So this is how it feels,Alpheo mused, marching at the head of his men. To lead. To hear the quiet song of steel swaying in its sheath, knowing it will be drawn at your command. What a beautiful sound.
Behind him, half a thousand men followed.
Most wore simple chainmail and dented helmets, though a fortunate few had scavenged proper plate armor from sacked enemy camps. They carried swords, shields, and lances—whatever they could claim in the fires of war. But their weapons mattered less than the look in their eyes. These were not deserters, nor were they mere bandits. These were men who had tasted freedom and would not surrender it. Like starving dogs guarding a scrap of meat, they would bare their teeth at any hand—no matter how powerful—that dared to take it from them.
From a distance, their ragtag formation almost resembled a true army.
Give boys some sticks, and they think themselves soldiers,Alpheo lampooned .
Some of them were small, their bodies stunted from years of hunger and toil, but a few good meals could fix that. And I will give them that, he thought. He needed warriors—real warriors—not walking skeletons liable to collapse at the first clash of steel. He would feed them, train them, arm them. No rations would be cut short, not while he had the means to provide.
At the center of their formation, the horses moved in tight ranks, guarding their hard-won prize. Last night, Alpheo had counted every coin himself—fifteen aureii and one hundred and twenty silverii. Enough to buy weapons, armor, and most importantly, enough food to keep them marching south. But their supplies were running thin. They had perhaps a day or two before hunger set in.
Fortunately, ahead of them lay a village.
A small one—five hundred people at most. No walls, no defenses, no guards. Just simple folk tending their fields, oblivious to the approaching army.
Beside him, Egil let out a low chuckle.
"In my day," he murmured, nostalgia thick in his voice, "we would have raided four of these a week."
He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the ghost of an old memory—the wind in his hair, the thunder of hooves, the cries of men and women who realized too late what was coming. Then, turning to Alpheo, he smirked.
"Alph, are you sure you don't want to raid this one? They look pretty well-off."
His gaze lingered, seeking an answer Alpheo did not give. Instead, Alpheo met him with a stare—steady, silent, unyielding. Egil sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Just asking," he muttered, stepping away.
Alpheo turned to Jarva. His second-in-command was already watching him, awaiting orders. Behind him stood thirty hand-picked men, hardened fighters who had proven themselves in the past weeks.
Alpheo adjusted the chainmail on his shoulders. He wanted a breastplate, but he refused to wear better armor than his men. He was their leader, yes, but he was one of them. To appear otherwise would be a mistake. Besides, what was he supposed to do? Strip it off one of his own men?
"Ready?" he asked.
Jarva nodded once.
With a flick of his wrist, Alpheo signaled his men forward.
Negotiation was always easiest when the other party understood the stakes. First, you show them steel. Then, you show them the carrot.
And then they let them decide which path they prefer.
As Roosevelt once said, "Speak softly and carry a big stick, and you will go far."
Or something like that.
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They halted just beyond the outskirts of the village.
It was empty.
Not a soul in sight. No wary farmers watching from doorways, no frightened children peeking from behind wooden fences. Just the quiet hum of the wind rolling through the fields. Alpheo was hardly surprised. A column of five hundred men marching across the countryside was not something a village like this could ignore. But he was pleased, at least, that they had the good sense not to come running out with hoes and pitchforks, if they did that, then how would he have stopped what was coming?
"They already know we're here" he comment, scanning the horizon.
Still, no movement. No sign of a greeting party—until, at last, someone emerged.
An old man, slow in his steps, hunched over a wooden cane. He walked toward them with deliberate caution, his wrinkled face unreadable.
The village head, probably,Alpheo thought, tilting his head.
The elder stopped a few meters away and spoke, his voice hoarse and sharp. The words, however, meant nothing to Alpheo—Arlanian was not a language he understood.
He turned to Jarva.
Jarva stepped forward, listening carefully before translating. "He asks why we are here. He says his lord must have already paid us and that we should take any matter to them. He thinks we're soldiers."
Alpheo smirked. That works to my advantage.
He leaned in slightly toward Jarva, his voice smooth, measured. "Tell him this: My good man, we mean no harm. We wish to buy food and water from you. We are more than willing to pay. Assure him there is no need for concern—so long as we are treated with respect,the steel will be kept hidden."
A pause. Then, with a slight grin: "Oh, and ask for some oats for the horses. The beasts need food too."
Jarva relayed the message.
The elder's face remained unreadable, but his stance stiffened. He spoke again, this time with a harsher tone.
Jarva sighed before translating. "He asks who we are."
Alpheo chuckled. Of course, he does.Seems like we don't look like soldiers that much
His grin widened, but there was no warmth in it. "Tell him not to ask stupid questions. Just fetch the food while we're still asking nicely and offering payment, instead of simply taking it and making them pay another price. Assure him—again—that we won't cheat them, and let's make this transaction smooth for everyone."
The old man hesitated.
This time, his response came slower, more careful. Jarva listened, then turned back to Alpheo. "He wants to know how much food and water we need."
Alpheo reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pouch. Sevety silverii. Enough to buy grain for a week for a 500 men armies.Of course they would demand a discount.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the pouch toward the old man, letting it land in the dirt at his feet. "Tell him to bring us 100 bushels of grains and 50 of oats . And some urns—we'll need those for the water."
The elder frowned, staring at the pouch but making no move to pick it up. Instead, he muttered something low and wary.
Jarva exhaled sharply through his nose. "He says that it is not enough."
Alpheo let out a slow, weary sigh.
He stepped forward. Not hastily—no need for that. He let his movements be deliberate, his posture relaxed yet undeniable. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he came to a stop just before the old man.
And then, in a voice that carried no anger, no malice—just quiet certainty—he said:
"Tell him that perhapse he should counts again "
The elder stiffened. His fingers twitched against his cane.
He did not need to understand Alpheo's words. The message was clear enough.
Precise men had a way of winding up with unfortunate endings.
And right now, Alpheo was beginning to understand why.
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Map of the continent: