Honor
Honor
Hidden by the sprawl of the underground city, Gobil watched Aslan. From a guard post overlooking the main gate, he saw the party walk in silence.
They approached the steel gate—the sole entrance to Kuramunz and a gate that had never fallen since the city's founding.
What are you really after?
Gobil could not read Aslan's intentions. What he could see was obvious enough. On its face, Aslan's scheme looked straightforward: with Bersothof close by, he meant to bring warriors and swallow up the Honor Tribe.
That was what troubled Gobil.
Aslan already knew Gobil had bargained with the priest. He had heard from his younger brother about the assassination attempt. A man like Aslan would not settle for something so crude.
Was there another layer to it?
Was even this suspicion playing into the man's hands?
Had Dorel been part of it from the start?
Unable to untangle Aslan's thinking, Gobil wavered. But the wavering did not last. The steel gate opened, and the party passed through.
A white-haired woman, a girl with scarlet hair, a tall red-scaled Dragon-kin, and Aslan himself. The four of them stepped out in turn, and the steel gate sealed shut.
Whatever Aslan's plan was, Gobil told himself, there was no way he could breach that gate. If he realized the trap and tried to force his way back in, or brought warriors, it would already be too late.
By then, Acting-Chieftain Gobil would be Chieftain. The divinity would belong to the Poison-spitting Dragon.
Gobil pushed down the unease creeping through him and descended from the guard post. He had to save his tribe, no matter the cost.
His steps carried him away from the post, warriors falling in at his back. They headed for his residence, slipping inside as if nothing were amiss.
The stream of warriors guided Gobil to the deepest chamber. A knot of them wrenched open a door that had once belonged to a study. Inside was Dorel.
"Khhrgh...."
Dorel lay sprawled on the floor, face swollen from beatings, bones creaking as though none had been left sound. Warriors flanked him, clubs in hand.
Those who had undergone partial priestification showed no sign of fatigue despite the ceaseless blows. They glanced at Gobil through flesh that had rotted into scale-covered hide. He met their eyes and looked down at Dorel.
Some emotion stirred. They were blood brothers, after all. Gobil felt a private anguish, but told himself there was no other way.
If the tribe was to survive, Dorel had to die—or be made worse than dead. At least, that was how Gobil saw it.
Dorel's gaze hooked onto his. Gobil belatedly registered the labored breathing, the look of bitter rage, and gave a slow nod.
"Let's go."
The warriors nodded back. The partially priestified put away their clubs and drew weapons.
They filed out of the study, and behind them came the sound of the door being bolted and shelves piled against it.
Gobil's plan was simple. Detain Dorel. Hunt the Dwarves.
Accomplish that, and nothing beyond it mattered.
There would be friction. Perhaps challengers for the chieftainship, perhaps warriors deserting. But with Aslan out of the city, hesitation would cost everything.
That was how deeply the Master of Combat was feared. They had to finish this before he made a move.
Warriors in heavy armor—most of them partially priestified—pressed swiftly toward the mine tunnel. Whenever others along the way questioned or blocked them, the priestified warriors clubbed them unconscious and hid the bodies. Then they slipped into the tunnel without a backward glance.
The bold advance showed not the slightest concern for flame.
Gobil considered as they moved. No one had been killed by Dwarf fire. Dorel and the warriors who should have died at Dwarf hands had returned alive. The survivors had reported that the Dwarves used fire only to intimidate.
A genuine fight might be different, but Gobil judged the battle winnable even with some losses. The other Dwarves, by the warriors' account, lacked both weapons and the ability to use flame.
So they charged the moment they found Dwarves.
Fwoooosh!
A jet of fire—flame hot enough to sear flesh and char bone—burst forth. The warriors flinched, then swallowed their fear and pressed on.
The Honor Tribe's heavy infantry proved far faster than the Dwarves expected. Warriors plunged through the fire. The Dwarf wild mage fled, and with him, the rest of the city's Dwarves scattered. They knew the city well and fled well, but the warriors gave chase without restraint and soon cornered them.
In the underground cavern that housed the city, the warriors closed in at one end. The stale air pricked at their noses. A Dwarf with both arms blistered and mangled stood trembling.
No Dwarf had died yet, but without intervention, they all would. The Dwarf understood that perfectly.
Dwarves had survived on bugs and rats their whole lives. Against armored human warriors, they had no chance. These stick-thin Dwarves lacked the strength to wrest a single weapon free.
The Dwarf looked down at his ruined arm. Fire churned up from the flesh.
Flame surged. The warriors did not stop, but the Dwarf knew—he knew they feared fire. Few living things did not.
If he loosed that flame into them, he could kill a few warriors, maybe save a few Dwarves. Killing to save. He understood that equation well.
Death follows life.
Though he spoke no Imperial tongue, the wild mage was sharp.
The warriors slowed at the sight of the rising fire, and the Dwarf hesitated. A part of him—something close to instinct—surged up: save his kin, kill the humans. But it lasted only a moment.
He quenched the flame.
He could feel the terror squirming behind their eyes. He did not want to feed it. He did not want to fight.
The dead do not return—human or Dwarf, all the same.
The Dwarf spread his mangled arms and stepped forward.
"Friends...."
A voice without power or certainty. Before the words fully formed, something flew at him.
Thunk!
A hand axe buried itself in the floor. The throw had been clumsy, driving the blade deep into the stone.
The Dwarf stared at the axe and knew. These warriors meant to kill them. The Dwarves would all die without offering any resistance.
War cries and pounding footsteps echoed through the cavern. The Dwarf came forward, face desperate.
Humans and Dwarves are different. Different beings cannot live together. The Dwarf knew that well. But if he did nothing, they would all die. He opened his mouth: if he did not try to change things, nothing would ever change.
"Me, Dwarf!"
A Dwarf's larynx was not built for human speech. The grating sounds scraped his throat, brought pain with every syllable.
"Me, fight no!"
He forced out the Imperial words Dorel had taught him. The strain tore at him; his throat and mouth filled with the taste of blood.
Still he shouted, as if coughing up his own life.
The shouts sank beneath the warriors' howls and footfalls.
"Me, peace want!"
Buried again. The warriors drew closer. It was not too late for fire. Should he use it? He crushed the violent impulse and cried out with raw urgency.
"Dwarf, people!"
He saw their faces. No emotion there. Not a trace of goodwill.
Hope drained from the Dwarf's expression. Despair filled the void. Desperate, he shouted once more.
"Me too, people!"
The warriors raised their weapons. Axes came free from belts. The Dwarf watched the lead warrior lift his arm, and his face twisted with terror as he opened his mouth.
"Me too...!"
The axe arced toward him. Its edge glinted cold and keen. He knew what came next.
He would die. Powerless. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he shut them. Regret curled through him.
He would die having failed to protect his kin, having failed to make the warriors hear a single word, having failed to make goodwill bloom on this barren earth.
He despaired, and he accepted death.
In Geladrion, goodwill never took root. Only malice breathed life into this world. Change did not exist upon this land.
So the only one who could change it would have to come from somewhere else.
Someone with unshakable will—a being from another world—alone could reshape this earth.
Clang!
Steel meeting steel. The hard ring of metal on metal. The Dwarf opened his eyes and saw an axe and a dagger rolling on the stone floor.
The dagger was shaped like a feather.
The warriors had halted. Through their ranks, a man approached.
"...Aslan."
Gobil spoke the name, and the man stepped between the Dwarves and the warriors.
"How did you get in?" Gobil asked, keeping his voice level despite his shock. Aslan did not answer, but Gobil quickly found his answer without it.
Beside Aslan stood a girl with curly red hair tied in two tails—a girl who had not been with the party that left the city. She held twin short swords slick with blood and regarded them all without expression.
Gobil understood, instinctually, that his gate guards were dead. Strong warriors, partially priestified—and still dead.
Aslan spoke.
"Even if they're weak, even if their minds barely brush against human thought—even if they're nothing but dull-witted beasts."
A drawn longsword blazed red with the sound of grating steel.
"Even in Geladrion, where only the strong survive."
A stone sword settled into his left hand.
"These ones showed goodwill. They shouted that they didn't want to fight."
With both swords in hand, the man raised his lowered gaze, taking in the warriors one by one.
"How is irrelevant. What matters is..."
The blood sword bit into the stone with a crack and kindled white. The fuel was fighting spirit—the fighting spirit of one who meant to protect.
White flame lit the cavern. Aslan said, "...that I'm here to protect those good, dull-witted friends."
Only then did Gobil grasp the shape of it. Aslan had made him feel time was slipping away, had pressed him to act before he was ready and walk right into this. Every move Gobil had made had rested in Aslan's palm.
Gobil watched the white flames burn and let out a cold laugh.
Shiiing!
With that cold smile, he drew his weapon. As if the sound were a signal, the warriors threw their torches to the ground and drew axes and shields into their off hands, baring their teeth.
Through the chorus of ringing metal, Aslan looked them over: more than thirty heavily armed warriors, some partially priestified among them. Open ground with no cover—far too many enemies.
On this side, only Aslan and Fay. The rest of the party was back in the city, rooting out Gobil's remaining forces. Just the two of them against those numbers, on terrain this unfavorable—it was too much.
A normal human would have found it hopeless. Aslan's face showed no trace of danger. He drew the blood sword that blazed with purity, rested it on his shoulder, and spoke.
"Fay, protect the Dwarves."
She nodded. Aslan stepped forward. Every stride brought him closer to the warriors, and they came on in turn, armor clanking.
He watched them close the distance, then simply shut his eyes and whispered to himself.
Jeojang.
The world decelerated, bleaching to grayscale. Precognition—the most powerful tool Aslan possessed. Inside that colorless vision, his life and death knotted and unraveled hundreds of times.
He advanced through death. He waded through the deaths that should have been his, and when he opened his eyes, the world had reclaimed its color.
The instant teal eyes emerged back into that world—
Shkkt!
The white-burning longsword severed the throat of the warrior at the head of the charge. The head had not yet struck the ground before death blossomed in its place.