The air was crisp and dry, the desert still lingering at their backs. Though the land had grown greener, the heat remained the same..
Soon, the old man returned, his limp more pronounced as he led a group of young men carrying heavy burdens. Sacks of grain and oats, urns filled to the brim with water.
Alpheo watched them closely, noting the flicker of fear in their eyes. They knew the truth. He and his men could reduce this village to cinders if they wished. Nothing could stop them.
One by one, the villagers laid down their burdens.
Alpheo counted with meticulous care, his mind swiftly measuring the value of what they had received in exchange for Silveriis. It was fair. He could press them for more—use steel or fear to squeeze out another handful of supplies—but there were other villages ahead. Better to keep moving.
He gave a brief nod, signaling his men to prepare for departure, before motioning for Jarva to follow. As they approached the old man once more, the tension in the air thickened.
"He says he's done his part and asks us to leave as soon as possible," Jarva translated.
Alpheo offered a small, almost amused smile. "Tell him we'll be gone immediately."
As Jarva relayed the message, Alpheo reached for his belt. The old man stiffened, his breath hitching as his fingers twitched toward his robes. But instead of drawing steel, Alpheo retrieved a second pouch of coins and tossed it toward him.
The old man caught it, startled. "Farzah ay tarka?" His voice quivered with disbelief.
Alpheo didn't need Jarva's translation to understand.
"Consider it payment for another service," he replied smoothly, stepping in closer. "A simple one."
He paused, watching the man's eyes dart with unease before continuing. "If anyone comes asking about us, you will tell them we passed through, that we took supplies through threats, and that you sent us on our way with women to keep us satisfied. Then, you will point them east—toward the rising sun." He chuckled. "Almost poetic, don't you think?"
Jarva hesitated, eyeing the old man. "And what if he turns on us? He's already got the silver. What's stopping him from sending our hunters straight to us and fuck us in the arse?"
Alpheo smirked. "Then we make sure he has something to fear more than them."
He turned back to the old man, his voice shifting into something colder, sharper. "Tell him this—if anyone comes sniffing, we will tell them we paid handsomely for these supplies with stolen gold. And that the village, now swollen with wealth, holds a considerable sum.I am sure whatever pursuers they will send will make a visit here after dealing with us..."
Jarva's grin was widened as he translated.
Alpheo watched as the old man's face paled, his body trembling ever so slightly.
The message had landed.
A final nod passed between them, sealing the unspoken agreement.
Satisfied, Alpheo turned away, his men already preparing to leave. The road stretched ahead, uncertain yet filled with promise.
As they approached, Alpheo reached for a sack filled with oats, motioning for the others to do the same. He knew that leading by example was important, especially when trying to earn the respect and trust of his companions. Better not give anyone shit to throw at me, he thought as he trudged forward.
They continued walking towards their "camp," which consisted of a few scattered tents and supplies taken from their previous location. Alpheo couldn't help but feel a bit of distaste—after all, this was hardly a camp. There were no walls or ditches surrounding them, no watchtower to keep guard. But time was of the essence, and there was no room for unnecessary precautions. They needed to move quickly and quietly, avoiding any attention or danger that could arise from making too much noise or leaving a trace of their whereabouts.
Also, where were they to take the wood? And how would they build all of that? They had no nails, no axes, or saws…
"Hey Alpheo," Clio spoke as he caught sight of the group, his eyes shifting towards the various items they had brought with them. "Seems like the exchange went well," he muttered as he helped Alpheo with the heavy sack.
"It did, but I don't want to linger here," Alpheo replied, accepting the help, sweat beading on his forehead from the weight of the bag. "The faster we march out of this hellish land, the sooner we can start moving forward."
Clio furrowed his brow in concern. "You feel trouble arising?"
Alpheo sighed, adjusting the straps of his backpack. "No, but I don't want to risk it. It's better if we don't stay in one place for too long," he commented, fearing pursuers that would never come.
"I agree," Clio nodded. "Let's get a move on by tomorrow."
Soon the night arrived, the rays of the sun giving way to the darkness of the moon. Around the camp, many fires were burning—men in circles letting the flames warm their flesh, while atop them, large pots filled with grains and water simmered over open flames.
The slaves stirred the contents of the pots with wooden spoons, ensuring that the grains cooked evenly and didn't stick to the bottom. The mixture slowly thickened, transforming into a hearty porridge-like substance.
Meanwhile, others tore pieces of bread they had bought from the village, arranging them on makeshift plates.
To the modern man, such a meal may seem lackluster, but to the ex-slaves who were only given hard bread at their master's whim, the soft bread and porridge spread before them seemed like a banquet fit for the gods. Alpheo, with his small frame and wild hair, tore into his food with the voracity of four men, as if he didn't know when he would get to eat again. His companions followed suit, devouring the meal with gusto while also keeping their sharp claws at the ready in case someone tried to steal it from them.
But even in this moment of indulgence, they couldn't let their guard down, always on edge for fear of losing what little they had. For they did not know when fate would pull her hand from them, with the only difference now being that they had the means to fight it.