webnovel
avataravatar

Looking for employment(1)

As Alpheo knelt amidst the lush greenery, his companions watched him with varying degrees of perplexity. Egil, Clio, and Jarva exchanged bemused glances, while Asag remained silent, his keen eyes observing without comment.

With a deliberate motion, Alpheo scooped up a handful of soil, letting the rich black earth slip through his fingers. "The land is fertile," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the dark grains.

"Aye, too bad we're not farmers " Egil quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Unless you're thinking of picking up a hoe?"

"Half our men are farmers, remember?" Clio interjected dryly. "Only a quarter of them were actual 'warriors'—emphasis on were."

"And thanks to this one," Jarza added, nodding at Alpheo, "all of them are soldiers now. We trained them in formation and tactics, just like he wanted. They just need a little push—give them their first taste of battle, and they'll find the warrior's spirit soon enough. We've had months to prepare them, and they're already better than most peasants yanked from their fields and handed a spear to fight some lord's war.Among us, I and Egil are the only ones with some experience of war.

So trust me when I tell you they are better prepared than most of those that usually take up weapon for battle..."

Alpheo remained absorbed in his study of the soil, watching insects scurry between the roots. This land truly was fertile.

That was a good thing

However, Egil's sharp tone cut through his thoughts.

"Stop playing in the dirt. Do you want them to think you're a child?"

Startled, Alpheo stood up, brushing the dust from his hands with a smirk. "All of us have a child within," he said, amusement laced in his voice. "We just hide it, afraid of judgment. I'm only brave enough not to give half a fuck about what others think. "

Clio nervously scratched his head, his expression troubled. "Listen, most of our men are greenhorns. They're not warriors. Many were farmers before they were made slaves. We can't afford to take risks like this.I think they should first get some experience and blood on their hands."

Alpheo met Clio's concerned gaze with unwavering confidence. "Relax. I've trained them well. They might not have battle scars, but they'll surprise you. Trust me, they'll function just fine."

Clio remained unconvinced, crossing his arms. "Half of them have never even held a spear, and the other half has never stepped foot on a battlefield. This isn't some tavern brawl—this is war."

Alpheo placed a reassuring hand on Clio's shoulder. "You're overthinking it. We're not fighting a disciplined, veteran army here. The princes of the souths don't have the luxury of an elite imperial force. Most of their soldiers are levies—peasants shoved into a battlefield with little training and even less armor."

He gestured toward their camp, where their men were preparing in the distance. "Look at what we have. Half our soldiers wear breastplates, and the rest have at least chainmail and helmets. Do you really think our enemies will even bother handing out helmets? We'll be better equipped, better trained, and better organized than the rabble they're fielding. We'll tear one army apart, and the other—" Alpheo's grin widened "—we'll strip them of every last coin. The prince that is the one hiring us is already losing this war. By the time our men are through, each spear will have punched through three arses before the enemy even realizes who they're fighting, which means they will pay a nice bonus for us."

''Which brings up another question," Egil muttered, arms crossed. "Why the hell did you take a contract with this one in particular? You just said it yourself—they're losing."

Alpheo grinned, unshaken. "And that's exactly why. Desperate men pay handsomely. Trust me, boys, we'll bleed them dry before this is over. Their army is a mob of farmers—we just need to send a few running, and the rest will break. In short, we'll make our employer pay dearly for our services."

Clio exhaled, shaking his head. "Whatever. I'll trust your judgment—again."

Alpheo smirked. "Starting to lose faith in me, are you?" He extended a hand toward Clio, who eyed him warily. "I just need one miracle to win it back, then." Before Clio could react, Alpheo tapped his nose with a finger.

Scowling, Clio slapped his arm away, prompting the others to burst into laughter.

Jarza chuckled before pointing toward the horizon. "Speaking of employment, we've got company."

Alpheo followed his gaze. A dozen riders approached, their leader carrying a banner emblazoned with a star engulfed in flames.

"Make sure you don't screw this up, Alpheo," Jarza warned, his tone only half-joking.

Alpheo's grin widened. "And how exactly would I screw it up?"

Jarza snorted. "By acting like an arrogant prick, for starters. You always behave as if everyone else is a plaything for your amusement. But these bastards?" He gestured toward the approaching riders. "They believe they were born to rule us. Don't provoke them unless you plan to slit their throats afterward."

Alpheo clutched his chest mockingly. " I'm hurt."

Jarza aimed a swat at him, which Alpheo dodged with a laugh. "Getting slow in your old age?"

 The banter faded as the group straightened up, their demeanor turning serious. Jarva, Clio, Egil, and Asag stepped into formation behind Alpheo, while Laedio remained in the camp, overseeing the men, ready for a quick sortie if things turned ugly.

Alpheo turned back to the approaching riders, taking a mental count. Fifteen in total. His gaze landed on the banner again. Ugly thing. A flicker of thought passed through his mind—perhaps I should design one of my own.

But that was a concern for later. Right now, it was time to secure their first contract.

 

As the riders closed in, Alpheo studied them with a discerning eye. They were clad in chainmail and breastplates, their faces stern and unreadable. He could feel their gazes linger on him, assessing him just as he did them. A silent standoff formed between the two parties, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Alpheo, never one for unnecessary formalities, decided to break the silence.

"May I know with whom I have the honor of conducting these negotiations?" He offered a casual, almost friendly smile.

A man dismounted, moving with the confidence of one accustomed to command. Unlike the others, he wore no helmet, allowing his white hair to catch in the wind. His sharp eyes bore into Alpheo with thinly veiled disapproval, scrutinizing him as if expecting someone… older.

"You deal with me, mercenary." His voice was steady but carried a note of skepticism. His eyes flickered with disbelief as he took in Alpheo's youthful face.

He's not even a man, he thought with mild disdain.

"Are you truly the leader of this company?" He asked

Alpheo inclined his head slightly. "I have the honor of holding that position, yes. My name is Alpheo. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir—?" He extended a courteous hand.

The man hesitated for only a moment before replying. "Sir Robert. I serve as accountant and steward to Prince Arkawatt of House Veloni-Isha." His tone was clipped, making it clear he had little interest in pleasantries.

"Well, good Sir Robert," Alpheo continued, undeterred, "as you can see, I've prepared a table for our discussion. May I offer you some refreshment?" He gestured to the spread of cheese, bread, smoked meat, and wine arranged before them.

Robert said nothing as he took his seat, though Alpheo caught the brief flicker of irritation in his expression. He didn't like that I sat first, he mused, but paid it no heed. In the end, it was not he who had come seeking an audience, but the other way around.

Over the past three years, the prince of Yarzat had waged a grueling war against the neighboring ruler of Oizen. The conflict had taken a heavy toll—steadily, Yarzat had lost ground, suffering setback after setback. Now, with the prospect of a decisive battle looming, the prince was desperate to shift the tides in his favor.

The upcoming campaign would pit Yarzat's forces in open battle. The prince's goal was clear: strike a crippling blow against his enemy, buy time to reclaim lost lands, and consolidate his rule.

But war, especially among these petty rulers, was fought with meager numbers. Even the most powerful of them could rarely muster more than 2,000 men at any given time. And yet, Arkawatt found himself in an even graver position—his army barely numbered 700.

Under normal circumstances, his vassals would have reinforced him with their levies. But something—some unspoken rift—had fractured their loyalty. Alpheo did not know the details, nor did he particularly care. What mattered was this: Prince Arkawatt was desperate for reinforcements.

And Alpheo had arrived at just the right moment.

Albeit, not at a good price.

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.

Allevatore_dicaprecreators' thoughts
Next chapter