Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 671: Booty

Alpheo could hardly believe what his eyes beheld.

For a brief, flickering moment, he wondered if he were still asleep, dreaming some fevered vision of triumph too fantastical for reality. But no dream had ever smelled so richly of sweat, iron, and oiled wood.

Cart after cart rolled down the patchy green road, their wheels creaking beneath the weight of wealth pulled from the bones of Herculia.

The entire spoils of a broken city were being hauled, piece by piece, across the grass and laid bare before the quartermasters of the White Army. Their ink-stained hands moved quickly, cataloguing the loot with all the cold precision of scribes counting the spoils of gods. Everything was being sorted and tallied: from the tiniest bronze trinkets pried from hearths, to the grandest tapestries torn from palace walls.

Coins by the thousands. Iron tools. Casks of wine. Locks of silk. The humble and the lavish, heaped together like bones in a grave. But the true prize, the most profitable hoard by far, came not from the homes of commoners but from within the halls of the Herculeian court itself.

Though the royal family had fled before the city fell, they had not taken much with them—there simply hadn’t been room for everything. And so they had left behind their legacy in silver and marble.

There were carpets,silverware engraved with ancestral crests. Gilded statues, paintings by dead artists , ceremonial helms never worn in war but polished bright for display. The debris of dynasties. The dusted proof of once-unshakable lineage.

And now, all of it was his.

Alpheo stood amid it all, stunned into silence. His armor caught the glint of the midday sun, its edges reflecting off a set of golden goblets balanced carelessly in a wooden tray. He watched as soldiers dumped entire velvet-lined chests holding who knew what onto blankets, laughing like children with their hands in the honey jar.

Much of the ornamental wealth would be shipped back to Yarzat to line the walls of Alpheo’s own court, a new order built upon old opulence. The rest, especially the goods that couldn’t be repurposed for prestige, would be sold off to eager merchants .

"How much do you reckon is in there?" Egil asked, stepping beside him. His voice, too, was touched with disbelief, eyes scanning the mountains of wealth with the same wide wonder as a boy peering into a dragon’s hoard.

Alpheo exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on a trove of scepters half-buried under bolts of brocade.

"I can’t say for certain," he admitted. "The scribes are still counting. But by my own reckoning, it can’t be less than eighty thousand silverii. Gods, the coins alone must number over twenty thousand. And that’s not even counting the merchant houses. For all the city’s hardship these past years, it was still a crossroads of trade. "

He gave a small, cold smile.

"And they were more than happy to reveal the location of their vaults once the sword was pointed in the right direction."

Egil chuckled darkly, the sound hollow under the sky.

It was most certainly the most beautiful spectacle that most men here had ever seen.

Lords and commoners alike could hardly restrain their hunger at the sight of such treasure. Even the Voghondai, those proud, once semi-nomadic warriors who had only recently grasped the value of coin, stood transfixed by the sheer wealth paraded before them.

Though their traditions had long shunned the use of currency, circumstance had forced their hand. The bountiful harvests of their fertile lands had drawn merchants like flies to honey. Traders eager to barter salt, wine, and trinkets for grain and fruit had slowly tethered the once-heretical settlement to the wider economic web of the south. Whether they wished it or not, the Voghondai had learned the ways of markets and silver. And now, having tasted coin, they too dreamed of filling their pockets with it.

Torghan, their chieftain, stood among them like a man in a trance. His eyes drank in the mass of loot being tallied by the White Army’s quartermasters, chests of coins, fine tapestries, gilt statuary, carved furniture, and relics from a royal court a century old.

For a few long moments, he could do little but stare at it all, as though the treasure were a goddess made flesh that was waiting for someone to lie in bed with.

Alpheo, watching from nearby, couldn’t help but smirk at the man’s visible awe. He stepped closer, voice low but laced with mirth.

"Magnificent, isn’t it?"

Torghan blinked as if waking from a dream. Upon recognizing his liege, he dipped into a respectful bow and replied in thick, but fluent Southern Tongue:

"Yes, Your Grace. This treasure is worthy of your name and legend."

It seemed that in addition to the language, Torghan had learned the delicate art of flattery.

Alpheo chuckled softly, "It seems so. There’s no sweeter victory than taking from the enemy what he held dear—and making it your own. It will be shared, of course. Not bad for a campaign that spilled barely a drop of blood, wouldn’t you say?"

Torghan nodded again, eyes still glinting with awe.

"My compliments to your men," Alpheo continued, his tone more sincere now. "Hunters of sharp eye and steady hand. Their game fed us during the siege, and their blades gave no quarter when it mattered."

He paused, letting the weight of his next words fall with purpose.

"I’ll be holding a feast tonight in their honor, to celebrate both their courage and their contribution.Let all know that I applaud your people ."

The news struck Torghan like a thunderclap. For a brief moment, the chieftain looked almost boyish, caught off guard by the generosity. He stammered out his thanks, voice thick with gratitude—as if the banquet had been thrown for him alone.

Obviously not used to be celebrated like this.

Alpheo watched him with quiet elation.

I made the right choice bringing him into the fold, he mused. Loyal, unambitious, yet commanding strong and disciplined warriors, Torghan was a rare find. The kind of man who inspired devotion without seeking more than what was offered. He knew his place and, more importantly, respected Alpheo’s.

His warriors were good with the axe and easy to satisfy, as just with good food and loot at the end of a campaign, they returned home satisfied with both the travel and of course, the prince.

As he studied him further, Alpheo’s mind turned to the future. When new settlers arrive, I could expand his holdings—give him broader lands. Normally, he’d balk at the idea of concentrating too much power in one man’s hands.

But with Torghan? The risk was minimal. He was the sort to be content with what was his, and wise enough to know what rebellion would cost.

When he dies, I’ll split the holdings among his sons. That should prevent any one of them from rising too high and make it far easier to draw levies from his line without breeding dangerous ambition.

Alpheo smiled to himself.

Yes, a good investment. Simple men with sharp spears and no thirst for crowns—what more could a prince ask for?

As he turned away from Torghan, his eyes moved further from the coin he got from the sack, and toward what to do with it, not how to spend, but just how to manage it.

Even if I hadn’t planned to stop and rest in this city, Alpheo thought as his gaze drifted from the glittering spoils back to the battered skyline of Herculia, there was no way I could have pressed forward, not with this mountain of plunder dragging at my heels.

The sheer volume of loot now under his command was staggering. Carts overflowing with coin, chests brimming with silverware, statues of marble and gold, delicate picte peeled from palace walls.

What in the name of the gods was he supposed to do with all of it? Haul it along the road like a traveling museum? March into battle with a royal treasury trailing behind him like a bride’s dowry?

No. That was madness. Only fools and the divine could march with that kind of weight and not invite disaster.

Even if they did manage to move it, the column would crawl like a wounded beast—slow, bloated, and vulnerable. Every petty thief within a hundred leagues would hear the clink of silver in the wind. Every desperate band of enemy stragglers would see a fortune ripe for the taking.

The wagons would need guards, hundreds, perhaps more. And in the event of battle, even a victory would feel like a defeat if he had to sacrifice men or treasure to hold onto it.

Sending it all back to Yarzat? That might be the most logical answer, but far from the easiest.

To move such wealth across the war-torn heartland would demand a full escort of seasoned soldiers, and that alone would cost him precious strength. Worse still, the moment the nobility caught wind of the decision, his ears would be filled with the wails of discontent.

The lords would gnash their teeth at the sight of so much gold slipping from their fingers. Once it reached the capital, who could say what would become of it?

And so, the last and perhaps only real option was to leave the hoard right here, within the very walls he had just conquered. But that, too, had its price. To secure the city—and the treasure within, it would require a garrison large enough to deter opportunists and strong enough to hold should some desperate fool try to retake it. With his numbers already thin by the siege, every man he left behind would weaken the blade he carried into the next fight.

No, even if he had the mind to pursue the war further right now, the weight of his victory had chained him to the ruins he had claimed.

Breaking him from his reverie , was as usual the man himself.

Egil, arms crossed and brow furrowed, turned to the prince.

"So... what now?"

Alpheo, who had been gazing out toward the city gates with a distant look, didn’t answer right away. He exhaled through his nose, then finally replied:

"We wait." He turned slightly, his voice now more firm. "We’ll rest here for at least a month."

Egil raised an eyebrow. "A month?"

"Yes," Alpheo confirmed. "The men need rest. The horses even more so. And I’ll need time to write back to Yarzat, my wife must be informed of our gains, and I’ll request reinforcements. We’ve taken a jewel, yes, but I’ll need more blades if we’re to drive this campaign deeper into the heart of the principality."

Egil snorted, unable to hide his frustration. "So we sit here... polishing loot and licking our wounds ?" He gave a small shake of his head. "It’s a strange kind of victory, Alpheo. We came all this way to hammer steel into flesh, not rot behind city walls. The city is ours, the enemy will be in disarray, we can take them with their pants down..."

Alpheo chuckled, not unkindly, and clasped his companion’s shoulder with a gauntleted hand. "Your thirst for battle does you credit, Egil. But war is not only fought with swords, it is won with coin, food, patience."

He gestured toward the rows of crates, the carts stacked high with silverware, bolts of velvet, and engraved chalices.

"We need the merchants to come here. We must sell what we can’t carry, turn gold into grain, iron, fodder for your horses , and we’ll need to buy fresh stores to march any farther. You know as well as I that an army marches only as far as its belly can take it."

Egil muttered something under his breath and sat down onto the grass, his fingers drumming against the dirt . Alpheo let the silence settle a moment before speaking again, his tone quieter, more reassuring.

"You’ll have your blood soon enough, Egil. There’s more war to come. This city is not our destination, it’s merely the door we had to kick open. Give me a little time to secure it, to prepare. I promise, the next gate we knock on will be with fire."

Egil gave a long sigh, then nodded, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders.

"Fine," he muttered. "But don’t let the men grow soft on wine and victory. One month of idleness can make fools of soldiers. Should have allowed me to raid a bit, if we were to wait for so long..."

Alpheo smiled. "Keem them sharp for me, Egil. You’ll be the hammer when I call the strike. Just wait. The storm hasn’t passed not yet.You’ll get your battle soon enough and as much glory as you can take ."