A Convoy of Fifty Wagons, Four Hundred Souls, and Three Hundred Horses
Nearly fifty large wagons. Over four hundred people. More than three hundred horses.
Some of Strekl's family, who had migrated from the East, had found jobs through Marhal and decided to settle in the Borderlands. Others chose to make a completely fresh start in the West. Among those in this caravan were members of Strekl's family and people set to settle in Marin's pioneer village. Fifty souls were bound for Marin's village: about twenty elders and children, with the rest being young men and women who had joined midway on the return trip from the Border. The men outnumbered the women, especially. Marin knew why but didn't care to voice it.
It was a big decision—shaping their futures. She couldn't trust anyone who'd leave it to a moment's lust. And truth be told, she didn't trust them anyway.
Marin introduced herself as the landlord's proxy. But she wouldn't be sticking around the village. Hugo would recommend someone suitable when the time was right, she said. Once a real proxy was in place, she'd follow Marhal wherever he went. Staying in the village would only be temporary.
"Grandma, you feeling okay?" Marin asked the old woman riding in the wagon behind her.
Hella—the first to declare she'd settle in Marin's village. The old woman with a tongue sharp enough to match Marhal's was still spry as ever.
"Fine 'cept my old bones achin'."
"That ain't fine."
"Been hurtin' for ten years now? One day's pain is sickness, but ten years? That's just normal."
"...Well."
It was wrong, but Marin couldn't flatly argue. Her own grandma had carried a bunch of chronic ailments back in Bestarolla days. Most elders in the refugee trains were the same. Pain was their daily bread, so they didn't weigh it heavy. Marin knew plenty like that.
"How long till the village?"
"'Bout ten days by wagon."
She wasn't dead certain on the ten days—the uncertainties of travel. With so many wagons, elders, and kids, who knew when something might halt them.
"Not too bad. Decided what kinda village yet?"
"Land right next to the city. City's just gettin' rebuilt now."
"Make it a castle town below the walls. Throw in a ranch, some small fields. Old folks can run errands. Perfect."
Hella already had a full picture of the finished village in her head. Age had honed her instincts. She wasn't ashamed of it. Learning how the weak survived wasn't anything to blush at.
While lingering in the Border, Hella had heard all sorts of rumors swirling from the West: the Hero slicing the returned Demon King with the heavens themselves, the land race kicking off, even someone snagging an old city site among the new landlords. Marin seemed to own the land next to that city.
Hella had wandered more places than most commoners. Village shapes near cities came quick to mind.
"Leave it to this old bat."
"Countin' on you, Grandma."
"Speakin' of, things goin' well with that young fella?"
Marin froze.
"Wh-what're you talkin' about?"
"Everyone knows, girl. No use playin' dumb."
"Lord Marhal's my idol and... y'know, not like that..."
It'd be a lie to say she had zero interest. But that was Marhal. Guide to the Hero Party. Legend in the flesh. Not for the likes of her.
Hella chuckled warmly at Marin melting like chipped ice. Even to her eyes, that young man was no ordinary sort. Something extraordinary beyond blood or talent. That must be what held Marin back.
But Hella knew. When love truly blazed, folks went blind. Barriers blocking the way? Invisible.
"Gonna look that way a sec."
"Go on. Don't mind me. Do your thing."
Hella eyed the direction Marin bolted. There he was—the young man, chatting amiably with the nun beside him. The woman who'd joined just before departure. Not an elder in the caravan who hadn't owed her one. Hella herself had gotten healed; her nagging back pain had vanished like it'd been washed away.
"Thought it'd take longer with her prickly type. Might be quicker than I figured."
Youth is for making memories, age for reliving them, they say. Watching the young pair, Hella chewed over old times.
"Those were the days."
The peak of her life: grabbing troublemaking floozies by the hair and hurling them from her husband.
Marhal had only meant to watch from afar, but he slipped between the wagons after spotting one person wandering them.
Alasil Egoman was perched at the end of a wagon, tending a child's knee. Marhal poked her cheek with a gust of wind.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Eek!"
Alasil jolted up, knocking the child backward off-balance. The kid cracked his head on the wagon and burst into tears.
"Check later," Alasil said, shooting Marhal a glare as she soothed the crying boy. "There, there. Good boy. No more owie. All better."
The child seemed not to know Holy Empire tongue. But mood bridged words. The sniffling stopped. He checked his knee: the gash that'd scraped flesh to bone was mended.
In clumsy Holy Empire speech: "Thank you."
"Yeah, you better be grateful, kiddo."
Alasil ruffled his hair. Thinking it a blessing, the boy hopped down, bowed deeply, and scampered to his friends watching from afar.
"Nuns s'posed to talk like that?"
"No one here gets it anyway. More importantly, why'd you call me? Heard Bishop Anton was yappin' your ear off. How bad was it? Coulda come for free."
"Gotta make it official between folks who know. And if the bishop hounds you, you'd get worn out, right?"
"Fair point."
Bishop Anton couldn't harm Alasil directly—that'd get even a cardinal or holy knight defrocked. But he could harass her. He'd been ordered to oversee her personally. Hard to buck a papal-stamped document.
"If the rumors are true, it's that, huh? Drugs."
"Yup. Can you treat it?"
Alasil puffed her chest with confidence.
"Hah. Who do you think I am? I'll earn my keep—don't worry."
"Good to hear."
For a fleeting moment, Marhal had wondered if even Alasil couldn't cure drug addiction. Treating it required history to match...
"Guess our chat rubbed someone the wrong way."
Alasil's eyes narrowed cat-like.
"Lord Marhal. Seems we're ready."
Marin spoke from behind him.
"Yeah? Let's roll then. Met Grandma Hella?"
"Yep. She's healthy."
"Relief. Road ain't short—better get movin'."
Minding the elders' health might mean resting a few days in the city, but they couldn't afford to enter. Hugo's men were combing alleys for the drug peddlers. The scum were scattering, wrecking city order. Cornered rats bit anything. With so many frail folk, who knew what they'd try.
[What? I'm here and you're leavin' right away?]
[...You really don't know Duchy tongue, right?]
[I get it from the vibe. Especially her talk. Came all this way just to see your face, and this is how you do me?]
[Paid you for it.]
[Tch. Just stick one guide on me who speaks Holy Empire. I'll handle the addicts myself.]
[Thanks.]
[Thanks? Cut off a finger then.]
[......?]
Marhal blinked. Alasil said breezily,
[Kidding.]
She waved and dashed to Hugo. She'd gotten a look at his face on departure and return.
"What'd she say?"
"Wanted a finger chopped off."
"Loyalty oath?"
Marin hadn't thought of it in the shock, but offering a severed finger was a classic back-alley loyalty proof.
"Nah, joke probably."
A working nun wouldn't seriously demand that, street roots or not.
"Right?"
"Keep sayin' it and it don't sound like one."
Marin's suspicion infected Marhal. Keep working her like this, and she'd demand a real finger someday?
The wagons rolled peacefully to the pioneer village. Over four hundred newcomers was a crowd, but the village could house them. It had grown; abandoned buildings, empty warehouses, spare wagons abounded. West workers were used to crashing in storage.
Hugo assigned laborers this way and that.
"Elizé, let's go."
Elizé stomped the ground in protest.
"Who said rebel?"
Blackfinger tied to a post by his finger, Marhal had come to claim him properly. The beast ran fine at first, but now ignored commands. Like it was picking a fight with Marhal.
Marhal, who never backed down from Hero Party inhuman monsters yelling in the West, wouldn't lose a staring contest to a mere beast.
He named it Elizé. It moved—then bucked and tried to bite like a man. People want more what they hate. Marhal hadn't started it; the beast had. So he'd play along.
From that day, its name was Elizé.
"Hate Elizé? How 'bout Richard or Alex?"
Hiiing! A high whinny. Affirmative.
"In your dreams. Elizé for life. Get over it."
Elizé lowed deep. A predator's growl. Normal beasts quieted after one dominance check, but this one climbed back every chance. Temper fouler than most.
"C'mon, Elizé."
Marhal smacked its rump. Elizé shuffled forward grudgingly. Seemed lazy, but innate athleticism matched other horses' pace.
Back in the pioneer village after months. Much to check. Marhal headed to Joseph's stables.
Joseph was feeding the horses inside.
"Joseph."
"Young master."
Joseph set down the dry fodder and approached, vaulting the fence to stand before Marhal.
"Watch this one. And you heard?"
"Yes."
"Horse thieves'll come."
Other stuff was hard to steal or quick to spot. Horses? Snag at dawn and gone. No waste putting a Joseph-level man on the stables. Only he could manage this scale smoothly.
"I'll be vigilant. Fine beast, though."
"Rail's gift. Supposedly demon blood mixed in."
"Top-tier among any I've seen, for sure."
Marhal dismounted and handed the reins.
"Elizé."
"This is a stallion."
"I know. Kept tryin' to stare me down. Gave it its most hated name."
"Picking fights with you? No ordinary nag."
Joseph tugged the reins. Elizé resisted. Marhal's presence awed, but didn't kill. Joseph was different. He'd slain many in West and East alike. One glance, and Elizé bowed its head.
"Dulls quick but rebels again soon."
"Better that way. Keeps things lively."
Elizé dragged like a condemned to the gallows, into the fence.