The White Anvil Tribe (3)
La Forge.
It was the kingdom of the dwarves, a people who revered the Primeval Flame.
It had been seventeen years since a distasteful incident severed all ties with humankind and the kingdom declared its isolation. And today, for the first time in living memory, the peaceful royal palace—where even raised voices had been rare—was abuzz with activity.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Urgent news!"
As the king, Gordin, watched the courtier flop down to his knees before him, the light in his eyes turned grave.
Anyone who knew him in ordinary times would have understood at once.
They would have known just how intensely tense he was at this very moment.
An urgent report. I can't remember the last time I received one.
The most recent urgent report had come four years ago—a sighting of demonkin in the direction of the Red Mountains. It was entirely possible that today's news would be a continuation of that same thread.
Demonkin...
It had been a full twenty-one years since the war with them ended. Even so, the word alone was enough to send a rigid tension coursing through his entire body.
Gordin, a young man amply prepared in mind and heart, asked.
"What is the matter?"
"Well, you see..."
Watching the courtier fidget, head bowed too low to lift, his suspicion hardened into certainty. Gordin urged him on, as though soothing a startled animal.
"It's all right. Out with it, then. What on earth is the matter?"
"It's just—I hardly know how I'm supposed to deliver this news to you, Your Majesty..."
"Bah! It's fine, so just say it!"
Gordin, whose patience had begun to wear thin, barked.
As king, he made a point of minding his word choice and maintaining a tranquil state of mind at all times—but by nature he was as hot-blooded as any other dwarf, and watching this spectacle was quickly becoming unbearable.
"I-if you insist, then."
The courtier swallowed hard, drew two letters from inside his garments, and presented them to the king with a deep bow.
Gordin read the letters with narrowed, wary eyes—then froze.
"...What is this?"
"A summons to appear, Your Majesty."
"I have eyes, boy—I can see that much. My question is why you are handing it to me."
"Th-the lower portion, if you would only read further..."
The courtier trailed off. Following his advice, Gordin read the summons to the very end—and blinked, twice.
...for the aforementioned reasons, you, Gordin, have been indicted on the charge of Obstruction of Contract. You are hereby requested to appear before the Tunnel Court on the date and at the time indicated above.
Having finished the first letter without comprehending a word of it, he asked again.
"So what you're telling me is... I am being sued. At this very moment."
"That is correct, Your Majesty."
"And the other letter?"
Reading the second letter, Gordin pressed his lips into a firm line. It informed him, more or less, that a date had been set for the Tunnel Court, and that he was to attend in his capacity as Chief Judge.
"Heh. Hahaha."
Had there ever been, even once in history, a single person who served as both defendant and judge simultaneously?
As it happened, the courtier had already looked into the matter, and he spoke up.
"I-I did some research, and it appears Your Majesty would be the very first such case. A-a momentous achievement, if I may say so—"
"Achievement my ass! What achievement?!"
Gordin hurled the letters away with a shout.
Dwarves might prize first-ever feats and singular accomplishments, but even they drew the line at this particular one. Staring at the papers fluttering to the floor, he shot to his feet.
"This Oscar Crucian who dares to sue me—what in blazes is he? Which tribe does he belong to?"
"That is—he's a human, sire. A mage of the White Tower, who has only just turned twenty-one."
"...A human? A mage of the White Tower, you say?"
La Forge and the White Tower were a fair distance apart. And at a mere twenty-one years of age, the whelp could hardly have been alive when the dwarves sealed their borders—he had never once laid eyes on Gordin's face.
"A green-faced cub suing me... heh."
Even saying it aloud left him dumbstruck. He—the king of an entire nation, and its Chief Judge—had been indicted.
"Fine. Let us have a look at the face of this insolent brat."
Gordin's quiet fury drifted through the halls of La Forge's palace.
First: the continent is vast.
Second: the dwarves are divided into five tribes.
Third: those tribes are scattered across the far corners of that vast continent.
Which raised a question that humans had often wondered about.
So where, exactly, does the Tunnel Court take place?
Do they draw lots to pick a fresh location every time?
Oh, come now. Surely it's held in the center—in the dwarven kingdom, La Forge, which sits right there in the middle.
To state the conclusion first: that answer was only half right.
The Tunnel Court did indeed convene at La Forge, but the dwarves themselves never gathered there in person.
Fwoosh! Fwooooosh!
Four blue flames surged upward within the magnificent courtroom built into the underground kingdom of La Forge.
The flames behaved like living creatures, tilting toward one another and nodding in light acknowledgment of each other's presence.
"All are assembled."
The moment Gordin stepped into the courtroom, every flame bowed low in salute.
May the Great Flame light your path.
The flames were none other than the chieftains of the five tribes. With the aid of the Primeval Flame they worshipped, distance itself was bridged, allowing them to attend in this form.
Seated upon the judge's bench, Gordin gazed down at them for a moment before nodding.
"May the burning spirit dwell within your works. Raise your heads, all of you, and be seated."
Once the chieftains had taken their seats, he spoke.
"The trial will now begin."
Ahm—Your Majesty.
The chieftain of the Red Sand Tribe quietly raised a hand and voiced his doubt.
The defendant has not yet been summoned.
At that, the other chieftains turned toward the defendant's bench and began nodding along in agreement.
So it is. I don't believe anything like this has ever happened before...
Could the Primeval Flame have made some mistake?
Which tribe does this defendant belong to, anyway?
Mngh. Listening to their chatter, Gordin frowned deeply.
"The Primeval Flame is incapable of error."
Pardon? What do you—
Then surely that means the defendant is already present in this chamber...?
The chieftains began eyeing one another with suspicion. For a while, each silently speculated which among them might be the culprit.
"It is I."
Gordin's sudden confession silenced the courtroom.
...Your Majesty? What do you mean by that?
"I mean that I am the defendant."
Bwahaha! My, what a delightful jest, Your Majesty.
When the Black Hammer chieftain burst into boisterous, oblivious laughter, Gordin's reply was glacial.
"Does it sound like a jest?"
...No. Surely you don't mean it.
As the silence stretched on, the chieftains realized it was the truth and found themselves at a loss for words. When the Black Hammer chieftain opened his lips in an attempt to salvage his blunder, Gordin cut him off with a warning.
"If you are about to say one more word about first-ever and singular achievements, I suggest you think twice."
...I will simply keep my mouth shut.
After everyone had rolled their eyes about for a spell, their gazes naturally converged on a single point.
There was one among them who had not spoken a single word since entering the courtroom.
Hagore. Don't tell me the one who sued His Majesty is—
The accused party hastily answered.
You think I'm mad enough to sue the King? Of course it isn't me. Though... it's not as if I have no connection to it.
Hah. So it happened in the city you administer, in other words.
Tsk tsk. You should have nipped that sort of thing in the bud yourself. Why would you take such nonsense at face value?
Do you feel no shame at all before His Majesty?
These lunatics—slinging insults when it's none of their business.
Hagore pressed his lips shut, his insides churning.
"In any case, the trial will now begin. The plaintiff will enter."
At those words, a new flame leapt into being.
Naturally enough, the newcomer found his own flame-formed body endlessly fascinating—he stared at his hands, bounced up and down in place, and made no effort whatsoever to hide his curiosity.
...
Gordin glared at him through slitted eyes for a long moment. Then the flame straightened up and spoke with brisk confidence.
Greetings. I am Oscar Crucian, a 3rd-level mage of the White Tower.
At those words, the chieftains began to murmur.
A mage? Then he's a human?
The White Tower... and an Oscar. A name that brings back memories.
"Silence, all of you."
Gordin raised a hand lightly to quiet them, then addressed the flame.
"So we finally meet. I am Gordin, King of La Forge."
Ah—may the Great Flame light your path.
"State your reason for suing me."
Gordin dispensed with the pleasantries and fired off the question.
Because Your Majesty has inflicted enormous harm upon the White Tower.
"Enormous harm? Then let's hear it. What harm exactly have I done?"
Gordin bobbed his head and gripped the massive warhammer at his side.
It was a hammer more than capable of shattering a human skull—but at least in this chamber, it had been reserved solely for delivering verdicts.
...Up until now, that is.
Oscar, receiving the king's anger with perfect equanimity, answered with a faint smile.
Thirty-two years ago, the White Tower entered into a fifty-year exclusive contract with the White Anvil Tribe. But seventeen years ago, an unfortunate incident occurred between the human and dwarven nations, and the King of the Dwarves proclaimed an isolation policy, severing all exchange with humankind. As a result, the White Tower lost access to the craft of the White Anvil Tribe with whom it had signed that exclusive contract—a loss with no foreseeable end. And so, with no other recourse, I was compelled to sue Your Majesty.
"An exclusive contract, was it... Yes, there was indeed something of the sort."
Gordin nodded slowly.
"That part escaped my notice. You have my sincere apologies."
Thank you.
"Think nothing of it. A few words cost nothing. Now then—am I to take it that the plaintiff's desire is for me to rescind the isolation decree and permit the White Tower to resume exchange with the White Anvil Tribe?"
No.
"Hmm?"
That wasn't what he wanted?
Gordin's head tilted sideways.
"Then what is it you want?"
In my view, Your Majesty's decision to declare isolation was an excellent one. Kidnapping dwarves was indignity enough for those greedy humans—but they went so far as to force them into hard labor. If I may offer a suggestion: put distance between yourself and such avaricious humans entirely, and sever diplomatic ties for a good hundred years or so.
"Well... that was my intention regardless. Indeed, it's exactly what I've been doing."
And yet, wasn't it a little odd to hear such words from a human's mouth? Why would he suddenly side with the dwarves?
Just as Gordin's expression began to sour, his opponent finally revealed his true hand.
Therefore, my proposal is this: maintain your isolation as it stands—but grant flexible exceptions, strictly limited to the exclusive contracts the White Tower has already entered into.
"Ha!"
Gordin burst into a hollow laugh.
He had seen through the man's scheme.
"In other words, you wish to become the sole human faction on this continent with any commerce with the dwarves. Is that it?"
...Depending on one's perspective, I suppose it could be interpreted that way.
"Khhk!"
This slippery serpent of a human.
Depending on one's perspective, was it?
Wasn't that as good as declaring, outright, that he wanted to suck the honey of a monopoly on dwarven goods?
It's been seventeen years since our armaments were loosed, so I suppose in human society, whatever they ask for is the going price.
In other words, the moment he granted this request, the White Tower would acquire staggering wealth and power.
He shows his hand so transparently that making a decision is actually easy.
Granted, Gordin could see that the White Tower had brought a reasonably legitimate grievance. He himself had been ignorant of the exclusive contract between them and had caused the harm—so fault did lie on his side.
But so what? What of it?
There were no lawyers in the Tunnel Court. No prosecutors, either.
It was a place where the judge—himself—simply heard the words of plaintiff and defendant, and passed judgment. That was all.
Gordin lifted the hammer.
"The plaintiff's claims have been heard in full. However, granting exchange with humankind to the White Anvil Tribe alone risks instilling in the other tribes a profound sense of relative deprivation. Therefore, I pledge that the exclusive contract shared by these two parties shall resume in due and proper form on the day the isolation is lifted."
However long-winded the phrasing, shortened to its bones it meant one thing: refusal.
"I hereby conclude this trial, sentencing the defendant to ten minutes of community service within the kingdom."
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The heavy sound of the hammer rang through the courtroom.
...Huh?
Hagore, gaping blankly at the scene, turned to Oscar with wavering eyes.
You said there was definitely a way to win!?!
He had trusted those words alone and convened the Tunnel Court—enduring the King's hostile glare to do it, no less!
At that moment, Oscar quietly raised his hand.
"The trial is already over. And yet you still have something more to say?"
Yes.
"Then say it."
I request a retrial.
"...What did you say?"
At those words, Gordin's eyes blinked wide.
A retrial was the procedure by which a final verdict was overturned and returned to its pre-judgment state on the grounds of a grave defect in either the process or the evidence.
In a word, it means he refuses to acknowledge the judgment I just handed down.
Gordin scoffed.
"And I suppose you have some new piece of evidence or justification to turn the situation on its head?"
Yes. I do.
"...And if such a thing existed, why did you not present it beforehand?"
On that point, there is something I would like to say to you privately.
I have something to say to you privately. As if Gordin of all people could fail to grasp what those words meant.
After a brief deliberation, he nodded and spoke.
"Everyone, withdraw. Reassemble when I call for you."
Yes, Your Majesty.
FWOOSH!
The moment the chieftains' flames dispersed, Gordin asked.
"Now then. What was it you wished to say privately, with even the chieftains sent away?"
...
At that question, Oscar's posture changed.
And it wasn't only his posture. Even his head, which had been held in respectful bow, straightened until it stood rigid.
Since time immemorial, school ties, regional ties, and blood ties have been the mightiest of connections.
But when the war against the demonkin broke out, those shallow networks of influence collapsed in short order. On a merciless battlefield where lives were snuffed out by the day, such things were worth nothing at all.
Even blood counted for little—any kin beyond the immediate family, any distant branch of the line, was coolly turned away.
In its place, a new kind of bond was born.
The bond of comrades-in-arms—men to whom one could entrust one's back and one's very life. In a certain sense, a bond thicker than family itself.
"Hmm."
Oscar looked at the fifth-rate dwarf who had once served in his unit—the dwarf whose life he had saved time and time again—and opened his mouth.
"Sergeant Gordin. Have you been keeping well?"