Honor
Honor
Ereta and Aslan said little after that. Not from any awkwardness. Aslan simply had nothing else to say, and Ereta was too embarrassed by her own panting to speak.
So Ereta dressed in silence while Aslan tidied the workshop.
He gathered the used blue-iron needles and scooped the remaining blue iron from the jar back into its mold to set. The soft rustle of Ereta's clothes was the only sound in his ears.
The stillness stretched his hearing wide. Aslan did his best to ignore it. Just as his bustling hands and Ereta's unhurried dressing were finally done, a figure appeared in the workshop doorway.
"The procedure finished?"
The voice was unusually deep for a woman. The kind thick with presence—the kind that seized attention without effort.
Aslan turned his head. Frida stood in the doorway watching him, arms crossed, weight cocked to one side. The pose made the muscles in her forearms stand out.
At her feet lay a beast. Aslan noted it and nodded.
He could guess why Frida had come. And roughly what the reason was.
"The workshop suited me fine. It's inscribed without issue."
"Good. What did you inscribe?"
Aslan finished his cleanup and picked up the cloak he had hung aside. The blade-shaped feathers scraped together with a dry clatter.
"Valor of the Bijo. Along the spine."
"...Oh? You know how to inscribe Valor of the Bijo?"
Frida looked surprised. Aslan gave a self-deprecating smile. She had reason. Valor of the Bijo was one of the more difficult mana tattoos to execute—and its effectiveness matched its difficulty.
Frida was startled that Aslan not only knew of the tattoo but could actually apply it. No one had ever taught him mana tattooing, yet he wielded the skill with ease.
But she didn't find it strange. Aslan had been like this for as long as she'd known him. He knew things he shouldn't know. He mastered skills no one had taught him.
Mana tattooing, she assumed, was just one more example.
And she was right. Aslan had acquired the skill through Magic Tool Proficiency long ago.
"Practice," Aslan said simply.
Frida lingered in the corridor with a noncommittal expression.
Glancing at her—she clearly had business—Aslan fastened his cloak.
"You've finished speaking with the elders, I take it. Am I right?"
Frida nodded instead of answering.
She didn't look surprised that he had anticipated it.
From the moment Aslan had spoken the name Kehil, Throne of the Gods, they'd had no other path to choose.
He already knew of Kehil. That he could foresee this much of the outcome seemed to settle quietly in her expression as unsurprising acceptance.
"The alliance. We accept. From this moment, the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom is an ally of the Master of Combat Aslan."
She spoke without hesitation. The Mountain Kingdom had no road back.
Aslan nodded, satisfied. The rustling ceased, and Ereta stepped out. Cold sweat had plastered strands of hair to her skin, lending her an oddly erotic air.
Frida glanced at Ereta, then looked Aslan up and down before continuing.
"There is one condition."
"...A condition?"
Aslan caught the implication in that look and stood a little straighter. His indifference made Frida drop the suspicion. She blinked slowly.
"The chieftain of the Honor Tribe died suddenly. Recently. You knew?"
"...No, I hadn't heard. How recently?"
"Less than a month. A few weeks now, perhaps."
She leaned against the corridor wall and turned her head, taking in the long stretch of hallway. No one else was there.
"The Honor Tribe is electing a new chieftain, but the matter seems to have stalled. You are going to go settle it."
Aslan understood.
The Honor Tribe was the second-largest tribe after the Crown Tribe.
In pure territory, they held less land than the Crown Tribe—but their density was far greater.
Rich mines and well-developed cities made the Honor Tribe the one that fielded the most warriors.
Their mastery of mining and metalcraft also made them the only tribe in all Baramunz to field heavily armored warriors.
For Aslan, who wanted Baramunz's military strength and sought this alliance, the Honor Tribe's forces were not something he could afford to omit.
So the condition made sense.
The problem was the chieftain's sudden death.
"But... assassination? Or a priest?"
"Neither."
Frida shrugged and stared blankly down the corridor. At the end of her gaze was a memory. The miserable death of a chieftain who would have been middle-aged.
Pathetic death, more like.
"Choked on a rice cake, they say. I don't know the details. The important thing isn't the dead man, so let's move past that..."
She pushed herself upright with a grunt and fixed her glossy blue eyes on Aslan.
"The important thing is whether the next chieftain is pro-Crown Tribe or not."
"...Yes."
"I want the next chieftain to be pro-Crown Tribe."
Blunt as a hammer. Aslan understood that, too. The Baramunz Mountain Kingdom might call itself a monarchy, but its foundation was tribal. A tribe's identity or a chieftain's disposition could easily turn them against the Crown Tribe.
"Even if you fail, the alliance stands. But... if you want to achieve your goals, you'll want the Honor Tribe on our side. Won't you?"
If the Honor Tribe rejected the Crown Tribe and refused the alliance, Aslan would be the one to suffer for it.
In a situation where every scrap of military strength was precious, losing even a portion would hurt far worse than mere disappointment. It would cut to the bone.
And the possibility of betrayal only made it worse. He needed to secure them.
"What would you have me do? Back one of the chieftain candidates?"
Frida stared at him, then shook her head.
What came out of her mouth was not what Aslan had expected.
"Dwarf hunt."
*
"Dwarf hunt?"
Tiyamal's voice was baffled. Aslan nodded.
"Yes. Dwarf hunt."
"...Dwarves are something that needs hunting now? I mean, they're a nuisance, but..."
Tiyamal scratched his head, visibly thrown. Asking for a dwarf hunt at all—let alone asking the Master of Combat directly—struck him as anything but normal.
The look on his face was enough that even Aslan, reading it, said nothing.
Amid the quiet of the group, the clanking of metal rang noisily.
"...What's a dwarf?"
Angie asked as if the word meant nothing to her. Freed from her two-handed axe for the first time in a while, she wore simple cloth clothes and leather boots. No other gear.
Unlike her more heavily armed companions, Angie stood there in her light clothing with her hands laced behind her head.
Aslan answered.
"Dwarves are... small monsters. They appear in caves or deep in the mountains. About the size of a child. They attack in groups. Quick on their feet, and their handiwork isn't bad."
Listening to the simple explanation, Angie glanced aside. Fay was there, a small pack on her back, twisting a lock of her own hair around her finger.
Fay caught the look and blinked her blue-violet eyes.
"Fay is an Elf. Not a dwarf!"
Angie blinked at the flat-toned reply, and Fay puffed out her cheeks in displeasure.
"Dwarves aren't cute. Fay is cute."
"Who said anything?"
Of course, the implication had been clear enough, but Fay chose not to press the point. She knew it wouldn't get her anywhere.
Instead she aimed a sulky look at Angie, who meekly scratched her cheek and turned back to Aslan. The sound she made—a soft "uh..."—was a request for explanation.
Aslan kept his eyes on the massive iron slab that had yet to rise.
"Fay's right. Dwarves are humanoid, but they're not human. They're monsters."
Angie still looked lost, so Aslan added,
"They're covered in fur like an animal's. Fur that hangs down from the jaw like a long beard."
"Ah, that way."
Angie laughed, and Fay thumped her fist against Angie's ribs—a tiny fist, but insistent. Angie apologized through her laughter.
While the two girls tussled, Ereta tilted her head.
"Isn't something... strange about this?"
Angie's expression turned puzzled. The rest of the party either nodded knowingly or stayed silent.
When even Fay, who looked younger than Angie, seemed to grasp it, Angie grew flustered.
"Wh-what... am I the only one who doesn't get it? Tell me too."
"...What this old one knows is that dwarves aren't that strong. In groups they're a nuisance, but... truth be told, I could handle them alone even without my bow. A monster-brat like you could beat them lying down."
Meaning they weren't a normal threat level. Angie's eyes went wide at the idea of winning while lying down, and she turned as Aslan picked up Tiyamal's thread.
"I'm a foreigner, Master or not. The kind of task you don't hand over lightly when an outsider volunteers. Something is definitely off."
Aslan was right. When they'd reached the Honor Tribe's city, the warriors' reaction had been not wariness but welcome.
They'd been glad to see Aslan's party arrive to handle the dwarf problem.
That was what was strange.
"The Honor Tribe is known for heavy armor. The kind of armor that would let them ignore dwarves' crude weapons and swarm tactics and just roll over them. So why borrow outside help instead of exterminating them with their own strength?"
"I don't know, but this old one's scales aren't itching for no reason..."
Tiyamal lifted his head as the massive iron gate rose. Chains wound and the gate climbed upward, its surface riddled with loopholes.
Beyond that steel barrier—more a bulwark than a gate—lay the city.
A city of the Honor Tribe, existing entirely underground. One of the finest metalworking cities in the region.
Kuramunz.
The moment the gate opened, Aslan led the party inside.
It was a fine city. Metal and mine carts everywhere, leading to the tunnels. Busy miners and smiths. Everything proclaimed the city's identity and its strength.
As they stepped into the vast underground city with its dizzyingly high ceiling, Angie looked around in wonder.
"Wow, why is every city here huge?"
No one pointed out that it was a city. Aslan spotted a warrior approaching to greet them.
A figure in full heavy plate extended a hand for a handshake—
—!
A shockwave rippled up through the soles of their feet. A deafening roar followed.
At the same instant, a presence made itself felt. Mana.
Aslan flinched and turned his head. Flame was erupting from the mine shaft that ran alongside the ore-cart tracks.
KWA-A-A-ANG!
A thunderous blast. A gout of fire. In the roar that seemed to shake the bedrock itself, Aslan's expression tightened. The warrior who had been offering a handshake spun around in alarm.
"Goddamn..."
The first sound out of the warrior's mouth was a curse. Aslan followed his gaze and saw figures fleeing from the mine shaft.
"Magic! The dwarves are using magic!"
Mixed in with the chaos and the fleeing, screaming people was another shout: "It's them again!"
Only then did Aslan understand why they had called in outsiders to exterminate the dwarves.
Monsters using magic.
A wild mage.