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

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 their 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.