Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 861

Chapter 861: Opportunities(1)

“Hey, da! How come you’re tagging along with us today?” Arlon’s youngest son piped up, giving a little tug at the reins of the plodding village horse.

“Curious, are you now?” Grev, the eldest, drawled, swatting at a fat mosquito buzzing by his ear. “Strange. You made such a fuss this morning, saying you didn’t want to come.”

“I was just wondering,”Grevion said defensively. “You can count on one hand the times da’s stepped out of Crosk.”

Arlon, who had been silent until then, shifted on the cart seat. His weathered hands tightened briefly around his knees before he finally answered. “I’ve business to tend to.”

“Usually,” the youngest said cheekily, emboldened by the pause, “business tends to come to you, not the other way around, some say that you are la-”

A sharp cuff on the back of his head from Grev silenced him. “Mind your tongue.”

But the boy wasn’t entirely wrong. Affairs of Crosk rarely extended beyond its fields and sheepfolds. What little contact they had with the wider world came in the form of tax collectors trudging through the road twice a year, or the rare trips villagers made to deliver surplus grain and livestock to the capital.

Especually since he was the village head, there weren’t really many occasions where he would venture outside.

Now, though, the road had led them to Yarzat, the city rising before them with its sun-baked stone walls and iron gates.

Beyond, they could already see the tops of tiled roofs and the faint haze of smoke curling from countless hearths.

As they neared the gate, a small maniple of guards stood watch, spears upright,white plumes coming out their helm.

Without needing to be told, Arlon murmured, “Steady now, Gravion. Halt here.”

The youngest son pulled on the reins, bringing the cart to a creaking stop. Arlon rose slightly and gave a bow, his voice respectful. “Good afternoon, sirs.”

The lead guard stepped forward, planting himself squarely between Grevion and the horse. “Stay put. We’ll check your load.”

Two others circled to the back of the cart.

“What’s in it?” the first guard asked, eyes scanning their faces as if measuring their worth.

Grev, quick to obey, jumped down from the cart bed and peeled back the coarse blanket covering their goods. The smell of earth drifted out with the reveal.

“We’ve twenty sacks of potatoes, six cabbages, and six lambs bound for the city,” Arlon replied.

Behind, they heard the sound of rope being tugged, the thump of a sack unknotted, and the shuffle of cabbages being checked.

“Selling in the market, are you?” the guard asked lazily

“No, sir,” Arlon said quickly. “We’re delivering to a tavern.”

At that, the guard’s brow arched. He glanced from Arlon’s patched tunic to his calloused hands. “A tavern? You don’t look like merchants.”

“We’re not,” Arlon admitted. “We come from Crosk, a village north of here. The tavernmaster holds a contract with me directly. His custom is steady.”

“You know how to read contracts, then?” the guard pressed, folding his arms.

“My son does.” Arlon straightened slightly, pride creeping into his voice despite the situation. He nodded toward Grev. “The eldest.”

The guard’s gaze shifted to Grev’s arm as he bound the sack shut. A moment lingered there, something unspoken, before the man finally stepped back and gave a curt nod.

“All goods are in order,” called the guard at the rear. He tossed the rope back toward Grev, though his eyes lingered just a beat too long on the young man before looking away.

“You may enter. No tax on villagers bringing food. See you keep your heads down and cause no trouble,” the leader said, stepping aside and informing the village head of one of the many edicts the crown had made to facilitate the transfer of food from the countryside to the capital.

Arlon dipped his head once more. “Our thanks, sirs.”

With that he gestured for Grevion to click the reins, and the cart lurched forward under the horse’s steady gait.

“Since when does the capital have an iron gate?” Arlon asked, casting a glance at the only one who would know anything of it .

“Not sure,” Grev said, squinting up the polished lip of metal. “When I was last there it was timber and nails. Looks like the court have been busy.”

They rolled past a neat little branch of the aqueduct ,a pale ribbon of stonefeeding into a wooden-lined cistern fenced with posts painted red and stamped with a white hand. The sign was blunt enough: no hauling water here.

The rope that cordoned the well creaked in the breeze, and below it the faint tang of iron and rot rode the air.

Since the day a drunkyard had fell there and died, the prince had had that patched.

“It smells,” Grev grunted when they reached closer to it, scrunching his nose against the putrid memory the wind delivered.

“Keep your nose on the road,” Arlon snapped “Drive the cart to Mr. Vlor. He’s paid already; drop it and return once it’s offloaded. Ask if he wants another order since you are there.”

“Alone?” Grev asked, brow arching. The idea of being sent through the city without his father or brother made him tighten his grip on the reins.

“The road’s safe ” Arlon said “The prince’s patrols keep trouble out of the trading way. Make a peep and half the city comes running. You know the route. Stick to the commercial road. Don’t dawdle.”

Grev hesitated, one foot on the cart-board, then nodded and swung himself down.

“And you,” Arlon said, turning to his eldest with a tone that softened, “you come with me.”

“Why?” Grev blinked.

“I need you to read the contract,” Arlon said.”

“A contract?” the youngest piped up, suddenly all ears. His eyes were wide with the thrill of a secret uncovered. “Is it that serious?”

Arlon’s mouth tightened into something between pride and weariness. “Serious enough,” he replied gravely. “It concerns the whole village.” He gave his son a long, meaningful look before continuing.

“The last time the tax collector came through, he told us of a new offer from the crown, iron tools for farming. Ploughs, sickles, axes. But the deal requires contracts, written and stamped, not word of mouth. He told us that if we were interested, we should send someone to the capital to hear the terms.”

He took a breath. “I spoke with the other family heads. They agreed at least to hear the conditions. So I decided to come myself, to see what it was abo—”

Arlon cut himself short as his shoulder slammed into something solid. His head snapped forward, stumbling half a step back, and his nose stung as though he had walked into a wall.

Only it was no wall.

Before him loomed a mountain of steel,every inch covered in plate, burnished and scarred from war. A soldier stood there, his bulk swallowing the sun, the black-and-white colors of Yarzat shining clean on his tabard.

The prince’s colors.

Arlon’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. “I—I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see where I was going.” His words tumbled over one another, fear tightening his throat.

The armored giant regarded him with a silence that seemed to stretch forever.until a small sigh hissed from within the helmet.

“All’s well, citizen,” came the voice, deep but not unkind. “But mind your step next time.”

Relief washed over Arlon so quickly his knees nearly buckled. He shuffled aside, ready to slip past. But then he realized the soldier was no longer watching him,his helm had turned, fixing on the young man at Arlon’s side.

“I was wondering how long you’d take to notice me, you thick-headed bastard.”

The voice came not from the knight, but from Grev. His lips curled into a grin, his one good arm crossing his chest.

“Grev!” the armored man boomed, the voice cracking with sudden warmth. He strode forward and caught Grev in a crushing embrace, metal arms making his son look like a sapling bent under a storm. “By the gods, three years! Where’ve you been hiding yourself?”

“Helping father on the farm,” Grev answered simply, though there was a glint of quiet pride in his eyes.

The soldier leaned back, visor catching the light. “I always wondered why you refused the land bonus when you left the legion. Thought you’d gone mad.” He said, referring to the fact that by the end of their term, after twenty years of service or after being maimed in battle, they could choose between ownership of 15 acres of land, and a silver bonus of 30 silverii, or an entirety of 150 silverii.

A good portion of the soldier took the latter, and then bought propriety in the city and opened up shops that were usually visited by military personnel.

One after all made friends in the army, and words would usually spread when a comrade would open shop.

“There’s wilderness enough around Crosk ,” Grev replied. “If I wanted more land, I could clear it with my own hands. So I took the silver instead and worked the soil we already had. I am looking to expand it next year, I will propably hire some help.

I can only do , after all, only half a man’s work,” he cracked a joke at his missing limb.

The soldier chuckled low, then sobered. His gaze flicked down to Grev’s missing sleeve. “A shame about Herculia… but it was an honor to serve alongside you.” His voice lowered. “You fought like a lion, brother.How long you staying?”

Grev nodded, but said nothing. Instead, his eyes slid toward his father, waiting for him to speak.

“We hope to be on the road home before nightfall… sir,” Arlon added hastily, unsure how to address one of his son’s comrades-in-arms.

The soldier’s helm tilted toward him, but then returned to Grev. “What brings you to the city, then?”

“Trying to see if we can acquire the iron tools the collectors spoke of,” Grev answered.

“They told us to go to the capital if we wanted them.”

“Do you know the way?” the soldier asked.

Grev looked again to his father. Arlon shook his head.

“Well then,” the soldier said, raising a gauntleted hand, “follow this road until the third archway. Turn right. You’ll see a tall building with a wide lintel and letters carved over the door, Agriculture’s Bureau. You learned your letters, didn’t you? Last I recall, you swore you’d study once you left the ranks.”

“I did,” Grev confirmed.

“Good. Then you’ll see it plain enough. Go in, tell them Maeri sent you.” He tapped the crimson plume on his helmet, the mark of a decurion. “I’ve earned some things since we last fought together.”

Grev blinked, surprised. “Since when?”

“Last campaign,” Maeri replied. “Vram retired with wounds, and I took his place. More pay, more work, more headaches. But a step up. The First Legion’s stationed in the city now. Made something of a name for myself.” He puffed slightly, though it was pride earned in blood.

“Anyway, when you go to the Bureau, show them your discharge papers. The legate’s finger prints will prove it true. With that, you’ll qualify for a discount. Don’t lose it, it’s your proof you bled for the realm. You got them with you?”

“I brought it,” Grev said, patting the fold of his tunic where the paper lay hidden. “Figured it might be useful.”

“Useful? It’s worth its weight in gold in this city.” Maeri gave a sharp laugh, then clapped his comrade on the shoulder, careful of the missing arm. “Once you’re done, stop by the barracks. I’ll stand you a round. We’ll drink like the old days.The old boys will be happy to see you…”

“Well,” Arlon said, glancing at his son, “I suppose a day more won’t hurt. Though I confess, I wonder what became of the other, are they good?”

”You will see them soon enough those who remains still…”