Chapter 21: The Stone-Cutting Knight
Kaban vanished into the ruins of the city. Marhal, who had watched him from his spot, immediately turned to the two from the Empire.
"Do you know him?"
"I thought you'd know."
"Even if it was Duke Kalaens himself, I wouldn't know every knight under him."
Bayola shot Marhal a suspicious glance. She wouldn't have batted an eye if he'd claimed to know every high knight in the Empire by name.
"Kaban the Stone-Cutter. A rare case—a siege engineer who rose to high knight."
"And it's you answering instead of Rebela?"
"Duke Kalaens is Your Highness's great-uncle."
"Oh? Impressive family ties. With a duke like Kalaens, you wouldn't have needed to flee all the way west, right?"
"You don't know everything, do you? Duke Kalaens is a staunch supporter of Prince Imaril."
"Oh..."
Even Marhal was at a loss for words. Strekl's face showed open surprise, and even Marin, who knew little of politics, grasped the implication of Rebela's words.
Her great-uncle had abandoned her.
"Don't look at me like that. It's been over ten years. It all started after my hemophobia got out."
Bayola had desperately hidden her fear of blood. She'd even mastered a bizarre technique to wake quickly from fainting. But hemophobia was a secret she couldn't keep alone. She needed someone to guard it, and the one pillar she could lean on—Duke Kalaens—knew about it too.
"My mother wasn't exactly beloved either. She got pushed into being the emperor's concubine just for her looks, then died from an illness after giving birth to me at five years old. That's all it was."
"Hmm... Now I'm curious in reverse. Why did you become Bayola's guard, Rebela? Doesn't seem like you were forced into it."
"Our house is a noble knightly family born from the late emperor's conquests. We earned our title through war merits, but there's no fief in my father's name. We have land granted by His Majesty, but once Father retires as imperial instructor, it could be taken anytime."
"So you gambled."
"Yes. If Her Highness becomes emperor, our house's glory follows."
"Gutsier than you look. Should I call you a mad gambler?"
Strekl admired Rebela's resolve. In the Muet Empire, where strength was worshipped, betting one's life on a woman—a princess untrained in martial arts—no less, for the throne? That wasn't sane.
Either she was clueless about the world, or a true mad gambler convinced of her win.
"Enough misfortune bragging. Let's discuss next steps. What now?"
"Surveyors arrive in three days at soonest, four at latest. We just wait."
"And if they come at us before that?" Strekl asked.
"Kaban seemed like a thoughtful high knight. From siege engineer to high knight means he's got drive and ambition. He knows fighting us gains nothing. He'll look for other options. Easier to fight mercenaries than a high knight in full plate and a mage. But handing his men over freely? My words probably nag at him. If he'd come alone, it'd be better. Bringing underlings to threaten us was his mistake."
If Kaban had come alone... They'd have captured him, used him as hostage. Full plate or not, they had a high knight too. And Marhal had that binding cord specialized for restraints.
"Devilish."
"How likely is a former duchy high knight to betray?"
"Know why knights chase honor? Because without that fancy title, they're no different from mercenaries."
"Um... question."
"What, Marin?"
"I get they're on the brink of self-destruction. But how does that help us claim the land?"
"If he hands flags to his men to claim surrounding plots, they might betray him?"
Nod.
"So what's Kaban's best move? One leaving no room for betrayal."
"No idea."
"Gather flags and men in one place. Keep them all under his eyes. To secure the city's flag for surveyor approval, he needs one planted here—from the east. Either his knights scatter and implode, or they beg us to plant theirs."
"Ah."
Marin nodded, enlightened.
"One scenario shatters your predictions. If they unite and claim all nearby land—what then?"
"Then... we run."
"After stirring all this up?"
"We can't win a fight. Land race isn't just here. Sorry to Marin. Give you my land?"
"N-no! Just your concern is..."
Marin bowed her head. Bayola tugged Rebela's sleeve and whispered in her ear.
"I nearly died messing with her words? She went berserk and charged."
"Your Highness's fault."
"Without details...?"
"You called him a commoner in front of her."
"...!"
The wait dragged on pointlessly. Strekl started drills with his two new disciples, while Marhal loosened up using Hero-taught methods.
Flutter.
A pigeon from the east circled over Marhal's head. He extended his arm, and it landed on his forearm.
Bayola, balancing on one foot with toes pointed, toppled sideways. She rubbed her eyes, wondering if she'd seen wrong.
"Carrier pigeon...? Him too?"
"Flinch and fall in battle? One more, and I'll stake you upright. Up."
In training, Strekl was the knight incarnate—cold face ready to draw steel.
Bayola stood, resuming the pose: one leg high, toes pointed for balance. Less knight training, more dancer's—but the point was history infused, not form.
Strekl knew body-building. But for finished physiques like Bayola or near-superhuman Marin, crude strength work was pointless. Faster to impart his school's history.
"Valuable stuff?" Marin asked, mirroring the pose beside her.
"In the Empire, only a handful of permitted families handle carrier pigeons. Personal-to-place links—even royals can't have freely."
"He does."
"Exactly why it's shocking."
"Teacher, what about the duchy?"
"Chatting mid-drill? Time to overhaul my school. No duchy families handle them anymore—one did, but vanished in the Union wars."
Strekl, arguing with duchy elites during those wars, didn't know their end.
'If not wiped out, maybe somewhere west.'
That pigeon might be theirs. But what bugged Strekl was Marhal's reaction. Face calm even with a blade to throat—now icy.
Pathfinder for the Hero Party. Marhal's West experiences rivaled Strekl's demon fights.
'Experience-wise, am I the rookie?'
Escaped West knights spoke of mountain-smashing giants, man-eating trees. Demon lands: hell made to punish man.
Strekl skimmed hell's edge; Marhal plumbed its depths.
That letter hardened even his face.
Strekl never learned its contents. Marhal burned it; probing got only cryptic replies.
"Might meet someone glad and not-so-glad to see."
Back in the city, Kaban sat silent by the city flag on a stone.
Morale plummeted. He knew.
Should've fought if morale mattered. But that knight by the mage wasn't ordinary.
Full plate meant high knight, sure. Half a chance, he'd fight.
Kaban trusted himself. Siege engineer by trade—superior strength maintaining walls. Bull-like power in full plate could beat another plated knight: close, bind limbs, pry gaps, stab.
But seeing his thrown sword deflected changed that.
If swords didn't pierce? He'd win.
But if his didn't and theirs did?
Full plate terrifies foot soldiers; iron-cutters strip plated knights bare.
That one possibility made Kaban dodge all-out war.
No dog death for him.
He sought alternatives. Easiest: flag that spot east. But not exactly there. Rules: flag visible from east. Southeast, northeast—any east worked.
East blocked? Relay via others, bit tedious.
"Scatter, find spots for flags..."
The mage's words burned: betrayal. Landlords. Can't find.
"Groups of three, scout surroundings. Not their direction—check for flag spots."
"Captain, no fight?"
"Might be iron-cutter. Wanna die like a dog here? Frontline for you."
"N-no! Never!"
"Call me coward. I didn't come west to die. Nor you."
Even Duke Kalaens couldn't freely dispatch knights this far. Knights freer than commoners think—drop gear, leave bad orders.
Skilled ones earn anywhere. Most here volunteered, ambition-driven.
"Go. Avoid fights. I'll... clear paths just in case."
Kaban gauged bearings, swung at southeast obstacles from city center.
Trees, stones—diagonal slices. Ruined wall top crumbled roaring.
Knight training: dawn to dusk, even sleep. Mostly squires trained; knights and squires stuck together.
But Strekl's disciples weren't squires. No all-night drills.
Bayola scowled at Strekl's gruel. Sour, spicy, yet bland.
And this was his considerate version.
"Tasty?"
"Starve if not? Eat or die. I'm grateful for filling."
"Yesterday's at least?"
"Empties the gut."
Yesterday's... how food tasted that? Likely mad founder's history, infused with kidnapped "disciples."
Genius "builder," refined by Strekl-types. Special power unsurprising.
Grotesque history birthing worse.
Should Strekl's school vanish for the world? Bayola pondered seriously.
Infuriatingly, the gruel-maker gnawed well-roasted meat by his fire.
Sensing her glare, Strekl spoke without turning.
"Eat, or spar."
"Spare Bay for ancient imperial language lessons."
"Too late to learn reading now? Told you—it's hard."
"Study daily, steady. Skip if hard? Stuck forever."
"True, but... this situation?"
"Reverse: real gains from short practice now? Fights are hard."
Words thrown back, Bayola shut up.