Anton
Anton
Flames danced and writhed in the hearth. Curled up so close to the fire that a few of his own garments were singed, Tiyamal sat wrapped in every blanket and scrap of clothing he could find.
He didn't seem to care.
"Tiyamal, you might actually catch fire at this rate."
Ereta's words were edged with genuine concern, but the dragon-kin only shook his head.
"I'd rather burn, I think... I am done with the cold. Done with the outside, too."
The voice was too frail to be his, though half of it was clearly a joke. Ereta pressed her fingers to her brow and shook her head, while Fay, who had been flopping and rolling around on the long sofa, rubbed her cheek against the upholstery and chimed in.
"Lizard's pathetic!"
"Yes... this old man is pathetic. But... if being pathetic keeps me alive... I'll be as pathetic as I need to be."
A line that would have fit right into some grand awakening scene. Aslan let out a dry chuckle, and Tiyamal giggled to himself as he pulled his collar tighter.
Comfortable. The crackling of the hearth, the warm air, a sense of ease that made every muscle go slack—it all seeped through the room like incense.
How long had it been since he'd felt this at ease? Aslan leaned back into the sofa and let his gaze drift over his companions, all resting in their own ways.
Angie had kicked off her prized dragon-leather boots and was wiggling her toes. Fay had slithered over and buried her head in Aslan's lap. Ereta was stealing glances at him while fidgeting with her fingers.
Most of them seemed willing to accept the comfort for what it was. There weren't many of them here at the moment, and Aslan didn't mind that in the slightest.
"...Aslan. Should we be worried about Rumel?"
Angie, still wiggling her toes, suddenly spoke up.
"Worried how?"
"You know. Getting eaten. Turned into a test subject."
So that was the image Anton projected. Aslan let a faint smile touch his lips and shook his head.
"Nothing like that's going to happen. The reason he took her was probably ordinary enough."
"How can you be so sure? Do you know each other well?"
This time it was Ereta who asked. She spoke, then casually scooted closer and settled beside him. Inching her hips over by degrees until Fay simply draped her legs across Ereta's lap and stretched out.
"To some extent."
"Is there truly no chance he'll betray us?"
Tiyamal this time, poking only his snout out as he asked. Aslan rubbed his chin and shrugged.
"I can't say there's zero chance, but from what I saw, he hasn't turned."
Of course, no one could say how the world might change. Just as Itar had been poisoned, just as the Master of Combat had been replaced, Anton might have gone over to the priests' side.
Even so, Aslan found it difficult to picture Anton betraying them. The idea that the man could have crushed his own madness and thirst for vengeance and sworn himself to another god simply didn't arise.
And the reason was simple.
'He's like me.'
The same kind of human.
It was a flimsy basis, but his companions didn't press for more. Aslan had been keeping secrets for so long that they'd largely stopped caring. And it wasn't as if it weighed on them, either.
If they'd truly been weighing the odds of Anton's betrayal, they never would have set foot inside his tower in the first place.
Comfortable silence settled once more. Ereta leaned gently against Aslan's shoulder, and Angie, with a disgruntled look, scrambled awkwardly to her feet—
"Sorry, I'm a little late, aren't I?"
—only to trip over her own feet and plop right back down as Rumel appeared out of nowhere.
About an hour had passed. When they all looked over, curious about the delay, the reason was on full display.
New clothes, carefully draped over Rumel's body.
A deep crimson velvet dress.
The sort of garment that would take considerable time to put on alone. The bodice was cut a little small, leaving her cleavage clearly visible—a warm Northern Empire-style dress of excellent craftsmanship. Even the exposed skin of her chest was mostly hidden by a bear-fur cloak so cozy-looking it erased any hint of lewdness. A masterpiece.
Even Ereta's eyes widened as she murmured, "So pretty."
"The chest is a little tight, but... does it suit me?"
Rumel smiled shyly as she looked at Aslan. A beat later, Aslan recalled her earlier confession and the declaration of her one-sided feelings, and he nodded.
"It suits you very well. You are of noble birth, after all—you wear it naturally."
The woman covered her mouth with the end of her braid and gave a bashful little smile. The dark crimson velvet fluttered as she stepped forward and dipped her head.
When Rumel claimed the spot beside him, Aslan sensed the mana flowing through the garment. Visible mana, perceptible only through his Luck and mana sense. Densely woven threads of power swam through the seams, embodying an invisible effect into the fabric.
Both the mana and the tailoring were of the highest order. An old man's madness and obsession had been poured into every stitch—a truly unique piece.
"It's enchanted," Aslan murmured, almost to himself.
Rumel's eyes widened as if she hadn't known. Tiyamal glanced at her and let out a derisive little snort.
"Is it laced with something strange? If he's really betrayed us, I'd expect some nasty spell woven in there."
A reasonable assumption. But unlikely. Aslan opened his mouth to answer, and Rumel spoke first.
"It isn't. I think."
The words were stolen from him. He looked at Rumel and saw her twirling the end of her braid around a finger, her hazel eyes darting here and there. She'd fallen silent because she had no way to explain her judgment. Aslan watched her profile and gave a confirming nod.
"Rumel's probably right. Whatever magic is in that dress, it isn't meant to harm you."
"Hmm, is that so? Well, this old man knows nothing of magic. Can't say I follow your reasoning."
"I still think it's suspicious. I don't like it. Never been fond of old-timers to begin with."
Tiyamal's dubiousness and Angie's open suspicion. Aslan didn't bother explaining. His own reasoning was solid.
Anton was a man who had lost his entire family to the Sword of the War God. Remembering that his daughter had died at a Warrior Monk's hands, the magic woven into that dress was surely the unconscious manifestation of a refusal to lose her again. The enchantment would be protective in nature. A defensive spell far superior to the dress Ereta had bought back in the City of Mages.
Why he'd mistaken Rumel for his daughter was unclear, but Aslan considered obtaining an item like this a definite gain. If they were bringing him on as a companion, they might as well improve the clothing for Ereta, Fay, and Angie while they were at it. Tiyamal tended to strip his off anyway, so ignoring him was easier.
As that thought settled, the sound of footsteps rose from the stairs below.
Aslan turned his head, wondering what had taken so long. The door swung open, and Anton stepped into view. He was carrying a tray laden with portions of meat and stew for everyone present.
Large, ominous-looking meat that must have been red before it was cooked.
"Aren't you hungry? I thought it was time for a meal, so I prepared something."
"Okay, I think I like him now. I'm willing to accept this old man as a companion."
Angie's attitude flipped in an instant. The girl grinned as she accepted the food, and the others also took their portions and settled in.
"Anton."
"Mm? What is it?"
"Is this, by any chance... the deer that was outside?"
"Huh?"
At the exchange between Anton and Aslan, everyone's spoons stopped moving. They all looked up, gauging the situation.
"Did I bring something I wasn't supposed to?"
A collective sigh answered Anton's question.
*
What is dead does not return. This is a self-evident truth. Even a life that is needed right now—once it has departed, it does not come back.
Most of them were Masters, and every one of them had taken a life before. So the fact that the only deer that could have gotten them through this region quickly was dead required no further explanation. The deed was done, and there was no undoing it. Aslan had killed the one being who had founded and uniquely commanded necromancy magic, so reassembling the deer from the meat boiling in the stew, the stripped bones, and the roasted cuts was impossible.
So the party accepted the situation. They simply ate well, occasionally leveled reproaches at Anton, and rested. They used the bathhouse beneath the tower to bathe for the first time in a long while, then gathered around the warm hearth to rest.
At the end of that rest, they gathered again in the hearth room. Around the time Angie was nodding off and finally fell asleep against Fay's shoulder, Aslan decided to ask Anton for his help.
That they were going to hunt the Sword of the War God. That his firepower and devious cunning were needed. That the alliance was already assembled, and they would lure the target out at a specific location.
He meant to explain all of it, but Anton didn't listen. The moment the words "Sword of the War God" left Aslan's mouth—the instant that name was spoken—Anton cut him off.
Then he said, "Good. I'm with you."
Anton needed no further explanation. No persuasion would have swayed him, because none was required. Hunting the Sword of the War God—the wizened Warrior Monk who had slaughtered his entire family and robbed him of his left arm and left leg. The Sword of the War God. The single fact that they were going to kill him was all it took for Anton to throw his life into the cause.
"Thank you."
Aslan, who understood this, simply offered his gratitude. Tiyamal, his expression uneasy, asked,
"Shouldn't you hear more? Do you even know how good our odds are...?"
"I don't need to. I've always wanted to kill the Sword of the War God."
Anton spoke, then glanced briefly at Rumel. His eyes were warm and gentle, tinged with a deep, aching tenderness—the gaze of a man looking at his own daughter. Rumel's eyes reddened at the sight, and Anton smiled softly before turning back to Tiyamal.
"My daughter has returned to me, but my vengeance is not dead. He killed my son. He murdered my wife, and he tried to kill me. I have not forgotten that sight."
He ground his teeth, his eyes flaring with a terrible light. The emotion burning in that brilliant gaze was pure killing intent. And as he let that intent blaze, he picked up the crossbow that stood nearby and presented it.
A repeating crossbow, its bolt housing a large cylindrical chamber, covered in magical sigils and extensive modifications. He held it up and spoke.
"The last work my son ever made. I won't close my eyes until I drive a wind-hole through that bastard's heart with this. So no matter what you lot say, I'm going to kill him."
Only then did the party seem to grasp why Aslan had said the only problems were tracking him down and escaping afterward. Anton the Master of Magic. Persuasion had never been necessary.
His madness burned for the Warrior Monk alone. A chill ran through the companions as they watched Anton rise from his seat. He was walking toward the tower's exit when their puzzled stares followed him, and just as someone was about to ask where he was going—
—a thunderous boom echoed from far in the distance.
The party flinched and started to reach for their weapons. Anton raised a hand, stopping them. Then, with the explosion still ringing in their ears as a backdrop, he plucked his coat from the hook on the wall and shrugged it on. He donned a plague-doctor mask and a hat. He began thumbing bolts into the magazine of his repeating crossbow.
Beyond the metallic clicks of each round seating home, the old man spoke.
"Stay seated."
He stood before the tower door, his coat hanging at an angle, countless weapons and tools clinking softly beneath it. His eyes, stained with fury and madness, were smiling.
As if this moment were the most thrilling thing he could imagine.
"I have guests to entertain."
And he pulled back the crossbow's bolt handle.
Clack!
The weapon sang as it locked. Somewhere on the wind, Aslan thought he could hear the agonized scream of a Warrior Monk.