Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 404

Chapter 404: Outsiders(3) Chapter 404: Outsiders(3) The murmurs among the warriors grew louder, their voices laced with confusion and unease.

“What in the name of the ancestors is this?” one of them muttered “Why does he bow?Does he want to surrender?” “This doesn’t feel right,” another grumbled, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Look at his clothes!

Who wears silk to war?” “Maybe he’s a priest?” someone offered hesitantly.

“Perhaps he’s come to beg for his gods to spare them.” “A priest?” another scoffed.

“What priest walks without an escort?

What priest bows to warriors instead of raising his hands to the sky?” “He’s not armed,” a younger warrior pointed out, his voice uncertain.

“Should we just-?” He made a quick, slicing motion with his hand across his throat.

Varaku listened, his face unreadable as his warriors debated among themselves.

Their confusion was evident in their voices, in the way their eyes flicked between the stranger and the unmoving gate behind him.

Some shifted their weight uneasily, others clenched their weapons as if waiting for a sudden command to strike.

Still, no reinforcements emerged from the gate.

No archers took to the walls.

No hidden warriors rushed forth.

Only this one man, standing alone before them, as if the rules of battle simply did not apply to him.

Varaky watched the man calmly look over them taking over their numbers, as he wondered what the hell was going on in the Outsider’s mind for him to walk so leasurely toward an army ——————– Bloody hells, please, gods, let these men be more than mere beasts-let them have reason.

Aron prayed silently, inhaling deeply to steady himself.

Every fiber of his being screamed that he was standing in the jaws of a beast, surrounded by warriors who could cut him down before he could even utter another word.

But he pushed those thoughts aside, forcing himself to stand tall, to exude the kind of confidence that might make these men hesitate rather than lash out.

He cleared his throat, his voice carrying across the tense silence.

“Brave warriors of the mountains,” he began, ensuring his tone was firm yet respectful, “is there anyone among you who speaks my tongue?” He said in the Azanian tongue, hoping that anyone among them could speak it.  His eyes swept across the gathered ranks, searching for any flicker of understanding, any sign that his words had registered.

Some of the tribesmen turned to one another, muttering in their own tongue, their voices hushed but filled with curiosity and skepticism.

Aron could see their expressions shifting-some looked confused, others wary, and a few even amused by the sight of a lone man dressed in silk standing before their assembled warriors.

He watched them closely, his interest piqued.

Their language was foreign to him, but the way they spoke, the way their gazes darted toward him and then back to each other, told him they were trying to make sense of what was happening.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.

A sharp, commanding shout.

Aron’s gaze snapped to the front of the group, where a man clad in chainmail stepped forward.

The metallic links glinted in the daylight, a sign that he was no ordinary warrior.

His presence alone silenced the others, their attention shifting toward him as he barked something in their tongue.

A moment later, a figure emerged from the crowd.

Aron’s eyes flickered with interest as he watched the chainmail-clad man turn to this newcomer, speaking quickly and gesturing with his hands-first toward Aron, then toward the cart behind him, and then back toward the camp.

His tone was firm, authoritative, as if he were giving instructions or perhaps clarifying something.

The newcomer stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he studied Aron for a moment before speaking in a rough but understandable Azanian tongue.

“What are you Azanians dogs doing here?” he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

For a brief second, Aron felt frozen in place.

Then, a surge of relief crashed over him like a wave, and he had to stop himself from letting out a breathless laugh.

It was as if the gods themselves had answered his silent prayers.

With a broad smile, he dipped his head respectfully and greeted the man in the same language.

“We are not Azanians, my friend.

We come from across the sea.

Our homeland is called Yarzat.” His voice was warm, carrying the unmistakable excitement of someone who had just found common ground where he thought none existed.

The tribesman frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought before he asked, “Then why do you speak the Azanian tongue?” Aron chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

“Because I did not know what tongue your people spoke,”he admitted honestly.”But I assumed that with the Azanians so close, you must have had some dealings with their traders.

I had hoped that at least one among you would understand me.” The man stared at him for a moment longer before nodding slowly.

He turned back toward the warrior in chainmail-the one Aron now suspected was the leader of either the army or perhaps even the entire tribe.

The two men exchanged a few short words, the newcomer gesturing toward Aron and then back toward the camp.

Aron couldn’t understand their language, but from the way the armored warrior’s eyes flicked toward him with scrutiny, he could tell he was being sized up.

Judged The tribesman’s gaze flickered toward the cart, his brow furrowing in curiosity.

He pointed at it and asked, “What is that?” Aron’s smile widened, his expression warm and inviting.

“Gifts for you,” he said smoothly.

With a simple snap of his fingers, his four servants immediately set to work, reaching into the cart and pulling out various items.

The watching tribesmen murmured amongst themselves, some gripping their weapons a little tighter, still unsure whether to take this as an offering or a trick.

Aron raised a hand in a placating gesture before addressing the man again.

“May I come closer to your leader?” he asked, his tone respectful but confident.

The tribesman hesitated for only a moment before turning to the armored warrior behind him, speaking in their native tongue.

The leader-who had been silently observing the exchange-gave a slow nod.

Aron inclined his head in gratitude before stepping forward, his movements measured and deliberate.

His servants followed close behind, their arms full of gifts, while the gathered warriors eyed them warily.

Hands hovered over weapons, muscles tensed, ready to strike at the first hint of treachery.

The first servant stepped ahead, presenting a bundle of fine silk, dyed in vibrant blues and deep reds, the fabric shimmering under the light.

Aron gestured to it with a flourish.

“These are garments of the finest quality,” he said smoothly.

“Fit for men of status.” A few tribesmen leaned in slightly, intrigued by the rich texture and color of the fabric-so unlike the rougher materials they wore.

But their leader remained unmoved, merely watching.

Then, the second set of servants brought forth large urns, placing them carefully on the ground.

They removed the lids, releasing the scent of wine into the air.

The warrior in chainmail finally stepped forward, his curiosity getting the better of him.

He took one of the urns and peered inside as soon as the red liquid swayed they knew what it was, wine.

Aron observed him closely, the reaction confirming what he had suspected-they have no vineyards.

Which meant the only wine they could acquire came through Azanian traders.

And if that was the case, then he had something they truly valued.

A resource they could not produce themselves.

His smile deepened.

Oh, yes.

He could use this.

Aron’s smile remained steady as he gestured toward the second urn.

“If you enjoy the wine, then you must try the cider,”he suggested smoothly.

“It is sweeter, with a crisp taste unlike anything you’ve had before.” At his cue, one of his servants stepped forward, bowing slightly as he presented a small cup filled with the golden liquid.

The tribesmen watched in silence as the light of the sun danced over the surface, making the cider shimmer like molten amber.

The man in chainmail eyed the cup warily, his fingers twitching slightly before resting on the hilt of his weapon.

His suspicion was clear.

Aron, ever the diplomat, raised his hands in a disarming gesture.

“It is not poisoned,” he reassured, his voice smooth and unwavering.

“If you wish, I can take the first sip myself.” Varaku, the leader, gave him a sharp, measuring gaze, searching his face for any sign of deceit.

Then, without a word, he took the cup himself, dipping it into the urn before raising it to his lips.

As the liquid touched his tongue, his eyes widened in surprise.

He swallowed quickly, then ran his tongue over his lips, as if trying to capture every last drop of the drink’s flavor.

Without hesitation, he lifted the cup again and took another long swing, savoring it this time.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“This… this is delicious,” he said to his people, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of satisfaction, Aron didn’t need the translators to understand the meaning.

Aron bowed deeply, his expression one of perfect humility.

“I am honored that you appreciate our gift,” he said smoothly.

“It is only a taste of what Yarzat has to offer.We come here as friends…” The man in chainmail’s eyes took a third cup before he lowered it , his fingers tightening around it with a sudden tension.

He glanced at Aron and narrowed his gaze.

“He asks what are you really here for?” the man translated  ”We are here to trade” Aron said simply  “Trade menas you give us something and we do the same.

But what stops us from taking the gifts, killing you and your people, and then taking everything for ourselves?” Aron’s smile did not falter, though a subtle shift in his posture betrayed his awareness that the situation was more delicate than he had hoped.

He had come here expecting to barter with men of reason, even if they were foreign, but the reality before him made his pulse quicken.

His mind whirred, taking in the threat behind the man’s words, the glint of greed and violence in his eyes.

The tribesmen around him, their posture brimming with impatience and barely suppressed hostility, told him all he needed to know.  These were savages.