Chapter 1414: Returning soldiers

By the third turn of the moon since the fall of Oizen, the new dominions of Yarzat were declared cleansed of bandits, and a hard-won measure of peace returned to the river roads.

With barely a sennight remaining before the Archons placed the consecrated gold upon Alpheo’s brow, the returning cohorts, the Primogenia, the Aracinea, the Hounds, and the Arditi, finally trod the flagstones of home.

Of all the men they had to mantain the peace, only half the Blue Cloaks remained behind in Oizen, schooling a freshly raised local watch to keep the conquered city from sliding back into the gutter.

And so, after months of blood, mud, and bitter manhunts, the legions marched back through the high gates of Yarzat to a hero’s roar.

They advanced through streets bursting with an ocean of common folk dressed in every dye the weavers could muster and the people could afford. Though the celebrations were less animated than they usually were at war’s end.

There were no fine silk favors tossed from balconies, nor rose petals strewn beneath armored hooves. Instead, there was a deafening, guttural roar of civic pride. Barefoot boys climbed atop rain barrels and garden walls, eyes wide with awe as the iron-clad ranks rolled past like an unyielding tide.

Who knows? Edric mused from the saddle of his warhorse. A few of those snot-nosed runts perhaps would one day take the King’s coin and don his colours to bleed his enemy.

In a world where commoners usually fled into the brush at the mere sight of a lord’s levies, it was a rare thing for folk to look upon an army with fierce admiration rather than creeping terror. The veterans brought home not only wage but pride of something more."

The King was forever preaching of it. In truth, Edric saw little practical magic in grand words, such philosophy never filled a grain sack, nor did it sharpen an axe, but if a mind as sharp as Alpheo’s swore by it, who was a grunt like him to dispute it?

It had been since it had been had,that he knew, back when the old imperial eagles of Romelia cast their long shadows across the world. But the ancient eagle was ragged, molting, and choking on its own decay as he lost its feathers while mimicking a flight it could no longer commence; now, an ambitious black falcon was rising into the wind, kicking dust into the old bird’s eyes.

A sudden, booming laugh tore out of Edric’s chest at the thought.

Riding beside him, Torghan, chieftain of the Voghondai, who was still blinking in surprise at the cheerful mob, shot the Legate a bewildered glare. "Why do you bark like a mad dog?"

The jest of it was that Edric had no proper answer. But an old soldier never admitted to empty laughter.

"Because the sky is blue and I’ve an iron prick on me," Edric replied without missing a beat

Torghan looked up at the winter clouds, utterly lost, then glanced down toward Edric’s pant with furrowed brows. "The sky is gray, and you are not with iron down there. Is this another Yarzat riddle?"

"Aye," Edric nodded solemnly, stifling a wicked smirk behind a yawn. "An ancient Yarzat proverb. It means we are as joyous as the four winds."

If the gods had any stomach for comedy, the bait would take.

An hour later, Edric was quite literally rolling on the polished marble floor of the King’s solar, clutching his belly as his roaring laughter echoed off the high rafters.

"You lied to me!" Torghan snarled, his broad face flushed the color of a mashed beet, as he sported a betrayed look.

Alpheo sat back in his great chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary, amused sigh as the Voghondai chieftain sputtered in outrage. "I assure you, Torghan, in all my years of rule, I have never once decreed that having an iron shaft makes a man joyous as the wind."

"It was... gods above, it was magnificent!" Edric wheezed, pounding his armored fist against the floor as he gasped for air.

’’THERE WERE CHILDREN ABOUT!’’

"It was the clumsiest, most childish snare I have ever witnessed," Lord Jarza growled from the corner of the hearth, glaring down at his former subordinate with sour reproach.

Edric scrambled up, dusting his greaves and utterly unbothered by the old marshal’s scowl. Jarza had done nothing but bark curses and corrections at him since their greener days in the First Legion, long before the Fourth had ever been granted its own standards.

"And yet the wild wolf stepped right into the jaws, boots and all," Edric grinned, shaking his head. He wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, his tone softening into honest warmth as he looked upon his commanders. "Mockery aside... by the Five, it is good to be home. I was half-afraid I’d return to find you already wearing that heavy hoop of gold, Alph. Glad to see I made it back in time to watch the priests sweat."

’’You came in time to see me sweating with them." Alpheo said with a faint, wry smile, rising from his chair to pour dark, spiced wine into three heavy pewter goblets. " The Archon has spent the last three days arguing whether the holy oil should be dabbed on my temples with swan down or a silver spoon, apparently each coronation had his own tradition, what I choose now will be followed by my own descendants. I told him a clean rag would do the job just as well, and the poor old man nearly fainted into his vestments."

He handed one cup to Edric , one to Rykio and another to Torghan, clapping a firm, calloused hand against the Voghondai chieftain’s shoulder.

"Do not let this old dog ruffle your feathers, Torghan," the King murmured gently. "The city cheered for you all today, and rightly so. "

Torghan looked down at the steaming wine, the angry crimson fading from his cheeks

"Our new land know wind and stone. Oaths were sworn and oaths were kept. My warriors will drink your wine and guard your gates everytime they are called.."

"Good," Alpheo said softly, his gaze steady on the Voghondai chieftain. "Because come the turn of the week, those gates will swing wide to half the high lords of the south. I shall be utterly drowned in their scented oils and sweet flatteries. I will always have need of men who smell of good iron rather than rosewater."

Edric took a deep, greedy swallow of the dark vintage, letting out a satisfied groan that rattled like an ungreased portcullis. He smacked his lips, eyeing the bottom of the pewter goblet. "Ah, the gods preserve the royal cellars. Is this Azanian?"

The King gave a proud half-nod. "The cloves and cinnamon are , aye. But the vintage itself was pressed right from our own hillside vineyards. The first proper yield of the young vines.All now crown’s possesion for a merchant that used slave!"

They toasted to that.

"About time, too. ’’ Rykio said as he leaned against the heavy oak mantle, swirling the red liquid in his cup. ’’I lost count of how many patrols I led where the lads spent half the ride eyeing the passing trellis rows, practically begging for leave to buy up the barrels before the grapes had even fermented."

"You fought well, the lot of you," Jarza rumbled from behind, his weathered face softening from its habitual stone scowl. The old marshal looked at Edric, his former squire, his brash junior officer, now a legate commanding hundreds of spears. "You took the Vulture’s head without drowning the cohort in the bogs. That is... acceptable work, I suppose."

Edric pressed a palm to his breastplate in theatrical outrage. "Acceptable? Gods above, you could hardly have done better yourself, old man!"

"OLD MA—" Jarza choked on his wine, catching himself with a sharp, heavy breath that threatened to burst his tunic. "Gods damn the hour I ever whispered your name to the King! I should have kept you drilling barefoot recruits in the freezing mud until your teeth fell out. You’re a soft summer flower, Edric!"

"And yet I bloomed red enough in the snows last winter, didn’t I?" Edric countered with a wide, wicked grin.

"Speaking of blooms and gardens," Alpheo cut in, glancing past them toward the empty archway, "where is Laedio? He should have ridden into the palace courtyard with the rest of the vanguard."

"Went hunting for his little girl the moment his boots hit the cobblestones," Edric muttered, taking another massive draft from his cup. He let out a low rumble of approval, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "Carried a fat white rabbit in a wicker basket all the way from the Oizen marshes."

"A rabbit?" Alpheo’s brow arched in mild amusement.

"Aye, a pet hare. It’s a long story," Edric replied, throwing a knowing, sidelong glance at the King. "Your own cub was right at the center of it, from what Laedio told me. Speaking of the lad... where is the Crown Prince? I expected to find him here with his books."

"Tending to a small task I set for him," Alpheo said, a fond smile touching the corners of his lips. "Another long story, I’m afraid."

At that the King turned his gaze toward Torghan. The Voghondai chieftain blinked, shifting his weight uneasily beneath the strange, gaze in the king’s eyes.

"Your Majesty?" Torghan asked

"I suspect you will be receiving a visit from my son before the sun sets," Alpheo murmured, tapping a ringed finger against the edge of his goblet. "I trust you will make time for him. I confess... I did not expect the boy to be quite so thorough.My apologies for that."

"Thorough?" Torghan repeated, his scarred brow furrowing deep beneath his wolfskin cowl. "With what?"

Alpheo chuckled.

"A long story, indeed. My advance apologies on that once more. He had taken it more seriously than I thought he would.’’