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

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 hundred 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