, with their new homes brimming with these once-precious commodities, the joy had drained from such spoils.

“How dull,” he thought, gnawing on the pork as he watched his warriors.

Some were lighting torches and throwing them onto the roofs of thatched cottages, laughing as the flames spread.

Others were dragging screaming women into the fields or chasing fleeing villagers for sport.

It was a scene of chaos and revelry, but to Virguth, it was as empty as the ash that remained when the fires burned out.

His eyes flickered back to the horizon, where he knew wealth truly lay-not in these dirt-poor villages, but behind the tall walls of Romelian cities.

There was no silver or gold here, only mundane spoils that once meant survival but now only stoked his growing discontent.

The thought gnawed at him, a hunger deeper than any feast could sate.

Virguth turned the leg of pork in his hand, his mind racing.

This boredom isn’t mine alone, he realized.

Many of my warriors must feel the same.

Food and women are fleeting distractions.

What we desire now is the true prize-treasure, riches, the kind of spoils that fill a man’s chest and his soul.

He looked over his men, laughing and shouting amidst the burning ruins, and clenched his jaw.

The villages hold nothing for us but ash and echoes.

What we seek is hoarded in the cities.

And if we want it, we’ll need to break those walls.How else can my raid be celebrated, if I bring back poultry and grain?

Virguth leaned back on the stump, the taste of pork fading on his tongue as his thoughts wandered to the siege of Sarlan.

He remembered those walls vividly-towering slabs of stone, seemingly impenetrable, designed to defy even the boldest assaults.

But they hadn’t stood long against the giants.

The memory brought a faint smirk to his face.

The giants, with their towering frames and clubs the size of tree trunks, had been the true terror of that campaign.Geowulf’s warriors had only needed to provide them with simple wooden ladders, barely fit for human use.

The giants climbed them effortlessly, their massive hands gripping the parapets.

The defenders on the walls had stood no chance.

Virguth could still hear the sickening crunch of the first club strike, scattering soldiers like dry leaves.

It had only taken a few blows before the men on the walls deserted, fleeing in terror and leaving the gates undefended.

The breach had been swift, the victory total.

But there were no giants here now.

Virguth frowned, his fingers tightening around the bone of the pork leg.

This time, they were alone.

If they were to break through the walls of a Romelian city, they would have to do it with their own strength, their own wits.  Perhaps, he thought, we’ve been too eager with the torch.

His gaze flicked toward the nearest cottage, its thatch roof ablaze as warriors laughed and jeered.

If we’re going to crack a wall, we’ll need craftsmen-men who know wood and how to shape it.

He grunted to himself, tossing the pork bone into the fire.

At the next village, we should spare whoever can work wood.

Carpenters, wheelwrights…

anyone with hands steady enough to make siege tools.

The idea settled in his mind as he stared into the flames.

The walls of Romelia loomed in his imagination,he had heard from the prisoners just how high and thick those were , even more tall and unyielding than those of Sarlan had been.

The low murmur of laughter and the crackle of fire died abruptly as a lone rider emerged from the tree line.

The figure, hunched low over his horse, wearing pelts and movign toward them .

Virguth and his warriors immediately stood, hands drifting instinctively to the hilts of their weapons.

The horse stumbled to a halt, its sides lathered with sweat and flanks heaving.

The rider, his face streaked with dirt and exhaustion, slid from the saddle and staggered forward, his legs barely supporting him.

“Embercloaks,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

“They’ve been hit…

by men in tin on horse and were dispersed and harassed during their retreat .” A ripple of murmurs passed through the warriors as Virguth strode forward.

His jaw tightened at the messenger’s words.

“Survivors?” he demanded.

“Moving south,” the man said, swaying on his feet.

“They’re heading for us…

but they won’t make it unless you rally to their aid.

Call the Thunderhorns.We call you to meet us together in battle.” Virguth grabbed the man’s arm to steady him and barked an order for water.

As one of his warriors fetched it, his thoughts churned.

Men in tin.

How in the gods’ names did they get here so quickly?

His brow furrowed as he recalled Sarlan’s sluggish response to their invasion.

When word of the first raids reached the Sarlanese, it had taken them a full month to muster an army.

Yet here, barely two weeks into their strikes, they were already facing an organized force.

Virguth’s gaze swept over his men, many of whom were still clutching torches or loot from the burning village.

He clenched his fists.

Two weeks.

Perhapse it was the Sarlan that were too slow He turned to the messenger, whose eyes were glazed with exhaustion.

“Rest.

You’ll ride again soon,” Virguth ordered sharply.

“We’ll send word to the Thunderhorns.

If the southerners want battle, they’ll get it.” After that he turned to his warriors, his voice rising like a battle horn over the crackling flames and cries of women .

“So, they’ve come to us, have they?” His lips curled into a savage grin.

“They dare march against us , thinking they can hunt us down.

But all they’ve done is walk into their graves.” A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, building into a roar as his voice thundered on.

“They think they can frighten us with their armor and swords?

Let them try!

We smashed them once before-remember Sarlan!

We tore down their walls, broke their armies, and claimed what was ours.

And we’ll do it again!” The warriors, emboldened by his words, began cheering, pounding their shields and stamping their feet in a growing frenzy.

“They’re not here to take what’s ours,” Virguth bellowed.

“They’re here to give-to give us their gold, their silver, their weapons.

And we will take it all.

The glory of this victory will be ours alone!” The camp erupted in wild cheers.

Men clapped each other on the back, raised their weapons high, and shouted oaths of vengeance and triumph.

Virguth’s grin widened as he saw the fire reignite in their eyes.