Gotta Deal with the Fake Ebony Wood
The fake ebony wood needed handling, but that was already in motion, and Hugo could manage it. The real priority was rebuilding the city.
Marhal headed east through the city to check on the assassins undergoing punishment.
The assassins barely looked human anymore. They were bound together to a pillar. But their conditions varied wildly—one twisted in convulsions, another stared blankly with mouth agape, a third muttered nonsense to the empty air. The drugs were working as intended.
Marhal locked eyes with Yusbal. He seemed to be clinging to the faintest shred of awareness. Spotting Marhal, he mumbled,
"Devil."
It was too quiet for normal ears to catch, but Marhal, borrowing the land's history, heard it clear as day.
"Who's calling who a devil?"
Still, it didn't bother him. Without the pain, such words wouldn't escape his lips. Marhal hoped Yusbal would curse him plenty before the end. It'd be proof he'd suffered.
A crowd of onlookers gathered at a safe distance from the pillar where the assassins hung. That group showed no signs of thinning. Word was, over a thousand passed through daily. This was a city with heavy foot traffic anyway. Newcomers or folks who'd stepped out briefly would swing by at least once upon hearing the drug makers had been caught.
And on the other side: Marin and Bayola, training.
Strekl had declared that after their break, he'd drill them like proper squires. True to his word, both girls were caked in dust from head to toe. Splash a bit of red paint or animal blood on them, and you'd swear they'd just staggered off a battlefield.
Marhal approached. "Strekl, how's the training going?"
"I had a few motivations back in the day. Fellow pupils under the same master, or squires serving knights in the same order as my master."
"And?"
"If any had been like those two, I'd have quit knighthood out of sheer jealousy."
"Their basics are nothing like ordinary folk's, though."
Marin had her thief-honed conditioning and relics. Anyone asking how relics affected talent knew one thing but not two. Wielding high-level power was an experience beyond compare.
Bayola needed no explanation—she'd been born with a superhuman physique. Even among Muet Empire royalty, few could claim the same. Marhal could tell just by looking. He was Bachea imperial stock with five centuries of history, yet even he hadn't started with a superhuman body.
"Raw talent aside, what surprises me is their aptitude. Watch."
Without warning, Strekl swung his arm. The wooden sword aimed for Bayola's head as she sat resting.
Bayola snatched the hilt and blade of a wooden sword from the ground, blocking the strike.
"I was resting!" she yelled, arms trembling.
"A knight knows no rest. Always ready for ambush."
"You're not always ready yourself!"
"I've got this."
Sheathing his wooden sword, Strekl rapped his armor with it—clang clang. He only removed it for bathing or maintenance. Otherwise, he was perpetually geared for surprise attacks.
"Show-off."
"I am pretty great."
Bayola hurled her wooden sword to the ground. It bounced back toward her; she twisted her torso to dodge, then clamped her mouth shut in utter indignation.
Strekl turned to Marhal. "Well?"
"Not ordinary, that's for sure."
To Marhal's eye, that strike had been half-serious ambush. Bayola blocked it without much trouble. Considering how long she'd formally trained with a sword, it was impressive.
"Pure technique? A year tops. The rest, combat will sort out."
"What about her hemophobia?"
Bayola's shoulders twitched. She'd improved since the start, but progress had stalled at some point.
"No idea. Time might fix it... or we'll find another way. Key is avoiding blood, so assassin methods work fine."
Poison and projectiles. Ways to fight with minimal—or no—blood. And they weren't weak. If assassins were truly feeble, mercenaries or knights would have taken their niche. Reality was the opposite: some knights specialized in assassination arts.
"No way!"
"Why not?"
"I'm imperial royalty."
The Empire revered strength. Elevate one value, and its opposites got trampled. Imperial knights despised "cowardly" tactics—poison especially sent them into fits.
Even though their own emperor relied on it.
Viktorma Muesilrigo II had led from the front on many battlefields. Victory was justice there. He'd deployed every dirty trick: poisoning enemy granaries, assassinating commanders. Marhal wished he could shove that history in those poison-hating knights' faces.
"If word got out that royalty used poison, it'd just breed noble resentment."
"Fair point. Not something to settle now anyway—later. If anyone's got business in town, wrap it up."
"Heading out?"
"Word came from the Border. We'll link up and head straight back."
He'd come west early over the drug mess, but the plan was always to return to Pioneer Village with the migrants. Over two hundred expected. Supplies for their journey west, plus massive materials post-land race. All heading back with them.
It was night.
Marin slipped out alone into the streets. Night streets were dangerous—women and kids could get snatched anytime. Not her concern. And this city's nights were relatively quiet. It wasn't a settlement hub. More a waystation for westbound travelers.
Better to hitch on a caravan than walk. Unless flush with coin, better as hired hand than paying passenger. Good jobs meant hitting the labor market at dawn. Structure kept nighttime revelers scarce.
Marin reached a small lot behind a building. Wooden sword in hand—the one from daytime practice.
She closed her eyes. Strekl's strike on Bayola replayed in her mind.
What if she'd been there instead? Sitting, as Strekl swung down. That speed, that power. Imagined Marin tried blocking—but failed. Dropped the sword. Over and over. Same result.
Without relics or berserk rage, she wasn't superhuman. Tougher, stronger than average men, sure—but below knight average. Attacks a knight would parry, she couldn't.
She'd swung blades her whole life. Not knight-style, but always armed. Bayola? Half a year with a sword, hemophobia keeping her from it before. Yet Bayola blocked; Marin couldn't.
Marin bit her lip. Spar Bayola now, she'd win—experience trumping physique. But not for long.
"Even this... they're gonna take?"
Her confidence stemmed from power. She'd solved most problems with force. Hard not to trust that strength. Without it, her mind might crumble.
But now, even that waned.
Marin flung the wooden sword down. She squatted against the building wall. The sword rolled lonely on the dirt.
Hated it all. Swordplay, Bayola, the West... herself.
She stayed put a long while.
The awaited wagons arrived. A massive train of them. Hundreds milled about.
Most wagons Bayola had ever seen. Hugo checked numbers and cargo upfront, Kaban trailing him like a shadow. Over half those materials for Kaban's city rebuild. Once rumors flew that Duke Kalaens had failed, offers poured in unbidden.
Marhal watched from afar, idly playing harmonica. He rarely handled things personally anymore—petty village matters or big decisions beyond Hugo's call. That was routine.
Bayola asked, "Isn't the West short on resources?"
"Land race changes that. It pulls nearby supplies to the race site. Pay a premium, sure—but better than nothing. Plus, the city's a factor now."
Unexpected investments flowed to Kaban. Partly checking Duke Kalaens, partly Marhal. Pioneer Village boasted the best facilities around. They'd paid off—not least with the flag vendors setting up there last race. Union troops and surveyors needed lodging during events; scholars preferred inns over dusty warehouses. Avoid health woes derailing surveys.
"But Kaban's one of theirs, right?"
"That's their blind spot."
Kaban: high knight under Duke Kalaens. Full plate at that. Even Rugen's knight-rich setup had just one. In the West, such a force was unmatched. No one expected a prideful high knight to meekly join Marhal's banner.
"Where's Marin and Strekl?"
"Galloped off the second they spotted the wagons. Karian too—and that Bergias kid."
"Astal?"
"Don't like him. Shifty eyes. Doesn't even hide it."
"He's young. And he's a Bergias."
"Yeah, Bergias."
Bayola knew the name, the lineage. Karian the commoner? Fine now. Changed while she was away—half Hugo, half Marhal vibe. But Astal Bergias? Same old. Tried hiding it, but not from superhuman senses.
Wished she could ditch him, but the name was treasure. Boost food output manifold once settled. Welcome anywhere, but vital in the West.
"Bergias needs land. Your plan?"
"North, probably. Prime farmland plus Bergias name? Could feed the West."
"You think? Every faction'll go all-out then."
They knew Marhal's power but hadn't crossed lines yet. Union, others. But open the north Grain Basin's unclaimed plains? Lines would vanish. That land was worth it.
"Cross that bridge when it comes. To meet it head-on, we fortify the foundation."
Marhal hit a specific note; a black horse trudged over.
"Elizé. Let's go."
It lifted a forehoof to shake him off. Hated the name—sulked every call. But Marhal wouldn't yield. A couple pats on the flank, and Elizé snorted once before stomping forward.