Manning the walls had become increasingly difficult with every passing day. And there was no way Mark would roll back what he had started. Trading with the ferals wasn’t just filling their supplies; it was bringing their communities together.

He had all the fathers of daughters gathered outside the gates leading into the inner wall. Mark had hoped he would have more time to get a feel for their new neighbors before making any important decisions. The last thing he wanted was to promote the wrong people to the station of tribune, but he felt he couldn’t put it off any longer.

Surveying the group, Mark nodded and took note of the most intriguing members.

Just about every influential man within the walls had applied to become a tribune, with the sole exception being Weedy Eye. Since he didn’t have any children, he didn’t qualify.

He had eighteen men to pick from—no, seventeen—he realized. She was as broad, tall, and as muscular as most of the men with a shaved head, but there was no doubt that the stern-faced woman was, in fact, a woman.

Interesting, Mark thought, eyeing the pitbull of a woman. He had invited fathers, but perhaps that was sexist. He chuckled at himself for the oversight. He was the one who was meant to be the twenty-first-century man here. He thought back to his home, San Fran. Whoops.

Mark’s plan was to elect eight tribunes to start with. These tribunes would report directly to him, and he would both pay them for their service and provide them with authority. At first, he had intended to only provide them with authority, but now that the fort’s trading had grown as lucrative as it had, Mark figured they could spare a few iron coins every month. And that by doing so, he would gain more loyal and competent underlings.

He would use three tests to measure the ferals and decide who to elect as tribunes. The first test would measure their combat prowess, the second, their intelligence, and the third, their character.

While intelligent and strong tribunes would be valuable, Mark was undoubtedly most interested in their personalities and character. This would all turn out horribly wrong if he couldn’t rely on loyal, upstanding individuals to uphold his laws.

Mark looked over them again, spotting Trayox with his mop-like hair in the second row, towering above the others.

There were a few others that caught his eye. A rather clean-looking man—for a feral. He was older than the others with mostly gray hair, wore robes and a fur cloak, and had two iron rings—a sign of wealth.

Another man stood barely five feet, but his brow pointed fearsomely, and unlike the others who were mostly armed with shivs and dodgy old hatches, he carried a sheathed short sword.

Turning to Elowen, Mark nodded. He was again relying on her skills. She read and wrote well—surprisingly rare traits—and he needed a scribe.

All of Elowen’s new duties had her constantly running short on time, so Mark had arranged for her to train another acolyte to assist. And since Dober was still unable to walk long distances, he was volunteered to help keep track of the warehouse.

The boy complained about it to no end. He was a farmer who had never read a word. But that was easily overcome. So far, they traded only about two dozen items, and Elowen simply drew pictures of them for him. And the rest was numbers. Which he also struggled with. But she allowed him to strike lines and then wrote down the proper numbers afterward when she reconciled his work.

With the ferals lined up in front of them. Elowen sat at a table covered in scrolls and ledgers. They had dragged it out from the fort for her to take notes, with a chair beside her for Mark to discuss the details. She had already begun scribbling down notes on the tribune wannabes,noting everything from posture to clothing fabrics.

The acolytes had also brought a dozen or so logs for the ferals to use as props since timber was by far their cheapest resource.

Mark lined the candidates up when she nodded back and explained what they wanted. The first test wasn’t specific; he just wanted them to demonstrate their combat prowess—the display could be anything they wished it to be.

The first man to step forward was a buck-toothed, bald-headed, skinny man. He didn’t look like much at all. But Mark’s jaw quickly slackened as he watched the man remove several knives from his belt and held them between his fingers. He then lined up with a log they had placed as a prop and accurately flung the knives toward it with barely a second between each throw. Six daggers protruded from the center of the log. They weren’t particularly deep, and a few looked as if they were ready to fall out. But flesh wasn’t as hard as timber.

Mark clapped, and Elowen wrote.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The skinny feral nodded, smiled, and went back to the line’s end.

“Alright, next up,” Mark waved.

Trayox stepped forth. He had big expectations for the huge man but found himself a little disappointed. First, he took logs and split them with single strikes from his axe. Then he started picking up the largest logs he could find and hurling them through the air. His strength was undeniable. He was almost certainly the strongest person in the fort and maybe the entire region. But nothing he did seemed particularly skilled.

Mark’s brow curved when the bald woman stepped forward. It wasn’t just that she was the only woman participating. There was a fierce bent to her brow and curl to her lip. Somehow, she looked both mean and gentle, with soft cheeks and big eyes.

As she stepped forward, she threw back her long, fur cloak, revealing a short, curved bow strapped to her back. The act sent whispered chatter through the gathered crowd.

This was the first bow Mark had seen a feral in possession of. He knew that Frontier barbarians used the weapons. But from his understanding, they were reserved for clans—usually high-standing clans that hoarded the knowledge of both their crafting and usage. And while many ferals were former clan members, they were typically stripped of anything of worth when expelled from their respected clans.

Narrowing an eye and closing the other, she peered down her bow in line with the log. As she loosened, the arrow whistled through the air and embedded itself an inch into the log’s heart.

Mark clapped before thinking. The knife throwing was impressive, but they looked like wounding attacks only. That bow could kill.

The other ferals watched her and whispered among themselves, and Mark realized something else. She had exposed herself for the sake of this display.

I like her. I like her a lot.

There were a few others of note. The man with the short sword danced around with finesse. Unfortunately, Mark was no swordsman, so getting a good idea of his skill level was hard. However, he was fairly certain he had some kind of formal training.

The clean, almost noble-looking feral was probably the least capable. He almost felt bad for the old man as he stumbled around with a knife in one hand and an axe in the other. He was clearly winging it. But the man’s soft hands and office-worker vibe had never given Mark the impression he’d be any good with a weapon. And there was more to what he wanted from his tribunes than just warriors.

Mark leaned into Elowen as he mumbled his thoughts, her quill never leaving the paper. So far, he had been quietly impressed. The standard these ferals had displayed seemed higher than what he expected of the average barbarian. But then again, the people he had invited into the fort were the ones who had the courage to stand up for themselves against the cultists. There was a good chance that this act had already provided him with the cream of the crop.

Rising from his chair, he waved the ferals over. He wanted to go over their performances a little more with Elowen and pick at her thoughts before his impression was clouded by the next test. Besides, he figured they could use a rest and would get the most out of them that way.

Mark had Treff cook stew and vegetables for their break to reinforce the value of their newly proposed station. He knew that ferals rarely ate things like deer, and who could resist the lure of a slow-cooked red meat stew when snow falls all around?

“So, what do you think so far?”

“It’s your decision to make, Imperator.”

“I’m aware of that. Just curious what your thoughts were.”

“Well, in that case,” Elowen cleared her throat and flicked through her notes. “The woman—Reida—she’s got skill with a bow. She’d make a fine addition to the wall watch. The big one—Trayox—would make for an intimidating lawkeeper based on strength and size alone. Trumus,” she said, double-checking the name in her notes. “Has clearly been trained with a sword. At the very least, he’d make for a good instructor if you intend to put more ferals to use on a battlefield.”

“Good answers,” Mark stroked his chin.

“And then there’s the knife thrower. Unfortunately, it won’t do much against an attacking force, especially if they come armed with shields. But if the knife thrower—Jaryox—can produce similar results with a throwing axe, he could also be quite valuable.”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

Elowen shrugged. “Axes are bigger; they require more iron to make. Ferals are poor. It’s not inconceivable that he uses throwing knives because they are more—affordable.”

“Any others you have thoughts on?” Mark's brow rose. The girl was smart and had insights into many things he hadn’t considered.

“No, not really. They were the only standouts, in my opinion. I have listed the strengths and weaknesses of the others as I saw them, though,” she added, pushing one of her ledgers toward him.

“Good stuff,” Mark mumbled as he flicked through the pages. She had rated things like speed, strength, and skill on a scale of one to ten—for all of them. “Think you can do something similar for the intelligence and personality tests?”

“I had planned to.”

He eyed the notes. Most were fairly similar to what he had thought, save that they were broken down into numbers. With one test, the numbers weren’t overly important, but it would help weigh their strengths once all three had been completed.

Every candidate had been rated out of a possible maximum score of 30 for each test, and interestingly, Trumus—the sword-wielding feral—had been giving the highest score of 25, despite her verbal praises sounding higher for Reida. But it was clear why when he read through the notes. As for combat value, the female archer had actually rated the highest of all. However, a lack of bows and no fletchers around meant that she had only scored a 2 for her potential as a trainer, and even that had only been given to recognize her potential if they managed to get more bows somehow. Despite his size, Trumus scored highly as a trainer and a warrior, and he even scored decently for strength. Much further down the list was Trayox. He had scored a 10 for strength, but everything else was abysmal.

“Okay, are we ready for the next test?”

“I have been for a while, sir,” Elowen said without raising her eyes from the ledger she scribbled on.