Hyenas on the Horizon
They didn't spur the horses on. No one felt any pressing need to hurry back. The most urgent matter was Rebella's wound, but Marhal had patched it up so it wouldn't worsen. They could get proper treatment from a priest once they returned.
Here and there across the once-devastated lands, red flags dotted the landscape. Once their owners were confirmed, development would begin, and new villages would spring up. When that happened, another bloody storm would sweep through the West. And blood always turned to coin.
'That'll make some good money.'
Money was never enough, no matter how much you had. Sure, nobody hated it—but in the West especially, you never knew when you'd need to spend a fortune.
"Whoa, whoa."
Marhal reined in his horse. Dismounting, he pulled out a gold coin and hurled it with all his might. The gleaming coin arced through the air in a long parabola, striking the head of one hyena among the many prowling the wasteland.
The man, roaring in fury, spotted Marhal and fell silent. Then he spurred his horse and galloped over.
"Heh heh, what's the job this time?"
Two missing front teeth peeked through his grinning lips, giving him a dopey look. Most strangers dismissed him for it—and paid the price.
Illicit mercenary matchmaking around Pioneer Village. That was his trade.
"Straight to the point: how many can you muster?"
"You know me. As many as you pay for."
"Empire knights. About ten of them. They joined the land race with a knight in full plate. Handle them all before they leave the West."
"Empire knights, huh... Plenty would do it for free. Budget?"
"Unlimited. But if you fail..."
"Fail? With unlimited funds? That'd be a disgrace to the trade! I'd bite my tongue and die on the spot!"
The man's eyes gleamed like they might shoot sparks. Years of experience told him: when Marhal said unlimited, he meant it. Turning down endless coin? Unthinkable. Against his very philosophy.
"When it's done, same as always. Got it?"
"Of course! How could I forget? Awesome! Boys! Head back—we got a big one!"
The man wheeled his horse, whooping as he vanished into his crew. Soon after they stirred, the hyenas scattered across the plain shifted too. From Marhal's vantage, over a hundred were visible—and every last one turned toward Pioneer Village in unison.
No orders given, yet they moved as one. Rebella and Bayola shivered at the sight.
"Who the hell was that guy?"
"Dagon. Big shot in the local underworld. Influence-wise, he covers the whole West."
"Lucky run-in, huh?"
"Hyena gigs pay decent without much effort. There's a city up ahead, too. See those extra horses? Hyenas start on foot. Means they're all spoils."
Dagon and his crew were all mounted—some leading multiples.
Rebella stepped forward. She wanted more on Dagon, but something else burned hotter.
"What was that about knights? Aren't they Cliff and Kaban's men?"
"Didn't I mention? When demons showed, a few knights bolted. Letting anyone who knows your identities head back to the Empire? Bad for business."
"Hunt down every deserter in this vast West? Possible?"
The West was huge. "West" lumped it together, but this area alone had once held kingdoms, fiefdoms, provinces—each with its own name. The whole thing dwarfed nations. The current pioneer zone was a massive vertical strip through the continent's midsection, tilted slightly west. Larger than the Empire, Holy Empire, or Duchy by land area alone.
Tracking and killing scattered fugitives? Unfathomable.
"Land race newbies wouldn't get it. Call it one of the perks of real West experience. Let's head back first—we've got work to do."
Marhal remounted, and the horses plodded on leisurely. Swimming against the tide of hyenas, they reached Pioneer Village.
Back in the village, Marhal's first stop was Joseph's stables. A small building and vast corral housed what looked like hundreds of horses, at least.
"Joseph! I'm back!"
The man tending them straightened and turned. Strekl froze solid.
Midway from middle age to elderly. Past his prime. Yet Strekl couldn't look away. Blink, and your throat might be slit.
Cliff had tensed him too—but different. If Cliff was a razor-sharp master blade, this man was a plain sword. And knights died to plain blades from the shadows, not famed ones.
Joseph's gaze lingered on Strekl and Rebella. Even the clueless Rebella flinched under it.
"Made some fine friends."
"Luck of the draw. Stable these for us. No trouble while we were gone?"
Marhal handed over the reins. Joseph checked the horses' eyes, shoes, joints, muscles.
"Quiet, 'cept the lad you sent. Job go well?"
"Well if it did, not if it didn't. Ambiguous. Didn't snag any land, anyway."
Joseph looked up, genuinely surprised.
"That's news. You, missing out in a race?"
"This one's the landlord now. Marin. This is Joseph—West born. Far west, so names won't ring bells, but the West part matters, right? Joseph, Marin—also West born."
"P-pleased to meet you."
Marin bowed, cowed by his aura.
"Young lady like you. Must've been rough. Not comfy, but better than before."
"Th-thank you...?"
"Hand 'em over to Joseph, folks—let's head into the village."
"No charge?" Bayola asked.
Theirs were prime stock, grabbed near the city. Sold, they'd buy a house.
"No need. Empire noble miss—all these belong to the young master."
"All of 'em?"
Hundreds grazed idly in the corral. Some scruffy, others battle-ready. Enough to buy a minor noble's fief?
"Told you—landlord."
"Still... richer than most nobles?"
Not all nobles were equal. Most ruled a few villages. Only elites lived the dream.
"Money doesn't buy their lifestyle. Ebony tables, thirty-year vintages? West can't have 'em, no matter the price. Supply issue. C'mon."
"I'll linger—talk with him."
"Take your time. Hit the general store or guild."
Marhal and the rest left. Joseph and Strekl faced off.
"What business with this old man?"
"Joseph... that presence. General Joseph Rinel?"
"Just stablehand Joseph now."
"Why's someone like you... The Empire would welcome you anywhere."
"No will, and gold's just rock. Meant nothing. That's all."
Joseph Rinel. Different fronts, but even Strekl knew the name. A legend. In the Duchy, he'd outshine Strekl.
Who'd believe such a titan guarded horses?
Joseph narrowed his eyes, peering past flesh into soul.
"You've killed plenty yourself. Famous knight, out here? Why?"
"Heroes in war, burdens in peace."
"Figures."
Joseph's retirement mirrored it. Fame meant little, but postwar stares from nobles and royals pushed him out.
Two warriors in like straits exchanged glances. Strekl bowed to the veteran.
"Mind the young master well. Desperate for something? Ask him. Never seen him fail."
Strekl mulled it, then nodded faintly.
"I'll remember."
New resolve burning, he trudged off heavily.
Marhal hit the mercenary guild branch first. Drunks sprawled, fused to chairs like they'd been born there.
Branch chief Papuran scowled at the sight of him.
"That face upon seeing me—what gives?"
"Trouble stench already."
"Slower than expected?"
"Surveyor's too quick. Good ones are all hired out."
"Hm. Fair. Anyway—three certifications."
"...This illegal too?"
"Open secret. Who'd challenge a branch chief?"
The drunks averted eyes, pretending ignorance. Guild badges guaranteed their status. Cross the chief? Become ghosts in the village.
"Haa..."
"Brought big work—call it even?"
"Spill. What?"
"Warehouse build—you know. That city?"
"Key race spot? You snag it?"
Hope lit Papuran's face. Play it right, and he'd run a real city's branch, not this proto-village outpost.
"Nah. Too many eyes. Got a sliver out front. Enough for a small village outside, roads, small farms. Meet your contact: Marin. For manpower, Papuran's fastest."
"...?"
"Oops. Slip. Slip."
Empire tongue default with Papuran—forgot to check Marin. Her blank look said no.
"Fine. I'll do Duchy-speak."
Papuran cleared his throat, mangling it.
"[Mercenary guild branch chief Papuran. Need hands? Come to me first.]"
"[First?]"
"[Dirty work? Ask that guy next to you.]"
"[Got it.]"
Done, Papuran switched back.
"Those two speak Empire?"
"Both do."
"Duchy-speaking Empire nobles... High house."
He scribbled papers, handed three over. In Duchy script:
"Names. Or bloodprint."
Rebella and Bayola knew it; Marin handled basics.
"You're now West Mercenary Guild affiliates. We guarantee you. Crimes? Guild hunters come."
"Done here. Next. Oh, Papuran—line up village and road crews like we discussed."
"Yeah. Scram."
He waved them off, already jotting notes.
"Landlords usually meddle this much?"
"Varies. Some involvement speeds growth. Marin, learn Empire and Holy tongues. Landlord life demands Duchy, Empire, Holy—spoken, reading, writing."
"I get bits... but read-write?"
"Saw Papuran? Holy's weak, but Duchy and Empire fluent. As branch chief, minimum. Landlords? More."
Marin learned Duchy to survive, script to dodge scams. It taught her: no scholar path.
Now Empire and Holy too? Her face paled.
"Gotta find a tutor. You two? Holy speakers?"
"No."
"Me neither..."
"Priests snub non-Holy. Fix Rebella's arm too—let's visit."
"Priests here?"
Rare even in the East. Temples charged "offerings." Or rare ascetic wanderers. Holy Empire edge to West? Almost none—even pre-ruin West struggled.
"Not here—east a bit. Got a face to show too. West tour time."
Rebella eyed her limp left arm. No worsening post-Marhal, but still weak. Delay? Lose it for good.
A chill of dread brushed her mind.