Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story, Kirill Klevanski [great reads .TXT] 📗

argue with the hermit. There were too many legends and tails about such people, and just because the man in front of them was still a youth it didn’t mean that he wasn’t a powerful mage.

The riders carefully lowered their friend onto a makeshift stretcher made out of their cloaks and carried him into the house where they put him on the kitchen table. As much as they all wanted to stay and help, there wasn’t enough room in the house for all of them, so a few of the riders had to wait outside.

The mage took a couple of jars from the cupboards. He’d sniff their contents and throw away the ones he didn’t need. While he searched for the necessary ingredients, the knives, controlled by magic, sharpened themselves.

“This will hurt,” he said and walked over. With a quick move, he tore the bandages off the patient, revealing the wound.

The man with the plume, unable to stand this kind of barbaric behavior, put his blade to the mage’s throat. “You little―”

“He’ll die if I don’t apply pressure to the wound,” the man replied calmly, ignoring the cold steel pressed against his skin.

Clenching his teeth, the man sheathed his sword. The young man nodded and immediately covered the wound with a rag. He began uncorking the jars when the man intervened again.

“What’s in those jars?” he asked sharply.

“Don’t worry,” the young man smiled. “It’s for me, not him. You see, I’m no healer, so my Words won’t have enough power. I need special herbs to fix that.”

The man nodded and observed the mage eat several bunches of dried berries and crushed roots and wash the whole thing with water. He then removed the rag, letting the blood flow again, and started whispering inaudibly. As his lips moved, the wound began to close and the blood seemed to flow back into the body. The man’s skin gained some color and his breathing stabilized. After a couple of moments, all that was left from the rider’s near-death experience was a barely visible scar.

Pale in the face and bleeding from his nose, the young man staggered and almost fell, but the man with the plume caught him.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve no idea how much you helped us.”

“I think I do,” the young man replied as he was carefully placed on the floor. “I saved your friend from certain death and all... I’ve done the impossible.”

“You’ve done more than that,” whispered the wounded man. “I’m King Gazrangan, and I owe my life to you.”

Chapter 10

A sh, yawning, and stretching, carefully got out of the sleeping lady’s embrace that was lying next to him. He didn’t remember her name or where they had met, but, judging by the fact that she remained sleeping while he was jumping and cursing as he struggled to put on his pants, she was probably very drunk yesterday.

He got dressed quickly, took his staff and cloak, and went into the hallway.

Now, Ash was a pretty unlucky guy, but today clearly wasn’t his day. Opening the door, he was smacked right in the forehead. Mary, who came to pick him up, ended up knocking on his head instead of the wood.

“Sounds empty,” Lari grunted as he passed by them. “Mary, are you sure that we got the right guy?”

“Keep walking, big boy,” Mary snorted, trying to hide her laughter.

“That hurts,” Ash grumbled, rubbing his forehead. It was going to bruise, he was sure of it. “Why were you going to bang so hard on the poor door?”

“She hit your forehead,” Alice giggled and moved to that Mervyn could pass.

Mervyn Blackbeard, the shield-bearer of the squad, got his nickname because of his thick, black beard that he took great care of and often combed with a brush. The man was also famous for singlehandedly taking care of eighteen robbers in an alley with nothing more than his shield and coming out of the skirmish unscathed.

“That’s right!” Ash exclaimed and held up his index finger. He pushed Mary aside so that he could get out and closed the door of his room. Before he went out, he didn’t forget to part with his sleeping companion by giving her one last kiss. “She could’ve hurt the door, so I saved it with my forehead! I’m a hero!” The door would have hurt if I hadn’t put my forehead in front of it.

“You’re a hero,” Tul exclaimed, slapping Ash on his shoulder.

The tall, broad-shouldered archer, on whose handsome face one could see traces of his Nordic heritage, bore the proud nickname “Bullseye.” Not everyone could boast that their nickname fit them that well. Tul, as his friends called him, was one of the lucky few.

Once, as a bet, he shot six leaves falling from a tree with only one arrow, using one of the most beloved techniques of the Ternite archers: Scatter Shot. By using this technique, archers could make their arrow split into three or more, depending on their skill. Any other archer would use this skill to hit as many targets in their vicinity as possible, but not Tul. He used it to increase his accuracy even more.

“That’s the kind of people you’ll be working with,” Mary said with a smile as she rummaged through her bag in search of something.

Finally finding what she had been looking for, she tossed a small locket to Ash. Engraved in steel was a stump that had legs instead of roots.

“Don’t lose it,” she warned sternly. “That emblem is no joke.”

“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry,” Ash said, clasping the chain around his neck.

Mary looked at him and nodded. Ever since he joined them, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that the guy was hiding his true face from them all. For a second, which was enough to