Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story by Kirill Klevanski (essential reading .txt) 📗

About a hundred and twenty armored spearmen arrived with a cargo of cages, each of which held within itself forty to fifty convicts. Ash counted about three hundred newcomers as he approached the corporal, a short man with an unpleasant face that was glistening with sweat. Around his shoulders was a coat of thick fur to keep him warm during these cold, winter nights. The Seventh Legion could only dream of such luxury. They were so poorly equipped that they slept in their gear and covered themselves with rags.

“Are you in charge here?” the corporal asked.

Ash opened his mouth to reply, but the corporal suddenly bent over, coughing horribly and spitting blood.

“You pig!” Racker spat, hitting his staff adorned with engravings of soaring ravens against the ground. “Don’t you dare talk to him in that tone! Do you know who you’re talking to, huh?! You have the honor of being in the presence of my lord, the general of the Seventh Legion!”

“I-I apologize.” The corporal kept coughing. None of his subordinates dared to move, afraid of angering the two mages.

Ash nodded to Racker, who, swearing profusely, freed the corporal of his spell. And although it wasn’t visible, Ash knew that his friend had lost a lot of Strength doing this. Heretics had no issues with casting these “Blood Words” but ordinary mages couldn’t perform these spells without ending up with a headache that’d leave them feeling weak for days.

“Corporal,” Ash said, voice cold as the snow surrounding them, “do what you’ve come here to do and leave. Unless you want to meet the rest of the legion? They just love wardens.”

Feeling a chill run down his spine, the corporal nodded and ordered his men to release the prisoners. The soldiers rushed to unlock the cages and get out of here as soon as possible.

Locks clicked and rusted iron creaked. Dressed in smelly rags and barefoot, the convicts huddled together, shivering with cold.

Ash shook his head and sighed. The last thing they needed was people losing limbs to frostbite and dying from hypothermia.

“You’re still here?” Racker sneered. “That eager to meet the rest of the squad, huh?”

The corporal turned both green and white at the same time and spurred his horse. His men hurried after him, not wishing to spend a moment longer in this cursed place, making the convicts and Racker burst out laughing. Ash didn’t get what was so funny in people running away. His teachers at the palace must’ve forgotten to teach him something.

Sighing, he turned to the new recruits and nodded. “Follow me. Whoever lags behind will feed the dogs.”

“Come on, get moving!” Racker barked.

Ash, leaning onto the staff that Garangan had given him, climbed onto the platform, oblivious to what was happening behind him. Racker was jabbing the convicts in the ribs and shouting curses as he directed them toward their new homes. At some point, he approached the platform and rang the bell, hurrying them like a shepherd shooing his herd into its pin.

Standing on the platform, Ash observed his new soldiers swarm beneath his feet like ants. They were a pitiful sight. Malnourished, sleep-deprived, and tattered, they tore the bundles of clothes from the hands of the other soldiers, eager to put on something warm and clean. Thick pants lined with cotton, a coat made of sheepskin, coupled with woolen socks and decent footwear was the most comfortable attire they had worn in years. Some even in decades. All this gear was obtained through bribes, but neither Ash nor Racker cared.

“Line up, you sons of bitches!” Racker snarled, hitting the convicts so hard that even the druids wouldn’t be able to help them. Such deeply black bruises could only be removed by a proper healer. “What? Spit a little blood, did you?! Good, it’ll keep you warm! Spit some more! Come on!” His blows were precise, painful, and insanely strong. One “smack” to the chest was enough to topple anyone over. One of the unfortunate victims of his abuse dropped to their knees, making Racker kick them in the ribs with the iron toe of his boot. Seeing this, the other convicts tried their best not to stumble or fall. They didn’t want to end up on a cart on a one-way trip to Gness. Here, they’d never see the bloom of spring again, but in Gness... In Gness they’d be thrown into a ring and forced to fight rabid dogs, naked and helpless as the day they were born.

It was of little consolation that the dogs almost always won.

In a matter of minutes, four thousand men were standing lined up on the parade grounds. Today was the last day that they’d stand like that. Tomorrow, the Legion would cross the border and go to Arabist. But they wouldn’t fight. No, they’d pillage, burn, and rape, but not fight. The Seventh Legion was to become Arabist’s worst nightmare; such was the king’s will. Anyone could kill, but not everyone could make someone’s blood run cold with terror.

As Ash observed the frenzied looks on the faces of his men, he wondered just how many of such people he had killed. “Three? Four dozen? Probably more.” But the convicts didn’t seem afraid of their leader even though he was looking at them with a cold, indifferent stare.

“They’re not even fazed...” Ash grimaced.

“Come on!” Racker barked. Another convict fell and stained the snow crimson. Ash saw apprehension in the man’s eyes as he stared at his lieutenant with a mixture of anger and dread.

“What am I doing wrong?!”

Ash observed the man with amusement. Blowing their heads off didn’t seem to be as effective anymore. The people were becoming restless. Lack of fear toward their leaders meant that the hour of mutiny was just around the corner. No collars would help them then. He couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t seem scared of