Olpasbet
Olpasbet
The young count remembered.
He remembered every word his father had once told him about the man called Aslan.
The stories themselves had never been particularly remarkable, but watching Aslan now, he found himself unable to stop replaying them.
One detail haunted him more than the rest.
Aslan was stubborn.
He rarely dug in his heels, but when he did, nothing and no one could change his mind.
His remaining lifespan was five years at best. One year at worst. The Equalization he had just invoked might well have shortened it further — and yet Aslan had insisted he would fight personally.
There was no budging that resolve.
Threats, persuasion, appeals to reason and emotion alike — nothing made him yield.
Had it been the recklessness of a man who believed himself immortal, the count might have rebuked him. But Aslan's face held a deep, bone-settled will and something that looked like understanding.
A will that refused to bend even under the shadow of death.
The comprehension of a man who knew he was dying — and knew he could still fight.
The count's words caught in his throat. He could not stop Aslan from leaving the office.
He merely wondered, belatedly, whether this had been the right choice.
But he soon realized the decision had already left his hands, whether right or wrong.
All that lay ahead now was the clash between a Master and a priest.
He shook his head, trying to cast off his worry, and turned toward the work awaiting him.
'Lord Aslan has taken this on himself, so I can set that concern aside for now. The real problem is everything else.'
Most of that work was the cleanup after a rebellion.
To state it plainly, the rebellion had ended in resounding success. The Masters' support and the Baron of Olpasbet's transformation had paved the way.
With the Masters throwing their weight behind the effort, suppressing the revolt had already veered toward impossibility. Then the garrison's own lord, the baron, abruptly mutated into a colossal monster. Most of the guards threw down their weapons and surrendered on the spot.
Count Sholukund had arrived almost immediately after — just before the prisoners could squabble over Olpasbet's spoils, just before they could carry out a mass execution of the garrison troops.
The boy lord used his personal soldiers to cement his implicit authority, then secured Olpasbet by promising a certain standing to the Northern Empire man who appeared to be the rebellion's ringleader.
To those who voiced discontent, he doled out posts tied to Olpasbet or his own domain. When that failed to satisfy, he settled matters by distributing gold and silver directly from his own coffers.
Plentiful coin had solved most problems since time immemorial, and most of the prisoners accepted the arrangement.
The rest was straightforward. Count Sholukund summoned his vassals and relatives, placed them in charge of Olpasbet's administration, and formally annexed the city as his direct territory.
His vassals might object, but their voices would be drowned out in the coming campaign against the Sword of the War God.
That was the boy lord's design.
What remained were the finer details.
Those whose crimes were ambiguous were released. Captives brought in as prisoners were freed. Even those who had been serving sentences for no crime at all were given their liberty.
The problem lay with the handful of prisoners who could not be filtered out so cleanly.
Men with clear-cut guilt. Men imprisoned for political convenience. Prisoners who had enjoyed power through their ties to the previous lord.
The boy lord exhaled heavily as he wrestled with how to handle them.
Aslan also exhaled — in a chamber beyond the office, alone with his thoughts.
He strapped on his armor and reclaimed his weapons, securing them at his waist and across his back. His hand closed around a spear that shone with a golden radiance.
Then, expression complicated, he fixed his gaze on someone waiting for him.
A sigh laced with worry, concern, and a hint of labored breathing. The figures blocking his path flinched at the sound.
"You idiot."
"Tiyamal."
"Can't you think this over one more time?"
Plain, undisguised worry. Aslan tilted his head at the words and gave a wry smile.
The same wry smile as always. But something about it looked fragile.
To Angie and Tiyamal, that fragility was unmistakable.
They knew Aslan had not been born in Geladrion, and that knowledge let them see past the smile to the fear seeped beneath it.
One year, if you judged by what was in front of you. Five years, if luck was generous and you squinted optimistically. Either way — a handful of years, and then nothing.
One year to live. One year to kill every last evil god.
After that, nothing.
It was practically a death sentence in a foreign land, alone. Tiyamal and Angie found themselves aching with a grief that was not their own.
Though Aslan himself seemed to see it differently.
Still wearing that wry smile, he spoke as casually as he always did.
"It's the Sword of the War God. We all have to risk our lives for this. We won't win otherwise."
"That's exactly why I'm telling you to reconsider. You said you'd wipe out the evil gods. You said you'd make the whole world as livable as Belus Alpen. Even if you sit this one out, you can still plan the operation, direct the—"
Aslan shook his head, cutting him off.
"Then people would die. A lot of them. I can't just stand by and watch that."
And as if to finish the interrupted thought, Tiyamal snarled.
His tail thumped the floorboards, agitation made physical.
"So you're not a person, then? Your life's just something to spend and discard? For once in your stubborn life, listen to us. When have we ever not followed your lead? You could at least—"
"That's the point."
Tiyamal's face twisted, and Aslan smiled gently.
"I'm a person. They're people too. I don't think my life weighs any more than anyone else's. So I fight."
Tiyamal's mouth opened and closed without sound.
There were rebuttals — several of them — but in Aslan's steady manner he sensed the immovable shape of a decision already made.
Uncomfortable, he stepped aside. Beside him, Angie spoke up.
"Aslan."
"Angie."
"I don't think you need to fight this time."
"Why?"
"I just... hate it. Hate seeing you hurt. Hate seeing you struggle like that. I just... hate all of it."
She lacked eloquence. But she had conviction.
Angie thought it was unfair — for Aslan to burn through his life for a land that was not his own.
The girl's honesty. Golden eyes that held the faint heat of something fierce. Aslan looked at those eyes and at her clenched fists, then reached out and tousled her hair.
"Thank you."
But he did not say he would do as she asked. The girl, who had not needed long years to learn how stubborn Aslan could be, knew better than to expect otherwise. She pressed her lips together and moved aside.
Past the dragon-kin and the girl, Aslan stepped outside and found the others waiting.
Rumel, her eyes brimming with worry and something raw and desperate. Ereta, head bowed deep, looking ready to wilt on the spot. Fay, clinging to her usual blank expression by sheer force of will.
And beside them, Maria, watching Aslan with an unreadable look, and Richard, shouldering his bag and wearing open discomfort.
Aslan looked at them all and let his expression soften.
With that gentleness still on his face, he spoke to Richard.
"You're heading to Kardi, then?"
"Mm. Looks that way. If we're fighting the Sword of the War God... we'll need my father's help."
"That makes sense. The Hilsinger wealth will be a major asset."
Richard looked as though he had plenty more to say, but he could not bring himself to speak. The strange lightness in Aslan's expression stopped him.
Aslan noticed. Unbothered, he turned to Maria, who was watching with an expression of open interest.
"Your Highness, Princess Maria — may we count on support from the Kingdom of Bida as well?"
"It'll affect my place in the succession, but I can certainly drag some forces along on my own authority."
"Then I'll ask you to do exactly that."
It was a heavy request, but Maria did not refuse.
In the short term, it would cost her political capital. But once the Sword of the War God was truly brought down, the influence she'd gain in return would be enormous.
They did not linger.
Richard, who had not spent much time with Aslan, felt a pang of regret but knew he could not overturn the decision. Maria found Aslan's conviction fascinating and had no desire to obstruct it.
Once they had gone, Aslan turned to Rumel.
Rumel, biting her lip hard, looking on the verge of tears.
She had always suffered from an overactive imagination, and now, too, something was churning behind her eyes.
With that deep sensitivity, she was trying to picture Aslan's life.
Aslan had lost his sense of taste.
When the physician first told her, she had felt a flicker of irritation — a foolish, petty thought: 'I worked so hard on my cooking, hoping he would enjoy it, and he couldn't even taste it.'
But that had been wrong.
So wrong that the brief irritation shamed her, filled her with regret — because Aslan was a man of quiet kindness.
He could have told her the truth and embarrassed her. Made her sad. But he had not.
Hadn't he praised her cooking instead? Hadn't he encouraged her?
Rumel did not know all of Aslan's secrets. But even without knowing, she could feel a deep grief settling into her bones.
And that was why she could not stop him from choosing to fight on, even with only a year left to live.
Rumel's self-worth was too low to permit selfishness, and her noble pride would not allow her to throw a tantrum.
Loving him on her own — pining for him on her own — that was the very limit of what her self-worth and pride would permit.
And the man she pined for, the one she so badly wanted to live, would be dead in a year.
It was tragic. And it was sorrowful.
Her mind warned her that sorrow should not arrive before grief; she stifled it as best she could.
"How can you smile like that?"
The words slipped out before she could catch them. Tears welled in her large brown eyes, and Aslan softened his smile, reaching out.
As if handling something fragile, he folded his index finger and brushed the knuckle gently against the corner of her eye.
Past Rumel's stricken expression, Aslan shook his head.
"I smile because I still can. Because I want to keep smiling, even from now on."
Smiling now would not change what was coming. Aslan would die, one day.
But human beings all died. That was nothing new.
Aslan swallowed his fear and held out the spear to Rumel as tears streaked her cheeks.
A spear that resembled an impossibly long awl, almost a needle. Golden current rippled along its shaft, seizing the eye. Aslan spoke.
"One of the twin spears once wielded by the God of Law and Order. Verdict."
Their eyes met. She lifted her gaze, and Aslan offered a gentle smile.
"Please use it, Lady Rumel. It's an unbreakable spear. You'll find it comfortable to wield."
An unbreakable spear. A golden spear alive with crackling light. Rumel accepted it, and Aslan smiled quietly.
He smothered his fear for the sake of what had to be done. Chewed up his dread and swallowed it down.
The words I don't want to die never left his lips.