Chapter 679: Overwhelming odds
Jarza had known the sounds an army made since he was but a lad of fourteen, though even then, he was larger than most grown men. The gods had seen fit to craft him from stone and oak, it seemed, broad of shoulder and thick of arm.
A gift, or perhaps a burden considering just how much food he needed to eat, but one he’d put to good use for the better part of three decades that he served as a mercenary.
He had never hoed a field, never cast a net into the sea. His hands had only known the heft of a spear and the weight of a shield. The songs of his youth were not the lullabies of home, but the snore of men huddled in cloaks and the harsh chorus of mail and steel rattling at dawn before the daily march.
Once, he had been part of the orchestra that played those war-tunes, now, he was the composer.
The cold breath of winter rode in on the wind, nipping at the skin of his neck and slipping beneath the folds of his cloak. Instinctively, he clenched his jaw and raised his shoulders, bracing against the chill. Frost crackled at the fringes of the tents, and the muddy soil of the camp hardened beneath their boots. Every breath hung in the air like ghostly smoke.
He hated winter, and its cold.
He was a man made for warm and hot air, and felt himself more at ease in the boiling sand rather than ahead of a warm fire.
He never imagined Alpheo would choose to lead an army in the dead of winter. It was madness, most of the times.
Jarza could only guess at the rivers of silver and gold that were bleeding into this campaign, feeding thousands of mouths that could no longer forage or raid. The earth slept beneath the frost now, and only coin could rouse the bellies of men.
Still, he kept the goats, Jarza noted, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he watched one particular white-fleeced beast nosing through brittle grass beside the cook tents.
Stubborn little thing, no matter how many times they kicked him away from there , he always came back. But it gave milk, and that was no small gift in these bitter months.
He didn’t complain. Jarza had always loved milk and the men had grown fond of it too. Each morning they’d rise to steaming bowls of grain and milk, a small comfort against the cold. A strange tradition perhaps, but one Alpheo carried from the court to the camp, and now it belonged to them all.