High Orc (4)
Vesta woke from sleep.
"Whew. Whew..."
His breathing was ragged. His body was drenched in cold sweat, his face drained of color.
"Was it a dream?"
A formidable enemy he had somehow overcome, a dragon burning with hatred, a steppe reduced to ash and cinders — that was no future any single person could bear.
He wanted it to have been a dream. He wanted to believe it had been nothing more than a terrible nightmare.
[Kid.]
[What's wrong?]
[When that iron gate opens tomorrow, run out of there and don't look back.]
[What are you talking about?]
[Listen to me. You're fast on your feet — you can make it. Right?]
Turning away again, are you?
Like that day, when he had refused to join a meaningless death. Like when he had turned his back and fled rather than die alongside the other gladiators. Was it going to happen again?
"No."
Vesta, his face haggard, gripped the necklace at his throat. The one Ashtien had given him as a gift.
Her crest was engraved upon it — so that he would never lose his way, and so that even if he did, he could always find his way back.
"This time. This time, I won't do that. I won't."
He would protect the place where he belonged, and the world he lived in. That was his resolve. And his promise.
"I will see tomorrow on the steppe."
To do that, he had to find Narinhoon. Find him, and bring him down.
'There's no other way.'
It would be wonderful if he could smuggle the young dragon out, but no matter how he turned it over in his mind, the plan was impossible.
Vesta had no idea where the wyrmling was. The dream had never shown him the mouth of the cave. He didn't even know what the entrance looked like — he could hardly turn over every cave in Anunwaile.
'I have no choice but to answer Narinhoon's demands.'
He had to face the man directly, and put an end to their long, bitter entanglement once and for all.
There was no time to hesitate. Vesta quickly armed himself.
'I need Ashtien's help.'
Fully armed, he stepped out of the tent.
'What is this? Something's off.'
It felt like walking across a thin sheet of ice — and not just any ice, but one with a great hole punched through it. The atmosphere was ominous. Surely Narinhoon hadn't done something dreadful, just as he'd promised.
He needed someone to explain. Hurrying his steps, Vesta spotted a familiar face — an elf belonging to the Keshik.
Her name was Ran, an elf woman with close-cropped hair.
She was even more rigid with military bearing than usual. His premonition, it seemed, had been right on the mark. Catching sight of him, she bowed at the waist.
"Lord Baatar."
"Hello, Ran."
Impatience pushed him straight to the point.
"What happened while I was asleep?"
"There was a clash between the orcs and the satyrs."
A sigh escaped him. He knew how belligerent both races were. Like the goats of the steppe, satyrs were notorious for their foul tempers — and the orcs went without saying.
"They didn't settle it with words, I take it."
"No, my lord. Blood was drawn on both sides."
"Were the casualties heavy?"
"Two orcs and thirteen satyrs are dead."
The numbers were beyond anything Vesta had imagined. This was not a situation that could be smoothed over and brushed aside.
"How are they planning to handle it?"
"The council is still in session."
According to what Ran told him, no proper resolution had been reached because Karakh, the orcs' representative, was absent from his seat.
'Karakh, gone?'
It was a variable, if ever there was one — and there was no telling how it might play out.
Vesta seized Ran by the wrist.
"My lor—?"
"There's a message I need you to deliver to the Khan. Urgently."
As he spoke, Vesta's expression was anything but ordinary. At the words that followed, Ran's face clouded with uncertainty.
"...Pardon?"
"Please."
She clearly couldn't make sense of it. Still, she did not refuse his request, and set off at once.
Vesta suppressed his rising anxiety and waited for Ashtien's answer.
At that very moment, Ashtien was attending a council where the representatives of every race had gathered.
She stood for the elves and the central government, with Ahor and Via attending her.
Voices rose and fell across the chamber.
"So the orcs drew their blades first and started the slaughter?"
The clan head of Altan-gerel was interrogating a satyr who trembled from head to hoof.
"Y-yes..."
He was the sole survivor among the satyrs caught up in the incident.
"I knew it would come to this."
"When has an orc ever been a creature worth trusting?"
The centaur clan heads reacted with open displeasure. They had despised orcs since time immemorial, and spared no breath in condemnation.
"And the one they call the Orc King — still no word of him?"
"So it seems."
"Shall we loose the hounds, then?"
"N-now, surely that's going too far."
Loose the hounds to do what, exactly? The elderly beast-folk could not hide their bewilderment.
"Drag him here by force if you must — the situation demands it."
The hotheads among the centaur clan heads, famous for their coarse tempers, had begun resorting to outright invective.
"They're orcs, after all. Who cares."
As Ashtien saw it, these were men hungry for an excuse.
So an orc presuming to call himself king rubbed you the wrong way, did it? You want to use this chance to cast him down and tear his faction to ribbons, don't you.
It seemed even the centaurs' patience had run dry. And small wonder. Starting with the affair of the Kairan clan head, the rift between the races had only deepened, and deepened again.
Disgusting.
Ashtien raised a hand and cut the exchange short. With a gaze like a drawn blade, she pressed the satyr.
"The way I heard it, it was the satyrs who attacked first."
The goat-like rectangular pupils wavered.
"We had no intention of spilling blood! It was the orcs who drew steel first, and—"
"Where do you find the audacity to raise your voice?"
Ashtien's eyes gleamed cold and sharp. Her usual merciful smile did not follow. There was nothing to be seen but the edge of forged iron.
"Which clan do you belong to, and who are you?"
When the satyr failed to answer at once, Ashtien's brow furrowed.
"Is my word not worth answering?"
"N-no, of course not, Great One!"
The satyr violently denied it and identified himself. Ashtien narrowed her eyes and flicked a finger.
"And why did you provoke the orcs?"
"W-we were insulted, so..."
"You were insulted, and so honor demanded repayment. Is that the shape of it?"
"It is, Great One."
"I see. So that's your story."
Won't that man ever learn to hold his tongue?
The satyr representative looked ready to cram his own hand down the man's throat on the spot.
"So? Did your honor come through it unscathed?"
No answer came. The finger that had been flicking back and forth went still. Ashtien's gaze shifted to the satyr representative.
"Clan head."
"Y-yes, Khan!"
"It seems this one does not deign to take my words as words. So you will answer in his place. Was the honor of the satyrs preserved?"
Oh, Mother Steppe above — why must this trial fall to me...!
"Just how much blood must flow before that honor of yours is satisfied?"
Ah. She's cornering him — how dare you poke a hornet's nest in plain sight, all in the name of protecting your honor.
Ashtien's words carried a crushing weight. Even the aged politician who had stepped forward as the race's representative found her tongue difficult to bear.
'Still so young, and yet her majesty bears down on a person like a mountain.'
Was it inherited from the Great Khan? An intimidation born in the blood itself?
Was the bloodline of kings truly so extraordinary a thing?
"Name your price. I will pay for it with my own blood, if that is what it takes."
The satyr grand clan head prostrated himself flat.
"Heavy as honor may be, it must never be placed above the greater good."
Ashtien did not answer. She looked around at those who hungered for a bloodbath. Their eyes held the light of open flame.
The centaurs. The clan head of Sardema spoke.
"Set your dignity in proper order, Great One."
"And if I gave my blessing, would you have the skill to do it?"
"How can you say such a thing? Sardema stands face to face with the Empire in the east."
"Quite so. Guardians of the east, aren't you. How splendid it would have been, had the sons and daughters of Sardema seen fit to stop this affair before it began."
"That is..."
"Enough."
Ashtien waved them off as though she could not bear the sight of them.
That was when it happened.
"Who goes there."
A woman drew closer. An elf of the Keshik — Ran. Ahor, captain of the royal guard, recognized her subordinate's face.
"She is one of mine."
"Ah. A familiar face."
Ashtien nodded. Ran strode briskly forward — and delivered Vesta's message not to Ashtien, but to Ahor.
It was the wisest choice she could have made. For a mere guardswoman to whisper into the Khan's ear would have taken more courage than most possessed.
"What...?"
At Ahor's bewildered reaction, Ashtien's interest was roused.
"What is it?"
Ahor relayed the report she had received.
Perplexed, Ashtien drew a hand down her smooth jaw. Then she called for Via.
"...Via."
"Yes, Khan."
"Go and escort the Baatar. Follow where he leads."
It was an abrupt command. Not only Via but many others in the chamber wondered at the reason.
The Baatar? You mean—
The warrior who felled the Radiance.
"I entrust him to you."
"...It shall be as you command."
As ever, Via raised no objection. The moment the order was given, she left her seat.
"Now, then. Shall we begin again?"
Not that the council would amount to anything.
With an expression frozen hard as stone, Ashtien called the meeting back to order.