Chapter 771: Aftermath

"Cheers for the prince!" bellowed Lord Xanthios of Bracum, raising his cup high enough for the torchlight to catch the wine and set it aflame in red. The call rippled through the tent, swelling into a chorus of drunken voices.

"Cheers for the prince!" dozens echoed, their cheeks flushed with drink and victory, their laughter spilling as freely as the wine.

It had been a campaign for the storytellers, rich loot coming from three conquered cities, the enemy prince broken, the land before them theirs to plunder at leisure. They spoke already of sweeping through villages and sorrounding fields, of swelling the overflowing war coffers back in Aracina, moved there by sea which they would divide at the end of the campaign.

Alpheo wasn’t bothered by such talks, the best they could see out of the campaign was fiefdoms and gold to bring back home. For them, any strategic advantage the state won was not really their soup.

..so give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s.

Alpheo raised his own cup, the movement slow, measured. The sour wine slid down his throat, warm in his belly, but it did nothing to sweeten the thought gnawing at him.

It could have been better. Much better.

Sorza had proved a greater craven than even Alpheo’s worst guess. How he would have enjoyed hosting the Oizenian prince in the capital,feeding him well, dressing him in silks, letting him sign a treaty that would see half his princedom crumble at his leisure. That would have been the sweetest victory.

Instead, the man had fled before the game could even begin.

Of course, no one wore the sour taste of the day more plainly than Egil himself.

He sat slouched at the prince’s table, one hand drowning in his cup, the other clawed against the wood as if the table were the throat of the man who’d escaped him. He looked like a hound that had snapped its jaws shut on empty air, the scent of the rat still hot in his nostrils.

"I was this close to skewering that bastard," Egil growled, holding his thumb and forefinger a hair’s width apart. His voice carried the aftertaste of distaste, sharp, bitter, unsoftened by the wine he kept swallowing.

"Come now, no use crying over it," Asag drawled from across the table, his smirk as lazy as the way he lounged in his chair, it seemed that while wine brought the worst out of some men, in Asag’s case it relaxed him.

He tipped his goblet toward Egil, baiting him. "It’s not your fault you don’t ride as you used to.Time is a bitch for everyone after all...just ask Jarza"

The jab landed. Egil froze mid-drink, his eyes narrowing, before snorting through his nose like an irritated bull.

"I’ll pretend, for everyone’s sake,especially yours, that I didn’t hear that," he said, his tone hard enough to shave the humor out of the air. "The bastard had minutes on us before we even gave chase. Ain’t my fault if he ran like a rabbit that’s seen the hawk’s shadow."

"No one blames you, Egil," Alpheo cut in, his voice warm enough to cool the edge between them. He leaned forward, meeting Egil’s eyes with a quiet steadiness. "Asag is just amusing himself. Seems of all the feast, you’re the only one still brooding.We have won a great victory, lighten up, soon you will be able to do what you like best."

Egil grunted, swirling the wine in his cup, not denying it.

Alpheo’s gaze drifted past them, over the sea of nobles drunk on victory and ambition, their voices booming over the clatter of cups and the scent of roast meat. They toasted the glory of the campaign, weighed the gold they would soon pocket. Not one of them seemed to realize how fat the prize was that had slipped away, how much sweeter the victory could have been.

Alpheo knew. He felt the loss like a coin missing from his palm. He might have bitten his thumb at the thought, but a prince could never afford to show the taste of disappointment. So he didn’t.

Instead, he raised his cup and spoke lightly, though his mind still turned over the missed catch."At the end of the day, even letting the Oizenian flee in full view of his men has its value. Next time he calls his lords to banner, they’ll remember the sight. Some things cling to memory like pitch, and a prince turning tail at the first shadow of danger..." He let the pause hang, savoring the way the words made Asag’s grin return. "...well, that’s one of them."

He masks his distaste with a sip of wine.

Egil chuckled dryly into his drink, but the sound carried no joy."Aye," he said, "but it still would’ve been nice to put my spear through him before he learned to run so well. Seems like he learned from his father’s mistakes."

Asag raised his cup. "To next time, then. May the rat trip before he reaches his hole."

This time, even Egil drank to that.

"So, what now then?" Jarza asked, bringing a ripe fig toward his mouth.

Alpheo’s hand shot out, slapping it away just as Jarza’s teeth were about to sink in."Cut the head first. Fig’s milk eats at the teeth. You haven’t got baby teeth anymore, so savor what you’ve still got."

Jarza scowled, dragging his dagger from its sheath. "Still think that’s nonsense." He sliced the tip from the fig with an irritable flick.

"Think of it," Alpheo said with a lazy smile, "as one of those things only I know. Like how I’m also the only one here who knows what we’re doing next."

"And that would be?" Asag asked, leaning forward.

"Well," Alpheo began, swirling the wine in his cup, "since our little conquest in this corner of the princedom is wrapped up, our next step is the same as a hunter’s after the meat’s been stripped from the carcass, find our way home."

"All the way to Yarzat?" Egil raised a brow, surprise sharpening his features. "That’s a long road."

"Never said it’d be easy," Alpheo replied, "but I have a plan."

"You always have a plan," Asag said with a smirk, his eyes unfocused as he half-slumped onto the table. "Always so resourceful."

"Good to know someone notices," Alpheo jested, then tipped his cup, letting the last drops of wine slide into his plate. The others craned their necks, curious to see what trick he was playing at. But whatever demonstration he’d had in mind faltered, his brow creased in irritation before he flipped the plate over to hide the attempt.

"Anyway," he went on without missing a beat, trying to hide his embarrassment with a cough, "we head for the Lampainais River. It’s the natural border between the Myros Plains, right on our princedom’s edge, and where we stand now. Anyone wanting to pass through has to take the bridges."

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

"We set up fortified camps along those crossings, post patrols, and turn back anyone carrying food into the Oizenian heartland. No grain, no cattle, no salt, nothing. Pair that with seasonal raids into their farmland, and within a year, they’ll be starving enough to defect rather than fight."

A slow grin spread across his face."And once that bridge of loyalty is built between Yarzat and our new mines, we’ll have a land route worth its weight in gold. Easier to defend than relying on the sea every time... and a noose we’ll have tied with their own rope."

Of course, Alpheo’s true aim in all this was not simply to bask in the glow of victory. His main interest lay in forging a permanent link between his latest conquests and the Yarzat heartland. Without that, this was just a patch of stolen soil waiting to be stolen back.

Control over newly taken land was only ever as strong as the road that tied it to the rest of the realm. And as long as the route back home passed through ground that was not yet firmly under Yarzat boots, the whole conquest hung on a fraying thread.

After all, no merchants would pass there if there was the risk of being ambushed.

Relying solely on the sea was no answer either. On the open water, one bad storm was as deadly as any enemy. A single night of wind and high waves could scatter a fleet, drown half the supplies, and leave the rest rotting in strange harbors.

And beyond the hazards of nature, there was the greater problem: distance breeds disobedience. Landholders cut off from the homeland began to think of themselves as something separate, something independent. And from there, it was only a short step to thinking they had no need of Yarzat at all.

That, Alpheo would not allow.

With Sorza beaten and his forces scattered, the path forward was clear. His next objective was to drive his gains through the Lampainais River, to root his conquest on Yarzat soil as surely as an axe blade driven into a stump.

Of course, saying it was simple. Doing it was another matter entirely.

"Well," he said at last, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile that held no humor, "before we can build that bridge of ours, we’ll have to break the shield standing in our way."

Egil looked up from his cup. "And that shield would be?"

"Turogontoli," Alpheo said, savoring the name like it was a challenge, which of course it was.

’’And let me tell you that will be a hard nut to crack...."