Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 436

Chapter 436: Settling for a price(1) Chapter 436: Settling for a price(1) Aven stood atop the wooden palisade, his arms crossed over his broad chest, the wind tugging at the fur lining of his cloak.

He exhaled sharply, the sound almost lost in the crisp morning air, and scratched at the stubble along his jaw.

“Honestly,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff, “I didn’t expect this to be more than a waste of food and time.” Beside him, Aron leaned against the rough wooden beams, his sharp eyes scanning the bustling camp below.

Unlike Aven, his build was leaner, his demeanor more measured.

He hadn’t believed this would work either-not at first.

But now, as he watched the settlers gather their belongings and prepare for the journey ahead, he couldn’t deny the results.

“It wasn’t easy,” Aron admitted, his tone thoughtful.

“But apparently, it was worth the effort.” From their vantage point, the camp sprawled out like a living tapestry.

Families huddled together, their meager possessions bundled in cloth and leather.

The air was thick with anticipation, mingled with the faint scent of woodsmoke and porridge.

This was no longer just an idea or a gamble.

It was real.

Aven let out a low grunt, his gaze shifting to Aron.

“You do a count yet?” Aron nodded.

“Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-three.” Aven whistled, the sound sharp and appreciative.

“Hells, that’s more than I expected.” He smirked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Seems like the prince will be happy about this.” “Let’s hope so,” Aron replied, his tone dry but not without a hint of satisfaction.

Aven turned back to the crowd below, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the faces of the settlers.

His lips twisted into a thoughtful frown.

“There are a lot of old folk down there,” he muttered.

“At least a quarter of them.” Aron nodded, having anticipated the comment.

“We knew that would happen,” he said evenly.

“But look again.

They’re not as old as they seem.

Most are forty, maybe fifty.

They’ve still got the strength to work the fields.” Aven exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on a group of elders helping each other to their feet.

“So, they took the opportunity to push out the ones who wouldn’t live through the winter,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than judgmental.

Aron shrugged.

“That’s likely part of it.” He gestured toward the younger men and women scattered throughout the camp.

“Besides, there are plenty of able-bodied ones mixed in.

And that’s what really matters.” Aven gave a slow nod, his expression shifting from skepticism to reluctant acceptance.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“I think it does” Below, the settlers gathered around large cauldrons, steam rising into the crisp air as wooden bowls were filled with thick porridge.

Loaves of bread were broken and shared among families, the scent of warm food cutting through the chill.

It wasn’t a feast, but it was enough-something to steady them while they waited for the next steps.

All that remained to do was settle on the price to pay.

Aron leaned forward against the rough wooden railing of the watchtower, his eyes scanning the sea of tribespeople below.

Fires crackled in makeshift pits, casting long shadows over the camp, while men and women huddled in groups, sharing bowls of thick porridge and tearing into hard bread.

Despite the uncertainty that lay ahead, there was a strange calm among them, a quiet acceptance of the fate they had chosen.

He exhaled through his nose before turning slightly toward Aven.

“And where are our guests?” he asked, keeping his voice level.

Aven, standing beside him with arms crossed, arched a brow and smirked.

“Which one?” he asked dryly.

“The younger one is over in the camp, helping himself to our wine while watching some of the men gamble away their wages.

Seems to be enjoying himself quite a bit.” He snorted, shaking his head.

“As for the older one…” He rolled his shoulders.

“He’s in my tent, sipping wine and being tended to by a few of my servants.

Doesn’t look like he’s in much of a hurry to leave.Apparently both father and son have a soft spot for our wine.” Aron let out a short chuckle, though there was little humor in it.

“I suppose I meant the older one-the leader of their tribe.” Aven gave a lazy nod, shifting his weight against the railing.

“Figured as much.” Aron straightened, brushing the dust off his coat as he prepared to leave.

“Thanks for the information,” he said, already stepping toward the ladder.

“I’ll go finalize the deal.

We need to know exactly how much we’re paying for them.” Aven waved a hand dismissively, his attention already returning to the mass of settlers below.

He watched as a child clung to his mother’s side, his small hands grasping at her cloak while she ladled warm porridge into a wooden bowl.

It was a strange sight, Aven thought.

Just a month ago, these people had been on the other side of the walls, ready to slaughter them .

Now, they were here, fed and waiting, their fate being decided in a language they didn’t even understand.

He let out a quiet sigh.

———— Aron strode through the camp with measured steps, his boots kicking up dust with each step Around him, soldiers milled about in clusters, some sharpening their weapons, others tending to their gear or tossing dice in small circles, gambling away their coin and rations.

Laughter and murmured conversations filled the space, as an easy atmosphere settled over the men.

A few nodded at him in acknowledgment as he passed.

Others merely glanced up before returning to their tasks.  Few minutes later he reached the place.

Aven’s tent stood slightly apart from the rest of the camp, larger and more well-kept, its entrance flanked by two guards clad in simple steel breastplates and carrying short spears ,well more like javelins , at their sides.

They stiffened as Aron approached, but upon recognizing him, they merely gave him a silent nod of acknowledgment.

He returned the gesture, lifting the tent flap and stepping inside.

The air within was noticeably warmer, the scent of wine thick in the enclosed space.

Inside, seated on a sturdy wooden chair, was Varaku, his broad arms resting on his knees as he glanced up at Aron’s entrance.

His expression was unreadable, though the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke of cautious expectation.

Beside him, the translator-the same man who had served as their bridge since the very first encounter between their people-sat cross-legged on a stool, his hands resting loosely in his lap.  Aron stepped fully into the tent, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto Varaku’s.

The chieftain sat rigidly on a low stool, his posture as unyielding as the mountains that surrounded his lands.

Aron could see the tension in Varaku’s shoulders, the subtle twitch of his fingers against his knee.  “Varaku,” Aron greeted smoothly, his tone calm but firm.

“We’ve just finished counting the settlers.

That means we can finally begin discussing the terms of their exchange-your remuneration.” The translator spoke quickly, his voice steady as he relayed Aron’s words.

Varaku listened without reacting at first, his dark eyes fixed on Aron with an intensity that could have made a lesser man falter.

When the translator finished, the chieftain gave a slow, measured nod, his expression as unreadable as stone.

But Aron didn’t miss the subtle signs-the faint clench of Varaku’s jaw, the flicker of something hard and resentful in his gaze.

This was a man who understood the necessity of the deal but despised the reality of it.

Parting with his own people, even for their survival, was a bitter pill to swallow.

Aron respected that.

He also knew better than to comment on it.

Instead, he folded his arms, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the chieftain.

“Shall we begin?” Varaku’s response was a curt nod, his voice low and gravelly as he spoke a single word.

The translator turned to Aron.

“He says, ‘Proceed.'” Aron shifted his stance, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.

“Very well.

Let’s discuss what you’d like in exchange.

We have salt, wine, steel weapons, armor, and fine silk clothes.

Choose what suits your needs.” The translator relayed the offer, his words flowing swiftly.

Varaku listened, his face as impassive as ever, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the options.

When he finally spoke, his voice was firm, each word deliberate.

The translator turned back to Aron.

“He seeks a deal that encompasses all of what you have offered-except for the clothes and the wine.” Aron raised a brow, his expression thoughtful as he tapped a finger against his arm.

“So, what you want most is salt and steel,” he said, more a statement than a question.

Varaku gave a slow nod, his gaze unwavering.

There was no hesitation in his decision, no hint of doubt.  Aron allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.

“Salt and steel,” he repeated, his tone measured.

“Practical choices.

Salt to preserve your food through the winter, steel to arm your warriors.

I can respect that, requesting only what you need for the betterment of the tribe.

Very well then, let us start…”