16. Night Hunt
The factory night, blocked even from moonlight by the stone walls, hung heavy like thick oil fumes. Inside the factory, where the midday heat hadn't fully dissipated, the forge flames held their breath, emitting only crimson glares.
I sat cross-legged in the darkness, replaying the intelligence Zaid had delivered after the unwelcome visitor left. The One-Eyed Vulture mercenaries. Zaid's words echoed in my ears: men who would burn down a house of God for the right price. Whoever wished me harm had realized they couldn't crush me with law or justification, so they'd chosen the most base and primal method—physical force. I chuckled at their reckless decision. And to match it, I would respond in kind with the same primal means.
"Scared?"
My low voice made Khalim's shoulders twitch beside me. In his hand was not a hammer, but a newly completed standardized flanged mace. Ten artisans clad in Sirion armor held their breath at his side.
"...It'd be a lie to say I'm not. But, Master Barakah." Khalim gripped the mace haft until it creaked. "I want to see with my own eyes if this steel we've forged will truly protect us."
At that moment, a sharp metallic clang echoed from beyond the wall—a grappling hook catching hold. The prey had stepped into the trap.
—Thud, thump.
Five or six shadows vaulted the wall into the factory yard. With practiced skill, they pulled out oil flasks and tinderboxes. It was obvious: hurl them into the forge for an explosion, turn the place to ashes.
"Now."
At my signal, the large forge lid swung open.
Whoosh—!
The sudden blaze of red light blinded the intruders, while to us, they stood out clear as day. By the time the panicked mercenaries rubbed their eyes and drew swords, figures emerged from the shadows into the forge's ruddy glow—artisans clad head to toe in iron, their heavy metal sheen flashing.
"Wh-what the hell! My eyes from the light...!"
One mercenary screamed, thrusting his sword. The finely honed blade pierced straight for Khalim's hesitating chest—a blind stroke that would have split leather armor or crude chainmail, skewering the heart.
—Clang!
But with a eardrum-shattering crack, the sword bounced off. Only a scrape marked the Sirion-covered chest.
Khalim looked down at himself. The realization that he stood unharmed, when he should have died on that blind thrust, ignited a mad conviction in him.
"It's real... It really doesn't pierce!"
With Khalim's roar, the flanged mace cleaved the air.
Splat—!
The mercenary's helmet—crudely made but with some care—caved in under the brute-force swing, head and all. Blood trickled from his ears as he rolled on the ground, too stunned for a scream.
That was just the beginning.
Seeing Khalim unscathed with their own eyes drove the armed artisans mad. These men, who had hammered steel just to eat, now wore the armor they'd helped craft. Blocking a mercenary's blade unleashed their pent-up fury.
The armored artisans no longer feared blind strikes. They'd seen Khalim's mace crush a skull up close, confirming their weapons would connect.
That was enough.
Slowly, twice their number in enraged artisans encircled the remaining five mercenaries. Their wild sword swings glanced harmlessly off the Sirion's scale structure. Huddled back-to-back, the five soon had no room to swing.
Their blades, robbed of space and power, scraped futilely over the scales. The artisans exacted payment for every scratch, their descending maces shattering limbs.
"St-stop! Please, mercy!"
The thudding impacts filling the factory faded. The squad leader, clinging to consciousness, had endured the mace barrage using his slightly better sword as a shield. Now broken in three pieces, it lay scattered.
As the clubbing paused, the survivors—those who'd scraped the Sirion—crawled in pools of blood, limbs grotesquely fractured.
The artisans, exhilarated by their invulnerability, stood panting, maces gripped tight. A few scales to replace—that was the only damage these attackers inflicted on me.
I approached the battered mercenary and squatted. Terror flickered in his eyes as they met mine.
"One-Eyed Vultures, right? Not as impressive as the name. No shields despite investing in weapons? Explains your shitty reputation."
"B-boss... misunderstanding. We were just hungry..."
"Hungry enough to bring oil to someone's workplace and start a fire?"
I took the mace from Khalim approaching me. I didn't use my personal weapon from my belt—too filthy for this wretch.
Standing to take it, I swung the mace lightly over his head, feeling the balance. Then I squatted again, lifting his chin with the tip.
"Why do you scum always lie even with your life on the line? Hey, got nothing to say?"
At my glare and words, as he rolled his eyes, I stood and spoke.
"Beat this one senseless. Lock him in the basement after."
At my order, artisans who had sheathed their maces swarmed again, pummeling him.
Late night under the moonlight: the satisfying thuds of ten artisans' blows and the mercenaries' pitiful yelps.
—Cough! Ugh! Aaaagh!
The near-ritualistic beating dragged on. Resentment toward entrenched powers and thugs, mixed with relief from death's door, fueled their kicks.
As only beastly groans remained, I raised a hand to stop them.
"Enough. Leave him breathing. How else do we get real answers?"
I yanked the squad leader's hair, lifting his ruined face. His unfocused eyes peered through swollen lids.
"Don't care about your name... Spill the client, orders, payment for the arson. Be good, and I'll hand you to those guys nicely?"
"......"
As guards stepped forward at his silence, I blocked them and called.
"Zaid."
Zaid emerged from shadows, having stayed after delivering intel. He offered somewhat soiled spoils from searching the others: a silk pouch of high-purity silver coins, unmarked.
"Barakah, looks like from someone important. Not the kind a regular tosses to stray mercs. Unstamped, rare in circulation..."
The leader's eyes twitched at Zaid's words. I leaned close, whispering.
"Keep shut, and kiss goodbye to fixing those legs. Or respect your spine and smash 'em clean? No choice once you're bone dust."
Glancing at the blood-slick mace, he cracked.
"I don't know! Really! Kkhuh...!"
I slapped him awake from pain-induced faint and pressed.
"Spit something useful. Play corpse? I can make you one."
"Even if I knew what you want, I don't! Never saw his face! Just glimpsed his back leaving the tent! Orders were 'take a few guys, burn it down'..."
As he babbled desperately, I stroked my chin, recalling Miriam's words from the near-assassination. Guessing the client was easy.
That young knight who'd groped her. I puzzled why an unknown knight would stoop so low, but soon shrugged: Medieval mindset. Probably unbearable humiliation for a sheltered noble brat. Nodding, satisfied, I stood.
But no mercy for invaders. Dragging him by the hair, I handed him to the artisans.
"Khalim, toss these in the basement warehouse. Package 'em nice for Malik tomorrow—as a gift."
"Understood, Master Barakah."
The artisans dragged the rag-doll mercenaries away. I stared past the factory gate into Damascus's ghostly silent streets.
That petty knight was probably toasting, imagining my factory in flames.
I picked up a broken sword shard. Dulled on Sirion, shattered by maces—a lump of scrap. Its cold grip sharpened my mind.
Laughable: a knight resorting to gutter thug tactics instead of fair fight.
"Zaid, about the client's description from the merc."
"Hm, tall, broad shoulders, silk cloak."
Zaid rubbed his chin, recalling. His network covered Damascus souks, officials, locals—but Westerners from Jerusalem, Edessa were still fuzzy.
"Not enough. Plenty of Western knights in Damascus now. Unmarked silver means hiding identity."
"Couldn't hide his innate arrogance, though."
I toyed with the shard. 'Silk cloak' and 'unmarked silver' confirmed my suspicions.
Especially the cloak: screamed outsider. A local would use currency to dodge Malik's eyes.
"High chance it's that guy harassing Miriam. Don't know the name, but gut says so."
"Guillaume's group? Bohemond's envoys from Edessa. If he's behind it, what about today's guild elders? An outsider linked to artisan guild elders...?"
"No direct link needed. Guild came with excuses, business suffering—they're easy with cash. Money moves elders or grandpas here."
Zaid's eyes narrowed. He knew Damascus inside out, but not Western clans or upstarts.
"If that Western knight's the backer, this isn't just a forge spat. Could tangle with diplomacy."
"Perfect. Would Malik prefer the culprit an insider traitor in his domain—or an enemy nation's man?"
Zaid slapped his knee.
"Obviously the Westerner! Easier to fight, justify pressure!"
I smiled coldly at the forge flames. The petty knight—young noble spawn—waited for victory news, oblivious his thugs shattered on Sirion walls.
"Khalim, at dawn, cram the mercs in the holding cell, load 'em whole on a cart. Got a packaging idea. Big and bold—parade through the souk to Damascus."
"Pardon? But rumors..."
"Exactly. Make 'em huge and juicy."
I tossed the shard into the forge. Watching it glow red, I added,
"Rumors of a thriving, untouched factory—opposite what he hoped. Bet that nameless punk's face would be priceless. Shame I can't see it."
Zaid eyed me slyly as I chuckled.
"You... wise, but such a person..."
I cut him off.
"Zaid, tomorrow, send men to gather sightings of a knight in pristine white silk cloak. He's in Damascus somewhere—you'll find him. Down to his underwear count."
"...Fine. No foreigner escapes my eyes in Damascus."
Zaid's gaze soured at 'underwear,' but his answer sufficed.
Bidding him final farewell from the workshop, I looked to the deepened night sky. The forge blazed hotter, brighter crimson eyes preparing for war's dawn.