The First Snow of the Northern Empire
The First Snow of the Northern Empire
A moose with an empty saddle.
The beast favored by scouts and light cavalry—warriors whose work demanded speed.
That saddle now held not its rider's body, but only his severed head.
The creature ambled back into camp, and the red trail it dragged behind it scattered clotted flesh in a wake of death.
Those death-marks, the blood-soaked mud, were soon smeared over by the human wreckage hauled across them.
The great host built upon Valder's strength stared at those returning moose and recoiled.
The scene conjured some impossibly gruesome riding accident, but nothing in nature made corpses like these, and every man there knew it at once.
Several moose were approaching in that same condition, dragging what remained of their masters.
The men they had parted ways with had been scouts—scouts dispatched from this very encampment.
Scouts among whom were warriors who had achieved monsterization.
Warriors ordered to slip in, observe briefly, and withdraw before they could be detected.
They were all dead now.
The cause was starkly obvious. Where a heart ought to have been, each body bore one enormous hole.
As Aslan took in the carnage, one of the warriors spoke.
"It's the Knight of Lelanda... that monster did this."
A warrior who had himself undergone monsterization, calling another warrior a monster. The Knight of Lelanda carried that name and many others besides—deeds and epithets piled high.
Tales of victory against dozens of horsemen, alone. Accounts of a sprint through dense woodland at a speed no one could credit. A living battering ram who could vault a ravine from a standing leap and whose hands bore horns like a knight's lance. One of the mightiest powers in the region.
As Aslan sifted through the rumors the warriors traded, a frightened soldier's voice cut through.
"He's coming to annihilate us! We'll end up just like they did!"
A wail of fear and despair—exactly the terror you would expect from an ordinary warrior who had not yet achieved monsterization.
Beside him, another warrior twisted his mouth into a sneer.
"Ha. Scared, are you? Then why don't you trot over to Lelanda Valley and bend over for him?"
The reaction made it clear that the Northern Empire men were not inclined to take the threat seriously. Most of them did not truly believe an attack was coming.
But Aslan thought the frightened warrior was right.
[Sub-Quest in Progress]
[ ! Defeat Astrid the Wailing, priest of Self-Birthing Mother]
[ ! Defeat the Monster of Kravrig, priest of Self-Birthing Mother]
[ ! Defeat the Knight of Lelanda, priest of Self-Birthing Mother]
The system window floating before his eyes was proof enough.
And as that window made plain, the Knight of Lelanda was not the only enemy.
Not long after, dead and wounded began arriving at the encampment in droves.
These were the warriors who had been sent out when the supply lines ran into trouble.
Brave fighters of the Northern Empire, many of them monsterized—men not easily brought down.
Though their valor was hard to recognize now, given they had been shredded to ribbons.
"Kravrig... the Monster of Kravrig is coming! He's coming to kill us all!"
The one warrior still clinging to life blurted those words before slitting his own throat with a dagger, and by then a council in the encampment was inevitable.
They dismantled the existing command tent and raised a larger one in its place.
Inside that vast pavilion, spacious enough to hold more than a dozen men, the warriors gathered alongside Aslan and Rumel.
With a map spread across the table at the center, they laid out what they had deduced.
The first to speak was a warrior with the head of a wolf. He jabbed a finger against the map.
The spot he struck was Habrisg.
The imperial capital of the Northern Empire, its most developed city, the seat of the throne that symbolized the Emperor's authority.
Now a place under the dominion of the imperial court mages.
And he said,
"Even if we were just going to smash Habrisg, it'd be close to impossible. But now we've got three bastards bearing down on us at once! And worse—they aren't content to just sit there. They're actively trying to crush us!"
His vocabulary was crude, utterly removed from noble speech, but most of the Blessed Ones seemed to agree with his sentiment even if they did not share his lack of polish.
"He is correct. Last time, my subordinates went out to hunt and came back in pieces. Right now, we are the ones being hunted."
The warriors nodded along with the measured observation. Aslan watched them and understood that whatever their shifting opinions, the reality was exactly as described.
At the same time, he could guess what had happened behind the scenes.
'Self-Birthing Mother must have given her priests their orders. That's why they're all attacking simultaneously.'
The coordinated timing alone told him that much.
Whether they were actually allied with one another was another question entirely.
The warriors, however, seemed to have concluded they were, and immediately a torrent of grievance and emotion broke loose.
"What will we do? Preemptive strike? Counterattack? Or set up wooden palisades and dig in for a defense...?"
"Defense is the worst option! I've crossed blades with the Knight of Lelanda before! I lost my right arm that day, and it took two months to regenerate! And I have a feeling I am about to lose my right arm all over again."
The warrior who swallowed up the murmuring with his own voice had a crocodile's tail. He rubbed at his right arm and added,
"I say we must strike the Knight of Lelanda first. He is a being who renders fortresses and palisades meaningless! Just like His Majesty Valder, he possesses the dragon-leap to vault over any stronghold—!"
"Attacking together lacks honor. I do not care for it."
The one who cut off the crocodile-tailed warrior was a former knight and Blessed One called the Bloodstained Axe.
Her face hidden by her helm, she spoke, and a lion-headed warrior they called Red Mane interjected smoothly.
"The God of War and Knowledge was fond of group beatings too."
"...History lessons are beside the point! If we must take them with a joint assault, our first target should be the Monster of Kravrig."
At that, eyes turned toward her, and the helmed warrior woman explained.
"The Monster of Kravrig is a true monster. It took him only half a day to devour every village along the coast."
"But if we try to deal with Kravrig first, we'll be the ones bleeding. You know perfectly well what he is capable of!"
The argument swirled. One warrior, who had been silent until now, bared his teeth and snarled.
"Drop this childish squabbling over who is stronger. The real threat we face is the mages of Habrisg. We all know how troublesome mages can be."
This was the elder known as Noikjang, who wore the face of a young man—his youth restored by the Blessing.
He swept back his stark white hair and rapped his knuckles against the map.
"The power of the Imperial Household, which has lain dormant for so long—if the imperial court mages take the field, it won't matter how many Blessed Ones we have. We will lose. We'll be overrun in an instant. Our priority must be Habrisg!"
"I disagree! No matter what the old man thinks—!"
What followed was a cascade of opinions. Every warrior had a different idea of which target should come first, and the talk spilled out unchecked, a tangle of arguments that could not even sort themselves into clear sides.
In the chaos of clashing words, Aslan sat quietly, only his eyes moving.
His teal gaze found Rumel.
Rumel was already looking at him in silence.
When their eyes met, the woman conveyed her meaning with a glance. Aslan interpreted it and nodded.
Thud. Thud!
"Silence!"
She acted at once, driving the butt of her spear against the ground and shouting the command.
The warriors fell still as if the uproar had never happened.
The hushed assembly turned toward Rumel, and she read their gazes.
Eyes that held expectation, a trace of affection, admiration.
In the Northern Empire, where strength was the highest value—and where the flood of Blessed Ones had only intensified that—such looks were only natural.
Rumel was a powerhouse who had overpowered them all with a woman's slender body.
Add to that her striking beauty and generous figure, and General Rumel was something like an idol to the entire warrior host.
'Not that Geladrion has anything like idols.'
Aslan was half-lost in idle thoughts when Rumel gestured toward him with her chin.
"Advisor."
The warriors' eyes shifted to Aslan.
This time, their gazes came freighted with fear and contempt.
Aslan offered an awkward grin at the renewed attention.
Unlike Rumel, his reputation among them was not particularly good.
He could not tell whether it was because of his epithet, General-slayer, or because of the way he stayed so close to Rumel.
In any case, Aslan met the warriors' stares and then, without much ceremony, opened his mouth.
"The mages of Habrisg are a serious threat."
They had no choice but to listen to him, after all.
"The magic they wield is formidable. It descends directly from the aggressive combat magic of the ancient empire, so that's to be expected. Against a large-scale army like ours, their spells will shine."
At that, the rejuvenated old man let a faint smile flicker across his face. Aslan ignored that smile and kept going.
"...But that doesn't mean we can leave the Knight of Lelanda or the Monster of Kravrig to do as they please."
Now the youthful-looking elder frowned. Aslan continued.
"As powerful as those mages are, the strength of these two Blessed Ones is anything but ordinary."
Of course, their strength came from the fact that they were priests.
And not just ordinary priests—Named Priests.
They were Named Priests Aslan did not personally know, but he did not believe the system window had misidentified their titles.
If they were not Named Priests, the quest would simply have read, "Defeat the priests of Self-Birthing Mother."
That was the key point.
The fact that they were priests of Self-Birthing Mother.
Priests of Self-Birthing Mother were consistently powerful.
Where beings like the Predator or the God of War tended to grant authority scaled to an individual's talent, Self-Birthing Mother was more like a tree that gave without reserve.
The god's own power might be on par with the Predator's, or even slightly weaker, but on the level of priests, Self-Birthing Mother's servants held the advantage.
So these two—the Monster of Kravrig and the Knight of Lelanda—would be formidable adversaries.
They could not simply be ignored.
"The threat these two pose is not significantly less than the kind of force those mages can bring to bear."
"...So what exactly are you proposing, Advisor?"
A warrior cut in, his tone openly hostile. Aslan turned his head to face him directly, and the man flinched, his shoulders twitching hard before he managed to add,
"If both the mages and these two are dangerous, then what do you want us to do? Split the army three ways and fight them all at once? Then we—"
"Then we all die. I know. I haven't finished speaking, so keep quiet and listen."
Whether it was the irritation of the General-slayer that he sensed, the warrior shut his mouth. Aslan let out a short breath and spoke again.
"That is why the main army will focus on Habrisg."
"...Didn't you just say the Monster of Kravrig and the Knight of Lelanda were dangerous as well?"
This time the objection came from the old man who had regained his youth through monsterization. He crossed his arms, radiating displeasure. Aslan nodded.
"I did. And I know what you want to ask. You're asking why, if I've just told you how dangerous they are, I'm now talking as if we can ignore them."
The old man fixed him with a dubious stare. Aslan met it levelly.
"Their forces are also vast, and they are led by extremely powerful Blessed Ones. They've made their hostility unmistakably clear. So throwing our army at them would be a blunder."
"What are you thinking?"
The question came from the helm-wearing woman, the Bloodstained Axe. Aslan folded his arms and looked at Rumel.
Rumel met his eyes, a flicker of confusion in her own. Aslan spoke.
"The ones ruling Habrisg are the imperial mages. The Knight of Lelanda and the Monster of Kravrig have no connection to them. At a glance, it looks like we're surrounded and encircled, but... they are not allies. Their strategic perceptions merely overlap for the moment."
"How can you be so certain?"
The Bloodstained Axe fired her question back at once. Aslan uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table.
"Are you not seeing it even now? The Monster of Kravrig and the Knight of Lelanda are acting independently."
Confused expressions around the room. Aslan elaborated.
"If they were coordinating, they would have struck together either when we were preparing to attack Habrisg or when Habrisg's mages mobilised. That would have been far more efficient. But they haven't."
Aslan straightened and nodded with conviction.
"Do you know why? Because after they finish us, they don't want to find themselves isolated against one another. That means the possibility of an alliance between them does not exist."
At last the warriors' faces cleared with understanding. Aslan turned his gaze back to Rumel.
"So here is my plan. While General Rumel pins those two Blessed Ones down—through negotiation or duels—"
His finger tapped against the map on the table, tracing precisely the domains of the two great powers. The warriors watched him.
"—we will shatter Habrisg."
When his finger moved to the spot marking the capital, the warriors' eyes shifted to Rumel.
One of them ventured,
"The general...?"
Rumel met their collective stare.
Then she met Aslan's eyes.
Those teal eyes, brimming with certainty.
Rumel looked into them and nodded.
"Better than sitting still and dying of thirst, would you not agree?"
She rose with affected dignity and raised her voice.
"Warriors of the Empire, prepare for battle!"
At their idol's cry, the warriors roared their approval.
*
When the council ended, Rumel was loading supplies onto a moose—the Northern Empire's common mount.
She was in the middle of securing the saddlebags when the moose placidly flared its nostrils. Seated atop it, Fay swung her legs idly.
Aslan had sent Fay along, refusing to let Rumel go alone.
"Finished packing?"
"No, not yet...."
"Hurry up. Fay is bored."
The elf's whining could have passed for an ordinary child's, but Rumel knew perfectly well that Fay was among the deadliest fighters in their party.
If Fay had been assigned to accompany her, the importance of this mission had to be considerable.
Rumel's shoulders tightened under an invisible weight.
She was still adjusting to that pressure when Fay, who had been perched on the moose, let out a soft "Ah" and only then noticed someone approaching.
"Aslan!"
Fay flung herself off the moose and straight at him.
The elf buried her face against his chest, heedlessly rubbing her cheek and hair into it.
Wearing an awkward expression, Rumel spoke to Aslan as he held the girl.
"Aslan. What brings you here?"
"I had something to deliver."
He set Fay back on the ground.
His answer was short. From behind his back he produced what he had been hiding and offered it to her.
It was a longsword that radiated a sense of familiarity.
Even Fay, who had been pretending to sulk over the lost embrace, flinched at the sensation.
"Uh, is that..."
Fay accepted the sword, her hands finding the hilt with the ease of long acquaintance. A familiar weight. A familiar texture. It felt as though the two swords Fay had once wielded had been fused into a single blade.
When she gripped the scabbard and slid the blade partway free, the light that leaked from between leather and steel was red.
Just like her old twin swords, Twilight and Dawn.
Watching Fay's reaction, Aslan said,
"Yeah, it's exactly what you think. It took a while, but... I asked the smiths to repair them."
It had become a single longsword now. Fay did not seem to mind. She beamed.
"...Thank you! I love you, Aslan!"
This was no act—she meant it. The elf girl threw her arms around him again, and Aslan, with a rueful smile, stroked her back. Seeing the two of them together, Rumel let a fond smile slip free herself.
"I gather you came to give her the sword."
"...Ah, that's not it. I came because I have something to say to you, too."
More precisely, something to impress on her before she left.
At his added words, Rumel's expression turned questioning. Aslan rubbed his chin.
"The Monster of Kravrig and the Knight of Lelanda—they're both priests. And not just any priests. They'll be warriors whose martial prowess matches their priestly authority."
Rumel blinked at the sudden pronouncement. Aslan let his face settle into deliberate seriousness.
"I told you before that a person doesn't fall to fear or sorrow alone... but if things get truly dangerous, run. That's why I'm sending Fay with you."
The elf girl lifted her head with a questioning "Hmm?" at the sound of her name.
Rumel had indeed wondered why Aslan had assigned Fay, one of their party's strongest, to her. Now she nodded as if it made sense.
Aslan held her gaze and spoke earnestly.
"Crushing the priest threat and bringing the Northern Empire into the alliance matters—but you and the others matter more to me. Always put your life first."
The words might have sounded condescending, as though he found her unreliable. Rumel listened with nothing more than a slow blink—then reached out and gently stopped him.
"I am not a child. I learned how to avoid life-threatening situations well enough during my mercenary days, so please do not worry so much."
Her reply was shaped into a soft smile, but a trace of stiffness lingered in her tone.
Before Aslan could fully register that stiffness, Rumel forced the smile wider and erased it.
"Still, thank you for worrying. It is nice when a man one likes shows concern. It feels as though he is paying attention—it gives me energy, I suppose."
But you will not need to worry.
When Rumel added that, Aslan watched her with an unease that did not fade, then finally said he understood and turned back.
He glanced over his shoulder at her several times as he walked away, but Rumel did not look back. She climbed onto her moose and departed.
Watching her go, Aslan could not shake the feeling of dread.
Logically, he had more reason to worry about the situation here than about her mission.
And yet something about the sight of Rumel riding away sent his anxiety climbing, as though catastrophe were already in motion.
The dread did not last long.
A day after Rumel's departure, just as the Northern Empire's first snow began to fall on the encampment,
half the common soldiers were dead.
The cause was death by freezing.
In other words, Astrid the Wailing had arrived.