Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 421

Chapter 421: Pioneer Chapter 421: Pioneer This is outrageous.

Why am I the one forced to leave home?

Torghan seethed as he trudged forward, his steps heavy with frustration.

Beside him, his newly assigned bodyguard walked in silence, his expression unreadable.  I was the one who found them!

So why should I be the one to cross the salt lake?

The thought burned in his mind, an ember of resentment that refused to die.

He had brought news of the outsiders, yet instead of being praised for it, he was the one sent away to verify their claims.

His father’s decision gnawed at him.

Why him?

Why not one of his brothers?

Why not one of the elders?

They had lived long enough to understand the ways of the world better than he did.

Yet here he was, walking toward the unknown, burdened with a task that shouldn’t have been his.

Just when he had thought that his father was proud of him, there he sent him into exile.He was not a fool; he knew very well that he was the most sacrificable of his brothers; he was the youngest after all, which meant that if things turned ugly, the loss would be minimal.

Unknowingly, his gaze drifted backward, settling on the five warriors his father had sent as protection.

They walked in formation, their faces hardened , their weapons close at hand.

Among them was the translator-the man who had been the bridge between his father and one of the outsiders.

Torghan exhaled sharply and faced forward again.

It should have been someone else, he thought bitterly.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

The decision had been made, and now, there was no turning back.

Torghan’s gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the outsider walking among them.

The man stood out like a sore wound, his garments unlike anything Torghan had ever seen.

Instead of thick furs or sturdy leathers fit for the harsh mountain winds, he wore silken cloth, flowing and delicate, shimmering faintly even in the muted light of day.

How can a man fight dressed like that?

Torghan wondered, his brow furrowing.

Shaking off the thought, Torghan clicked his tongue and called out, “Rhazan.” The translator, a wiry man with streaks of gray in his dark beard, turned from his conversation with Aron.

He had been deep in discussion with the outsider, but at Torghan’s voice, he stepped away without hesitation.

“What is it?” Rhazan asked, his sharp eyes scanning Torghan’s face.

He turned his attention back to Rhazan.

“What were you talking about with him?” he asked, his voice edged with impatience.

Rhazan glanced away from his conversation with Aron before stepping closer.

He let out a slow breath, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.

“He was giving me a few suggestions on the proper etiquette we should follow when we meet his leader.” Torghan narrowed his eyes.

“And you thought to keep that from me?Should I not be informed too?” Rhazan tensed but dipped his head slightly.

“You are in charge of this expedition,” he admitted, though his tone was stiff, reluctant.

Clearly, he didn’t enjoy being ordered about by someone younger than him.

Torghan waved a hand.

“Go on, then.

What did he say?” Rhazan hesitated, then answered.

“He told me that when we meet their ruler, we must first bow to the woman and only after to her husband.” Torghan’s brow knitted further.

“The woman first?

Why?” Rhazan crossed his arms.

“Because rulership is hers.

The man is just her consort.” Torghan stared at him, silent for a moment.

The idea was baffling.

A woman ruling over men?

He glanced again at the outsider, watching the man’s composed posture and the way he carried himself.  Torghan scoffed, shaking his head.

“How can a woman take power?

Is she a great warrior?” Rhazan exhaled, clearly restraining himself.

“In their tribe, rulership is decided by blood, not strength.” Torghan frowned.

That made no sense.

In his lands, power belonged to those strong enough to hold it.

A ruler who could not fight, who could not command respect through force, was nothing more than a sheep waiting to be overthrown.  “He told me that her husband is a great warrior.

He has led his soldiers into battle many times against stronger foes and always emerged victorious.” Torghan snorted.

“Then why isn’t he the ruler?” Rhazan hesitated for a moment before giving the answer.

“Because he married into power.

His victories belong to him, but the throne does not.

She holds the right to rule by birth.

He is merely her consort.It is a strange tradition for me too, I am as baffled as you are.” Torghan narrowed his eyes, his lip curling slightly.

The idea that someone could simply marry their way into power instead of seizing it felt absurd to him.

And yet, he knew that the outsiders were different people from theirs.

So should our people be ruled by a woman who can’t hold a weapon?

He blew through his nose in frustration.

He had already had enough of this nonsense-and he hadn’t even set foot on the land across the salt lake yet.

As the group approached the outsider camp, the foreigner at the front suddenly raised his hand and shouted something in his strange tongue.

His voice rang out, carrying over the cold air.

Torghan watched as, almost immediately, a deep groan filled the air-the sound of wood scraping against each other.

Before him, the towering wooden gates, reinforced with thick beams, slowly creaked open.

From behind them, the camp revealed itself.

Stepping inside, Torghan found himself momentarily breathless.

Not from fear, but from awe.

Warriors.

They were everywhere, having some drills, moving in small groups, sharpening weapons, or speaking amongst themselves in low voices.

And they were armored-each and every one of them.

Not just in scraps of boiled leather or bits of iron, but in full steel, covering their bodies as if it were nothing more than cloth.

Chainmail gleamed beneath thick tunics, while polished steel plates protected their chests.

And atop their heads, they wore helmets of shining metal, some with simple nasal bars.

Swords and axes rested in scabbards at their sides, their hilts worn but well-maintained, showing years of use.

Round shields, their rims reinforced with iron, were slung across their backs, waiting to be brought forward at a moment’s notice.

Torghan let his eyes drift across the camp, taking in the sight of so many warriors-all of them so well-equipped.

In his own tribe, only the wealthiest warriors could afford chainmail, which was rougly worth its weight on gold, always if they were lucky enough to find someone willing to sell it .

After all, the only way to get it was to welcome trader across the mountains, and that was a thing that only those living on the borders with the Trazhanie could do.

Most had nothing more than hardened leather, and only the truly elite carried swords.

Here, even the lowest-ranked soldier seemed to wear steel as if it were nothing more than common garb.

He had sighted them before , as he was the one that after all reported to his father.

Yet, he had been far away when he first spotted them that fateful day with his friend.

Now, seeing the intricate craftsmanship required to bend iron in such a way up close filled him with awe-three times more than when he had first laid eyes on them.

He wasn’t the only one struck by the sight.

His bodyguards, men who had fought and bled for his father for years, stood stiff beside him, their eyes wide as they took in the scene.

None of them had expected this.

None of them had seen anything like it before.

As they moved deeper into the camp, the warriors of the outsiders turned to watch them, pointing in their direction, speaking among themselves in their foreign tongue.

Some had their arms crossed, others rested their hands on their weapons, but none looked concerned-only curious.

Torghan felt their eyes on him, heard their voices murmuring words he could not understand.

He clenched his jaw.

What are they saying?

Suddenly, someone from the camp strode toward their guide with a purposeful gait.

The man in question was Valen the head of the expedition,as he reached him, he raised a hand and pointed behind him, gesturing toward one of the ships docked at the pier.

The vessel loomed large over the rest, its hull thick and reinforced, its masts towering high above, their sails furled tightly against the wind.

Aron, following the gesture, gave a small nod of understanding.

Without hesitation, he turned to Rhazan and spoke a few words in their tongue.

The translator, after a brief pause, turned to Torghan and his men.

“We are to enter that…thing” he said simply, nodding toward the massive vessel Valen had indicated.

Torghan’s gaze followed the motion, and when his eyes settled on the ship, he felt his breath hitch.

A monster of wood  It was a galeass, though he did not know the name for it.

Rows upon rows of oars lined its sides, a testament to the sheer manpower needed to move such a beast through the water. The deck stood high above the water, tall enough that a man on the shore had to crane his neck just to take it all in.

How can men build something like this?

Torghan wondered, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the hilt of his axe , as perhaps it was for the better that bloodshed had been avoided that faithful day.

Those outsiders were not sheep feeding on grass , as they were mistaken for, but they were instead wolves with sharp claws , waiting for an opportunity to sheathe them to the dog dumb enough to snarl at them.