Purging the Unworthy
After the banquet ended, Marhal returned to the inn and turned in for the night. He rose at dawn and received some absurd news.
"One of the wagons is gone?"
"Someone took it out late last night. One of his men." Haribal jerked his chin toward the approaching figure.
Ultekan strode up and knelt before Marhal.
"I have no excuses. It's all my fault."
"Let's hear the story first."
"One of my men fled with a wagon in the night." Ultekan swallowed hard. He knew what the wagons carried—supplies for the settlers, packed to the brim in just one vehicle.
Marhal didn't strike him as someone short on coin. That made it all the more terrifying. In Ultekan's experience, people who valued something over money always clung to some conviction worth dying for. Marhal's presence here was likely tied to just that sort of belief. He'd witnessed the man sever his own finger without hesitation.
"Surprisingly lax with your men, aren't you?"
"It'll sound like an excuse, but hear me out. Not everyone's truly my subordinate here. A few aside, they're just hires paid in gold."
"How many real subordinates do you have?"
"Five."
"From Anche?"
Ultekan nodded.
"Any Westerners among them?"
"None that I know of."
Marhal fell silent for a long moment. Then, as if reaching a decision, he called out to Haribal.
"Haribal, do you know where Ultekan's men are?"
"I can find out."
"That technique of yours—how far can it reach?"
Haribal pondered. His ability was a mystery, even to him—a non-mage trying to explain its limits was no easy task. Instead, he described its origin.
"It's a power I awakened on the brink of death. Tea leaves scattered by the wind flashed before my eyes like a lantern show. Ever since, anything I throw flies like those leaves. With practice, I can hit pretty much wherever I aim."
"Awakening a mystery in a near-death crisis. Textbook stuff. But tea leaves... they react to the wind, right?"
"Heavily. On days with strong gusts, it's useless. My training's still lacking, I suppose."
"If it's wind... how about this?"
A single gust brushed Haribal's cheek. He jolted upright like a startled fish.
"Ma-magic?!"
"Come on, what do I look like, a mage? Just a little trick. But I could probably make those tea leaves dance on the breeze. What do you think?"
"If we combine forces, we could take down even a high knight."
"You're joking."
He wasn't. Wind was the biggest variable in Haribal's mystery, dictating its power based on the day's conditions. Even slight control over its direction would let Haribal's "leaves" trace infinite paths.
"Wait—you asked where Ultekan's men are? You don't mean...?"
"I trust Haribal's crew—they're hired for exactly this. But Ultekan's hires? This concerns the lives of over a hundred people. We eliminate any potential threats."
Haribal felt disoriented. To avert one fight, Marhal had chopped off his own finger—an eccentric act that minimized damage, sure, but hardly sane. Then, when the second thief appeared, he'd ordered immediate execution without pause. Now, one man's screw-up meant holding the rest accountable. The cruelest form of collective responsibility.
Which was Marhal's true face? Haribal couldn't pin it down. That's why Marhal scared him now. The approachable, if slightly distant, younger brother figure was morphing into something unknowable.
But he couldn't refuse Marhal's orders. He was a hired mercenary. Betrayals happened, but Haribal never even considered it. Marhal's skills so far weren't overwhelming, yet betraying him felt like a death sentence.
Switching to Holy Empire tongue, Marhal said, "Ultekan, point out your Anche-born men. We execute the rest."
Ultekan, who'd half-expected this, nodded quietly. They'd known each other for years, but they were still employer and hire. As long as his true kin survived, the others could be sacrificed.
Ultekan gathered his men. One major blunder had them falling in line meekly enough. They assembled in a clearing near the horse paddock, with Haribal and Marhal at Ultekan's side.
Ultekan silently indicated his five Anche subordinates with gestures.
[No matter what, hold your ground!]
Ultekan bellowed in Anche tongue. And it began.
Haribal drew a dozen small daggers from his belt and flung them. They scattered like tea leaves in every direction.
The arcs mimicked leaves, but the speed didn't. A eerie whoosh cut the air.
The breeze was gentle. Normally, Haribal could hurl five and land three on target. But he'd thrown over ten—usually a suppression tactic, hitting maybe one foe.
Not today. His old nemesis, the wind, aided him now.
A gust rose. Only wind-sensitive Haribal noticed. The steady zephyr gained direction, drawn toward the targets.
A subtle shift, but exactly what he needed. The daggers' erratic paths converged. They whipped wildly, but every blade found flesh.
Over ten men crumpled in an instant, tiny daggers embedded in their throats.
Haribal shuddered.
"This is insane. Completely insane!"
Not even an iron-cutting knight could fell ten in a blink. They'd manage five or six nearby at best. Without siege engines or cannons, only mage spells could wipe out a dozen like that. That's why mages commanded respect.
Haribal thrilled at the scene he'd wrought. With Marhal, only full-plate knights could challenge them.
"Madness. What the hell just happened?"
It was Alasil. She'd come looking for Marhal and stumbled on the corpses amid the terrified survivors.
"Ultekan, what is this?"
"Dealt with potential risks."
"You killed people over one stolen wagon? What about the survivors?"
"My men."
"You spared your subordinates and slaughtered the hires?"
Ultekan nodded. Alasil was one of the few he could converse with properly, so they'd built some rapport through small talk. He couldn't bring himself to snap at her—her scowl reminded him of his angry wife.
Alasil approached Marhal.
"Talk to me."
"Sure."
They moved near the paddock fence. A few horses gathered curiously.
"Did you have to kill them?"
"What angle are you asking from?"
"You could've let them live."
"The thief's long gone. Can't punish the innocent in his place."
"You knew that, and...!"
"You know it too, don't you? First time's hard; second's easy."
Alasil had no retort. She knew. Forgive once, and someone tries twice. It repeats until a lesson sticks. That's how mercenaries—and those living day-to-day—operated.
"Haribal's base is within my reach. Ultekan's got no room for betrayal; he's got nowhere else to go. But his hires? That wagon's valuable—worth ten imperial gold coins alone. Stretch it, and you live a year without work. Alasil, would you pass up the chance?"
"...I'd probably steal it."
Die stealing or in a skirmish—same end. Might as well go big.
Alasil knew Marhal's response was harsh but not wrong. Still, it grated. She didn't want to see him stain his hands over something so petty.
"If they'd all been Westerners, you wouldn't have killed them?"
"Probably not."
"...Was that real? When the second thief showed, you said you'd kill him because he wasn't Western. I thought it was a joke."
Today's events suggested otherwise.
"It was. If they'd all been Westerners, I'd have spared them."
"What makes a Westerner, then?"
"Born in the West, rooted there, living for it."
"So the dead weren't?"
"The thief who stole that wagon—think he'll return West? Nah, he'll fence it in some distant town and settle. Is that a Westerner?"
They treated the West as a cash cow, no loyalty or duty. Marhal wouldn't call them Westerners.
Ask who qualified, and he had answers. But voicing them now—or for decades, maybe until his death—was unwise.
"What is the West to you?"
"Everything."
Land of birth, loss, rebirth. And the land he must revive. Without the West, Marhal the man ceased to exist.
"Ask a saint for details. Yullan would answer."
If she ever met him.
Alasil's heart nearly leaped at the sudden name. Frozen, she watched Marhal return to the group.
Her gaze lingered on his retreating back. Saint Yullan Egoman—true owner of the name she stole. Unknown to the world.
She'd never dreamed of hearing it in the West. Yet it fit. That man would know Yullan's name.
"Damn it. He knew all along."
Marina Silanatiell. Kin to the mage. Their encounters—all his schemes.
"Who are you?"
A youth who knew the mage and saint by name, acting like an acquaintance. Even she, who'd memorized every detail of Yullan from the Papal Court's depths, knew nothing of this Marhal.
* * *
Despite the minor incident, the wagons pressed on as scheduled. They reached the rendezvous with the settlers.
A small village bordering the forest. Strekl's contact had hidden West-bound folk there.
The horses halted at the forest's edge, whining like dogs, refusing to advance.
Marhal dismounted. The stench of blood reached him. Faint screams too.
"Even hating settlers doesn't justify this, right?"
Alasil's face soured at the smell.
"No lord slaughters like this—too inefficient. They'd enslave them instead."
"Then what?"
"Something's up. Thrill, hobby—whatever drives the indiscriminate killing."
The forest gaped open like a maw.