Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 589

Chapter 589: Life across the seas(1)
Eight months had passed since the Voghondai crossed the sea and planted their banners on the royal lands gifted to them by the Prince of Yarzat, leaving behind the rugged hills that had cradled their ancestors for generations.

The decision had not come lightly. It had stirred fierce debates by many firesides. Yet, ask any among those who had boarded the royal fleet, their homes and hopes packed into worn leather sacks, and they would agree on one thing without hesitation — life had improved beyond their wildest dreams.

The new lands seemed kissed by the spirits. At first, the soil appeared no different from the fields of stone and thorns they had left behind, but patience rewarded them.

Within a month, what was once green blossomed into great golden seas of grain, waving under the wind like living rivers. Vegetables fattened quickly, fruits dripped from trees with a weight and sweetness they had never known. Compared to the reluctant, stubborn earth of their old hills, where harvest was non-existent , this land felt like a dream bought at a dear but worthy price.

If the bounty of the earth was not enough, there was salt — precious, vital salt. In the old country, it had been weighed as dearly as gold, sparking feuds and blood-debts. Here, while still not cheap, it was within reach of common hands, still costly but more affordable , no longer a luxury that only chiefs and warlords could afford. To those who had long counted every grain, it felt like a miracle.

And for the warriors, oh, what gifts they reaped! No longer did they wield rusted axes and leather. Now, fine steel kissed their hands, shining armor clad their shoulders, and the victories they had carved in blood under the royal banner of Alpheo tasted all the sweeter for the spoils they carried home — heavy sacks of silver, silks, and weapons. The riches of war lined their halls and filled their hearths for their new life was not just one of survival, but of triumph.

Yet it was not only those who sailed across the sea who found fortune. Life, in a strange twist of fate, had improved even for the Voghondai who remained behind in the old homeland called however not that , but instead Chorsi. Their departure, which once had seemed a death knell, had in truth become a lifeline.

With fewer mouths to feed, and with the salt sent thanks to those that crossed the water the tribes could now preserve the meat from their hunts, curing it against rot and spoil. No longer did they need to slaughter their herds in desperation before the meat could sour; no longer did the scent of decay haunt their camps when winter stretched its cruel hand over the hills.

Salt was not the only gift the sea-borne exiles had sent back. A few of the royal herds had been sent as well, animals unfamiliar to the high hills but swift to adapt. Their milk, their meat, and their hides proved a boon, and much to the tribe surprise not a single onee had starved.

And survival was only the beginning.

With the new weapons — steel-forged swords, chain-cloth vests that could turn aside a spear thrust, and helms that shone like silver under the sun — the Chorsi found themselves stronger than they had been in generations.

Pride that had been buried under the shame of famine and defeat was rekindled. With steel in their hands and vengeance in their hearts, they turned their gaze upon the hills that had been stolen from them by the Duskwindai , their ancient rivals who had driven them into barren exile.

This time, it would be different.

What had once seemed the end of the Chorsi was, in truth, the beginning of their rebirth.

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Varaku strode with heavy steps through the busy camp the Yarzatian outsiders had thrown up along the coast. His fur cloak dragged in the sand, and the saltwind snapped at the braids of his hair. Around him, the air buzzed with the sound of men heaving and shouting, the foreign tongue sharp against the deeper, rougher speech of his own people.

From the bellies of the great wooden turtles — their monstrous ships — came iron-chested goods, lowered down by ropes and sweaty men who cursed and strained. The turtles groaned against the tide, their hulls dark and massive like the shells of sea-beasts from old songs. The ground shook faintly with each heavy chest that slammed onto the shore, filled with salt, steel, tools, cloth — treasures the Voghondai could never have forged or woven alone.

Varaku watched it all with a hard stare, arms crossed over his broad chest. His people thrived now because of these trades, but he did not like depending on anyone, much less these soft-fingered men from across the seas.

Footsteps stirred the sand behind him. Heavy boots, but too quick, too nervous. Varaku turned on his heel, his sharp gaze falling onto the new envoy.

It was Sevarim, the man sent to replace Aron, who had been shrewd but brave — a man Varaku could respect, even if he still distrusted his smiles. Sevarim, however, was another matter entirely.

He was younger, thinner, and moved with the air of someone who did not like where he was — but dared not say it aloud. His tunic was fine but already dirtied by the salt air, and he winced whenever a wave crashed too close to his boots. His mouth seemed made more for stammering than speaking, and when he bowed awkwardly before Varaku, it was with the look of a dog expecting a cuff.

Varaku said nothing for a long moment, only staring at him as if weighing whether it was worth bothering with this thin-skin at all. His mind had already made its judgment: This one would not have lasted a week in the hills, not even among the old women and children.

Yet, if he wanted the salt, the steel, the wealth these turtle-men brought ashore, he would have to deal with Sevarim, coward or not.

Sevarim approached with a face pulled into something that was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a grimace. He lifted a hand in greeting and, after clearing his throat with a nervous cough, spoke in the mountain tongue of the Voghondai — or rather, a broken, limping thing that resembled it.

“Good…sun…to…you…Chief Varaku,” he managed, each word slow and careful as if he was picking stones out of a muddy riverbed.

Varaku didn’t answer.He simply looked at him — a look hard enough to peel bark off a tree — and then turned his eyes back to the men hauling heavy chests down from the ship’s belly. If Sevarim had expected a friendly reply, he would find none.

Sevarim, flustered, snorted sharply through his nose — more an accident than anything dignified — and abandoned the mountain tongue altogether. His voice shifted into the quicker, silkier cadences of Azanian, a language of merchants and sharp-minded traders. Beside him, a thin man in Yarzatian colors stepped forward and began to translate, his own voice a trembling echo of Sevarim’s words.

“You seem to have…great interest in what is coming ashore, great chief,” Sevarim said, tilting his head, trying — and failing — to look confident. His eyes darted nervously to the towering Varaku, then quickly back to the chests being dragged across the sand.

Varaku’s head tilted a fraction. The muscles in his jaw flexed, once. Then he moved — fast and sharp, like a snake uncurling — cutting Sevarim’s slow speech short.

“No time for playing tongues,” Varaku rumbled in his own deep voice, heavy and cold as river-stone. His words came clipped, final. “I was told to come. For a deal, I am here and yet all that I was shown was your kind bringing things down from their great wooden turtles.”

The translator scrambled to follow, speaking hurriedly in Sevarim’s ear, but Varaku didn’t wait for them to catch up.

“In a few days, we ride for the Duskwindai.” His voice lowered into something almost like a growl, filled with the steady promise of violence. “I do not waste my breath on games and riddles. If this is important, then speak — or I walk back to sharpen blades.”

He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the smaller man, making Sevarim stiffen slightly under the weight of it.

Varaku’s lips curled, not into a smile but something far sharper. “You know very well when we are marching and since you have called me, it means that what we are to discuss is rather important .

And since it should be in your interest too that I win, given that if we were to disappear, you’ll have no one to trade your salt to but ghosts.”

Sevarim chuckled, though it was clear the laugh was more for himself than anyone else — thin and a little brittle, like ice cracking underfoot. He brushed invisible dust from his tunic and bowed his head slightly, the motion awkward, as if he hadn’t quite mastered the art of humility.

“My apologies, great chief,” he said, his voice a smooth hum translated quickly into the mountain tongue by the thin interpreter at his side. “It is good fortune you have not yet departed. Had you left, you would have missed what promises to be… a most pleasant arrangement for you.”

Varaku made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a grunt — a harsh snort that might’ve knocked a lesser man backward. He shifted his weight, his boots grinding against the gritty earth, and jerked his chin toward the camp.

“Enough dancing,” he said flatly. “Move.”

Sevarim’s smile stretched wider, trying — failing — to look natural. His hands, delicate and soft compared to Varaku’s, fluttered slightly before he swept one out before him in an elegant gesture, as if presenting a fine tapestry instead of a muddy path between supply wagons and crates.

“Of course, of course! Let us not stand here like fishmongers haggling over dead stock!” he said, laughter bubbling once more at the edge of his words. “Come, come — let us speak in private, where words can be polished with proper food and drink to soften their edges.”

He stepped ahead, moving with a theatrical flourish, his boots sinking into the soft coastal soil.

Varaku watched him for a moment, unimpressed, before following, the earth itself seeming to protest under his boots .He had no patience for honeyed words or soft hands — but if this man brought something worth having, Varaku would suffer the performance.

For now.