The Price of a Finger
There was a subtle tension between the two groups, but unseen posturing couldn't halt the wagons' march forward. Marhal rode his horse just behind Haribal, keeping pace with him.
One of the horses drew up alongside Marhal's. It was Alasil's mount.
"What'd you talk about?"
Marhal scanned for Ultekan. He was back there, persuading his men. Still, better safe than sorry—someone like him might have exceptional hearing. Marhal subtly drew in the surrounding winds to mask their voices.
"Sold him some medicine."
"Medicine?"
"Figured he was church-affiliated, so I made him think the church betrayed him."
"How?"
"By selling you out."
"???"
Alasil blinked like an idiot.
"You said it yourself, right? That you're important to the Papal Court. Would church folks really attack a key figure like that?"
"I don't quite get it."
"First, I reattached his severed finger to prove your skills. Then I convinced him."
"You think he'd cut off his own finger just for that? Are you insane?! Crazy?!"
Alasil shouted. When Marhal had sliced off his own finger, she'd felt her heart drop. Reattaching wounds was routine for her, but watching someone hack off their own digit up close had shocked even her. If not for her ingrained habits, she might not have healed it at all.
"'Just' a finger? If we'd fought here, how many would've died? One finger ends it. Right?"
"No, still... ugh."
Alasil chewed her lip and gave up arguing. He wasn't wrong. Sever one finger to avert real deaths, and it was a bargain. Cut it off, reattach it—no permanent loss. But knowing that and actually slicing your own finger? That made you a madman.
"What if I couldn't reattach it?"
"But I did."
Marhal wiggled his perfectly intact hand with all five fingers.
"What if I'd been bluffing?!"
"You're not the type to lie about that."
"But..."
Alasil was speechless again. He'd believed her just like that? Was it pure trust or sheer stupidity? A finger—one irreplaceable body part if things went wrong. Handing that over to someone he'd barely met? Unbelievable. In her world, people moved by selfishness, survival instinct, and profit. That was her life: orphanage-raised, church experiment. She didn't know humans who trusted near-strangers enough to amputate their own fingers.
Facing this new breed of person left her confused yet oddly satisfied in a way she couldn't articulate. He trusted me. Trusted me enough to cut off his finger.
"Anyway, back to what you were saying. How exactly did you convince him? I still don't fully get it. How does my ability tie into manipulating his thoughts?"
"He'd recently argued with church folks. A petty guy like that? He'd send assassins the moment he heard I'd stirred something up."
"An argument leads to murder? Petty has its limits."
"Exactly. That's why he's petty."
Marhal wasn't immune to pain. The agony of the severed finger and the eerie reconnection of nerves lingered in his brain, refusing to fade. He'd have nightmares for days. But he'd exacted a steep price for that experience—later, once the job was done.
"Alasil, imagine you're a mercenary hired by the church to kill someone. And you find out the target's the Pope himself. What runs through your head?"
"'What crazy bastard's trying to kill me?'"
"Bingo."
"But I'm here by coincidence."
"Sure is."
"So you tricked him."
"Told you—I sold him medicine."
"What if he realizes he got played?"
"After killing the church's watcher too? Think excuses will fly? Too late."
"You mad bastard...!"
She didn't even have the energy to yell anymore. Victims couldn't grasp a madman's logic. Alasil considered herself sane-ish—though she'd been called crazy plenty—but in front of true lunacy, even she felt normal.
"Ultekan's coming. Keep this between us. Got it?"
"Got what?!"
Alasil snatched the blanket tied to her saddle and hurled it at Marhal. He ducked, then spurred his horse away. She watched him go with incredulous eyes, but her lips curved in a smile.
* * *
As evening fell, dinner prep began. Marhal usually wandered, scrounging meals wherever convenient. Tonight, he sat with the group. Haribal, Marhal, Alasil, and Ultekan gathered around one fire.
Alasil didn't speak Pubguk tongue fluently, nor did Ultekan. Haribal knew only basic Holy Empire greetings. Marhal, fluent in both, bridged the gap.
Meat sizzled on the griddle over the flames. Abundant food—nothing more reassuring on the road. Haribal plated the cooked cuts and asked,
"Marhal, got a question."
"Shoot."
"How'd you know my skills?"
Haribal had never used his powers in front of Marhal. Yet Marhal had called him out like he knew.
"Ah, that. Saw it in your hand movements. Not amateur work."
"Just from that?"
"One failure's fine, long as you don't drop it at the end. Tested it once."
"Gotta be more careful."
Marhal wasn't ordinary, but getting read before unleashing his trump card? Major issue. Haribal had more to say.
"My fault."
"What?"
"If my men scouted properly, no ambush."
"They were pros too. Ditch the horses and hunker down? Unless you're a tracking knight, good luck finding 'em."
Anyone that good wouldn't work for Haribal—they'd serve some merchant lord or noble. As they talked, Ultekan spoke up haltingly.
"Marhal, a favor."
"Yeah?"
"Working for the church wasn't just about the money."
"No?"
"My wife's a nun. Got kids. Real hostages."
Marhal rubbed his temple. Tricky.
"Pure curiosity: why marry a nun?"
"Love at first sight."
"Too straightforward to argue."
What could you say to love at first sight? Can't question why. Emotions don't bend to logic—that's what makes us human. Even those called inhuman clung to feelings.
They became 'inhuman' precisely because of it.
Suppressing desire is hard, impossible, or both. With power to fulfill all desires, why suppress? Good thing they're all weirdos: Hero, thief, mage, saint. If any harbored normal urges, the world would've drowned in blood.
That's why they reached the Demon King's castle penniless.
No one begged them to head west and slay the Demon King. The Hero wielded his sword to protect; the saint through devotion; the mage from curiosity; the guide by vengeance. The thief... well, he got beaten by the Hero and dragged along—exception.
Anyway, Ultekan's bind was unavoidable.
"Rescuing's probably fine. But will they come willingly?"
The church had corrupt sorts, but plenty purely faithful. If Ultekan's wife was the latter, she'd resist leaving. Faith blinded them to the church's evils.
"She suspects something's off deep down."
"About your work?"
Ultekan fell silent. No surprise—he couldn't proudly tell his nun wife he killed for a living.
"As long as the church doesn't strike first, extraction's easy. Problem's after. Bit mercenary question: can your wife work miracles?"
"Basic wounds, internal injuries—yeah."
"Why? We got a nun right here."
"Drag her west?"
"...No, not that."
Alasil's voice shrank. She silently butchered her share of meat.
"Oh, got something to ask Ultekan too."
"What?"
"Seeing more Anche folk lately. Something brewing among you guys?"
"Anche banding together to form a nation."
Nation. A word no Westerner uttered lightly. Westerners raced for land to become landlords. Land race claims rivaled noble estates. Some assembled alliances vast enough for a small kingdom. But none tried. A Western nation would draw every power hungry for their might.
"Big dreams are fine. But doable?"
"We'll make it so. That's the warrior way."
"Your wife?"
The plains warrior was unusually quiet tonight. Marhal felt he understood Ultekan's life: pride-driven, blind to surroundings. Reliable friend or partner—throw away life for honor. But family? Headache material. At least he loved them.
* * *
The journey continued. Haribal's men and Ultekan's didn't mingle but didn't fight either. Better distant peace than forced camaraderie exploding into brawl. Split flanks guarded the wagons—overkill for the count, but secure.
"City by evening. Swap horses, inn beds for once."
The word rippled back; cheers followed. Had to move before Strekl's spies noticed. Hence night marches in good weather, village horse swaps en route. Trading bred racers for nags hurt, but time mattered more. Nonstop pace meant workers cheered at "city rest."
The incident hit in the last woods before town. Roadside trees tilted, crashed to block the path. Bushes rustled everywhere.
A man clambered atop the fallen trunk.
"Hand over everything!"
No fine weapons, no skills—just a common thug intimidating with steel.
"Haribal. No excuses here, right?"
"...Employer too lenient—slack discipline."
"Still time to redeem."
"How?"
"Kill 'em all."
"Got it."
Haribal's thrown dagger pierced the leader-thug's side. His men slaughtered the rest. A dozen veterans of real wars dwarfed street bandits. As Haribal advanced, Ultekan and crew seamlessly guarded the wagons—like drilled comrades.
Experienced help made it easy. Alasil approached Marhal, waiting out the cleanup.
"What're you doing? Stray arrow hits you here."
"Head's the only worry. Why kill these bandits outright? Spared Ultekan's."
She'd expected some magic show, rode up for it. Instead: total wipeout.
"Not Westerners."
"What bullshit is that?"
"Important. I'm Western-born too."
"Not Anche."
"Still Western."
Alasil looked baffled, but it mattered to Marhal. The rootless scum cleared fast; wagons hit town on schedule.
No rest on arrival. Haribal hustled horse swaps and supply restocks as penance. Marhal pulled Alasil aside.
"What? Sneaking off alone?"
"Know party etiquette?"
"Party? Where?"
Alasil perked up. Never been to a noble bash. No girlish fantasies, but tempted by chef-crafted feasts.
Marhal pointed to the massive central mansion.
"Gotta grease the lord's palms."