Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story

by Kirill Klevanski

  “I don’t get them,” Racker replied. “They’re afraid, but they’re still watching...”

  Ash chuckled. Not that he needed to, he just felt that it was appropriate to do so in this situation.

  “They can’t help themselves but stare at your glorious armor.”

  “Be jealous in silence, will you?”

  Ash looked at his light armor. It was the most ordinary set one could find. “Hey, first time that they aren’t looking at that ugly snout of yours.”

  The two turned around a corner and entered King’s Lane, the street leading to the palace, which stood, as it befitted any imperial lodging, on top of a hill, proudly towering over the entire city.

  Golden domes cast glittering light on the white marble of the walls and sculptures, giving them a pleasant, ivory color. The majestic gardens, full of exotic flora, seemed to whisper in fright, begging the wind to ward off the trouble being brought in by the two vultures.

  “This ‘ugly snout’ saved your ass several times,” Racker muttered with a grin. “The Dragon Armor just adds to my beauty!”

  “It doesn’t negate the fact that it’s really tacky.”

  “And what are your rags? Hm? The pinnacle of fashion?”

  “Beauty lies in simplicity,” Ash said with a shrug.

  The conversation would’ve continued had they not had to stop at the next gate. Unlike the previous one, this one was much smaller. They were met by a group of mages: a stern-looking warlock with a book in his left hand, and a staff made of bone in his right, a battle-mage with a staff and a long, narrow blade, an enchanter with a dagger and a shimmering, turquoise sphere, as well as a couple of frightened-looking mages. In the distance stood the magus, intently examining something on his ornate mirror. The magi were said to be able not only see the future but also find out everything about whoever’s blood they smudged on its glass.

  There was a summoner, too, holding a demon leashed on a chain. It looked like a dog, except that it was much larger and had two heads that could spit poison. The group was a druid, necromancer, and a healer short of completing the set. Ash figured that they were probably left behind because they weren’t combat units. Besides, an ordinary magus could easily compensate for the three of them with how many illusions he could cast.

  “Welcome,” one of the guards saluted. “I’ve been given the honor of welcoming you to the king’s palace.”

  “We’re still on the streets,” Racker muttered through clenched teeth. “If you don’t hurry up and let us in, you risk making me very annoyed.”

  The mages became alarmed. Some lifted their weapons while others activated their artifacts and spells. Magic danced around them, often taking form of multicolored flames.

  Ash raised his hand, calming them down. He feared neither the mages nor the guards, nor the king himself. He still didn’t know what fear was. “The king himself had summoned me. The entire legion had to be pulled from the front, so let’s get this done with as soon as possible.”

  “Y-Yes,” the guard stammered, “o-of course...” He nodded and then shouted with a voice that didn’t sound like it was his own. “Open the gate! The general of the Seventh Legion, Baronet Nameless, has arrived!”

  Chapter 26

  “T hank you.” The young man smiled as he rode his horse through the gate and breathed in the scent of the garden with “joy.” He had always “liked” this place. Serene, silent, and beautiful. He had often come here to relax and read about old and often forgotten legends.

  Casting a “longing” look at the gazebo where he used to spend most of his evenings, he dismounted and handed the reins to the groom, who had bowed to greet him. With a nod, Ash hurried up the marble steps, occasionally casting quick glances at the colonnade that supported the majestic roof.

  It was said that among the thirteen human kingdoms, there wasn’t a single palace more beautiful, more magnificent, and more elegant than this one. There was something almost fascinating about its thin walls, narrow columns, golden domes, and tall spires. If the legends were true, the palace had been built by both dwarves and elves. The latter certainly knew a lot about grace and otherworldly beauty.

  Ash and Racker made their way through the winding, often confusing hallways to the hall in front of the throne room. A lot of people had gathered here, from the ordinary nobles to the most important officials of the kingdom. All of them lowered their gazes the moment the two rounded the corner.

  “M-My lord,” stammered the majordomo as he shuffled before Ash. “His Majesty is waiting for you.”

  Without waiting to be introduced, the young nobleman opened the door. Racker stayed behind, preferring to frighten the locals than to talk to the king who never seemed to have liked him.

  Taking off his helmet and placing it under his left arm, Ash dropped to one knee and bowed his head like the majordomo had taught him long ago. Sitting on the throne was Garangan, who leaned to whisper something to his wife the moment the door opened and his old friend walked in.

  Alessia, not as friendly toward Ash as her husband was, summoned her maids with her hand. Having fluttered over to her, they helped the queen off her throne and into the women’s wing of the palace. The queen hated Ash with all her heart, having called him a heartless executioner and a bloody maniac on several occasions. As a future mother (she was eight months pregnant) she didn’t want her child anywhere near such a monster.

  “You’ll pardon my wife. She tries her best to do her duties even though she’s eight months pregnant, but even she needs rest.” Smiling wide, Garangan got to his feet and gave Ash a tight hug, ignoring the bloodied armor. “It’s good to see you alive and well, my friend!” he said, patting the young man on the shoulder.

  Ash chuckled and clicked with his heels. “I left the moment I got the letter.”

  Garangan nodded and gestured him to sit on the low stool next to the throne. Sitting down, Ash watched Alessia leave through a secret door on the opposite side of the room.

  “Women, huh?” The king smiled. “They don’t always understand our decisions... I would’ve had more time to spend with her had my troops in Arabista remained sane and hadn’t entered Mystral.”

  Ash was silent. In these kinds of situations, it was always better to listen.

  “But that’s where I see your merit, my friend! How could I ever thank you? You refused all the gifts that you’ve been sent: coin, treasures, titles, and lands... What could one possibly give the man who had not only saved the king’s life but also won a great victory in his name?”

  Ash pondered. To want... What does it mean? He wanted to go to the bathroom a couple of times a day. Sometimes he wanted to eat, but more often, he wanted to drink. Sometimes he was tired and wanted to rest; sometimes he’d fall asleep on the move and longed for silence. But what the king was referring to was probably something different. Something beyond the basic needs.

  “Serving you, my lord, is my greatest award.” Ash bowed his head, repeating the phrase he had had learned by heart.

  “Ah, if all of my subjects were like you, the Middle Kingdom would be a utopia...” The king sighed. “Since you’re rejecting my offer again, I think we should get down to business.”

  Nodding, Ash set his helmet on the marble floor and concentrated. Garangan had the habit of beating around the bush and then suddenly getting to the main point. Some found this strange, other annoying, but most took it seriously.

  “The war’s coming to an end, my friend,” the king said. “I’ll lead my army to the capital very soon. Within the next month, King Fertus will have the white flag fluttering on the dome of his palace. Before that happens and we sit down at the negotiating table, I want you to run an errand for me.”

  “What does His Majesty need?” Ash asked, genuinely interested.

  “I want you to go to East Arabista, to the walled city of Zadastra.”

  The border town of Zadastra was considered one of the most fortified cities in the four surrounding kingdoms. In its two h
undred years of existence, it was captured only once—when its bribed governor willingly gave away the keys of its gates. There were about a dozen guns on the walls and almost seven thousand troops in the barracks. However, rumors had it that they were so good that there might as well have been twenty-five thousand of them. Considering that he had three cannons, one siege mortar, and twenty hundred men under his command, put Ash at a serious disadvantage. In addition to the thick outer wall, there was an equally thick inner one.

  “I’ll understand if you refuse,” the king said, aware of the numbers.

  “Never, my lord.” Ash stood up. “If it’s your will to capture it in sixty days, by the Heavens, I will do it in forty.”

  Garangan couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t doubt the young man for even a moment. He was the one who had defeated an army of thirty thousand in the Smerga Gorge with a handful of cavalry and two carts of ammunition; the one who had leveled a dozen outposts and two fortresses with the ground; and the one who had rushed headlong into the thick of battle without mercy. Such a man would not lie.

  The Foul Legion seemed capable of marching into Hell itself and coming back with the Devil’s head. They were an army of two thousand mad demons, born and bred for battle. There was no wall thick or strong enough to stop them.

  Garangan squeezed the young man’s shoulder and handed him a small scroll, neatly packed in a leather pouch. “Loot to your heart’s content and take whatever you desire. However, there’s one thing in Zadastra’s temple that you cannot take for yourself. Bring it to me and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  Ash carefully tucked the pouch into his tunic and bowed.

  “Forty days, Your Majesty.”

  “May the Gods protect you.”

  Bowing once more, Ash left the throne room, leaving Garangan alone with his thoughts.

  “Two thousand mad demons,” he mumbled to himself, “soon to be free men...”

  Back in the hall, Ash noticed a familiar face. One he wasn’t very glad to see. Byron of Sermanyel, general of the Third Legion, had managed to make Ash learn what “hate” meant. The tension between the two was almost palpable.

  Ash met the bald man’s gaze. Byron was a head and a half taller than him and almost ten inches wider in the shoulders. He was a proper killing machine, whose blade had cut the necks of the most ferocious and skilled enemies, bringing victory after victory to the Middle Kingdom. But there was a stain on the spotless history of the Third Legion, one that had made the two generals hate each other.

  “Ah,” Byron drawled, eyeing the young mage. “This is a palace, not a kennel, you mutt.”

  “It’s neither a pig stein, but here you are,” Ash replied.

  Lieutenant Mergin, a necromancer, flinched but didn’t dare open his mouth when he saw Byron wave his hand. Only a suicidal person would start a quarrel in the palace, right under the king’s nose.

  “You have a sharp tongue, lad,” Byron hissed.

  “And you quite the mouth,” Racker spat. “I remember seeing the heels of your boots more than the blade of your sword during the battle of Argive. Who were you running from?” He pretended to think for a moment, then snapped his fingers as if remembering. “Ah, yes! Scared shitless by some mages from Arabist... The Seventh Legion has a gift for you.”

  Reaching under his cloak, he threw something to Byron. The bald man caught the gift automatically and immediately wished that he hadn’t — in his hands, he held the head of an old man. His teeth and tongue were pulled out, lips burned, and eyes hanging out of their sockets by their muscles and nerves.

  “Head of the Order of the Mages, in the flesh! Sort of.” Racker grinned, watching as the pale courtiers rushed out of the hall, hurrying to get rid of their lunches in the nearest lavatory.

  Byron looked at the head. He couldn’t drop it and stain the floor of the palace, but he couldn’t bear to look at it any longer either. Seeing his face, Racker burst out laughing. Ash remained silent, wondering why was his friend carrying a head with him. Perhaps it was some kind of a weird hobby of his?

  “General.”

  Ash snapped out of his thoughts and followed Racker out of the hall. Judging by the grin on his friend’s face, he must’ve performed some funny trick he wasn’t aware of. Recalling that particular battle, Ash remembered that Byron had ordered retreat when he saw the Order of the Mages approaching. Not paying attention to the horns and trumpets, Ash ordered his troops to attack, despite being the “youngest” of the generals (seniority was determined by the legion’s number, not by the age of their leaders). He obliterated the opposing army, thereby shaming his colleagues who had been considered cowards ever since.

  “What are our plans?” Racker asked as he climbed into the saddle.

  Ash put on his helmet and ran his fingers along the staff, drawing a few sparks.

  “We’re going to Zadastra.”

  Chapter 27

  14th of Zund, 322 A.D., Age of the Drunken Monk, Near Zadastra

  T he Wandering Stumps rode between low, but well-kept huts and past fields littered with tall, round stacks of hay. Somewhere behind them, towered a real giant. Built on an ancient mound left over from the Age of the Dancing Dragon, the city wasn’t striking only because of its splendor, but also of the power it emanated and fear it struck into everyone’s bones.

  The first wall, almost fifty feet high and about ten feet thick, was adorned with cannons and crenellations with currently empty cauldrons attached to them. The heavy gate, made of both stone and wood, covered with wrought iron, wouldn’t have yielded even to the biggest and strongest battering rams. However, the first wall was just one of the city’s many defenses.

  Once upon a time, the city had been divided into eight blocks, each of which had two raised avenues at the edges, separating them from their neighbors and serving as an outpost and a divider at the same time. It was behind the second wall, which was almost as imposing as the first, that the important buildings were located—the temples, the city hall, the Tower of the Magi, the library, as well as various warehouses.

  After the war, when the city was almost completely destroyed, Arabist made a very bold and progressive step. The king declared that the fortress of Zadastra would be a free trading zone, which immediately attracted numerous creatures, both human and that of other races. Drawn in by the almost tax-free trade, freedom of faith and expression, they had forced the mayor to have another wall and new houses built to accommodate everyone.

  The “non-humans” formed their own societies and cliques. Steppe orcs settled in the barracks where soldiers and mercenaries had once lived. These green-skinned and fanged giants were the most ferocious and powerful warriors on the Continent. In the place of the merchants and their flimsy shops, two-storied stone houses had been built by island trolls, the tall, scrawny relatives of the elves if the legends were to be believed. However, unlike their forest loving cousins, trolls had pointier ears, sharp teeth, long arms that reached to below their knees, and blue skin. They weren’t the most pleasant thing to look at, but they could bargain with you till the cows came home and were even told to be the only ones capable of getting coin out of the dwarves. And speaking of which, dwarves, the famous misers, occupied the artisans’ quarter, where they set up their forges, bulky buildings, and warehouses. They lived from trade and craftsmanship, making everything from armor to trinkets.

  Where the artists and performers had once lived, the elves now flaunted with their elegant dwellings. Grown using magic, they’ve made giant trees their homes and furnished them with the most exquisite of furniture. If you needed arrows, ointments, potions, magic scrolls, or maps, you came to the elves. You couldn’t find a better map than that drawn by an experienced elven tracker. Some claimed that the maps were so detailed, that on them were marked even the stumps of chopped up trees.

  As in any society, there were those who did a little bit of this and that, everything from selling bread to selling their bodies.

  The dark elves ha
d found their place here, too. Different from their cousins by their dark skin and red eyes, they were just as intelligent, breath-taking, and talented. And although they were mostly calm and fun-loving, when it came to fighting, they always fought to the bitter end. One could say that they were more bloodthirsty than the orcs were.

  The remaining two blocks were “mixed.” Interracial couples preferred to raise their kids here. Not all races mixed well, however, some not at all. But those that did, oftentimes settled here with their partners to avoid the hateful looks of their more conservative friends and cousins.

  This was how the city was imagined on paper at least. In reality, people lived wherever they wanted. It wasn’t a rare sight to see an orc working and living among the dwarves or a dark elf in a human brothel, or an elf dining in one of the famous troll taverns.

  Having finished observing the city, Ash turned to his companions. They had just reached the main gate.

  Mary took out her bag with documents, pulled out several pieces of parchment, and handed them to the guard. Having consulted the forms, he cast a glance at the squad and allowed them to enter without asking any questions.

  Tul chuckled, seeing the people behind them being searched with great care and diligence.

  “Missing the school days, are you?” Lari asked, making the archer shudder and wince.

  “You sure know how to ruin my fun. Congratulations, you’ve cured me of nostalgia!”

  The two laughed. The morning’s tension could still be felt hanging in the air, but the overall mood had been lifted. Lari even stopped glaring at Ash, who was busy making some weird gestures with his fingers. He seemed to be trying to make a pyramid, despite the risk of dislocating a couple of phalanges.

  The main avenue, which led from the gates to the second wall and branched to each of the quarters, was quite busy. Tul had to make sure that their cart didn’t collide with the carriage of some nobleman, or anyone else’s for that matter. Blackbeard did his usual job, which was to keep an eye out on people with sticky fingers. During their first trip ever, some rascal had managed to steal one of their bags. They were already at the Gerbe Desert when they noticed that some of the cargo was missing, and were forced to turn back as they were low on supplies. Their fifty gold coins worth of supplies had been spent on feeding thieves and street kids. Mary swore that she’d never let that happen again.