Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 428

Chapter 428: Dining (1) Chapter 428: Dining (1) Torghan ate like a man who had spent his entire life preparing for this one meal.

His hands were a blur as he grabbed whatever was placed in front of him, tearing into meats he had never tasted before-succulent beef that melted in his mouth, rich pork that dripped with juices, and something they called a “pork pie,” which, to his delight, was exactly what it sounded like: a pie, filled with meat.

H is tribe had always made do with goat, fish, and whatever game they could hunt or milk, but this?

This was indulgence made flesh.

Then, there was… something strange.

Small yellow-like piece of something steaming on a plate.

He poked at it suspiciously before scooping up a forkful and shoving it into his mouth.

By the spirits….

It was soft, yet firm.

Chewy, but not in an unpleasant way.  Alpheo, watching all this, leaned back in his chair, sipping from his goblet with a smirk.

The way Torghan was stuffing his cheeks, he looked like a damn squirrel trying to hoard food for winter.

Good to know he’s enjoying it, Alpheo thought, amused.

He had always been a fan of pasta.

Now that he had the time and influence, he had made it his personal mission to have it prepared properly in court.

It was cheap, it was easy to make, it tasted deliviously and more important it lasted a ton of time.

He’d expected resistance at first, but after a few plates had been set down and devoured, even the skeptics had changed their tune from their argument that manly composed of disgust over their worm-like appearance.

Now, it seemed like another convert had been made, given the way Torghan was inhaling his meal like it might be stolen from him at any moment.

Alpheo glanced at Jasmine, who was watching with mild amusement, and then at Aron, who was finding the plate delicious too.

Pasta wasn’t just delicious-it was practical.

In a world where food preservation was a constant struggle, pasta was a godsend.

Even without proper airtight storage methods, dried pasta could last for half a year with little effort, making it one of the most reliable food sources imaginable.

And in Alpheo’s mind, that made it perfect for one thing above all else: the army.

Feeding an army was a logistical nightmare, and keeping them well-fed during campaigns was even worse.

Salted meats and hardtack could only do so much before morale started to plummet, grain did not last that much.

But pasta?

Pasta was different.

It was easy to make, filling, and best of all, it stored exceptionally well.

Even in the harshest winters, when foraging was impossible and fresh supplies were scarce, pasta could be boiled and turned into a warm, hearty meal-something that could keep men marching even in the worst conditions.

Of course, there was a catch.

The amount of eggs needed to produce enough pasta for an entire army was immense.

But with peace still holding, there was time to stockpile.

Alpheo had already put plans in motion to keep reserves full, using it sparingly as a special dinner for the troops every few weeks to keep them both well-fed and in high spirits.

A soldier who ate well was a soldier who fought well.

And when war came-and it would come-he wanted his men marching on full stomachs, ready to carve their way through whoever stood in their path.

Alpheo wiped his mouth with his hand, throwing a glance at Jasmine, making sure she had not seen that, before glancing at the guests who were still devouring their meals with an enthusiasm that bordered on animalistic.

Smirking, he turned to Aron and gestured toward the feasting tribesmen.

“Ask them if they like the food,” he said casually.

Aron gave a knowing nod and spoke to the translator, who relayed the question in the guests’ tongue.

One of them, still chewing, spoke through the mouthful, and the translator promptly returned with the answer.

“They say this is the best thing they have ever eaten.” Alpheo raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” He leaned forward slightly, intrigued.

“Ask them if they don’t have anything like this back home.” Another brief exchange followed, and soon the translator returned with a response that made Alpheo frown slightly in thought.

“Their diet consists mostly of milk and cheese,” the translator explained, “with fruits gathered from the wild.

Meat comes from old goats and sheep, and sometimes they manage to catch fish or game, but it is never in abundance.” Alpheo leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin.

So, their people live off what little they can scrape together from the land.

That explains their excitement.

No wonder they were eating like starving wolves-if he had grown up on nothing but goat milk and the occasional tough piece of mutton, he’d probably be stuffing his face too.

Still, it was an interesting insight into their world.

One he might just find a use for especially considering how easy to control the boy ahead of him seemed..

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the wine in his cup before raising it to his lips.

“We eat like this every day,” he said with a smirk.

“And it wouldn’t be unthinkable to extend this kind of life to whoever comes to settle here.” Torghan, who had been wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, froze mid-motion and looked up.

“Do you speak the truth?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Alpheo chuckled, setting his cup down.

“Of course.

I could easily send one or two of my servants to serve whoever will be in command of your people when they arrive.

They would make sure your leaders know how to prepare food like this.” Torghan fell silent, his expression shifting into deep contemplation.

He stared at his half-empty plate, his mind turning over what had just been offered.

A life where his peoplwould not have to survive on meager scraps of old goat and sour milk?

A land where food like this could be made for them daily?

Alpheo watched him carefully, letting the weight of his words sink in before he clapped his hands together lightly.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” he added as if it were a passing thought.

“In a few days, I will send a guide to show you the piece of land where your people will settle.” Torghan looked up sharply at that, but Alpheo continued, his tone smooth and confident.

“It is a good place.

Close to the sea for fishing, with fertile land-perfect for both herding and cultivating grain.” Alpheo took another sip of wine, letting the tribesman think long and hard about everything that had just been put on the table.

Jasmine, ever the gracious hostess, set down her cup and smiled at Torghan.

“I would like to know more about our guest,” she said, her voice warm but laced with curiosity.

Torghan straightened slightly at the attention, glancing at the translator, who promptly relayed the princess’s words to Aron.

Aron, in turn, nodded and began speaking in Azanian, allowing the translator to pass the message along.

“I am the youngest son of my father, the chieftain of our tribe,” Torghan stated.

His voice was steady, though there was a flicker of something-perhaps uncertainty-in his eyes.

“Back home, I tend to the sheep.” Jasmine arched an eyebrow, clearly expecting something more grand, but Torghan continued without hesitation.

“I have not yet been allowed to hunt for game,” he admitted, his expression betraying a hint of frustration.

“I am still unbloodied.” Alpheo, who had been drinking from his cup, raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly at that word.

“To become a warrior,” Torghan explained, “one must spill the blood of an enemy.

Only then are we permitted to hunt and vote on whatever matters are in store to be decided for the tribe.” He exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping once against the table.

“But there have been no raids.

No wars.

Not since I came of age.” Alpheo swirled his drink absentmindedly as the translator did his work, studying the young man before him.

So, back home, he was just another herder-one with no battles, no kills, and nothing to his name.

The thought passed through Alpheo’s mind before he took a slow sip of wine.

He has nothing worth noticing back home.

Torghan’s fingers drummed against the table for a moment before his eyes lit up, as if remembering something.

He straightened in his seat and spoke, his words quick and eager.

The translator leaned slightly toward him, listening intently before turning to Aron and relaying the message.

Aron nodded and turned to Alpheo.

“He says he has heard that you are a great warrior.” At that, Alpheo chuckled, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips.

He set his cup down and leaned back in his chair.

“I have led men in battle before,” he admitted, his tone light but carrying the weight of truth.

“And I’ve managed to come out on top every time, even when I was outnumbered.” Torghan’s eyes widened slightly, clearly impressed.

“Though,” Alpheo added with a smirk, “I wouldn’t say my skill with weapons is anything to boast about.” He tapped a finger against the table.

“What I truly excel at is leading men in war.” The confidence in his voice was undeniable, not arrogance, but a quiet certainty that left no room for doubt.

Alpheo leaned forward slightly, his smirk still lingering as he rested his arms on the table.

“Right now,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen war and emerged victorious, “we’ve just come out of a short but fierce conflict.

We were outnumbered, heavily so.” His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden surface.

“And yet, we came out on top in a battle that will be remembered for years to come.” Torghan listened intently, his dark eyes locked onto Alpheo with curiosity and admiration.

“If you’d like,” Alpheo continued, a glint of pride in his expression, “I would be more than happy to tell you about it.” There was a brief pause, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the room as Torghan sat a little straighter, clearly eager to hear the tale as a child with his granfather.