Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 327

Chapter 327: Diving into the unknown Chapter 327: Diving into the unknown When Virguth’s charred remains had been reduced to ash, the priests, high on the feeling of burning someone at the stake and feeling good about it , sought to extend the same fate to the other captured savages.

They called for their immediate conversion under the looming threat of the stake, their voices rising in righteous fervor, declaring that the souls of these heathens must either be redeemed in flame or through devotion.

Yet, this time, their cries met staunch resistance-not from compassion but from pragmatism.

The nobles, with their purses always in mind, were quick to voice their dissent.

“Burning them is a waste,” one barked, his tone sharp with greed.

“They’ll fetch a hefty price in the markets!” The common soldiers, many of whom stood to gain a share of the profits from the sale of these prisoners, grumbled in agreement.After all they had captured nearly 2,000 prisoners , which at the market price of 6 silverii a men, meant that there were 12,000 silverii at stake.  The murmurs soon turned to shouts, and the shouts to action, as soldiers began waving their weapons in the air reminding the priests that while they may have hold of celestial power, the soldiers are the one holding the weapons.

Their voices carried through the camp, a collective roar of disapproval that drowned out the priests’ fiery rhetoric.

Faced with the unified opposition of both noble and soldier, the priests were forced to relent.

Though their faces flushed with indignation, they masked their retreat behind a facade of piety.

“Perhaps,” one priest declared, raising his voice over the crowd, “these heathens may find redemption not in the flames but through servitude.

Living among the faithful, even as slaves, may yet guide their wretched souls to the light.” With those words, they turned a blind eye to the impending sale, offering no further resistance.

The nobles smirked, their eyes already gleaming with calculations of profit, while the soldiers muttered their satisfaction, knowing that the spoils of war would line their pockets rather than feed the flames.

Thus, the prisoners’ fates were sealed-not as martyrs to the cause of faith, but as commodities, their lives valued not for their souls but for the gold they would bring.

The nobles harbored no illusions about the practicality of ransoming the tribal leader.

From the pages of history, they knew well that the tribes were a hydra-cut off one head, and another swiftly emerged to take its place.

Every time a chieftain was slain in battle or captured, a new leader rose.

And of course the last thing that a new chieftain would do is bring the previous one back, after all that would be equal to throw one’s hoe on his foot.  Most of time there was no familial lineage or political weight attached to their leaders as there might be in noble courts.

Instead, leadership among the tribes came from strength, a quality that would simply shift to the next capable warrior once the previous one is no longer available.

For the nobles, then, Virguth’s death served its purpose as an example, but his life held no value as a bargaining chip.

—————- Mavius sat in his tent, the flickering light of a solitary lantern casting shadows across the thick canvas walls.

Before him sat one of the captured shamans, a frail old man whose body seemed too withered to pose any threat.

His once-elaborate robes and ceremonial staff had been confiscated, leaving him dressed in the simple tunic of a commoner.

To the untrained eye, he appeared to be just another elder .

The emperor had ordered his men to disguise the shamans in this way, hiding them from the wrath of the priests, whose fervor had been stoked to dangerous levels after the earlier spectacle.

The old man was not bound, for there was no need; his feeble frame betrayed a life too advanced in years to muster any resistance.

He sat hunched, his gnarled hands resting on his knees, his sharp eyes fixed on Mavius with a mixture of defiance and resignation.

Mavius leaned forward, his voice calm but edged with steel.

“Do you know what happened this afternoon?” The old man’s lips twitched into a grim semblance of a smile.

“I heard the screams,” he rasped, his voice cracked but steady.

Mavius nodded, his expression hardening.

“Then you understand what is at stake.Too old to be of any use in the slave markets.

Too inconspicuous to inspire rebellion.

The priests would delight in seeing you burn, and there would be nothing-nothing at all-to stop them.” The emperor’s words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken threat lingering like a blade poised above the shaman’s neck.

The old man did not flinch, but the faintest flicker of unease crossed his face.

Mavius’s tone softened, but only slightly, as he continued.

“Your only path to survival lies through me.

Cooperate, and perhaps you will live to see another dawn.

Refuse, and you’ll follow your leader into the flames.I have after all more than a dozen options to choose from , one of them will cooperate, won’t he?” The tent fell silent, save for the distant murmurs of the camp outside, as the shaman’s sharp eyes bore into Mavius.  “Tell me,” the emperor began, his tone low but commanding, “who were those men you sent after the first wave?

Those…naked lunatics who charged without armor, without weapons.

And don’t try to spin some nonsense-they felt no pain, no fear.

Was it magic?” The shaman let out a rasping chuckle, a sound that grated like stones rubbing together.

“Magic?

Is that what your southern minds think of everything you do not understand?” His eyes glinted with an almost mocking amusement as he continued.

“No, Emperor.

They are what we call the Soul Carriers-men chosen to bear the spirits of our ancestors, to bring them back to this world to fight once more.

The spirits have no bodies, you see, no flesh to feel pain or fear death.

What remains is their hunger.

Their lust for glory, their thirst for carnage.” Mavius frowned, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair.

“Spirits of ancestors, you say.

How do you do it?

” His tone was tinged with both fascination and disbelief.

The shaman grinned, exposing a mouth of crooked teeth.

“Our people have passed down this tradition for centuries, long before your empire rose from the dust.

In our eyes, it is no more than spiritualism-though I suppose to you southerners, it can only seem like magic.With the right preparation is quite easy to do it” His grin widened as he added, “It is amusing how small your understanding is, for all your power and armies that you can wield.” Mavius’s expression darkened, but he held his temper.

“If this is some ancient practice, why haven’t we seen it before?

Many tribes have come south as foederati to serve the empire.

None of them were capable of this…this madness.” The shaman’s laughter came again, this time deep and hoarse, like the wind howling through a chasm.

“That’s because they are cowards,” he spat, “and their shamans know better than to tread where the priests of your Five Gods rule.

Flames are all that await our kind in the south, Emperor.

The tribes you’ve welcomed have cast off their shamans to survive-abandoning the ancestors and kneeling to your gods.

But not us.

Never us.We conquered what we now have…” Mavius leaned forward, his interest visibly piqued.

“And what if we wanted to…

replicate it?

Could we, do what you do?

” His tone was measured, but the spark of intrigue in his eyes was unmistakable.

The shaman smirked, his aged face creasing like worn leather.

“You southerners,” he began, his voice thick with disdain and amusement, “have severed your link with the past.

You bow to deities that exist in the heavens, distant and unyielding, rather than to the spirits that dwell beneath your very feet.

You have turned away from the earth and its truths, leaving you hollow.” Mavius frowned, but he said nothing, letting the old man continue.

The shaman’s voice took on a low, almost conspiratorial tone.

“But if you ask whether the incantation-the ritual-could be applied to your soldiers?

Then yes.” He paused, his gaze sharp and penetrating.

“It can be done.

The ancestors may not recognize your blood, but the rites can still open the doorway to allow something through.

You would need the right items sacrifices to appease the spirits, and warriors willing to surrender their bodies to the unknown, with the result being however weaker than what you witnessed yesterday.” Mavius’s brow furrowed, sensing the weight behind the shaman’s words.

“And if we asked you to teach us this magic?” The shaman’s grin turned cruel, his teeth glinting in the lantern light.

“Ah, now that is a different question altogether.

Our magic?

No.

It cannot be passed to you.

The power runs in our blood, Emperor.

For centuries, we have walked this land, bound to it, nourished by it, and shaped by the spirits that reside here.

It is not something that can be taught or stolen-it is as much a part of us as your gods are to you.

Mavius’s gaze lingered on the shaman, the flickering light of the lantern casting sharp shadows across his face. This is incredible, if I can wield men as fearless as those we fought, than I will be able to take throne much easier than I had hoped…

“I find your people…

intriguing,” Mavius began “Your traditions, your connection to the land, your power-it’s something I wish to understand.

And as a gesture of my interest-and my mercy-I will ensure the safety of you and your kin.” The shaman’s eyes narrowed slightly, gauging the emperor’s sincerity, but Mavius pressed on.

“All of the shamans we have taken will remain under my protection.

No priest will harm you, no flames will touch you-so long as you serve me faithfully.

Betray that trust, and I will let them finish what they started this afternoon.” His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken consequence.

For a moment, the tent was silent, save for the faint crackling of the lantern.

The shaman’s expression softened ever so slightly, the defiance in his eyes giving way to a cautious acknowledgment.

He rose as much as his old bones would allow, bowing his head just enough to show respect while retaining his dignity, as he just gave Mavius the edge he needed to fight against his enemies in the south, wielding weapons that the south would see for the first time.

“As you command, Emperor”