There were all kinds of ways for one to induce the meditative state needed to unlock one’s magic potential: by using a potion or a crystal, by receiving a prayer (if a priest was close at hand), ingesting a concoction or a mushroom, or even meat of a magical beast. But out of all the options, fairy pollen was the best one. They said that just one grain of it could restore the Strength of an experienced magician.
Hiding the bag with seven grains of fairy pollen, Ash continued gathering flowers in a basket that he had brought with him. It was so big that he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to carry it back alone.
Luckily, he knew how to make this task easier for himself. By simply saying the right Word, the basket, at his request, became lighter. Even the novice magicians knew this simple trick.
On his belt was a rather small satchel, but those who knew what he was capable of were ready to give their hand for the right to peek into it and their soul for the right to get it. All of them, for some reason, believed that Ash (though they knew him by a different name) kept unspeakable treasures in the little satchel.
Having collected enough flowers to earn a couple of silver coins, Ash rose to his feet and, putting his thumb and forefinger to his mouth, whistled. The house emerged again in the center of the meadow, from the open door of which flew out a gray cloak and settled on the young man’s shoulders.
“Almost forgot you... Again,” Ash muttered in displeasure. He was of the kind that kept forgetting this or that all the time.
With his trusty patched-up cloak on his shoulders and basket in his hand, Ash headed toward the road. It’d take him five days to get to it and then if he doesn’t find a mount, half a day from it to the village. He lived in the middle of nowhere, after all. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the army that might come knocking on his door and demanding his head, it’s just that he didn’t want the flowers to be trampled on! The queen and the rest of the fairies would be very upset.
But little did he know that he wouldn’t be returning home anytime soon because on that very day, somewhere out there a mysterious tavern named D.H. opened.
Chapter 5
A fortnight later, the Two Snares village, Middle Kingdom
T he market square was surprisingly crowded that day. Among the peasants and farmers that had come from the neighboring villages to buy their daily necessities and passing-by Ternites that needed some items for the road, was a big crowd of mixed-age girls. There were little girls who wished to make flower crowns, women who had recently been wed, looking for flowers to decorate their new home with and elderly ladies looking for a simple centerpiece of their tables.
In the center of this crowd of lovely human girls (those of other races, unfortunately, haven’t been seen for about twenty years now) was a young man.
“Come here and, get your flowers! One for four, three for five, and a bouquet for just a copper! I don’t haggle, I don’t lie, nor do I kiss and marry!”
On the counter in front of the young man were the most beautiful flowers that could be found under the light of Irmaril. Although plucked days ago, they looked as fresh as the day they had bloomed. However, there were no fairies dwelling in them.
The old potter, Durbava, who was working on the stall next to the young man, didn’t believe in such nonsense like demons and fairies. Only kids and Ternites checked the flowers for the little folk. But not her, no. She didn’t believe in dwarves or elves or mermaids or spirits or any other boogeyman that had been said to live under the light of Irmaril.
What then did this grumpy old woman believe in? In swindlers, that’s what. In swindlers and thieves like the little succubus’s son (and whose else’s son could he have been) next to her, who charmed his way into getting an extra quarter of a copper from the poor women. For Heaven’s sake, they stood in line for hours to gaze at “flowers” and talk to the man about “flowers.”
Luckily, the little demon rarely ever came here. A couple of times a year, no more. But after he left, the girls spent days talking about him. Even the married ones!
“Whores!” The old woman spat, sitting alone at her stall with her head propped on her hand. “The Gods will punish you.”
Suddenly, screams were heard on the street. They slowly turned into moans, but not those of the pleasant kind. Durbava knew well how those sounded; she had heard many of them in her life. No, there was no passion or young laughter in them, only fear and horror.
Grave silence ensued, followed by panic. People scattered, tripping over things and one another. Shouts mixed with the ringing of the temple’s bell that quickly and suddenly died down as if someone had pulled the bell ringer away from the rope.
Only two people remained where they were ― the young man counting his hard-earned coin, and the old potter. Durbava was frozen with fear. She had heard those bells ring many times before and their sudden ringing would always stun her. She had also heard such screams before, and a muffled clanging that grew closer and louder with each heartbeat.
As if embodying the worst fears from her life, a group of seven people appeared on the square. Two with staffs and robes, one with a huge shield and a sword, one with a dagger, another with a saber, one with a bow, and the other with a musket.
“Don’t move!” shouted the one with the daggers. Something round and red was impaled on the blood-smeared blade. Having looked closer, Durbava almost fainted ― it was an eyeball.
“Oh, how scary, Eric,” the tall mage grunted. A belt made of skulls and bones adorned his waist. “I’m so spooked.”
“You’re right,” the marksman nodded, “I managed to intimidate these poor cowards.” The bandits laughed at their own jokes.
“We’re the Night Cats gang,” Eric said. “Whoever refuses to hand over their coin and valuables will end up like her!”
The dagger-wielder suddenly spun on his heels. There was a flash of silver, and a moment later, a young girl fell to the ground. A long metal needle was peering from her left eye. It had pierced through her skull and plunged into the wooden wall of the tanner’s shop. Blood, crimson, and smelling of metal, covered her once pretty face.
Somewhere, a child cried.
Two shots reverberated through the marketplace.
A woman screamed. A little boy’s head exploded like a ripe watermelon.
“Spirit of Silence!” The mage ran his fingers over the skulls on his belt. The child’s mother, who was running toward the murders, fell to her knees. Eyes bulging and fighting for air, she clawed at her throat on which two handprints appeared. But there were no hands. It was as if the air itself was strangling the poor woman. A ghost, favorite pets of Necromancers, beckoned her to join it in the afterlife.
A frightened whisper flew across the square. The sunny sky seemed to be covered with mist. Everyone was trembling with fear, save for the young man who was calmly counting his coin.
“I never liked kids.” The musketeer grimaced and poured some black pellets into his musket.
“Nice going, Dvach,” said the one with the shield, “now they’ll raise the bounty for a couple of silver coins.”
“Ah, we’re going to Kavelholm tomorrow anyway,” said the other mage. He looked bored. “The guards there love coin as much as we do.”
This was true. Everyone knew that Kavelholm’s guards would sell their wives to someone else for a decent price.
“As you’ve seen,” Eric continued, shaking the blood off his dagger and sitting on the corpse of the murdered woman, “we ain’t joking. So shut your traps and hand over your goods.”
From the crowd emerged two mages carrying big, heavy sacks. Those versed in the magic arts knew how to make the heavy load lighter, but judging by their faces, they had neither enough power nor words.
The people, like obedient dogs, threw everything of value into the bags, filling them with copper quarters, whole quarters, and cheap jewelry. Not pleased with the loot, the gang members started to rip rings off the fingers of the recent brides and kick and punch whoever stood in th
eir way. Some of the villagers screamed in horror when the necromancer summoned his ghosts, which made the bandits laugh. The shield-bearer came to the brilliant idea to make zombies out of the headless boy and his mother and give them the bags. The necromancer praised his friend for being resourceful.
When the zombies approached the young man, he ignored them, busy packing his coin and flowers into his basket.
“Hey, you!” the shield-bearer barked.
“Me?”
“Yes, you! Do you need a special invitation? You think you’re special?”
The young man froze and stared at him. The old potter sighed. She had seen this before, soon, fear will seize his heart and paralyze him, and he’ll hope that this is all a bad dream.
The young man smiled and gave the warrior a bouquet of daffodils, daisies, and heather. “Here, just two quarters for a bouquet.”
Chapter 6
T he bandits froze and then burst out laughing. The shield-bearer flushed red with anger and swung at the outstretched hand. The gauntlet should’ve broken the young man’s wrist, but nothing happened. The flower-seller divided the bouquet and started packing the flowers.
The shield-bearer looked from his fist to the empty space in front of him in surprise.
“You can keep your grass, you freak,” Eric said, still laughing. “But be sure to donate your coin!”
The young man scratched the top of his head as if he was thinking and then smiled.
“I’m afraid that I can’t do that, I won’t have anything to eat then.”
“Are you an idiot?” Dvach said, “Gobi, take his coin purse.”
Gobi nodded, creaking with his leather cowl, and held out his hand, beckoning with his fingers to be given the purse. The young man, contrary to logic and common sense, continued packing.
Having waited for a little, Gobi became furious. He stepped forward with the intention to grab the fool, but the said fool wasn’t there anymore. What was strange was that the distance between the two, despite the young man’s disappearing act, remained the same. Gobi stared at his hand in confusion.
“Oho!” the necromancer exclaimed. The bandits immediately drew their weapons and looked around. “One of the traders is a Ternite!”
The bandits exchanged glances and smirked. The young man was still packing his flowers and stall. Gobi raised his heavy sword, which suddenly shone with a golden glow, and brought it down, aiming at the Ternite’s neck.
But the neck wasn’t there, only the bag, which took the hit for its owner. The wind blew and picked up the petals that danced and swirled as they got scattered across the village. A sight so beautiful would be welcomed any other day except today.
“The flowers,” the young man said, distressed. He was sitting on a fence a couple of feet from where they had tried to decapitate him. Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he started counting something on his fingers. When he finished, he nodded and smiled again. “You owe me a whole piece of silver.”
Gobi, red in the face from rage, spread his arms to the sides and screamed so loudly that he’d make an ordinary man’s ears bleed, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who heard him and paralyzing them. The Ernites were at the mercy of forces that they could not comprehend.
Silver lightning colored the sky. The young man, waving his arms comically, fell off the fence. Rubbing his bruised forehead, he got up and spat. With a clang, a steel needle fell to the cobblestone. No one could believe their eyes ― the young man had caught it with his teeth.
“You’re evil,” he said.
Two shots were fired. Smoke rose from the musket.
The young man fell on his back, arms sprawled to the sides.
“What a fool,” the necromancer muttered. He reached for his belt, intent on making another zombie but was suddenly interrupted.
With a grunt, the young man flew into the air and landed onto his feet. Untied, the black scarf fell from his head; a waterfall of silver, tainted crimson at the temples, fell over his shoulders. Ruby drops trickled down his face, dying the emerald grass and soaking the ground.
“Firearms,” the young man said thoughtfully. “Gentlemen, you’re heretics...”
“Who are you?!” Eric exclaimed.
“Me?” the young man asked in wonder. “I’m just a simple flower merchant. Nice to meet you!”
At that moment, a blue glimmer fell from the young man’s face, revealing that one of his eyes was truly blue, and the other, brown.
“I’ll kill you!” Gobi shouted.
Leaving a cloud of dust behind him, he ran over to the young man and lunged at him. But his opponent didn’t move. What’s more, he looked at them all with pity.
An arch of blood was drawn in the sky. A moan broke the silence, and a body fell to the ground with a loud thud. No one could believe their eyes ― under the young man’s feet lay the shield-bearer. A long cut adorned his neck, made but his own sword. The young man hadn’t so much as blinked.
“Gobi!” Dvach shouted, but he was too late. His friend was no longer with them.
In this world, there was one thing everyone knew to be true no matter how much they wished it wasn’t ― Death took, but it never gave back.
“Ashen hair,” the other mage mumbled, taking a step back.
“Different colored eyes,” Dvach grunted. His musket fell with a rattle.
The bandits suddenly froze. The young man, still smiling, waved his hand.
“The A-Ashen One!” Erich shouted in panic.
“Oh, I do not like being called that,” the young man said.
Panic and fear gave way to apathy and silence. When the angel of death descends before you, you know that there’s nowhere to run. All you can do is accept your fate. There was no one under the light of Irmaril who didn’t know about the “Ashen One.”
“Demon in human form,” “cannibal who feeds on the flesh of children and blood of the elderly,” “destroyer of cities,” “fire spirit,” “the shadow behind you,” these were how children’s horror stories called this harbinger of horror and death, the most wanted criminal in all the kingdoms of the continent, the murderer of thousands, the destroyer of four cities, the man who wiped almost a hundred villages from the face of the earth.
This was the man who occupied the first place on all the bounty list. The man for whom, dead or alive (preferably dead), the bounty hunter would be given a reward of forty-seven thousand gold, which was enough to buy a duchy with a castle, five thousand servants, almost fifty villages and have enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life.
Chapter 7
“H ere you go!” The leader of the gang tore a purse from his belt and threw it at the young man’s feet. His friends followed his example. With a clink, the coins rolled out of the purses, but the young man, whose face had lost all its child-like naivety and joy, didn’t so much as look at the glittering silver and gold. “Take it all! If you want, you can take our ammunition, potions, scrolls... Whatever you want!”
Falling to their knees, the bandits emptied their pockets, satchels, bags, threw off their armor, handed over vials and vials, and dropped their weapons. They didn’t dare look up.
“Oh, but I want fun...” The young man smirked. “First Form: Incarnation.”
Before anyone could react, Eric turned into a pile of gore with glassy eyes. In his chest was a gaping hole, four inches in diameter. The stench of burning flesh hung in the air.
The young man towered over the corpse. At the end of his staff was a solid ball of fire, so bright that it was almost impossible to look at.
The necromancer was first to come to his senses. Running his fingers over the bone necklace around his neck, he yelled: “Spirit of Death!”
The air trembled with a burst of hellish laughter, and a group of ghosts emerged from the ground around Eric. They looked different from the ones the necromancer had summoned before: these looked real, except that they were made out of the dense fog, and that their appearance was very u
nsettling. Their faces were rotten skulls, hands cracked yellow bones, and eyes flickers of green flame. Having spent all of his strength on summoning his most powerful attack, the necromancer collapsed.
But his sacrifice was not in vain. The archer, pulling the bowstring, whispered something. The tip of the arrow turned red. The bowstring sang. The wooden bow creaked. The projectile, capable of breaking through the skin of a Havel bison (although even a cannonball couldn’t penetrate this creature’s skin), passed through the specter.
“I’m bored,” Ash muttered and spun his staff around, hitting the ground with the ball of fire.
There was an explosion. Orange waves spread from the epicenter, covering everything in flames. Cloth burned. Ghosts turned into dust. The red arrow disappeared. The air itself turned into a weapon, burning the lungs of those who inhaled it. Dying screams joined the crackling of fire that merrily licked the wood of the burning homes and turned the temple’s bell into a chunk of molten metal.
When the firestorm subsided, only ashes remained. People were crawling from under the piles of ash and debris, frightened and slightly wounded, but otherwise alive and well. For some reason, the fire didn’t touch them. The houses and other wooden structures, unfortunately, suffered the same fate as the robbers did. Only the temple remained standing, albeit it, too, had a couple of cracks in the stone.
The young man’s face was once again filled with childlike joy. Smiling shyly, he scratched the back of his head.
“I overdid it again, my bad,” he muttered apologetically.
The scarf, miraculously untouched by the fire, flew back to him and neatly tied the ashen hair. The boy, whose eyes were once again blue, looked at his staff and wagged his finger at it as if he was scolding it. Then he bent down and held out his hand to help the old potter up.
“Aaah! A demon! A demon!” she screamed and backed away. “Go away!” she yelled. “Help! A demon!”
Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story Page 3
