Civil War
Civil War
"...Did you say civil war?"
Frida nodded silently. Aslan watched the grim expression that accompanied it and scrubbed a hand over his face, troubled.
It wasn't entirely unexpected, but it had happened too damn early. It wasn't something he was ready to face right now.
He was in Bersothof. His predictions and plans hadn't accounted for this.
His plan had been simple. He'd meant to cut Frida off before she could even broach the topic of Belus Alpen and steer the conversation toward an alliance. He intended to present his proposal and pressure her before she could make a different suggestion—pulling the Kallus Empire and the Duchy of Hilsinger in first, and eventually bringing the Kingdom of Bida into the fold as well.
That had been the objective. So he had acted. He'd left his companions and sought her out, interrupting her rush toward the next quest to make his case.
His position was firm. To fight the evil gods and hold out long enough to reach Kehil, Throne of Gods, all of humanity had to unite. Frida partially concurred. She certainly viewed the Kallus Empire, the Duchy of Hilsinger, and the Kingdom of Bida as "a pack of jackasses," but she agreed their strength couldn't be ignored.
The issue wasn't her personal distaste.
"The Kallus Empire is... in a civil war?"
"That's right."
Frida delivered the words flatly, as if expecting him to simply accept them. Aslan frowned, turning the information over in his mind.
"Do you know the reason?"
"The reason." Frida stared at her half-brother, who seemed to be searching for an answer, then leaned back in her hide-covered chair. Her sigh spread beyond the creak of the wood.
"On the surface, the Emperor ignored the empire's traditional values, sidelined regional lords, and acted unilaterally, all in an alleged attempt to destroy the empire."
On the surface. A pretext, in other words. Aslan lifted his gaze and looked at Frida, who studied his expression for a moment before continuing.
"Of course, everyone knows that's nonsense spouted by those jackasses. No one's found the actual reason, so opinions differ, but the prevailing view blames the God of War's machinations."
The way she spoke while examining her nails was far too casual for a Great Chieftain and the Queen of the Mountains, and it told Aslan he could guess the situation well enough.
He had killed the Emperor. Twice. The Emperor had traditionally been a loyal servant of the God of War, and the Kallus Empire was essentially his private garden, cultivated to sustain his vast influence. Aslan had torn out the gardener's throat twice over, and to make matters worse, he had filled the third gardener's head with dangerous ideas.
*You'll never know unless you fight. If you don't, defeat is a certainty.* He had whispered fighting spirit into her ear and even stoked the flames of her hidden ambitions and desires.
He had already seen the outcome of that. Kornil Ashuld, driven from power and captured by a priest of another god. Kornil Ashuld, who ended his life as a priest of the Formless One, slain by Aslan's hand.
Ileina had likely begun purging the God of War's influence by now, a move that would have drawn the god's unwanted attention. The result was civil war. Though it fell within the realm of possibility, the timing was so irritatingly premature that it threw him. He steadied his breathing, closing and opening his eyes. A dull headache scraped through his skull before subsiding.
"Are you alright?"
Frida, who seemed to be seeing this side of him for the first time, asked the question cautiously. Aslan gave a slight nod and lowered the hand that had been covering his mouth. He gathered his hands loosely between his legs and let out a sigh.
"Yes. Thank you for your concern."
"Concern..." Frida grumbled as she lifted the cup resting on the low table. A honey-colored liquid flowed from the wooden vessel into her mouth. She swallowed with a bob of her throat and then offered the cup, but Aslan waved it off.
"The civil war... how long has it been going on?"
"I don't know exactly. At least a few weeks."
She didn't know exactly? Aslan looked up at his sister, who gave a nonchalant flick of her eyebrows, her expression uncannily like their father's.
"You know Baramunz doesn't interact much with outsiders. We never had much contact with the Kallus Empire to begin with. Since word of the civil war arrived, we've had none at all."
No contact at all. Aslan interpreted that as a bad sign. The Imperial faction didn't appear to be winning. Thinking about it, that was only natural. The 'rebels' Ileina was facing were mixed in with Warrior Monks. Among all the divine orders, the Warrior Monks were the most specialized in war, and Aslan knew they were the single most powerful force on any battlefield. Martial arts and weapon arts were made for war. The tide of battle was bound to be unfavorable. Aslan's expression hardened as he digested the information.
"For now, why not just pull in Hilsinger, or maybe just Hilsinger and the Kingdom of Bida? The Kallus situation is going to be touchy until the civil war ends." Frida set her cup down.
"...No, that won't work." Aslan shook his head firmly.
His enemy wasn't just a single army or a couple of nations. He was fighting the world itself. To wage war against the entire world, he needed a power that matched it. Unless he could rally the whole world to his side, there was no chance of victory.
Moreover, the Kallus Empire was simply too valuable a potential ally to leave out. Its vast territory and varied terrain produced a multitude of troop types. Even its geography made it a viable central hub once the alliance was established. It might be worth more than Baramunz.
"The Kallus Empire must be brought into the alliance."
"And how do you plan to do that?" Frida replied, somewhat curtly.
His firm tone, which seemed to value the Kallus Empire over her own domain, irked her. Part of her also felt a childish annoyance—she was his older sister, after all, couldn't he talk up Baramunz a bit? A moment later, she realized she was being unlike herself. She knew full well the Kallus Empire was a necessary ally and future friend. She was about to retract her words, but Aslan had already noticed and was giving her an awkward smile.
"You insolent prick."
"I didn't say a word."
"With a face like that, you didn't need to. Anyway... there's nothing we can do."
Frida couldn't lead Baramunz soldiers into someone else's civil war. The two nations had never been on particularly friendly terms. They'd even fought several wars. An Emperor two generations back had been killed by Aslan during one such conflict. Even if she showed up offering aid now, no one would accept it. She thought it far more likely that accumulated regional resentment would spark minor clashes, which could then escalate into a full-blown war. She was a Great Chieftain before she was a descendant of an ancient legion commander. She couldn't act rashly.
"Baramunz will not intervene. We'll wait for their civil war to end."
Instead, she looked at the man who had inherited the mana tattoo of that ancient legion commander. A man who had the 'qualifications' to claim the title of Great Chieftain himself, yet was still an outsider. A man whose actions could never officially represent Baramunz.
"In that case, just write me a letter."
Fortunately, the man's thoughts had landed in the same place as his sister's.
Aslan smiled wryly, and Frida gave a derisive snort.
*
Sunlight seeped in at an angle. Faces glistened in the slanted rays. Every one of them was clean-shaven, but their complexions were poor. As if to prove it, a voice cut through the silence.
"How goes the war?"
The voice was a girl's, clear and ringing. A man decades older than her bowed his head in response.
"Count Sholukund and Count Warpol have joined forces. The front lines are being pushed back as a result."
Count Sholukund and Count Warpol. Two nobles who had been at each other's throats, constantly fighting territorial skirmishes until the previous Emperor's assassination, had now formed an unprecedented alliance against the empire. The sheer abnormality of the situation made the girl, upon the throne, rest her chin on her hand. Her fine golden hair scattered and slid through the sunbeams.
"Those two bitter rivals, cooperating. Exactly how far have they pushed?"
"After a continuous retreat from the Faiza Jungle, the front lines have now fallen back... to the ruins near the Tarea River."
"About half of the Ashuld Viscounty. That's not promising."
The girl's tone was flat. The nobles, bowing their heads, glanced at her with a sense of unfamiliarity that made it hard to reconcile her with the girl she had been just a short while ago. Her name was Ileina of Ma'kel. The new Emperor of the Kallus Empire, one of its rare female rulers. Unlike the fragile, almost invisible presence she had once been, she now projected a charisma that fit the throne.
"The front is stalled, but the situation is unfavorable, Your Majesty. It is our counsel that you should retreat to Velus D'saer and conduct a defensive campaign from there...."
Velus D'saer. The name of both a massive island at the southernmost tip of the Kallus Empire and the fortress upon it. Separated by the sea, it was a place Count Warpol and Count Sholukund, with no real naval power, could not hope to attack. It was a conventionally sound judgment, but the girl shook her head. Her youthful face was solemn as she spoke.
"That is impossible. If Velus Ma'kel is taken, our influence within the imperial territories will suffer too greatly. Fleeing prematurely would also deal a crippling blow to morale."
The noble who had suggested retreat bowed his head, and the girl nodded and continued.
"Enough about my whereabouts. What countermeasures have been prepared against the Warrior Monks?"
At her words, the faces of the assembled nobles grew ashen. This was the reason the empire was losing ground despite near-parity in military strength. The Warrior Monks were interspersed within the Sholukund-Warpol forces. Masters of the battlefield, beings capable of single-handedly turning the tide of an entire war. Such individuals couldn't be stopped by mere troops. At best, a corps of mages might hold them off, but...
"With the mages' fighting strength so severely diminished, we have no means to stop their priests, Your Majesty. We are barely maintaining the current front line."
Following Kornil Ashuld's defection, a power struggle within the House of Ashuld had decimated their mage numbers. The Imperial Household now had no weapon to counter the Warrior Monks. Just holding the line was the best they could manage. Ileina sighed and sank back into her throne.
As the discussion turned to Warrior Monks, her thoughts strayed to a particular man. The man who had breathed fighting spirit into her and given her the courage to fight. The thought didn't last long. As the nobles' eyes fixed on her, the grand hall's doors opened and a dispatch rider entered.
"Your Majesty. A missive from... Baramunz, addressed directly to you."
Baramunz. A longtime adversary, a constant thorn in the empire's side over territorial disputes. The girl recalled the name and gestured. A knight holding an ash-grey spear received the letter. He moved a safe distance from Ileina before unfolding it, lest some spell be triggered. No magic was inscribed on the parchment. The letter simply revealed its quietly written contents.
The old knight confirmed the letter's safety, folded it neatly, and extended it toward the girl Emperor. A flicker of displeasure crossed his disciplined face. Even after he handed the letter over, his expression did not soften.
The young Emperor noted his expression as she unfolded the letter and read it. Her eyes moved lightly up and down, paused, then moved again. The message wasn't long; her pupils barely shifted. The nobles, watching her and the old knight in turn, wondered what the letter contained. Some kind of offensive mockery? Their speculation didn't last long because the girl Emperor smiled quietly.
As the nobles looked on in bewilderment at the subtle smile, she held up the letter and met their eyes.
"I have a simple question for you all." It was an abrupt declaration. She didn't wait for their opinions. "Can a Master be killed by an army?"
The question seemed nonsensical. While the nobles exchanged uncertain glances, the old knight who had looked so annoyed pivoted with disciplined precision, bowed to the girl, and answered.
"Of course, Your Majesty. Any Master, no matter who, can be killed by an army."
"Hm." Ileina's expression was unreadable. She continued. "Then can a priest be killed by an army?"
This query was direct. One of the nobles, gauging the atmosphere, answered.
"Given the current state of the war, that seems difficult. The number of soldiers it takes to bring down a single priest...."
Still ignorant of the question's intent, the noble bravely offered his assessment. He was about to list the average figures—how many soldiers, how much magic it cost to kill one priest—when the girl cut him off. A simple raised hand silenced him. She flipped her wrist, displaying the letter.
"I hold a missive in my hand. As you all heard, it flew directly from Baramunz. And the author of this letter is the Master of Combat."
The Master of Combat. Eyes flew wide open at the infamous title, and the girl smiled with half-lidded eyes.
"A Master who killed my elder brother, the former Emperor, and my father who preceded him. An Emperor-slayer... and a man called the Priest Slayer for the countless priests he has murdered."
Only then did a few of the nobles whose eyes were still sharp despite their age read the letter. The message was brief. But its meaning was unmistakable, and their eyes widened.
"I will rephrase the question." As she flipped her hand over to conceal the letter, the nobles who had read it looked at each other in bewildered shock. "Can a priest be killed by a Master?"
No one answered. They merely gauged each other's reactions amid confusion and shock.
"If a Master were on the battlefield, could we win?"
"Your Majesty, the Emperor-slayer is the empire's...."
Finally, one of the hesitant nobles spoke, and Ileina blinked at him with her half-lidded eyes. The look said she had asked a different question entirely. The noble fell silent, and the rest of the hall followed suit. A thick, hollow silence drifted through the grand assembly hall.
It was a silence of affirmation.
Under that quiet consensus, Ileina folded the letter. With a soft rasp of parchment, she spoke.
"Prepare a writ of amnesty and a reply. Fast horses and dispatch riders as well."
She held out the letter. As the old knight took it, the girl added with a maturity that belied her age:
"The Priest Slayer is coming to kill our priests."