The Stone-Cutting Knight
Kaban moved his arm in steady, rhythmic swings. Wherever his sword passed, it cleaved through stone and wood alike without discrimination.
Before becoming a high knight, Kaban had been a siege knight. A siege knight—a title that sounded noble, but in truth, they were just sturdy laborers. They handled the security, maintenance, and repairs of city walls, contributing to their defense. But the Empire was always the aggressor, never the defender. In an Empire where sieges and defensive battles were rare, siege knights were little more than dead-end workers with no path to advancement.
Amid his unmotivated fellow knights, Kaban swung his blade. And so he learned to cut stone, was deployed in various operations, and rose to the rank of high knight.
He could cut stone, but not iron. Iron and stone—which was harder? The answer varied by circumstance. Some iron was softer than stone, and some stone harder than iron. But what he could always cut was stone. His history was one of swinging his sword at stone, seeking to cleave it—so his blade sliced stone cleanly but could not touch iron.
Kaban's sword shone in battlefields cluttered with obstacles. When others used stone as shields, he could slice through both stone and foe behind it. Sometimes, that was more useful than cutting iron—and it was for the same reason he had been summoned this time.
In the ruins of the city, his sword became a deadly weapon that cleaved stone and the people hiding behind it alike. As he carved a path through the stone, Kaban pondered.
A knight in full plate armor and a noble's daughter... That's understandable. But a mage?
Mages—eccentrics, freaks. Every noble coveted one. The mysteries they wielded inspired awe, bolstering a noble's authority and power. That was why nobles endured their mages' whims yet desperately tried to bind them close. A mage who could truly wield proper magic was rare and highly valued. If that mage could bind a horse's legs or cast mysteries that threatened even a mid-tier knight specialized in ambushes, their worth exceeded that of a high knight in full plate.
Such a person had taken position on the city's east side. Could this be mere coincidence?
Kaban racked his brains until his head burned, but no answers came. The meetings of Marhal, Strekl, and Bayola—and Marin's joining—were all coincidences upon coincidences, miracles even. Deriving rational answers from such miraculous chance was impossible.
The deeper his worries grew, the faster his sword swung, and the quicker the path to the city's center and eastward opened. Dawn broke, the path completed, but Kaban found no answers.
Marhal dreamed for the first time in ages.
Death filled the world around him. Black mist surged like an avalanche. A boy fled with his back to the horrific calamity that turned all life into demons.
Long time no see, huh.
Marhal watched his past self running, as if from a third-person view. The scrawny boy arms and legs pumped furiously, but escape from the disaster was impossible. He gasped for breath up to his chin. His parched mouth produced no saliva.
The boy ran and ran. But the calamity that had swallowed half the world could not be outrun by those legs. The darkness closed in. The boy tripped.
He heard the monsters in the mist. Living things twisted grotesquely, rising as giants the size of mountains. The ground shook with their steps, buildings crumbled in heaps.
The boy pitched forward. His clothes tore, palms scraped raw, but there was no time for pain. He struggled, bent his knee, and planted his feet again.
The giant behind him roared, bending low and opening its maw toward the boy.
"Why not revenge? Why not kill? Avenge us! Fulfill our vengeance! That was our promise!"
"Death to the Empire! Vengeance on all sinners!"
"Sinners shall pay!"
The mist blotting the sky bubbled with rage. The fallen boy froze. Crumbling bricks, dripping blood—all halted.
The mist's fury and the giant's curse continued. The giant shouting at the boy stared straight at Marhal.
Its roar persisted.
"I will curse you! Curse you eternally!"
Marhal let the giant's and mist's rage flow in one ear and out the other, utterly indifferent. The mist engulfed him, the giant's massive face right before him. Hundreds of new eyes and mouths opened on the giant's face, singing curses and vengeance.
This is a bit shocking. If I'd been traveling, I'd have woken up bawling.
And trembled in Mar's arms for a while. The saint would have cast a miracle to calm his heart, while the thief and hero teased him all night for crying over a nightmare at his age. He'd have glared daggers at those two.
A memory over ten years old now. Marhal reminisced briefly on that time—nostalgic, yet one he'd never return to.
Marhal faced the giant's face. Hundreds of eyes on it swiveled to him in unison.
"Don't pretend to be human, you plague-ridden wretch. It's disgusting."
Blood tears streamed from the eyes, the giant's face melting from the head down.
"I will curse you. Curse you and curse you again."
"Yeah, go ahead. Not sure if it'll change anything, though."
The world melted away. He opened his eyes to the dawn sky.
Marhal sat up.
"Awake?"
"Should've been Marin's turn."
"She's over there."
Marin huddled far off, wrapped in her hide like a cat, glaring at the campfire.
Strekl had thrust an iron rod into the ground by the fire and was dumping something into the pot slung over it—plop, plop. They'd surely used up all ingredients except preserved rations yesterday. Where had this food come from?
Marhal chose silence. Sometimes, ignorance was better than knowledge.
"This is two portions."
"You really expect me to eat that?"
Marin muttered softly. She'd grown much meeker, approaching people like a wary cat.
"You planning to live like this forever? I made it more edible than yesterday."
"Still looks impossible..."
"Eat it even if you puke. That's the start."
"What happened while I was asleep?"
Marin stayed tense around everyone but Marhal. Even when he'd risen for night watch, it was the same. Something must've happened during her brief nap after her shift.
"The stray cat learned her place."
"Shut up."
Yesterday, Marin had been through a lot. Before meeting Strekl, Bayola, and Marhal, she'd had her pride. She had thief skills, berserk madness surpassing knights, and a Bachea Empire relic. She'd had no trouble protecting herself, even fought multiple knights. She thought claiming land in the land race was feasible.
Delusion.
There was a knight toying with her, a woman born superhuman, and a female knight carrying on conversations she couldn't join.
She lacked both strength and wisdom. She'd heard about Strekl while Marhal was away—a veteran and brilliant politician. So she'd begged to learn from him and became his true disciple.
But still...
Being a disciple was one thing; eating that dog-repelling ingredient mash was another.
Marin glanced at Marhal slyly, recalling yesterday's disgrace. She wasn't one to spew tears, snot, and bile before her admired figure.
"Done. Marin, wake Bay."
"Strekl, breakfast might have to wait."
"No choice. Marin, wake her quick."
Strekl gripped his sword nearby as Marin slapped Bayola's cheek. The motion seemed laced with emotion—not illusion.
Marhal rose too. A dozen mounted knights approached from the walls. The central one was as massive as Strekl, clad in full plate. Unlike helmetless Strekl, this was fully armored, visor raised to reveal sunken eyes. Deep fatigue shadowed those emotionless eyes.
He's been worrying. All night, probably.
A noble's daughter, full-plate knight, and mage. Three rarities in the West, together. Holding a perfect chokepoint, blocking the flag in the city.
Of course he'd worry. Who were they? What were their intentions? He couldn't not ponder.
From that alone, Marhal knew one thing: the knight was rational, open to talk. A muscle-headed brute would've charged to clear the obstacle, which would've been tricky.
"Who are you?"
A heavy bass suited his sunken eyes and dour face.
Far off, the morning sun rose. Sunlight filtered between endless land and sky. It lit clouds and earth, blending their colors. Two identical hues stretched to the horizon, merging.
Between that vista rode knights on one side, a lone mercenary opposite.
Kaban observed the mage before him. Young, eyes sharp with spirit. No usual mage madness. That made it more puzzling. Could such a young, normal man wield magic threatening a mid-knight?
Marhal gave him no time to ponder.
"Here about yesterday, I assume."
"My subordinate caused trouble. I apologize on his behalf."
"Already got his apology. Bringing it up again stains his honor. That's settled. Why are you here?"
"Hand over this land."
"Counteroffer: Give us this land, and we'll help you secure the city safely."
"No reasoning with you."
Scratch earlier thoughts. This man wasn't normal. The city was already theirs—flags planted, multiple ambushes set using his siege specialty. Even equal knights entering would be slaughtered with minimal losses.
Yet the man spoke as if ownership was his. His hand drifted to his side. To scare them off or kill, he'd draw steel.
"Know this? In the land race, one flag per person. Can't hog ten alone. If you plant here, whose flag is it?"
"All flags belong to Duke Kalaens, and this city will be his new territory."
"No. Flags belong to owners certified by surveyors, and surveyors decide the city's provisional owner—likely someone here."
"Petty divide-and-conquer."
"Think about it. Get surveyed, take provisional deed, ride east. Hide in some western pioneer village corner. Duke Kalaens way east can't find you. You're a full landlord."
"Don't listen to nonsense. Think you can manage land and evade us? Traitors get chased to the western edge, guts ripped, stones stuffed in."
"Exactly—it's possible. Most landlords use proxies for public dealings. Owners rarely show. A few procedures, even proxies won't know your face."
Marhal slowly drew his waist waterskin, wet his throat, wiped dribbling water with his sleeve, and spoke.
"High Knight, sir. Aren't you here, risking life to the western end out of greed? Return with deeds—what's left? Duke's scraps of land and coin? Non-heritable, vanishing on a whim—not truly yours. Can you claim that ghost land confidently? This flag's owner is you now! Surveyor comes, you own this vast city!"
Kaban's fingers stroked his sword hilt. Don't be swayed. Don't—but such plausible words.
Even if Duke Kalaens learned of betrayal, distance rendered most assets useless between Empire and West.
"Other ways possible too. Time aplenty. Better to think than fight now, no? Others agree. Plenty flags inside, right? One flag, one horse—chance for your own land. Just toss it?"
"Shut up!"
Ching! Sparks flew right before Marhal. Kaban had thrown his drawn sword; Strekl batted it away.
The deflected sword spun in air—whirl, thunk—and plunged beside Kaban again.
"Returning it, pup. Next ambush, hide your killing intent."
Kaban yanked his sword irritably. He wheeled his horse.
"We're leaving."