Chapter 141: The Syndicate of Violence
Sunlight warmed the floorboards of Suite One long before Elian opened his eyes. Spring had taken full possession of the valley. The air filtering through the cracked window carried the sharp, sweet smell of blooming briar-roses and damp, drying earth.
He reached across the mattress. The sheets were empty and cool.
Elian sat up, rubbing his face. He pulled on a clean shirt, fastened his trousers, and walked down the heavy timber stairs.
The Oaken Hearth was relatively quiet. The morning market rush had largely moved out into the Yard Exchange, leaving the common room mostly empty. Bruna was in the kitchen, the rhythmic thud of her chopping knife bleeding through the walls.
Near the massive stone hearth, Rylia and Torra sat at one of the surviving heavy tables.
Elian paused on the bottom step.
The two warriors had two mugs of dark ale and a map of the Briar-Route spread between them. They were not arguing. They were not posturing. Their heads were close together, speaking in low, collaborative tones.
It was deeply, fundamentally terrifying.
"The mud in the southern basin is thick enough to swallow a wagon wheel," Torra was saying, tracing a blunt green finger along the parchment. "If we fell a tree across the high pass here, it forces the paved-road caravans down into the marsh."
"Slowing them down," Rylia agreed, her pale blue eyes tracking the route. "It makes them vulnerable. Do the scavengers follow them?"
"Always. The local bandits hit them when they sink." Torra took a drink of her ale, grinning. "Which is when I step out of the brush and remind the bandits who owns the territory."
Rylia let out a low hum of pure, tactical approval. "Efficient. You thin the scavenger population without wasting energy hunting them. Let them come to the bait."
"Exactly. Saves your Vanguard the trouble." Torra leaned back, crossing her arms. "I break the bones, and your mate collects the caravan tolls. Everyone profits."
Elian cleared his throat.
Both women looked up. Torra’s grin widened, showing her lower tusks. Rylia’s expression remained perfectly composed, but a distinct gleam of amusement flickered in her eyes.
"I am uncomfortable with the level of synergy occurring at this table," Elian said, walking over to inspect the shattered remains of the oak table they had broken the previous day. "And felling a tree to extort merchants is a direct violation of Imperial highway code."
"We are not extorting them," Rylia corrected smoothly. "We are managing local traffic flow for their safety. The toll pays for the Outrider's protection."
"It is a highly profitable public service," Torra added.
Elian rubbed his temples. He looked at Rylia. "You are encouraging her."
"I am utilizing an environmental asset," Rylia said. "She knows the southern brush better than my scouts. She understands ambush geometry. And she recognizes that you need better physical conditioning."
Elian froze. "I beg your pardon?"
Torra chuckled, an earthy, rolling sound. "We were discussing your survival reflexes, clerk. You have a good foundation. You anchor your weight well. But your close-quarters grappling is abysmal."
"My grappling is strictly administrative," Elian countered.
"For now," Rylia said, her voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Elian’s neck stand up. "But the road is getting busier. You need to know how to throw a man twice your size into the dirt."
"I can teach him," Torra offered casually. "Give me two weeks with him in the mud. He learns fast when he is sufficiently motivated by pain."
"Acceptable," Rylia agreed.
Elian stared at them. They had bypassed a rivalry entirely and formed a syndicate. A highly lethal, heavily armed syndicate focused entirely on weaponizing him.
A sharp, metallic click broke the tension in the room.
Over by the Iron-heart bar, Barnaby had managed to undo the brass latch on his reinforced indoor stall. The mule nudged the wooden gate open with his nose. He ignored the fresh pile of spring sweetgrass in his trough and walked across the floorboards with measured, aristocratic precision.
Elian pointed at the animal. "Barnaby. You are supposed to remain inside until the yard clears."
Barnaby paused near the front door.
The visiting draft horses have grown complacent during the night. I must personally oversee their humiliation in the exterior pens. The hierarchy requires constant, vocal reinforcement. The mule hooked his heavy nose under the iron handle of the main door, yanked it downward, and shoved his way out into the morning sun to terrorize the paved-road labor force.
"You indulge that beast," Rylia noted.
"He is an essential component of yard security," Elian replied dryly. He pulled his ledger from the bar and set it on the intact table, intentionally putting distance between himself and their training plans.
He flipped the book open, tapping his pen against the page detailing the broken furniture.
"We have a logistical issue," Elian announced, steering the conversation back to safe, non-violent territory. "The standard pine tables cannot withstand Vanguard or Orcish interactions. If you two intend to collaborate, I need furniture that will not shatter when you test your grip strength."
Torra grunted. "Pine is for kindling. You need deep-forest ironwood."
"The paved-road merchants do not carry it," Elian said, reviewing his inventory columns. "And Dorvik’s stone-haulers cannot harvest it without ruining their axes."
"Then where do we get it?" Rylia asked, leaning forward.
"I have to leave the perimeter," Elian stated cleanly. "The Timber-Mane clan operates a logging camp three miles down the river basin. They control the old-growth ironwood. If we want heavy timber for the tavern, I need to negotiate a direct trade agreement with their elders."
Rylia frowned, her protective instincts immediately flaring. "You are not walking into a Beast-Kin logging camp alone."
"I am not going alone," Elian said, closing the ledger. He looked directly at Torra. "The Southern Outrider is coming with me. We leave after breakfast."