Chapter 521: Dealing with starving men(2)

The fate of captured soldiers was never a matter of mercy—it was a matter of practicality. The treatment of prisoners varied, dictated not by honor or sentiment, but by cold, hard calculations. Some men were worth their weight in gold—commanders, knights, nobles, officers of standing—figures whose return to their own side could fetch a handsome ransom. In those cases, negotiations would be swift, letters sent, deals struck, and a prisoner would find himself returned to his home, provided his family or liege deemed him worth the coin.

But for the common soldier? The unremarkable footman, the levied farmer who traded his plow for a spear? No lord would waste a silverii to see such men returned. Why pay for what the land itself provides in endless abundance? After all, peasants were not a rare resource. If a lord needed more men, he had only to send his officers into the villages, have the drums beat, and raise another levy. One peasant dead or captured was as insignificant as a drop in the sea.

And so, if ransom was off the table, there was only one true fate for captured commoners: the slave market.

The buying and selling of men was a business older than the very concept of kingdoms and empires. And where there was war, there were always those who followed in its wake—not to fight, not to conquer, but to profit. Armies, no matter how disciplined, always left trails of opportunists in their shadows.

Prostitutes, who found no shortage of coin whenever a mass of men were desperate for a fleeting moment of comfort. Merchants, who swarmed battlefields like crows, eager to buy up looted goods before the blood had even dried. And, of course, slavers—the true vultures of war—who saw defeated men not as prisoners, but as merchandise.

For them, a captured army was a moving goldmine. The moment the battle ended, the calculations began. How much for a strong-backed laborer? Even among peasants, there was value to be assessed. And once the deals were struck, the chains fastened, and the march began, the war was over for the prisoners. Now, they belonged not to their country, not to their gods, not even to themselves—but to the highest bidder.

Of course, their fate was never set in stone—it shifted based on circumstances, dictated by the army’s position, its needs, and the simple reality of logistics. If an army found itself near a wealthy town or city, the solution was simple: sell them. The local merchants, ever eager for cheap labor, would be the first to make offers, calculating profits even as the chains were being fastened.

Whether for the backbreaking work of the mines, the endless toil of the fields, or the more refined demands of noble households, there was always a market for warm bodies. Gold would change hands, the army would lighten its burden, and the problem would solve itself with minimal fuss.

But if they were far from civilization? If no wealthy buyers were within reach, and time was pressing? Then the matter grew more complicated. Everyday spent marching with hundreds of prisoners in tow meant more mouths to feed, more guards to post, more risks of escape or rebellion. And when the burden grew too great, and no coin could be gained from their suffering, there was only one brutal, time-worn solution: the chopping block.

A mass execution was rarely the first choice, not out of mercy, but out of pragmatism. Killing prisoners outright meant throwing away a potential profit, and in war, wasting resources—even human ones—was a crime in itself.

The nobility, always keen on their purses, frowned upon such decisions, as did many soldiers, especially those who hoped to make some coin by selling their captives later, as a good portion of their loot was obtained from selling slaves. Beyond the economic loss, there was also the stain it left upon an army’s reputation.

Thus, selling remained the preferred course. But selling required a marketplace, and at the moment, Alpheo had none. He was too deep too far from a city willing to make such a trade, and too pressed for time to haul nearly eight hundred unwanted souls across the countryside in search of buyers. And so, the question remained: what to do with them?

And of course such a problem was also caused by a price that Alpheo paid for his army, as among the many strengths that defined the Black Stripes—discipline, cohesion, and experience—one of the most decisive was speed.

Unlike the lumbering hosts of feudal lords, bogged down by endless baggage trains and a swarm of camp followers, Alpheo’s forces were built for mobility. His men were drilled to march thirty kilometers a day, then erect a defensible encampment before nightfall, ensuring they remained not just fast but also prepared for sudden engagements. It was a machine of war—lean, efficient, and relentless. And like any well-oiled machine, it required the removal of anything that slowed it down.

Dead weight was not tolerated.

Merchants, prostitutes, and the usual swarm of leeches that clung to armies like vultures were not welcomed in Alpheo’s host. Where others saw opportunity for profit, he saw dragged feet and wasted time.

His policy was clear: they were not to follow.

And though the other lords grumbled—their soldiers even more so, deprived of drink, dice, and distraction—Alpheo remained deaf to their complaints. He valued speed above all else, and he had no patience for those who would trade it away for a few extra coins.

And that very speed had just won him this battle.

By striking before the Oizenians even caught wind of his movements, by controlling the seas and moving his entire army ahead of their advance, he had turned the tide of battle before the enemy even realized the storm was coming. He had forced their hand, dictated the pace, and crushed them beneath it.

But now, that same speed presented a problem.

The battle was over. The victory was secured. And he now had nearly 800 prisoners weighing his army down.

The same ruthless efficiency that had allowed him to strike so decisively now worked against him—for there was no easy way to sell the captives quickly. They were too far from any major market, and hauling them along would slow his forces to a crawl. The irony was not lost on Alpheo.

His greatest strength had become his greatest obstacle.

Returning to the current situation, a small silence had ensued in the chamber at the report of the current number of prisoners.

Jarza exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Well, there is one obvious solution," he said, his voice measured but firm. "The chopping block."

Alpheo drummed his fingers on the table, his expression unreadable. The thought had already crossed his mind, but hearing it spoken aloud made it more real.

Executing hundreds of prisoners would do his reputation no favors—that much was certain. But war was not about reputation. War was about winning. And feeding, guarding, and hauling nearly eight hundred men across his lands was a logistical nightmare he had no time for.

If he had been fighting a single enemy, perhaps he could afford to entertain more honorable alternatives, but this war had been fought against three separate foes. Surely, even the most chivalrous of his critics would understand the necessity.

His lips parted, ready to give the order—

Then he stopped.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as a thought flickered through his mind, sharp as steel. There was another way. A way to make use of them, to turn the dead weight into something useful.

He leaned back in his chair, the glint of amusement in his eyes catching the candlelight. "Actually," he said, voice rich with intrigue, "I just thought of a better use for them.It would be a waste to kill eight hundred strong, able-bodied men. A terrible waste, really."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden surface, his gaze flickering between Jarza and Asag. "Instead," he continued, a smirk creeping onto his lips, "perhaps we should turn them into a gift."

Jarza raised an eyebrow. "A gift?"

Alpheo nodded, eyes gleaming. "A very generous gift, for the coronation of the new prince," he mused. "After all, the Oizenians will need new hands to rebuild after their humiliating defeat. And since their beloved prince is rotting on a table, someone else will have to take the reins of their wretched kingdom." His smirk widened. "And what better way to start a reign than with a bounty of eight hundred new people?"

Asag exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "So, you propose we send them back? That is your great idea?Wouldn’t they be of much more use dead then alive in the enemy land?’’

’’Come on you still haven’t heard of the gift, I am sure you will change idea upon hearing it....’’

Jarza let out a confused look , while Asag merely rubbed his jaw, deep in thought.

"But of course," Alpheo continued, sitting up, "before we go about organizing this lovely little present, I think we’ll require the expertise of someone well-versed in... handling such work." He gave a pointed glance at the doorway before looking back at his men.

"Send for Egil," he ordered, amusement dancing in his voice. "I believe his talents will be needed for this, as this may be a sector that he excels at.."