Chapter 3: Running to Death, As Joseph Predicted
Like Joseph had warned about running till death, the black horse galloped as if it truly meant to drop dead. Marhal tossed an empty liquor bottle aside and pulled a harmonica from his pocket. He brought it to his lips—only to realize the hole-riddled thing was no instrument for playing atop a thundering horse.
"Maybe snag a horn pipe."
But horn pipes were tricky to play and a pain to carry around, so Marhal scrapped the idea.
Once noon passed, the heat truly set in.
More might die from exhaustion than murder around here.
Marhal could source water easily in these parts, but others? Not so much.
The land race was a race. In a race, the leader won. Common sense—and it held partially true for the land race too.
But it wasn't all about leading. First-timers would grasp that just as things spiraled past saving.
Heading west from the village's corner stable, a rough white line appeared. Armed soldiers dotted it sparsely. Stretched long north to south around pioneer villages with flag vendors—very long. To stop false starts. That was its sole purpose.
Marhal charged toward it. The soldiers glanced over but dismissed him quick. Race underway—no false start. Reeking of booze? Drunkard. Late-starting drunkard, then.
Marhal blew past a yawning guard and plunged into unclaimed land.
The black horse ran and ran. Foam dripped from its mouth; any normal mount would've flagged out exhausted. Not this one.
People everywhere. Some jogged at a trot, others strolled leisurely. One man lugged a leather pouch of booze as big as his torso. No horses, no flags.
Their aims varied, but it all boiled down to one thing: violence. Snatch flags. Guard flag-bearers for pay. Or just kill and loot, flags be damned.
The Union turned a blind eye to these race-wrecking hyenas. Victims were usually commoners who'd bet their life savings— no skin off the Union elite's backs. Knights especially; to men who moved like beasts and halved waists with one slash, hyenas weren't even a threat.
Dust trailed long in the black horse's wake.
There— the first flag. A shaking red cloth, its pole, and the flag-owner lounging against it.
Post-survey, this stretch would be his land. Marhal's neighbor.
No harm in eyeing a potential neighbor's face.
Marhal yanked the reins.
The black horse bucked wildly in protest. Intelligent malice aimed at bucking off its rider to a messy death—mingled with its own death-wish gallop.
Marhal hunkered low and stroked its neck.
Joseph had said they hooked non-natural horses with gradual running drugs. Born into addiction.
Who knew how it'd washed up at the frontier, but if so, it'd gone too long without a fix.
"I'll let you die soon. Just hold on."
Marhal fished a leaf from his pocket. Mount awakeners were west staples. Horse-grade ones? Always on him.
The black horse stilled at the scent, fixing Marhal with junkie's desperation.
Marhal nodded. "Listen to me now."
Nod. It eased its pace—still no slouch.
Marhal closed on the first flag fast.
Beside the owner sprawled a horse, tongue lolling, foam bubbling, eyes bloodshot. Overdosed to outrace all, collapsed here, dead.
The flag-owner was ordinary. First flag owed to that horse's sacrifice. Skill picking it, though.
As Marhal neared, the man drew a crossbow. Self-defense ready.
Potential neighbor no total pushover.
"Don't come closer!"
"Just passing through. Wanted to see my neighbor's face."
"Neighbor?"
"From that pioneer village, right? Landlord there."
"Landlord...? Bull. Heard landlords hide their faces!"
Pubguk tongue, dialect-tinged. Obscure region. Used crossbow—well-kept but weathered. Standard pioneer rags.
Marhal sized him up: Youth chasing overnight riches, betting all—maybe folks' rainy-day stash—runaway fool. But prepared. Crossbow. Landlord-hiding intel. Prepared, not fool. Land-ready.
Rare solid neighbor prospect. Ena griped local landlords matched eastern nobles; getting tough for Marhal solo.
"True, they hide. But same boat? We help each other."
"Same boat?"
"Think landlord life's set? Lounging like a lord?"
The man's bluster wilted.
"Know it's no picnic. Came ready."
"No picnic? Hell no. Landlords hide faces. Union guards identities. Why?"
"Danger?"
"Spot on. Why dangerous?"
He pondered.
Marhal dismounted slow, approached slow.
Crossbow snapped up.
"Back off!"
"Easy. We help each other, yeah? Why dangerous?"
"Die?"
"By who?"
"Mercs?"
"One risk. Real one's money."
"Money?"
"Union taxes. Village startup cash. Shop? Guild deals—not free. Handle it?"
"……."
Second to horse: used crossbow. Who bets all on race got spare coin?
"Name?"
"Karian."
"Good, Karian. Closer ok?"
Nod.
Marhal sidled up. "Sit and talk. Here."
Karian squatted; Marhal faced him.
"No money—what then?"
"Taxes payable? Lucky. Can't? Union auctions land dirt cheap. Buyers...? You know."
Karian's crossbow-grip trembled.
Pubguk war scars lingered. Demon war conscripted goods, men nationwide. Twenties remembered dads, kin, elders dragged off.
Karian recalled that day: post-rain, muddy estate troops stormed, hauled father and uncle. No goodbye. Dawn revealed spear-tip prints.
Life crumbled. Mom and him couldn't feed family. Grandma illness, mom diarrhea from spoiled food. Sister sold off like chattel. He scraped by anything. Big now, self-made—left empty house, sold all valuables.
No farm plot: unmarriageable. West rumors hit his ears. Sold home, bet life.
Land to nobles? Unthinkable.
"Not Union—brokers keep secrets. But you didn't trek from Pubguk to sell."
Nod.
"West a bit: old city land. Race prize. Blunt—this ain't promising. City flags? Nobles or hired hands. Rebuild off exploited coin. This? Your all-in bet? Nada."
"Wha—how? What do I do?"
"City rebuild guzzles resources. Hauling 'em? Brutal. Local villages can't solo. So…."
Gulp. Karian hung on every word, forgetting to breathe.
"Build a warehouse."
"Warehouse?"
"No special hires, no fancy builds. Rainproof shed does it. None big nearby. First mover wins—use till city done, maybe after."
"But… no money."
"Ena's general store—know her?"
"That monster auntie?"
Monster… fair. Knight's widow Ena: not superhuman, but crumpled two-three grown men solo. Common sight: her pinning drunks near shop. Village stayers knew her.
"Post-survey, hit her store. Say Marhal sent—tax spot found."
"…Got it."
Solemn nod. Marhal clapped his back.
"Not done—stay sharp. Grip that crossbow."
Karian's shoulders jerked; fingers tightened.
Arm 'round shoulders, Marhal pointed flagless, horseless approachers.
"Hyenas? Warn once. Ignore? Shoot. Like you did me. One? Hit. Two-plus? Kill one sure."
"Ki-kill?"
"Threatened fine earlier."
"Th-that…."
"No real intent?"
Nod.
Few hit west without grit. Fewer pulled triggers cold.
Those who did? Landlords or mercs. West: merc, bandit, killer—synonyms.
"Landlord life, village-bound: it'll come. Inevitable? Make it count."
"Marhal—you killed?"
"Obviously."
"How many?"
"Truth? I'm the hero who slew the Demon King. Half-world demons gone—killed half the world, basically."
"Demon King dead ten years. You'd be…."
"Don't take jokes literal—awkward. But yeah, some kills. Want this land, its history? Steel yourself."
"Got it."
Youth's eyes blazed resolve. Life hurled at dream already. Couldn't fumble shot at goal.
Marhal eyed the murder-glint Karian, brushed off butt, stood. Approached black horse pawing a hole.
"Next time: new-landlord neighbors."
"Hold—you're landlord, racing too…?"
Fastest to nearest flag. Lost horse, heart pounding out chest.
He knew race rumors. Vets warned: never go far. Eyeless wastes. Lawless. Deathlands.
So he'd raced expecting horse-loss. All-in early.
Yet peer—same age ballpark—late start, pushing farther.
"Land and dreams? More the better."
Watching a fellow youth charge deathlands that daunted even life-gambled vets, Karian felt something strange. Inferiority, maybe. Or awe.