Chapter 35: Reins of the Restless Steeds
A carriage pulled by thoroughbred horses raced eastward. Though it was as large as a small house, the horses showed no signs of strain. The coachman's seat was equally massive, carved from a single long timber, with room for three people sitting side by side.
"Do I really have to do this?!"
"Driving a carriage is like handling multiple warhorses at once. If you hate it, quit."
"Like hell I will!"
Bayola gripped the reins with gritted teeth from the coachman's seat. As imperial nobility, riding horses was second nature to her—a mark of refinement. She could walk or gallop them with ease. But controlling a team of them was a different beast entirely. The horses jostled for dominance among themselves, or one would surge ahead with competitive fire, dragging the rest into a frenzy. And horses were skittish creatures. If one startled and halted abruptly, the whole line could tumble, crushing everything behind—including the passengers. Sure, they wouldn't die with a skilled rider aboard, and the sturdy carriage wouldn't shatter, but repairs would be a hassle.
She yanked hard on the reins, forcing a wayward horse back in line with sheer strength.
"That's enough. Marin."
At Strekl's call from atop the carriage, Bayola handed the reins to Marin. Marin cracked her whip a few times, and the bucking carriage and unpredictable team settled into a smooth pace toward their destination.
"Wh-what? How'd you do that?"
"Easy."
Marin drove on with a blank expression, giving the slightest tugs to guide them. It wasn't anything special. A coachman needed decent physical prowess, stamina from long hauls, and know-how—all of which Marin had in spades. She'd even worked as one briefly, more like a disposable day laborer than a proper trade, but it paid decently. Coachmen were the first to die in ambushes, which was why bandit-plagued routes often ran without them. Marin had pocketed a tidy sum filling that role in such places.
And in the far corner of the same expansive seat—too distant to call it the same spot—sat Karian. He leaned over the edge, dry-heaving miserably.
Karian's presence on the carriage was simple enough. To convert his provisional land deed to a formal one and secure funds and materials for a warehouse on his plot, he needed a trip to the Border. Marhal had asked if he'd like to tag along, and upon spotting Bayola and Marin, Karian had nodded eagerly. He was the one who'd insisted on the exposed coachman's seat over the plush, cushioned interior.
He thought he'd hidden it well, but Bayola—who'd spent her life concealing her hemophobia—was hypersensitive to prying eyes. She couldn't miss his glances, and it rubbed her the wrong way. Not just him; most men left her cold. Still, he was Marhal's guest, and his pitiful retching from her novice handling tugged at her sympathy.
"You okay?"
"Y-yeah, fine... Urk!"
Bayola took one look at his face and clothes—smeared with some unidentified, utterly revolting muck—and quietly retreated to her seat. All self-inflicted misery. She decided to ignore it.
* * *
After Marin's turn, Bayola took the reins again. Strekl, lounging idly on the carriage roof, sat up. He narrowed his eyes, scanning ahead.
"Both of you, move."
He leaped from the roof to the seat, snatching the reins from Bayola. Strekl slowed the walking horses to a crawl.
"What's going on?"
"Bandits. Conserve the horses' stamina for the fight. You, kid—get inside."
Karian, having emptied his guts and still heaving, clambered across the iron step linking the seat to the door and stumbled into the carriage. His wobbly entrance was a sight to behold.
"We fighting?"
"Scared? Stay out. An unprepared fool with a weapon's just a liability."
"I'm fighting."
A new scabbard hung at Bayola's waist—one she'd hastily bought before departure. Even to Strekl's eye, it held a serviceable blade.
"A fine sword won't help if the wielder's junk."
"......"
Bayola fell silent. She had the resolve to fight. But resolve alone was worthless. What good was a sword in the hands of someone who fainted at blood? Unless she could subdue foes unarmed and unscathed—a master's skill she lacked.
'One more deadweight.'
Against bandits, even with a boulder on his back, he wouldn't break a sweat. It meant little.
"Marin, you?"
"Old hat."
Marin was a berserker who lost reason at the sight of blood. But it wasn't all bad. Forgetting pain and restraint was a massive edge in combat. Even battle-hardened mercenaries rarely reached that state, yet Marin already had.
"How long can you hold your wits?"
"Long as I don't kill 'em myself. Probably."
"Brace yourself."
Marhal opened the small window linking to the coachman's seat.
"What's the fuss? Bandits or something?"
"Bandits, straight up."
"No need for me, right?"
"Nope."
With a high knight aboard and two of his pupils, borrowing hands for mere bandits would be the real shame. The window shut, Marhal's voice fading.
Soon, riders approached—about thirty strong.
"Uh... teacher."
"What?"
"Never fought that many. Or from a moving carriage."
Marin's brawls were in urban dives, alleys, tight spots. Even against dozens, she faced two or three at a time. Beat three, repeat endlessly, and street fights were unbeatable. Words from her thief mentor in childhood. Looking back, he'd known what awaited her and the kids fleeing the West.
She excelled in cities, buildings, narrow lanes. Solid ground was better, but this was a rolling carriage.
"No need to fight from the carriage. And for superhumans, mounted foes are easy prey."
"Easy?"
"Fall from a galloping horse, even knights take mortal wounds. Normals? Lucky to be half-crippled. Target the horses. Less blood for you too."
Bayola swallowed hard, listening in. Her hand clenched the sword hilt white-knuckled. Strekl smirked.
'Knight habits already.'
Grasping for steel in unease was pure knight instinct.
"They're distant; it'll take time. Wait easy. Might not even be bandits."
He said that, but Strekl was dead certain. Knights turned bandit where no eyes watched. Marhal's opulent carriage screamed money. Any armed group would turn predator.
So, bandits they were.
* * *
Strekl drove as slow as possible, husbanding the horses' strength. They sensed the tension too, submitting quietly. The carriage halted. Riders blocked the path—which was more trail than road anyway.
Marhal closed the slightly ajar window. Inside, Rebela asked,
"Status?"
"They're blocking us. Not much of a road anyway—wherever feet tread is path enough."
Strangers could veer aside harmlessly. Blocking outright screamed ill intent.
"Hope it'll be fine."
"Who? Bandits? Or Bay...?"
"Bayola."
She couldn't say the name outright—too risky—so nicknames it was. But after near a decade of "Your Highness," switching felt awkward for Rebela.
"Worst case, she'll just pass out."
"Fair point."
Street bandits? Strekl could handle barehanded. Plainclothes or not, outcome unchanged. With him there, Bayola was safe.
Outside grew noisy: steel clashing, screams, the signature slice of a knight felling men. Karian peeked through a side window, then yanked it shut and dry-heaved—nothing left to give.
"What the hell...?"
It was mythic warfare. A knight clad head to toe in iron snatched a rider mid-gallop, slamming him earthward. Blood sprayed; limbs twisted unnaturally. A sword swing bisected man and mount alike. Nearby, two women from the seat dodged charges, stabbing legs and bellies. The fallen rolled with tumbling horses, still.
The knight even stole a mount. Karian shut the window.
He'd killed—crossbow to hyenas in the land race's night. Seen death too: penniless youths crammed eight, ten to a frigid inn room. Winter mornings, one frozen stiff. Chilling, eerie deaths. Could be me tomorrow. But this was primal terror. Violence incarnate. Fear of the inhuman in human skin.
Land races drew knights, superhumans aplenty. Karian realized his luck anew—and the grim ties ahead with such landlord titans. He sat frozen in the carriage.
Marhal beside him, the lady knight slumped with a limp arm ahead. Not a word passed.
Shouts, screams, equine whinnies. Chaos loud but brief. Silence fell; Strekl opened the door.
"How many left?"
"Three. Spoke Holy Empire tongue."
"My turn."
Strekl the ducal barely managed Holy Empire speech; Bayola and Rebela handled basics, not fluency. Only Marhal spoke it freely.
Marhal stepped out. Three half-dead wretches bound by the harnessed horses. One terrified, one broken and pain-wracked, the last glaring venom at Marhal.
"Wanna live?"
"I'd sooner bite my tongue than beg scum like you."
"Gutsy for a bandit."
Language revealed much: nation, region, life's path.
"A holy knight aspirant slumming as a brigand in far lands. Holy Empire brass must be blind these days."
"......!"
"Heard wannabe holy knights scar their arms plenty. Let's see."
Marhal hiked the man's sleeve: forearms etched with cuts.
"Bingo."
Venom turned to dread. Marhal smiled down at him.