The Knight's Culinary Ordeal
Haribal brought the entire convoy to a halt. Excluding Marhal and those directly authorized by him, he held the highest authority in this procession.
"It's lunchtime! Prepare the meal!"
Nearly a hundred people sprang into action. The hired laborers unpacked ingredients from the wagons and set about cooking, while the mercenaries kept watch in all directions and conducted brief patrols. Among those building the fire and preparing food was a massive knight in full plate armor.
"Marhal, what's that guy doing?"
Haribal sidled up to Marhal and asked. To him, the sight of a knight in full plate armor stirring a pot of stew over the campfire defied all common sense.
"Training. See over there?"
A short distance from Strekl's wagon, Bayola and Marin were shivering uncontrollably. They'd fallen behind on their training amid a string of recent events, and both remembered Strekl grinding his teeth about making up for it.
"A guy who wears full plate must be a famous knight, right? It'd be an honor to learn from someone like that."
"Then go talk to him. Eat that food nicely, and he'll probably take you as a disciple."
Strekl might actually do it. He dismissed his own master and the founder of his school as lunatics, but to Marhal's eyes, the knight feeding them his cooking showed no less madness.
"For real?"
"If you can manage it."
Haribal took a deep breath and approached Strekl. He said something to the knight, who ladled an unidentified slop from the boiling pot onto a plate. Marin and Bayola stared at him like he'd sprouted from the pits of insanity.
Just as Haribal brought the plate to his lips, Strekl stopped him. Eat it over there, far away. Haribal looked baffled—why make such a fuss over food?—but he moved off anyway.
The food hit his mouth, and Haribal vomited. Face be damned, he dropped to his knees and heaved up everything inside, stomach acid and all, until there was nothing left but ragged breaths. With the eyes of a man who'd glimpsed cosmic chaos, he gazed in terror at the pot Strekl was stirring.
Marhal patted his back.
"I told you. If you could handle it, he'd take you as a disciple."
"W-what was that? How can something taste like that? Does the world even allow flavors like—"
"That's why it's training. You think the school that forged a full-plate knight would be normal?"
"...Fair point."
Haribal staggered to his feet. His eyes drifted downward to his vomit-soaked clothes and the mess he'd spewed. Liquid had seeped inside, leaving him drenched in disgust.
"Gotta change."
"What about lunch?"
"Not hungry today."
Haribal headed to his horse, rummaged through his gear, grabbed a change of clothes, and vanished into a lightly loaded wagon. By then, Strekl's concoction was ready. Marin and Bayola clutched plates and spoons, glaring at the contents like mortal enemies.
As the two endured their food torture, Haribal emerged in fresh clothes and gaped at them eating without issue.
"What kind of play is this?"
Marina, who'd watched the whole spectacle, asked.
"You heard. Training."
"Building tolerance to poison?"
"Nah. Just the school founder's tastes, they say. Wanna try? Who knows—might unlock a new magic clue."
"Magic, huh..."
Marina was sharp; she didn't miss a beat. The magic they studied traced back to mysteries at its root. Experiencing mysteries and creating them was the path to advancing sorcery.
"Won't kill me, right?"
"Those two are eating it."
"The cook himself isn't."
As Marina noted, Strekl—who'd prepared extra portions for the pair—was scrounging food from the laborers' campfire.
"Giving up on magic?"
Even Mar Silanatiell never abandoned her eccentricities on the road. For a true mage, or anyone who fancied themselves one, this freakish phenomenon was an irresistible temptation.
Marina hesitated. Objectively, it wasn't human food. A mercenary would stomach anything without complaint, yet he'd barely swallowed a bite before spewing it out in tears and snot. She doubted she could fare better. But it was a mystery. Magic. A mage's pride wouldn't let her pass.
"Damn it..."
Marina shot Marhal a glare and stepped forward. The pot bubbled with what looked like porridge. Innocuous enough on the surface.
"What?"
Bayola scowled—not at Marina, but because every spoonful made the world feel unbearable.
"Could I get a plate too?"
"This?"
Bayola stared like she'd posed an unsolvable riddle, then her face lit up. Marin beside her did the same. Finding someone to share the pain, she scooped a serving before Marina could blink.
"Here."
The plate was in Marina's hands in an instant.
"Wh-why?"
"To see if you can stomach it."
"There's a limit to insulting people!"
"Don't puke here—go over there."
"No need."
Marina scooped some porridge and brought it to her lips. She chewed twice, clapped a hand over her mouth, and sank to the ground. Marin and Bayola, as if expecting it, grabbed their bowls and retreated.
"What the hell was that?"
Alasil popped up and asked Marhal.
"Where've you been?"
"Checked for any sick folks. That's my job, right? That surprising?"
"Didn't expect you to actually work."
From her attitude, Marhal had figured she'd be lounging in some hidden corner.
"People who can't do their jobs are trash. So, why's Silanatiell making stew on the ground? Folks with those tastes would lose their minds."
"Knight training gone wrong."
"Training? That?"
"Methods vary."
Alasil approached the infamous pot drawing everyone's stares. She dipped a finger in, tasted it, and tilted her head. Then she scooped more and ate again.
"Tastes fine to me."
Marina, barely recovered, whipped her head up. Watching Alasil suck her fingers clean, she muttered.
"Impossible."
Bayola and Marin looked equally stunned. Haribal, rinsing his mouth nearby, let his jaw drop. Water dribbled from his open mouth.
* * *
A week passed. The journey proceeded smoothly. Swapping horses in each city for speed was a hassle, but otherwise, it was uneventful.
Haribal, at the front, reined in his horse. A fork in the road lay ahead.
He turned to Marhal riding beside him.
"Splits here, right?"
"Yeah."
The bereaved families Strekl aimed to collect had lost kin in the war. Over two hundred weren't all in one city. Though Strekl's influence had gathered nearby ones, they were still scattered across towns and villages. Rounding them up required finesse.
Strekl had concentrated them in two locations, so the group needed to split too.
Strekl approached from the rear, where he'd been overseeing Marin and Bayola's training.
"How we splitting?"
"Me, Alasil, and Haribal one way; you take the rest."
"Marin and Bayola are fine. But will that mage listen to me?"
Strekl had heard Marina's name. A proud mage bearing the Silanatiell name wouldn't heed a mere knight. His battlefield experience bore that out. Mages were headaches—save for turning impossible odds. He'd lost winnable fights to their whims. Armored in elitism rivaling priests, they didn't parley. Strekl would pick a coin-flip op without a mage over a sure thing hinging on one.
"Marina hasn't pulled any stunts so far."
"Trying my food every meal is a stunt."
"Can't deny that."
After tasting Strekl's bitter brew, Marina attempted his dish every meal. She'd regurgitate after a few days of trying, but now managed small bites. Malnourished from skipped meals, she looked gaunt.
"She'll help. You saw those fireballs lighting up the night."
A massive blaze that could kill even a full-plate knight. Dropped amid foes, it'd shatter morale for any but elites.
"One shot ends any bandits. Understood."
"Alright! Everyone, move as planned! Split up and let's roll!"
Marhal shouted. The mingled group sorted themselves. Wagons veered to either fork.
As personnel divided, one approached Marhal.
"What kind of lineup is this? Why separate me from you?"
"You wanna stick with me that bad?"
"That's not it!"
Marina shrieked.
"I'm here to relay my family's news to you."
"No way to contact you on the road. And I'll visit Silanatiell after anyway. Problem?"
"But..."
"When else will you get high knight's freak cuisine?"
Mages bent for magic. Letters en route changed nothing, but chances to eat from a war-hero knight like Strekl were rare. Parting from Marhal meant fewer meals.
"Fine. We'll do it that way."
The wagons split. The two processions drifted apart from the fork.
"Dangerous from here on."
"Yep."
[What are you two talking about?]
It was Alasil. She'd spurred from the rear to Marhal's side.
Including laborers, fewer than ten could communicate with her. Holy Empire tongue was one of the West's big three, but Azenman's domain teemed with duchy folk speaking its dialect.
Undeterred by the language barrier, Alasil roamed freely.
[Warning about ambushes.]
[Here?]
[Wagons and horses fetch coin.]
[Why now?]
[No Strekl.]
[Ah.]
Her origins honed her instincts. No battlefield virgin, she knew the terror of a full-plate knight. Bandits shunned superhumans who outran horses at short range. Raiders would wait for Strekl's absence—and pick the fully separated group.
* * *
Marhal's prediction came true the next day. Mid-forest transit, fire arrows whistled from roadside brush, striking wagons.
"Ambush!"
Haribal leaped from his arrow-struck horse, drawing steel.