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

by Kirill Klevanski

  “...Seum. Rasto. Urgaberi. Urculum!” Ash finished whispering the twenty-two Words that formed one of the most powerful spells in his arsenal, and hit the deck with his staff.

  The ferry shuddered with the power that had been summoned into the mortal realm. A wave of energy passed through the water, turning its turbulent surface into that of a mirror. From under the mage’s staff, a murder of crows emerged, spreading a net made of smoke that was stronger than the chains that the Gods had bound the Dark Ones with. The birds charged at their enemy, slowing down the serpent’s onslaught.

  The mage swayed and wiped the blood from his nose. Due to the circumstances of his birth and origin, he wasn’t like most mages, so, for him, casting spells was the most difficult part of the craft. Even the most powerful of mages would’ve had a difficult time summoning forth Hell’s Crows.

  “How...?” Mary asked, supporting him as Ash tried not to fall over.

  “I’m fine,” he assured her with a smile.

  “That’s... That’s not what I meant. I mean... How did you do that?!” she exclaimed and pointed at the serpent that was struggling to break free from its bonds. The crows were still holding the beast at bay, but it was only a matter of time before the spell’s effect wore off.

  “Ah, that... Just an old artifact,” Ash lied, handing her a handful of ash. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  Mary didn’t have time for a thorough analysis, which was probably why she nodded, yanked Ash to his feet, and did what she did best — bring order into chaos.

  “Warriors and defenders!” she shouted, drawing her sword. “Don’t lower your shields! Healers — help the wounded! Mages, prepare your most deadly spells! Everyone else — hit that thing with everything you can get your hands on! We need to slow it down!”

  At first, no one lifted a finger, but a single heartbeat later, people rushed to obey the order. When it was necessary, Mary could exude authority befit of a king, backed up with a bard’s charisma. It wasn’t for nothing that she had become the commander of one of the most famous groups that many of the Guilds would like to see in their ranks.

  While the people were busty on the raft, the serpent gathered its strength. It was as if the river itself had decided to resist the mage’s spell. Seeing that the crows were struggling, Ash took a wooden rosary from his shirt and began to cast a defensive spell. Everything depended on his speed.

  The serpent roared one last time, and the crows, screaming, disappeared in a flash of blue light. At that moment, the power put in the spell rushed back into its caster, but this time with volatile intentions. All binding spells had one significant drawback — if the attacker destroyed them, the caster would be hit with a retaliatory blow embedded with their own power.

  Ash shook the rosary, exposing it to the incoming wave of energy, but either the mage was too slow or the spirit had added more power into the spell as he was hit in the chest with the force of a battering ram. He soared into the air and slammed into the mast. A wheeze and blood escaped his lips.

  Alice, seeing that her friend had been wounded, wanted to rush to help him, but she couldn’t leave Blackbeard without support. He was the strongest defender present, and it was his shield that was holding off the serpent. Biting her lip, she turned away from the injured mage.

  Ash fell to his knees and coughed up more blood. However, what he was concerned about were not his ruptured organs, but the lens that had fallen out of his eye. Ignoring his wounds, he found the missing lens and put it back into place, pretending that he was wiping blood and sweat from his face.

  “It’s... strong,” he grunted.

  Guido snarled at the cattle and kicked the deck, trying to calm down the animals that had gone mad with fear.

  Putting away the rosary, Ash wrapped both hands around his staff. According to legends, every stone, every blade of grass, and everything under the light of Irmaril had a spirit and a soul. The larger the object was, the stronger its soul. It was said that the spirits of such giants as the Erld river, the Rezaliks Mountais, and the Forest of Shadows, had incredible power. Many shamans called those entities demigods, a step away from the Gods only because they lacked intelligence. They were raw power, driven by the fury of the elements. Something must’ve seriously angered the Erld River if it was so hell-bent on destroying the ferry.

  The serpent let out another high-pitched hiss, and its right head lunged forward. The people screamed as a stream of water as thick as a column hit their shields. This was enough for many of them to fall onto the deck. The shimmering dome had holes in it, which the serpent immediately used to deal even more damage.

  Several mages, instead of preparing an attack, had to join the defenders and raise their magic shields. Anyone who could wield a blade, moved between the passengers, feeling more helpless than ever. All they could do was get out of everyone else’s way. However, there was one among them who couldn’t bear to sit idly by.

  “Ash,” Lari said, rushing over to the mage and helping him to get up. “I have a plan. I need you to buy me some time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Ash said, shaking his head.

  “What? Do you maybe have a plan?” Lari asked. “That’s what I thought,” he added without waiting for an answer.

  “Still, that technique won’t bring that thing down.”

  “It doesn’t have to. All it has to do is to give our people a chance to strike.”

  Ash stared at him for a while. He was about to protest when Lari cut him off.

  “Mary is alright with the idea. We won’t get another chance.”

  “Fucking—” the mage swore and straightened up. “Fine. But have in mind that if you die, I’ll get a necromancer, make them resurrect you, and then I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Sounds good.” Lari chuckled.

  “Also, bear in mind that the princess has a better chance of survival if six people are helping her.”

  From the look on Lari’s face, Ash figured that he hadn’t been thinking about their end goal. His reserved nod only convinced him that the adventurers didn’t like to think about the consequences of their actions.

  Lari drew his daggers, took a stance, and closed his eyes. Energy began to gather around him and swirl around his feet as it rose higher and higher until it finally reached the blades.

  Ash moved away. He could be affected not only by water, but also by Arlun’s technique as it was based on the energy of will, which counterbalanced magic. He could try to embody the blue flame and use it to fight the serpent, but then no lie would save him from being questioned by the Stumps. He couldn’t afford outing himself like that. So, despite all his strength and talent, he joined the other mages and began to gather energy for a joint attack.

  In the meantime, the river raged on. It shouted and rained down a hail of terrifying blows. Ash, following the situation closely, was the first to react. The far right side of the ferry, where the steering wheel was, was only partially destroyed when another attack broke through the shields. The charge easily cut through the felt ropes and the whole construction shook.

  Like a single organism, the swordsmen rushed to the aid of those who were in the red zone. Ignoring the pain in their hands, they grabbed the ropes, keeping the ferry afloat and preventing the logs from breaking. Some of the Aqueals fell into the water and were quickly helped back onto the deck. All except a boy who was standing closest to the edge when the attack occurred. The child was carried away a few yards and thrown directly into the center of the storm.

  “Man overboard!” Raland shouted as he single-handedly tied several huge logs with ropes. His powerful arms bulged from strain and face turned red.

  For just a moment, the Ternites stared at the drowning boy, who was desperately beating the water with his arms in the vain attempt of saving himself. Just a moment, and then they all returned to their posts as if nothing had ever happened.

  Ash gritted his teeth and looked at Mary. She shook her head and nodded toward the raging spirit. But the mage
slung his staff over his back and dove like a swallow into the river. As soon as the water closed above his head, he felt as if he were trapped in a coffin. He slowly sank to the bottom, feeling his magic leave him. For the first time since that day, he felt helpless.

  Chapter 45

  9th Day of the Month of Afir, 312. A.D., Mt. Mok-Pu, The Eastern Territory

  M any novices had gathered in one of the monastery’s many pavilions despite the cold of the winter’s months. Ash saw young Chen and Hao among those present, who had set fire to brother Fen’s beard last week, stuffed snow into the abbot’s collar, threw snowballs at sister Nan, and done many more mischiefs. It wasn’t for nothing that the group of children that Ash had ended up was considered the most troublesome in the monastery.

  Sisters Sen and Men — twins that were very talented musicians — also came to watch the performance. The music was played on bamboo flutes and an instrument made of a piece of curved wood with many strings, the name of which Ash still didn’t know. The notes were sharp and high, but they didn’t lose the elegance of the melody. Brother Jing-Jing, the man who had brought Ash to the mountain, was there as well. The two had become good friends. Jig, as Ash called him, was looking at his ward with a smile.

  Ah, but one could go on forever about who was present in the Hall of Wisdom. The Hall, usually empty, was a spacious structure that could easily accommodate the entire population of the monastery. Only those who sought advice from the God of Wisdom, Liao-Fen, came here when no festivities were taking place.

  The statue of the heavenly sage stood at the end of the Hall. His face was thoughtful, the right hand frozen, propping his chin, and the left hovering over the chessboard as he contemplated his next move. Across from the God, was sage Jianyu, seated in a lotus position. According to legend, his mind was so bright that Liao-Fen came down from his hall to play a game with the monk. But one day, Jianyu baffled the God, and the latter, in order to be able to think about the answer, turned the monk to stone and promised to undo the spell when he came up with a good move. He must’ve found himself in quite the predicament because the monastery was almost eleven thousand years old.

  Finally, abbot Ling waved his hand. Armed with a makeshift staff, Ash began to recite the Words.

  He made ribbons dance like snakes, stones fly like birds, air turn into water, water turn into stone, and turn into ray of sunshine. He wove a small cloud, planted a piece of night into it, and created the light of a star on his hand. He pulled a child’s laugh from his pocket and used it to light a torch made of water. He called the pans and pots from the kitchen, much to the cook’s displeasure, and made them dance.

  Smiling, Ash shook his free hand and picked up the pace. He uttered hundreds of Words, changing the laws of the universe and giving life to the impossible. His performance lasted for two days, during which he wasn’t allowed to drink, eat, or go to the bathroom. During the night, so that the mage didn’t sleep, but continued to chant, he was watched in shifts by Qiang and Kisheng, two older students who were near the end of their training.

  And so, on the third day, when the mage uttered his last magical formulae, and the new audience (who, unlike him, couldn’t stay in the same place for three days and three nights) was deafened by the sound of the morning gong, Ash earned the title of the Master of a Thousand Words, one of the several living on the unnamed planet.

  There were claps as the monks picked up the exhausted, but happy young man and carried him away. That moment, when dozens of sincere smiles lit up around him, would forever remain in Ash’s memory.

  Evening of the same day

  Dusk was falling on the Eastern continent. In the west, the tired sun was hiding among the mountains and clouds, and in the east, stars were slowly coming out to show their beautiful faces to those who remained awake. Their cold light, coupled with the frosty air, made Ash pull his clothes tighter around himself, wishing that cloaks were an accepted attire in the monastery. A nice, thick cloak would be wonderful right about now.

  Sniffling, he sat on a rock, where he had spent many days and nights, learning, as stupid as that might sound, the secrets of the universe — other than that, he simply had nothing to do here in the monastery. In the beginning, he had wanted to learn the art along with the novices, but after several painful nights in the infirmary, he realized that martial arts weren’t for him. His muscles weren’t made for what the monks called a form of some kind of Tun-Chi or Te-Chi.

  After that, he asked the elders to give him some kind of a job to do, but the broom kept falling out of his hands and only scattered more dust; the pots in the kitchen were constantly spewing black smoke; and the food was either too salty or undercooked, and, in general, inedible. Deciding not to despair, he continued looking for things to do, but no matter what job he was given, everything either fell out of his hands, broke, went spoilt, or was simply lost somewhere.

  The worst thing, however, was that no one ever blamed him for anything. He would’ve fine if they shouted at him or scolded him for his clumsiness, but no one so much as frowned. Everyone helped him as much as they could and kept telling Ash that he was yet to find “his way,” whatever the hell that meant.

  That was how he got to the point where he did what he did best, but also the thing that he couldn’t stand — study. Sitting on a rock that hung over a chasm, he listened to the world, in a lack of a better explanation. After all, that was how the palace tutors believed that that was the best way to quickly learn the meaning of any Word. It turned out that they weren’t being paid a ridiculous sum of money for just acting smart.

  “It’s getting late,” Jing-Jing said. He had a habit of pointing out the obvious, which annoyed many people, but amused Ash.

  “Oh, it really is!” the mage replied, acting surprised.

  Jing-Jing took two long pipes filled with a special kind of tobacco from the folds of his robes and handed one to the young mage.

  “Cut it yourself?” Ash asked, inhaling the fragrant, gentle smoke.

  “When the mind is restless you often find yourself wishing to do something with your hands.”

  “What bothers you, brother?”

  Tiny figures danced in the air, their dresses and bodies made up of curls of smoke. If there was one thing Ash had liked about the palace life, it was the balls. The most exquisite and breathtaking balls took place in the palaces of Mistrit. It was a pity that he’d never witness them again.

  “You, my dear friend,” Jing-Jing replied and blew a ring of smoke that enclosed one of the dancing couples in it.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Ash smiled, watching the figures try to escape from the monk’s trap.

  “Let me worry.”

  The mage shrugged and swung his legs above the chasm. Anyone afraid of heights would faint just at the sight of him sitting so high up.

  “I don’t understand your desire to become a monk.”

  Ash didn’t answer, continuing to smoke, enjoying the rare, fragrant tobacco that couldn’t be found anywhere else outside the mountains.

  “If you take the tenure,” Jing-Jing continued, seeing that Ash had no intention of answering, “you’ll lose all of your power as a mage! Why in the seven hells would you do that?!”

  The mage smiled to himself. It was nice to have someone who genuinely cared about him. Jing-Jing had inspired him to take care of the novices as best as he could. And he did a good job at it, too! If... we ignored the fact that he was a frequent participant in their silly pranks.

  “Tell me, my wise monk friend, how often have you done things you truly wanted?”

  The monk thought about it. Ash knew that he wanted to respond him with wise words along the lines of “sometimes I do what I want, but I usually do what I have to do,” but the monk surprised him by answering truthfully.

  “There are things that meet my desire, and there are those that arise from my duties.”

  “Pragmatic as always.”

  “A worthy man must have three things — a sharp m
ind, a sword, and wisdom.”

  “Yeah, yeah...” Ash waved his hand, as if he were chasing away an annoying fly. “I remember Liao-Fen’s words as well as you.”

  “However, I think I didn’t answer your question.” Jing-Jing shook out the tobacco from his pipe and filled it with fresh leaves. “I can’t tell you what I do more often, what I want or what I should.”

  “I can.” Ash sighed.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the cry of the mountain eagle. The king of the sky was flying dozens of leagues away from the monastery, but his voice was clearly audible even from this distance. He was a living personification of power and defiance, but at the same time, of loneliness, because no one else flew as high as him.

  “That’s why I want your rosary.”

  “Hangchou’s,” the monk corrected him.

  “Yes, those.” Ash nodded. He didn’t even want to bother trying to twist his tongue to pronounce the name.

  The two sat in silence for a while, enjoying the tobacco and the mountain scenery. Perhaps we could describe to you the beauty and expanse of the Eastern continent, but if we did, you’d no longer be able to look with awe at any other mountains. So just take our word for it — there was no more beautiful and majestic sunset in the world than that that could be seen from the Mok-Pu monastery.

  “The abbot is waiting for you," Jing-Jing finally said.

  Ash nodded and left. He went up the tricky passage and found himself in the courtyard where students usually trained. The Eternal Blossom Tree, whose name couldn’t have better described it, was also here. It was small like a weeping willow, but different from it in that it had white leaves that circled the trunk all year round. All three hundred and sixty-five days this tree pleased the eye with its blossoms and the nose with a mysterious, sweet aroma.