Chapter 800: Princely Conference(1)
The day of the conference dawned at last. Not within the stone walls of Sharjaan would it take place, but in the open fields before the city, where a vast pavilion had been raised.
Its silken canopy rippled in the morning breeze, and above it the proud banner of the House of Sharjaan flew, its presence confirming to any skeptic that indeed this was the ground upon which princes would measure their words against the might of the sword.
Alpheo rode to the fore, his cloak trailing behind him, and reined in just long enough to twist in the saddle, his grin flashing like a duelist about to salute."All right, boys," he called, his voice carrying over the tramp of marching boots. "Puff out your chests. Let us see if our sorry lot can masquerade yourself with some majesty! From Arlania to Yarzat—"
"From Yarzat to Arlania!" came the roar of reply, each legate echoing their funny and private rallying cry as they turned to their subordinates who then wheeled their maniples into order.
He allowed himself a moment’s pride. Pride in the sheen of discipline, in the neatness of lines that looked every inch the army of a conquering prince.
Pride, too, in the cunning that had turned ragged men into a sight to be reckoned with. It was a welcome balm against the unease coiled like a stone in his stomach.
As though he had laid snares and counterweights as carefully as in any campaign, though he had maneuvered tirelessly to set every piece in its place, in the end it was still the will of other men that would decide whether today birthed peace... or sharpened for more war.
He thought back to the bravado he had tossed at Shaza, that Romelia’s eagle would not only preside over words but descend upon the field if steel were drawn. Yet as he watched that great black-and-gold standard flutter in the distance waiting for them, a doubt gnawed him.
How far could the boy emperor be trusted?
For all his seeming resolve, in the marrow of his bones Alpheo knew what empires were made of. Not honesty. Not fidelity. Rare was the empire forged by a word and kept by it. Empires, as history ceaselessly taught, thrived on betrayal.
Still, hope was a stubborn companion, and Alpheo had always marched with her at his side. So he steeled his heart, pressed his heels to his horse, and lifted a hand.
"Forward," he ordered.
And the column surged ahead, armor clattering, banners flying, steel in their ranks, but uncertainty in their prince’s mind.
---------
"How in the name of the gods did that peasant manage to bring the Romelians to his side?!" Sorza burst out. His face was red, his lips curled in disgust as he turned upon Zayneth. "You swore to meyou would stop Yarzat’s rabble in their tracks. At the very least, you were to make him spit back the iron mines!"
Zayneth turned with deliberate slowness, folding his hands behind his back as though he had all the patience in the world.
To be questioned by this puffed-up failure, it set fire in his gut. But he was an envoy. He could not lash out. An envoy’s tongue was bound by silk, even when his thoughts seethed like steel in the forge.
This man should be on his knees, kissing my boots for saving him from ruin, not yapping like a spoiled child. Once, he thought his new toys would win him glory, and now, stripped bare, he scampers and whines like a beaten hound.
"Your Grace," Zayneth said at last, forcing the title through his teeth like it were sour fruit. His bow was shallow, just barely enough to avoid insult. "Our aim remains unchanged."
"The Romel—" Sorza began again, but Zayneth’s voice cut through with sudden, cold precision.
"Even with the Romelians, it changes little," he declared. "There is no world or life in which they throw their full weight behind that self-styled prince. Not now, not with their own strength so waned and their borders stretched thin.Do I need to remind you they are in the middle of a civil war?That they are currently losing?’’
That calmed Sorza a little allowing the man to get some breath before continuing
’’At most they will lend him a presence to dazzle the other envoys, perhaps a token guard to gild his parade. Nothing more. We will make adjustments, yes, but as matters stand, the peasant is still outnumbered, and unless he dares the madness of making war against nearly the whole South, he will be forced to the table. And once at that table, he will bleed concessions."
Zayneth meanwhile hid his contempt as Sorza allowed himself a sigh of relief, behind a carefully neutral expression. Gods above, he is more useless than that bald fool Lechlian, he thought, watching Sorza fume. A husk of pride wrapped in velvet and jewels. How does such a man imagine himself a ruler?
And yet, for all his scorn, a worm of unease wriggled in his chest. How had Alpheo managed it? Romelians did not move for free. There was to be a reason why they were there. What bargain had been struck? What promises whispered? And more dangerous still,how far were they willing to follow through?
Zayneth’s line of thought,was shattered by the sudden thunder of drums rolling across the field, followed by the piercing cry of brass trumpets. The sound was not the playful fanfare of some princeling’s parade, nor the chaotic clash of mercenary fifes and pipes.
All around him, the pavilion stirred. The murmur of the assembled envoys, until now so full of soft sound, was cut short into startled silence. Then came the gasps, sharp intakes of breath, as every man turned toward the plain.
Zayneth did not turn with them. He had no need. He had already seen it, had already tasted the chill of it. He knew what they were seeing now. Still, against his will, against all the practiced armor of his composure, a flicker of awe stirred in him too.
Say what they will about that peasant, he thought grimly, but by the Gods, he has learned how to make an entrance.
The White Army came into view.
Four hundred and eighty soldiers, divided with mathematical precision into companies of forty, each man marching as if a single heartbeat commanded them. Their shields, identical down to the last rivet, hung at their sides in perfect symmetry; their javelins angled uniformly in the other hand. And above all, their heads, every last one of them, tilted just slightly upward, their gaze fixed beyond the crowd, beyond the princes, as if the world before them was already theirs to claim.
It was no rabble. No pressed levy of farmers clutching spears. This was a living machine.
Zayneth had told himself he would not be surprised. He had sworn it, rehearsed it in his mind a hundred times. Yet now, as he watched, he felt the weight in his chest all the same. He had seen the difference between drilled soldiers and undrilled many times before, the way most armies shuffled forward in loose knots, order quickly breaking into clumps of men no better than a milling crowd.
Marching in formation was not something one learned in a day.
Each soldier moved as if carved from the same mold, their steps perfectly measured, their arms rising and falling in unison, as though one body commanded five hundred limbs.
The drums thundered on, their beat slow and domineering, the pulse of inevitability itself. The trumpets cried sharp above it, not in the merry tune of celebration but in a tone that cut cold .
Zayneth’s eyes flicked briefly to the other envoys seated around the tent, representatives of princes who had cost his master no small amount of effort to court. He saw the paling faces, the quick swallowings of breath, the nervous shifts in their seats. Even the haughtiest among them, those who had entered the day full of barbed quips and careless laughter, now sat stiff and silent as statues, their eyes locked upon the advancing phalanx of white.
Zayneth turned to Sorza, and for a moment he nearly let slip a laugh. The prince’s face, usually so puffed with arrogance, now bore the fleeting shadow of fear. What exactly Sorza imagined he had to dread was known only to him,given the Peasant Prince would never dare harm them, but the sight was almost comical.
If truth be told, Zayneth felt nearly as satisfied as Alpheo himself must have.
So easy, he thought, sneering inwardly. So damnably easy to deal with these fools who believe war is nothing more than the number of swords you swing. The boy has dug his own grave with his own hands, and I need not lift a finger.
For all Alpheo’s pomp, for all the spectacle of his "White Army," he had in fact only played into Nibadur’s hand. The more he flaunted his discipline, the more he boasted his strength, the more the southern princes would feel compelled to stand together against him. What he thought a display of dominance was, in truth, a summons for every wary neighbor to sharpen their knives.
The irony was almost beautiful. Alpheo might believe he had seized the moment, but the sight of his gleaming army only underscored the need for unity against him.
For after all, violence isn’t always the answer to everything...