Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king Chapter 716: Call for aid

Valen’s armored boots pressed into the soft green grass of Salthold’s northern fields, each step sending a low clink through the air, his breastplate chiming against the chainmail beneath ,like two silver spoons eting on stone.

The spring breeze carried the scent of rain and distant smoke, and the flags above the city’s watchtowers stirred lazily, unaware of the storm soon to co.

Just days prior, Vashen, firstborn of Varaku, had arrived on horseback, a gift from his prince in honor of the alliance. He had ca to deliver the news, the Duskwindai had declared war.

Valen had received him not only as a guest but also as a brother-in-arms. His reply had been swift and resolute, as their oath would be fulfilled.

He rembered how Vashen’s shoulders had seed to ease at those words, the faintest smile touching his lips, that he had never seen move into anything other than brooding whenever he watched him.

Perhaps knowing they would not face the wrath of the giant of the mountain tribes alone gave him so asure of comfort.

Since then, Vashen had remained an honored guest under Valen’s roof, while the city below was set into motion for the war preparation.

The Yarzat Relief Host stood assembled. Six hundred footn clad in padded gambesons , chainmail, and steel-capped helms, spears in hand and purpose in their eyes.

Two hundred of them the prince had even managed to equip with breastplates; it was most certainly a welco gift as they needed every ounce of help to face what was coming.

A re hundred n were left behind to hold Salthold’s walls, as even the archers were put on the field.

Valen exhaled, the weight of what lay ahead pressing against his chest, but so too the pride of a commander who had shaped the city and could now see it go to war.

Steel would sing. Blood would fall. But when the mountain thunder ca crashing down from the Duskwindai peaks, they would not face it kneeling.

They would face it marching.

The sun had risen up just past the walls of Salthold, bathing the sky in bands of rose and deepening indigo. The campfires were lit in orderly rows across the training field, their orange glow flickering against helts and cheekplates, reflecting in the eyes of n who laughed too loudly and chewed too quickly, as if trying to bury nerves beneath food and firelight.

For many of them , this would be their first war.

Valen walked among them, his hands clasped behind his back, helt tucked beneath one arm. The clinking of his armor was softer now, drowned beneath the hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, and the steady rhythm of wooden spoons scraping the insides of iron bowls.

Tonight was their last al in Salthold, a farewell before they marched at dawn. And it was a good one.

Steam rose from bowls of thick sheep at sauce, rich and more iimportantly,spiced, poured generously over coiled pasta, made from Yarzat’s very own wheat, pale gold and slippery with oil.

It wasn’t much by the standards of the White Army, who dined on such things in their fortified keeps and palatial camps, but for the n of Salthold’s garrison, who lived on lentils, salted roots, and tough barley bread, along with of course, goat’s milk, it might as well have been flesh from the gods themselves.

Valen allowed himself the hint of a smile.

He saw scarred hands, veterans from the war of three years ago who had accepted the paid offer to beco a garrison for the city of Salthold, now licking sauce from their fingers like boys at a village fair. He saw green recruits with wide eyes and still-sore shoulders, boasting of their first march into war as if they would return with golden crowns.

He paused beside one small cluster, five soldiers crouched near a low-burning fire, bowls in lap, heads bent.

"Eat well," Valen said to them, voice steady, eyes sweeping over them as he wondered how many of them would co back.

They looked up, startled for a mont, then straightened, nodding fast.

They were not the great legions of the Yarzat hheartlands. They were not the Prince’s own n, nor the feared Black Stripes.

They carried no halberds forged in royal forges, no heavy axes or ornate maces that saw more blood than any man alive.

Their arms were simpler, spears paired with round shields, short swords or wood-handled axes slung at their belts. They did not march like granite carved into n, nor roar like lions across the battlefield.

They were not the White Army.

They were farrs. Shepherds.So served as soldiers , most did not.n who had traded plough and sickle for a coin’s promise and a rough tunic bearing the Prince’s emblem.

Not for glory. Not for honor. For pay. And for survival.

But these were the n Valen had been given.And these were the n he would lead.

He took so solace in one thing: they were his. Not in blood or na, but in blade and shield. They had trained under his eye, drilled under his voice, bled and cursed and sweated on the sa fields for two long years.

They might not have been heroes,but they were hardened in their own way. That had to count for sothing; they must have.

They would not face a small fight. Of that he was certain.

Varaku’s warning echoed in his mory:"They will outnumber us. By more than we’d ever like."

The enemy would bring the storm, a wave of fury with numbers to spare.

But Valen’s n had shields, steel, and the training of a soldier’s hand even if not the heart of one.

That would have to suffice.

Still, even with the storm ahead, even with the shadows of uncertainty creeping entered the governor’s mind, Valen found his greatest comfort not in prayer, nor in gratitude, but in his trust for his prince.

The man who ruled him was no blind fool lost in bloodlust or pride. He was more than reasonable, and rciless in equal turn.

To those who pleased him, he gave coin, honor, and power. In return, he demanded only one thing: to fight like devils unleashed.And fight they did.

From his nobles, he expected unwavering loyalty or they t the edge of his sword.And many had. Valen respected that. A fair exchange. Clear rules.

From him, the prince had asked for only one thing:To pursue his interests in this foreign land.And that Valen had done, faithfully, thodically, and with zeal.

He had turned the neglected SaltHold into a proper outpost.He expanded the garrison, trained the n as best the terrain and coin allowed, and turned that patch of rock and cold into sothing like a settlent.

He opened trade with the Chorsi, kept their doors just wide enough to invite friendship, from them they brought steel and wine, and in exchange they received pelts, and goats.

He called settlers from the mainland, farrs to ta the soil with potatoes and onions, fishern to draw life from the nearby sea, and craftsn to patch the bones of the frontier together.

Freshwater had been found nearby too, a gift from the land itself. It still needed to be diverted and tad, but for now, it was enough to sustain them.

But none of it would have worked without the one thing Valen was most grateful for: the prince’s support.

Every request he sent to the capital was answered, sotis not just fulfilled, but exceeded.The prince anticipated needs before they beca desperate. He sent grain, arms and most of all, he sent n.

Free weapons. Free armor.Enough steel to silence centuries of tribal pride.

Always to them he sent officers from the White Army, to whip what had been centuries of tribal warfare into sothing resembling an army.

Surprisingly, Varaku had accepted the latter and allowed the foreign n to train his troops.

Despite knowing they would march to face an enemy that outnumbered them, perhaps twofold, perhaps more, Valen felt a quiet thrill rising in his chest.

Excitent.

It pulsed beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat, unwelco and familiar all at once.

For three long years, he had buried the warrior he once was beneath the robes of a governor, managing fields and fisheries, overseeing irrigation canals and tax ledgers, pretending that diplomacy and duty were enough to satisfy the blood in his veins.

Well it was not, the truth was this: Valen was a creature of war.It had always been his truest ho, there it was that he found his freedom, there it was that he found aning.

Not the governor’s hall with its scrolls and wax stamps. Not the quiet chambers of SaltHold.But war—war with its chaos, its certainty, its brutal honesty and fairless of all.

There, a man did not lie.A man fought. A man earned.

And now, at last, he would return.

He would ride at the head of his n, spear in hand, the old rhythm of combat pounding through his limbs like a long-lost song.He would sll blood again.He would give orders that echoed across a battlefield, not in a closed room.

He would see death and deliver it.

Yes, they were ooutnumbered. es, it was dangerous.Yes, he might die.

But gods, wasn’t that the point?

To fight again. To matter again. To go back to the house he had abandoned.

The house of war and die in the na of the only man he believed in.