Chapter 1251: High Riders(2)
Chapter 1251: High Riders(2)
"Rewards?" Ratto asked, quite dazzled by the rare, open brightness illuminating the King’s face.
But it made sense, after all he knew that for every ten lords currently pacing the marble halls outside, eleven of them would gladly slit his throat for the very opportunity Ratto was being given right now.
Still, a desperate hope fluttered in his chest, a hope that he remained sufficiently nestled in His Majesty’s favor to ask for a boon of his own. A very specific and very important boon.
"It has been so grievous and bloody a campaign," Alpheo murmured, his fingers tracking the edge of his desk, "that it goes entirely without saying that magnificent rewards must be distributed. And the list of those who have earned a slice of the cake is long. Going from the lords who fought bravely at the Bastion all the way to the Ford, and perished somewhere on the way.’’
He tapped a small pile of crisp parchments against the dark wood, ensuring the edges aligned perfectly, a neat habit tof his. "And of the latter, there were entirely too many. Yet, I cannot simply let their sons inherit an empty manor and a rusted set of armor without a grand token of gratitude from the crown. How would that look to the realm?"
Not very noble, Ratto thought silently,.
"I... I am not deserving of such considerations, Your Majesty," Ratto said, lowering his head and offering a rigid, disciplined bow from the waist.
"Enough of that," Alpheo snapped, though his voice lacked any real venom. "False modesty never did a man any favors in this room; it just wastes time. Take your seat, lad. You’ve been hovering on your feet since the moment the doors parted, and we have a long, thorough discussion ahead of us."
The King gestured lazily toward the heavy, leather-padded chair opposite the map table. His expression had settled into something at ease, yet it remained as unreadable as an encrypted ledger.
"Wine?" Alpheo asked, reaching for a terracotta carafe once Ratto had gingerly lowered himself into the seat.
"No, thank you, Sire. Water will do perfectly."
"Of a sober mind, eh?" A faint, nostalgic smile touched the King’s lips as he pulled a clean silver cup from one of the deep cedar drawers and filled it to the brim with cool water. "Gods, what I wouldn’t have given for some of my men to have your soundness."
Ratto took the cup, his fingers brushing the cool silver. He took a cautious sip. His stomach felt tightly knotted with anxiety, but the icy liquid felt immensely pleasant as it washed down his dry throat.
"It is a remarkably hard business, you know," Alpheo said suddenly. He leveled a intense, unblinking stare across the table , the same gaze he had given the day Ratto won the grandest wager of his life. It was the look of a master artisan evaluating a piece of raw, precious timber, calculating exactly how it might be shaped if only the right hand applied the chisel.
"Giving the exact right reward to the exact right man," the King mused, swirling the water in his own cup. "I can’t simply go about tossing land to every brave fool with a sword, can I? A sovereign with an easy hand for rewards is the absolute bane of any sons who inherit his throne after him. He leaves the crown bankrupt and the vassals too fat to fight.
Luckily for me, the men who truly earned the grandest spoils are also, paradoxically, the easiest to satisfy. Jarza needs absolutely nothing but a fresh whetstone and a heavy shield, just as Asag is content with the shadows. Rykio, Edric, and Xanthios are all satisfied enough with the thrill of the slaughter and the heavy honors of their current positions."
Alpheo paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Well, except for Rykio. After the performance he put on in this war, I shall be forced to grant him a proper estate fit for a lord. It is an unseemly thing for a legate of the crown to possess nothing to his name but a modest manor house. And then, of course, we come to you. You fought exceptionally well at the river, or so the centurions reported. Is that right?"
"No more than any other man, Your Majesty," Ratto said somberly, looking down at the clear water in his cup. "Only those who fought exceptionally well managed to survive that butchery."
’’Or those that were blessed by the Weaver’’ The king added in a small somber tone.
Still despite the practiced humility of his words, a small spark of quiet pride flared within Ratto’s chest. He had fought well. He had held the line when the iron grew red-hot, slaying two heavily armored knights with his own blade and even dragging a bleeding, screaming comrade out of the crushing press of the front line so the stretcher-bearers could haul him to the rear. Of course, when measured against legendary monsters of the field like Xanthios or Rykio, his deeds paled into absolute insignificance.
"Do you know the true trouble with possessing the absolute best soldiers in the world, Ratto?" the King asked, his tone dropping into a serious, heavy register.
Ratto shook his head slowly. "I do not, Sire."
"You need likewise the absolute best men to lead them," Alpheo said, leaning across the table, his hazel eyes locking onto Ratto with the weight of an iron vise. "A perfect maniple of veteran legionaries will only fight as well as the commander who guides them into the breach. Give sheeps to a lion, and they will fight like one, give lions a dog as commander and they will perish just like one. Tell me... are you the man I am currently searching for to hold that command?"
Ratto felt a sudden, fierce heat rush to his face, his cheeks burning a bright crimson. What in the name of the Five Gods was a lowborn man supposed to say to his King when presented with such a precipice?
"I... I will strive with every breath to fulfill your expectations, Your Majesty," he stammered out, his knuckles turning white around his cup.
"Mmh. I’ve heard vastly worse answers," Alpheo chuckled, the tension breaking instantly as he leaned back into the furs of his chair. "When I finally gave the legate’s title to Edric after the conquest of Herculia, the fool was already five cups deep into a barrel of strong northern mead. I handed him the official seal of the Fourth, and in exchange for the honor, he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach directly onto my boots."
The King shook his head, a genuine, laughing glint in his eye. "Thankfully enough, they were my oldest, shittiest pair of riding boots. He was terribly apologetic the next morning, of course, after Jarza had practically dragged him by his collar back to his quarters. Though, when he finally slunk into my tent to beg forgiveness at dawn, he was sporting a spectacular black eye that he certainly hadn’t possessed the previous night."
Ratto couldn’t help but let out a small, breathless laugh.Somehow it fitted with the man.
"But enough of Edric’s public indiscretions," Alpheo said, waving a hand to brush the image away. "A year ago, wasn’t it? When I spoke to you in confidence about a potential vacancy?"
"Fourteen months ago, Your Majesty," Ratto corrected gently.
"Always precise to the letter, eh?" Alpheo chuckled, genuine warmth in his eyes. "Tell me then... are you still interested in it?"
"It would be my ultimate joy and my greatest pride, Sire."
"Now, that is a proper answer, isn’t it?" Alpheo leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Trust me, it is as much of a joy to you as it is a point of pride for me. I still recall when you were nothing but a muddy brat scraping the cobbles. What an incredibly long road we have walked to reach this chamber, haven’t we? Me a king, and you a legate, and soon, a lord with your own banner."
"It indeed has been a long road," Ratto said, his voice thick as a sudden, stinging tear threatened to jerk itself free from his eye. He blinked it away furiously, his chest tight. "I owe everything I am, and everything I ever will be, to your grace.You are like a father to me. I would gladly die than to incurr in your displeasure."
"No tears, lad. I won’t have a drop of it spoiling the moment," Alpheo scolded softly, though his expression remained loose and fond. "You know how long I have desired my own dedicated force of heavy cavalry to support the legions? For far too long, I have felt the Golden Steeds fell short of the mark. They are too bound to old traditions, too rigid. The time is finally right to disband that old force and integrate its remnants with yours."
Ratto’s breath hitched slightly. "The Golden Steeds have been an unbreakable part of Yarzat’s history for generations, Sire. Is it truly wise to dissolve them?"
The King shrugged, a cool, indifferent gesture of his shoulders. "What is the use of wearing a crown if I cannot decide what becomes history and what gets tossed into the gutter? Besides, they won’t have much room to complain. Old Mers has been of age that basically begs for retirement; I’ll grant the man a beautiful parcel of land in the south to spend his remaining winters in. As for his riders, I shall offer them either a very generous pension or a direct position in your new vanguard."
"And what of the mounts, Your Grace? Aren’t those horses their own private property?"
The King nodded slowly. It was the old way: each mounted man in the Golden Steeds owned his own armor and bred his own charger. If a stallion fell in battle and the rider lacked the coin to replace it, he was honorably discharged with a small remuneration. It was a clumsy, decentralized way to wage war.
But Alpheo had a different cure for that disease.
"I have been quietly breeding warhorses in the royal stables for more than six years. That I’d say was the best thing that came out of the butchery of Aracina.
Finally, we have enough adult beasts to bridle and saddle for a true vanguard." Alpheo let out a low, appreciative whistle, his eyes gleaming. "And let me tell you exactly what kind of beasts they are. I’ve fed them only the finest grain and meticulously selected the absolute best breeds for their lineage." He took a slow sip from his cup, savoring the cool water. "Most of the foundation mares hail from Oizenian stock, admittedly. But by now, half the stable could be considered of pure Yarzat descent."
"I highly doubt a single soldier will care about the bloodline of their horse’s granddad, Your Grace," Ratto said with a growing smile. "The only important thing is where the rider hails from and behind what banners he rides."
The king smiled at him.
"Indeed. I have enough horseflesh in the paddocks right now to raise two hundred of them, and more. Still, we are not living in a time of bountiful harvests, so for the winter, you shall have only one hundred armored men under your command. We still have to pay the dischargees their final campaign wages, and the crown will face entirely too many expenditures this year to grant you a man more."
One hundred. One hundred heavily armored, iron-clad heavy cavalrymen. Ratto’s thick brain scrambled to fully process the number. When he had walked through those heavy oak doors, he had secretly prayed to be given a handful of stableboys or a small scout maniple of ten riders; he would have been utterly ecstatic with that much. To hear the King speak of one hundred elite lancers as if it were a disappointing, meager start left him entirely breathless.
"Your Majesty... one hundred is more than a dream," Ratto stammered, sliding out of his chair to drop squarely onto his knee, his head bowed low over the desk. "I thank you from the bottom of my soul. I will guard your back with every ounce of my blood."
"Rise, soon to be Lord Ratto. You earned every single one of those lances," Alpheo said, his voice solid and certain, as if he knew it from that day he had taken him in. "I don’t give gifts out of charity. I give them out of utility, and you proved your worth at the river."
Believing the grand audience to be finally at its end, Ratto began to straighten his posture, preparing to take his formal leave and let the King return to his endless mountains of Oizenian paperwork.
He would have asked for his boon, but already a great reward was given him.
It was not proper to be too greedy.
But before he could fully stand, Alpheo gently motioned him back down, a single, gold-ringed finger tapping the air between them.
"Sit," Alpheo murmured, his hazel eyes now having none of the previous warmth, his lips smashing against each other in a fine line, as if neither he wanted to speak of what was next. "There is yet something else we must speak on, Ratto. A matter far less pleasant than heavy horses and silver titles."
The new legate slowly lowered himself back into the leather seat, with a confused expression.
The King leaned back into the shadows of his high chair, his scarred jaw tightening as he stared through the candlelight. "Tell me, lad... love makes even the smartest of men become fools, doesn’t it?Gods know I thought myself immune to that curse" Alpheo asked with a chuckle as he leaned his head to the side, his gaze dark and unblinking.
’’Is there something you’d wish to tell me on that regard?’’