Fire on the Carriage
Flames licked at the carriage. The fire spread slowly. Not all wagons were created equal. Someone like Azenman couldn't afford to lose even one without massive losses. That's why they used wood that resisted fire and didn't splinter easily. Extinguish it before it fully consumed the vehicle, and it could be repaired and reused.
"Don't skimp on the water! Anyone who helps put out the fire on the carriage will be richly rewarded by the employer! The rest of you, stay alert for bandits!"
Marhal had never promised any rewards. This was Haribal's improvisation. Workers bolted at the first sign of trouble. But dangle money in front of them, and a couple might stick around to at least pretend to work. If Haribal's words turned out to be lies, it would backfire—but Marhal could always make good on the promise later. No issue there.
As the workers dumped every drop of drinking and washing water onto the carriage, the hidden bandits encircled them and emerged. About twenty in total. They had more people on their side. But the bandits were all fighters, while Marhal's group had fewer than twenty combat-ready hands. If a superhuman lurked among the bandits, the gap would widen even further.
A figure burst from the tree in front of Marhal. A shadow fell over his head. The man twisted in midair before landing—a sun-darkened man with swarthy skin. He gripped a bizarre weapon: a circular ring with a handle and sharpened edge.
Marhal knew it. The thief had occasionally shown him one, saying it was effective against humanoid demons. A chakram. A weapon from the nomadic nation of Anche, now gone.
This wasn't his first encounter with someone tied to Anche. Not long ago, a gambler running a den in Marhal's pioneer village had wielded one too.
Two Anche warriors, rare as they are. Coincidence? Or is someone gathering them?
He'd figure it out in time. Marhal listened closely for any fatalities among his group. Injuries, yes—but no deaths. They could resolve this without bloodshed.
Marhal waited for the man to speak. His accent would dictate Marhal's next move.
The man's mouth opened.
"Hand over the carriage and scram. I won't kill you."
Duchy tongue, with a slight slur. A mix of three languages Marhal knew.
Alasil perked up at the familiar pronunciation.
"Haribal, hold on."
Marhal stopped Haribal from stealthily drawing the dagger hidden in his sleeve. Haribal glanced at him and stepped back. He might lead the convoy in Marhal's stead, but the wagons belonged to Marhal. Unless ordered to charge to his death, he'd follow.
Marhal dismounted.
[Wasn't too hard keeping the priests happy? You look like you've been through hell.]
[...Who are you? How do you speak our tongue?]
Marhal caught every flicker on the man's face: delight, confusion, nostalgia.
Anche lay west of the Bachea Empire. Demons had radiated from Bachea outward. Meaning: nations east of Bachea had more survivors; west, hardly any.
[I spent time with an Anche man when I was young. That's a chakram, right? They say it's one of the trickiest weapons to master. Impressive.]
[I asked who you are.]
[The owner of this carriage. And you?]
[Ultekan, proud warrior of the plains.]
[Ultekan. I've got a proposal. How about guarding us?]
Ultekan stared like he'd spotted a madman. He'd thought only storybook fools proposed hiring bandits as guards—and here one stood before him.
[The carriage damage is minor. No deaths. Means we can still talk.]
[Impossible. We're bandits.]
[Fight, and you'll take losses too. Sure, you'll make coin—but the dead don't come back. Accept my offer, and I'll pay more than selling the wagons and cargo. Is picking the inefficient path over the smart one the way of the plains' pride?]
[Serpent-tongued devil. I won't fall for your words.]
[Fight, and you die for sure. Still want to?]
Ultekan's face twisted. He glared with killing intent. Marhal's words had pierced his pride. Ultekan took immense pride in his skills and prowess. He'd spent a lifetime learning and honing victory in battle. Defeat negated his very existence.
But shattering that calm was exactly Marhal's goal.
[Ales, that bastard? Or another priest? Priests really can't be trusted. Stabbing a comrade in the back after years together.]
[Stabbed in the back?]
[If your native tongue mixes with Holy Empire accents like that, you must've spent years in a priest-heavy city. Around here, that's only the southern border city—one.]
Priest Ales's domain. Azenman and Marhal's border city bordered the Duchy—practically part of it. Ales's lay farther south, hugging a minor nation's border, wholly under Holy Empire sway.
[If a plains warrior turns bandit, merchants would've noticed. Means you were doing something else until recently. Someone of your skill in the south? You'd be tangled with the church. Right?]
[......]
[Nailed it. You're discarded, alright. Must've pissed off the priests bad.]
And he had. Badly. The priests' chosen-people complex left no room for empathy. To earn their regard required power, honor, wealth. Knights and mercenaries without? Brutes, savages needing enlightenment.
Ultekan's pride wouldn't tolerate their rudeness. He'd clashed hard. Without handling their dirty work—the things they couldn't touch publicly—he'd have been executed for blasphemy long ago.
[Proof they discarded me?]
Marhal called Alasil. She dismounted and approached.
"What? What were you talking about? What's that language?"
"Can you really reattach a severed arm?"
"For now, yeah."
"Perfect."
"Perfect for wha— Kyaaak!"
Alasil screamed. Marhal had sliced off his own finger. It tumbled to the dirt, rolling.
"Y-you're insane! Crazy?! What the hell?!"
"Hurry and reattach it. Hurts like hell."
He truly winced in pain.
"Insane... insane..."
Muttering, Alasil snatched the finger, pressed it to the stump, and invoked a miracle. Sensation returned. Marhal wiggled it. Perfect as before.
Magic to those who knew history—but to the ignorant, a true divine miracle. Enough to convert atheists.
Ultekan fixated elsewhere.
[That hand—mind if I see?]
[Go ahead.]
Marhal extended it. No scar. Seamless. He even flexed the fingers demonstratively.
Ultekan was skilled, but replaceable. Priests or nuns who could reattach digits on the spot, flawlessly? Rare even across the Holy Empire.
Don't let replaceable assets provoke irreplaceable ones. Common sense for anyone in an organization.
The man was right. The church had abandoned him. If they betrayed first, he had no reason to hold back.
[Someone's watching me.]
[How many?]
[One.]
[Where?]
[Fifth wagon, left from your view. Unarmed man.]
[Does he speak Duchy?]
[Not that I know.]
[Ideal.]
Exactly what Marhal wanted.
"Haribal."
He called softly. Haribal knew nothing of their exchange. But inaction in ignorance didn't win battles. And he knew Marhal's ways—overwhelming insight denying approach, eloquence dissolving resistance. He'd felt it bodily.
"Fifth wagon, left side. Unarmed man. How many seconds?"
"Blink of an eye."
"Good. Do it on my signal."
Haribal nodded. The dagger slid from his sleeve into his grip.
[Just the one?]
[I'll handle the rest.]
[We strike first.]
"Haribal, now."
Haribal spun. Time slowed for him. Half-turn, eyes locking on the rear. Fifth wagon. Left. Unarmed.
Gotcha.
A man perched in a tree, spectating. Frowning at them.
The dagger flew from Haribal's hand—off-target, diagonally upward. A miss? The target relaxed. Ignored it.
Focus allocation was instinct for veterans. Fixate on a sure miss, and you'd miss the real threat.
Haribal's throws exploited that gap. The dagger arcing skyward curved—like a tea leaf drifting. Once, twice, thrice. Path shifting repeatedly, it zeroed on the man's forehead.
Too late when he noticed. Even mid-rank knights couldn't dodge at this point.
It thunked into the spy's brow.
To those ignorant of Marhal and Ultekan's talk, it looked like Haribal's preemptive strike. Bandits raised weapons. His men readied.
Before clash, Haribal and Ultekan shouted—in Duchy and Holy Empire tongues.
"Hold!"
[Stand down! It's a ploy!]
Awkward air between groups. Both leaders knew who moved first.
Haribal sheathed his weapon, approached his men.
"Recruitment success. They're ours now—no need to fight."
"But...!"
"Anyone dead?"
"Injured!"
"Wounds?"
"Arrow to the arm."
"Treat it."
Reading the mood before Marhal spoke, Alasil moved first. An arrow wound was child's play compared to reattaching a finger.
Ultekan reined in his men.
"We're guarding this convoy from now on. No arguments."
"And pay?"
"Double."
Most were Ultekan's hires. Money soothed them. Years of acquaintance didn't replace coin.
Chaos from bandits turning guards was brief. No deaths, injuries fully healed—recovery swift.
Haribal mounted a spare horse in place of his dead one, took point.
"Move out."
The convoy rolled forward again.