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

by Kirill Klevanski

  This, however, didn’t stop Mary from slapping the back of his head and telling him to shut up before she shut him up. Letting out a single tear, Ash moved to the front of the group, giving the rest of them a nice view of Guido’s ass.

  By dusk, they reached the camp. The Stumps oohed and aahed, eyes widening to the size of a brand-new gold coin.

  There were tents of various colors and sizes wherever you looked. Some were as tall as a house, decorated with fringe, others were smaller, no bigger than a shack, decorated with colorful ribbons that danced in the wind, forming various shapes, and the smallest of them were single rooms made in the shape of mystical animals.

  Running between these colorful tents, people went about their business. Their clothes were no less amazing than their homes and could compete with the outfits of the most eccentric court jesters of Bistrita.

  Women adorned their slender necks with rows of beads. Dozens of bracelets glittered around their thin wrists, shimmering in the light of fires and torches that cast light on their sun-kissed skin. Their numerous skirts, held together with corsetry, rose up every now and again to reveal bare feet that had seen many miles of dusty roads.

  Men wore leather trousers and bright silk shirts covered with homemade fabric vests. Daggers swung from their belts, sometimes clanking sharply against the broad belt buckles. The sound was akin to that of swords clashing, but it didn’t take away from the merry atmosphere.

  The song of lutes, trumpets, and drums danced in the air, mixed with laughter, shouts, singing, and loud clapping. It all mixed into an indescribable, but alluring and addictive rhythm. One just wished to dance the night away.

  Tul, still sitting in the cart, narrowed his eyes, then whistled sharply and raised his fist. The party came to a halt. Ash, having no reins, had to smack Guido on the neck so that he’d stop. The horse responded with a slightly offended snort but obeyed

  Two men came out of the shadows to greet the adventurers. The pot-bellied man with a whip tucked into a wide rawhide belt attracted their attention. His red robe, with its multicolored patches, was the size of one of the bigger tents in the camp. Ash swallowed. He had a bit of a complex about his height. He was sure that once he got off his horse, he’d reach to the man’s chest. Perhaps not even that much.

  The pot-bellied man, in whose stomach you could easily fit a barrel of beer, looked at the visitors with a warm smile. Despite his rugged, scarred faced and thick, black beard with a couple of grays in it, he didn’t look like a formidable opponent. More like a hospitable host he was. Ash was sure that the man that stood before them was the head of the Aquel clan himself.

  The young man next to him seemed to be his son. He was also tall, but nowhere near as obese as his father. He looked like a cub that had been dragged out to his first hunt. Tall and slender, with muscular arms and a handsome face, he radiated the kind of confidence that only the highest of aristocracy possessed. All in all, he was all that the gigolos sung about in taverns were described to be.

  “Greetings travelers,” the elder bowed slightly.

  Mary, as befitted a respected leader, was about to return the bow when Ash jumped off his horse and flashed the two with his usual smile.

  “Laughter to your house and wine for your women!” he replied, bowing.

  The elder arched his left eyebrow and exchanged glances with his son, who just shrugged and waved his hand. Out of the shadows came a girl of fourteen with a braid as thick as the elder’s arm. In her hands were pitchers of water and wine.

  “Wine and water for our guests,” he instructed her.

  Blushing slightly, she approached the young man with azure eyes. Ash accepted both pitchers with a grateful nod. Turning around, he winked at his companions and poured wine on the ground. The water he gave to Guido who almost snatched it from his hand with a joyful whinny, eager to quench his thirst after a long day’s travel.

  Mary rolled her eyes and facepalmed as she always did when Ash did something stupid. She was certain that the clan leader wouldn’t tolerate such an insult. Their hot-headedness was known through the lands of all the Thirteen Kingdoms.

  For a while there was nothing but the sound of the merriment going on in the camp, and then the elder, clutching his enormous belly, deafened them with a laughter that resembled an avalanche. Smiling, Ash returned the pitchers to the girl.

  The elder hugged him so tightly that Ash felt his bones crack. Nevertheless, he kept the smile on his face, but it looked so crooked that both his son and the little girl began to chuckle.

  “Who did our brother travel with, eh?” he asked, slapping Ash so hard that he almost knocked him off his feet.

  “With the Kerava clan,” the young mage wheezed, rubbing his bruised shoulder.

  “Ah, good people, those Keravas!” Both the elder and his son nodded. “Come now, we invite you to join the feast, travelers.”

  “Thank you, sir, er...”

  “Raland,” the elder introduced himself, then waved his hand two the two youths standing by him. “And these are my son and daughter, Zayum and Rikha.”

  “Laughter and wine,” Ash greeted.

  “Laughter and wine,” they replied.

  “Rikha, show the guests around. Zayum, take the horses to the stables.”

  The Stumps exchanged glances and looked cautiously at their cart, which was packed with expensive items. Ash turned to Mary and asked her to trust him. She debated with herself for a good ten seconds before finally giving in. Jumping to the ground, she patted her horse, and handed the reins to Zayum.

  Soon, the horses, Guido included, disappeared among the tents and only the fading creak of the wooden wheels of the cheap cart could be heard.

  Rikha led the way to a sort of square in the center of the camp. She was dragging Ash by the hand. He was smiling at the warm fingers that held his thin wrist rather tightly.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Mary hissed.

  The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

  “If I hadn’t done what I did, we wouldn’t have been accepted as guests.”

  “What do you mean?” Alice asked.

  “The Aqueals only consider other Aqueals guests, or those who know the way of their people. When you’re met by a traveling artist, the first thing you need to do is wish them a good laugh. Laughter is money in show business, a commodity that people are willing to pay for. As for the wine, according to a legend, wine makes a woman’s skin softer and smoother.”

  “Nonsense.” Lari snorted. “I’d be as smooth as a baby’s bottom then.”

  Ash shrugged.

  “As for the drinks,” he continued, “wine isn’t something that should be drunk alone, but in good company. It’s something that’s to be shared with a person whose name you don’t know. I don’t know much about it, but that’s what I’ve been told. That’s why I poured it. For a traveler, their horse is dearer to them than their own family and more valuable than gold. So you first need to take care of your horse and then of yourself.”

  “Well, that part makes sense.” Blackbeard nodded.

  “Be warned,” Alice nudged Ash with her elbow, “that we’ll make you tell us all about that... Kedabra clan.”

  “Kerava,” he corrected her. “There’s nothing to tell. I traveled with them for a couple of months. That’s the whole story.”

  “Hold on...” Tul squinted. He hadn’t changed his expression the entire time. “You were their jester, weren’t you?”

  The young mage smiled broadly and scratched the back of his head.

  “You really are perceptive.”

  The Stumps burst out laughing.

  Chapter 43

  H aving led the guests through the maze of lights and tents, Rikha took them to what Ash would call “the inner sanctum” of any camp — a huge clearing with a table full of delicious food and fragrant wines. It wasn’t that the Aqueals were drunkards or gluttons (although they never turned down a good meal), but they celebrated life and all that came with it. Unl
ike most wandering artists, they didn’t trage their freedom for the comfort of the city or the patronage of a rich noblemen. Around a huge bonfire, the flames of which rose almost ten feet high, were rows of musicians, famous for their ability to play any song written under the light of Irmaril. Their fingers ran over the strings of their instruments with such ease that even the best of elven bards would envy their skill.

  In the distance, fire breathers were playing with the crimson flames, making Ash grit his teeth. He wasn’t able to do such a thing even with his magic. Acrobats flew above the heads of the spectators, hitting people with their props. One of the acrobats bent in such a way that Blackbeard couldn’t help but whistle, earning himself a smack on the head. Here and there, they’d spot the jugglers, who played not with balls, but knives and sabers so sharp that Mary would gladly use them in a fight.

  Among the Aqueals were other Ternites. They sat on the east side of the fire and smiled at the girls and boys walking to and fro. Contrary to their expectations, the Stumps weren’t instructed to join them, but were instead led in the opposite direction, where sat a small group of Ternites.

  Ash couldn’t believe his eyes that all four of the Ternites were lone travelers. Adventurers who preferred to explore on their own were a rather rare sight and most eventually joined a group or found a partner. Seeing one or two lone wolves wasn’t too out of the ordinary, but to find four in one place was a bit odd.

  Thanking the Gods that his companions restrained themselves from asking inappropriate or even stupid questions, Ash sat down on one of the pillows and gratefully accepted the tray that one of the Aqueals gave to him.

  Looking at the carved wooden tray and the plates of various foods, Mary broke the silence.

  “I understand that if it weren’t for you, we’d be sitting on the other side of the fire,” she said thoughtfully.

  Ash just shrugged, thinking that she was talking to herself, and focused on the dancers. Bangles and earrings glimmered in the firelight as they danced to the lively tune. Their dresses rising to their knees as they spun more skillfully than any dervish. Now and again, the wind would blow away their luscious curls, revealing their pretty faces, only to hide them again behind the same curls or colorful scarves.

  The music continued to flow, the flames crackled, and the girls looked like fairy lights that lured inexperienced and careless travelers into their deaths.

  Mary sipped the tart wine and turned to ask Ash something, but the mage was gone. Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she let out a weary sigh. By now, she had gotten to know him well enough to know that he’d use any opportunity to get close to a pretty woman. And lo behold, that was exactly where he was — dancing among the girls and dazzling them with his smile.

  “How does he do it?” Lari grunted, nibbling on some grapes.

  “Does what?” Tul asked, playing with his dagger. He’d pull it out of his sleeve and then pass it between his long, thin fingers, making it shine in the light of the fire.

  Lari pointed his finger at Ash, who was so close to one of the dancers that they were basically grinning against one another.

  Blackbeard, lazily sipping his wine, waved his hand as if he was chasing away a fly and nudged his friend’s shoulder.

  “Jealous?”

  Lari was about to answer him, but his eyes met Alice’s. She pretended that she was too busy with her food to hear them, but he knew that she was listening. With a sad sigh, he looked away and stuffed his mouth with food.

  “Nfo,” he mumbled, making Tul and Blackbeard laugh, and Alice and Mary roll their eyes.

  Closer to the bonfire, Ash was having a lot of fun. His staff somehow remained magically glued to his back, leaving his arms free to hold a mug of rum and the waist of the lovely girl that asked to share a dance with him. Slowly, but surely, his soul and mind were becoming lost in the marry atmosphere.

  “Your friend looks like a fae,” sad a somewhat raspy, but still pleasant voice.

  An elderly woman appeared next to the Stumps. Her once-dark hair was now the color of soot, thin and interspersed with gray, almost white strands. Despite her age, she radiated youthful strength and energy. She was dressed in a mottled dress held in place with a thin belt upon which were various small bags that moved in time with her movements.

  “And you are...?”

  “This is Irba,” said Raland as he joined them.

  He plopped down on a huge pillow, which caused a miniature earthquake. Taking a deep breath, he emptied a pitcher of wine, and wipe his beard with his hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Irba,” Mary said. “We’re—”

  “Ternites,” Irba said, waving her dry, wrinkled hand. “It’s hard to confuse you with anyone else,” she added with a hint of a smile in her voice.

  Mary pursed her lips, but stayed silent. There was no point in arguing. After all, they were guests and they shouldn’t anger their hosts. Especially since they didn’t know where these lovely people had tucked away their horses and cart full of supplies.

  “What are you pouting for, girl, eh?” Irba snorted and leaned back against a flagpole, where a flap of cloth fluttered to indicate the direction and strength of the wind. “No respect for the elders,” she grumbled and closed her eyes.

  “Irba,” Raland grunted and shook his head. “I apologize,” he said, turning to his guests. “Pay no attention to her. She spends way too much time alone with her crystal ball. She has forgotten what common decency is.”

  “It’s all right.” Mary smiled a little stiffly.

  “That’s what I like to hear!” Raland smiled and motioned for his mug to be refilled. Even Blackbeard, who was, let’s call it, a wine enthusiast, couldn’t believe with which speed Raland could drink without getting drunk. “Let’s talk business then, shall we?”

  “Let’s,” Mary agreed, putting down the fruit cake she was about to eat.

  “As I far as I know, you need to cross the Erld.” Raland’s voice turned from cheerful to businesslike.

  Mary nodded. The Erld the name of a strong stream that snaked through the hills and fields of the plain. At its widest point, where the ford was located, it was a quarter of a mile across and calm. Here, the current no longer tried to carry you along with it and break you against sharp stones and drown you in its many rapids.

  “Dear Stumps,” Raland had never asked for names; he didn’t need to, he knew the insignia well, “you’re guests tonight, but things are different on the ferry...”

  “We’ll pay,” Mary said, her heart breaking at the thought of needing to spend even more money. It was no secret that the ford belonged to the Aqueals and that they asked for a toll. Depending on their mood, they could charge you a handful of berries or everything in your traveling bag.

  “Glad to hear that,” Raland said, downing his fourth mug of wine. That was the end of business, and Alice was finally able to ask a question that had been bothering her for a while now.

  “Sir Raland,” she timidly called.

  His face lit up when he saw her sweet smile.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You said that Miss Irba owns a crystal ball... Does that mean... Can she...?”

  “Yes,” the raspy voice replied, “I can see the future. Damn those charlatans that ruined the business for all of us decent seers!”

  Alice’s eyes twinkled like the stars.

  “Would mind telling us a fortune?!” she blurted out.

  “Alice!” Mary snapped at her. “Do you really think that the honorable Irba carries her crystal ball with her wherever she goes?”

  The young girl blushed with embarrassment for the seer’s hands were indeed empty. But then Irba outstretched her right hand and waved her left over it, her bangles clinking melodiously, almost hypnotically. Soon, a slightly cloudy crystal ball was woven out of the air in her hand. It was as if a swirl of morning.

  Alice clapped, changing from a young lady to a child. To complete the image, she was missing two braids tied with colorful ribbon
s and dirt from a mudpie gone awry on her face and hands.

  Irba walked between the Stumps, passing over each of them the strange, shimmering ball. Blackbeard, who had been following her actions closely, could have sworn by his beard that every time the sphere passed over someone’s head, the mist inside transformed into the shape of a face. However, it was unlikely that he’d ever tell about it — he didn’t believe in any otherworldly nonsense. Magic was an exception. But foresight was for fairy tales and ballads.

  After completing the circle, Irba sat down on the pillow. Her lips moved, but no one heard a sound. There were no mages in the area who knew the Words that came out of her mouth. Alice, swinging her lush brown curls, felt inferior. Before, she could boast of knowing about a hundred Words. During the campaign, she realized that many people know less, but much more effective and useful Words.

  Irba kept whispering, weaving an unknown spell. The wind picked up; the cloth flapped, turning into the sound of invisible birds rushing to the seer’s call; the fire, which had been locked in a chaotic dance, suddenly stretched out and spun like a tornado; the ashes and sparks no longer flew, but transformed, dancing and taking the form of small, humanoid spirits.

  The spell lasted for only a couple of moments, and soon the birds stopped clapping, the flames were subdued, and the spirits disappeared.

  The seer’s eyes rolled back, revealing the whites, which were slightly dark, as if covered with a film. Irba didn’t see what was happening in the square, and did not notice Blackbeard’s chuckles and Alice’s shushing. Her mind was in the misty fields of Farlon.

  The songs and legends claimed that there, in the corners of the divine halls, the straight course of the river of time is erased and the boundaries of space disappear. Few believed in the existence of Farlon, and even fewer happened to visit it.

  However, despite the skepticism, Irba roamed these fields. She tried not to focus on any details as it was against the rules, and anyone who broke them risked losing their mind and being stuck forever in the changing lands.

  If you looked for too long at a stone, soon, it’d turn into a bird, the bird into a river, the river into a mountain, the mountain into a lake, the lake into a kingdom, the kingdom into a man. And a string of images would endlessly turn your head and pull you in, until the mind finally dissolved in the flow of nothingness.