The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the sprawl of tents that had sprung up a few kilometers outside Aracina.
Soldiers bustled through the camp in every direction. Some sawed at whetstones, others tended to the few horses the army possessed, while the smell of charred meat rose from open cookfires.
Alpheo and his company pushed their way through the press, weaving between supply wagons, cooking pits, and knots of weary soldiers.
"I don't see much space left for us," Clio muttered, his lip curling in a snort. "Do you think they've forgotten we exist? Looks like we'll be lucky to pitch a tent near the latrines."
Alpheo's eyes swept across the rows of troops before answering. "The prince can't have more than two thousand here, maybe fewer, counting us. That's a quarter of his strength tied to our banners. They'd be fools to slight us in such a way.Especially after the fine job we have done..."
"You think fools are rare among nobles?" Clio kicked a pebble aside, his tone dripping with skepticism.
Alpheo only gave a faint shrug and kept walking.
Banner poles bearing the prince's crest snapped in the breeze, their rich colors stark against the plain earth of the camp. Other flags,those of vassal lords, clustered around them, signaling a host pulled together by uneasy obligation.
"Has he patched things up with his vassals?" Alpheo murmured to no one in particular, his gaze sliding over the soldiers. Most were poorly armed infantry, spears, round shields, and little to no armor. The cavalry, better equipped but pitifully few, stood out like polished steel among rust. In contrast, his own men, with their new armor , looked like wolves moving among a herd of sheep.
At last, they came to the camp's heart, where the prince's pavilion loomed above the others, its heavy canvas dyed in deep colors. A murmur of voices seeped from within, low and urgent.
Alpheo cast a glance at his companions. Jarza matched his stride, eyes hard and unreadable, while Egil, still buoyed by his recent command of the light cavalry, brought up the rear with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The guards at the entrance stiffened at their approach. One vanished inside after a whispered word, reemerging moments later to wave them through. Soon the soldiers at the flap stepped aside allowing Alpheo and his company to enter.
Inside, the air was cooler but heavy with the smells of leather, oiled steel, and sweat. Nobles filled the space, their polished armor a wonderful sight, crests and sigils marking them as Yarzat's elite. Their conversation died as the mercenaries entered, replaced by silence thick with scrutiny. Gazes raked over Alpheo and his men, some coldly appraising, others openly hostile.
At the far end of the pavilion stood the prince himself, bent over a wide wooden table. His head lifted at their arrival.
For a heartbeat the silence stretched taut. Then Alpheo and his company dropped to one knee in unison, the gesture of respect cutting through the stillness.
"Your Highness," Alpheo began, his tone steady and assured. "It is a pleasure to see you and your banners marching to our aid. '' Their sight was welcome indeed, especially after the enemy retreated deeper into the territory. He smiled amiably, though his eyes flicked briefly over the circle of advisors gathered near the prince.
Among them stood Shahab, the prince's father-in-law, and Robert, his ever-present right hand. Yet what caught Alpheo's attention was Fahil, summoned before him, standing behind the prince with a nervous stiffness that nearly made Alpheo chuckle aloud.
The prince's gaze, sharp and appraising, fixed on the mercenary captain. "It is good to see you whole, Alpheo," he said, though the pause before whole hinted at a faint surprise he had survived at all. "Fahil has already spoken of your… remarkable defense of the city. Of the trap you laid that cost the enemy dearly, and the prisoners you captured, some of them of notable rank."
"You honor me, Your Grace," Alpheo replied smoothly "But much of the credit belongs to Fahil. Without his support, the plan could not have succeeded. Surely he told you also of how we destroyed their elite infantry in a single night." His smile widened slightly, his pride shining through as he recalled the ambush.
The prince's eyes narrowed . "Indeed, he did," he said, voice touched with reluctant admiration. "Your ingenuity has strengthened our position and weakened theirs."
Alpheo dipped his head in acknowledgment. "It was the work of capable men, Your Grace. I am fortunate to command them."
The prince's expression cooled as he went into business "And the many prisoners you took," he said evenly, "must have been a burden. I have come to relieve you of them. Feeding so many must have cost you dearly."
A flicker of amusement danced in Alpheo's eyes, though he kept his tone respectful. "Your Grace is generous to worry for our welfare," he said with an edge of politeness. "But the matter has already been resolved. You need not trouble yourself further and should only think about the upcoming battle."
A ripple of surprise went through the tent. Nobles shifted, exchanging startled glances. The prince's face tightened, his voice sharpening as he asked, "And how exactly have you resolved this… matter?"
Alpheo allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "Well, a strange question your Grace....through the only thing prisoners are to be used for. They were ransomed, Your Grace. Days before your banners reached the city."
The tent erupted in whispers. "Mercenary… arrogance… daring…" The nobles' voices buzzed like hornets, scandal and outrage mingling in their tones.
The prince's gaze bored into Alpheo, irritation barely leashed. "You ransomed them," he repeated coldly.
"Yes, Your Grace," Alpheo said, holding the stare without flinching. "Swift negotiations, generous terms. The funds were poured back into our forces: more arms, more provisions, more readiness for the battles ahead. An investment in your campaign's success."
The explanation did not seem to please him, as the prince's jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching as whispers swelled around him.
Still for a time, he let the murmurs drag on, as he probably used the silence to wonder how he was going to approach the problem.
He was, after all, in a pickle, as the prince's hands were tied behind his back.
The nobles could whisper all they liked, Alpheo knew the prince would not dismiss him. He was too valuable, too effective, and above all too dangerous to discard.
What sort of idiot would, after all, make an enemy out of a quarter of their forces the wake before battle?
It was a strange feeling, that of holding power.
Still....what use was power, Alpheo mused, if not to be made a means?