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

With that, Ash got up and walked over to the edge of the clearing, where he collapsed on the ground and wrapped his cloak around himself, pretending to be asleep. The Stumps talked for a long time around the campfire, discussing the day’s events.

Ash thought about that, too.

“What could have caused the river to attack people who meant it no harm? Spirits have no desires or reason, only instinct. The most primitive, but at the same time, the most reliable. To have the Erld attack them like that means that someone or something managed to make the spirit go mad with fear.”

First there was the cursed castle, then Helmer, then Arlund, then Irba, and now the Erld. Ash couldn’t shake off the feeling that a dark cloud was descending upon the earth, bringing with it a storm of pain and misery. None of this was a coincidence, there was no way that it could’ve been.

His mind refused to accept this as reality, forcing him to go over thousands of different ideas and scenarios as he searched for the truth. Unfortunately, the truth was either so great and vast that his mind couldn’t reveal it, or he was just going crazy.

Just like with the rest of the “accidents,” they came out victorious again. The spirit had been killed. It’d take two, maybe four decades before the river’s flow slows down, and, someday, it’d dry up completely, taking with it the vast fields, allowing the swamps of Lurk to spread westward. The most terrible creatures that lived in those bogs would be a step closer to the lands of the Thirteen Kingdoms.

The death of the spirit was one of many things that set into motion the change of the world. Even if it was invisible to others, even if it looked insignificant, it was still a change.

Ash couldn’t tell if these changes were drops of rain in the dark cloud or those that had already fallen on their cursed earth, but one thing was certain — something terrible was coming.

Chapter 48

                      26th Day of the Month Kraig, 322 A.D., The Foothills

I n front of them were the Rezaliks mountains, with their sharp, snow-capped peaks that looked more like the fangs of some monster than a rocky formation. The horseless Stumps had been forced to carry all of their belongings on their shoulders. Even Ash didn’t dare levitate his humble load — he had been forbidden from using magic in order to save energy in case of danger.

The mage didn’t accuse his fellow travelers of cowardice. He, too, had been stressed out for the past twenty days, fifteen of which were spent in a constant fight against various monsters. The creatures that lived in the swamp seemed to have gone mad. No matter what path Tul picked out, no matter what spells Alice cast, they always found them. Day after day, they fought against giant toads, crocus that looked like humanoid crocodiles, gigantic spiders, things that looked like a crossbreed between a pony and a demon, and a hundred other monstrosities.

Every day, every single damn day, began with a fight and ended with it. If it weren’t for Alice’s healing skills, they would’ve died on the border with Lurk where they were ambushed by the toad warriors. These creatures, slimy and warty, despite the webbing between their fingers, were painfully accurate at throwing poisoned spears and darts.

Ash thanked the Heavens for the fact that Mary was the type of person who was ready for everything. She had bought a lot of potions that cleansed the body of various poisons and toxins, which saved their lives numerous times.

Still, their misadventures had their advantages.

For example, Lari got a chance to train his new skills; Alice had overcome the fear that consumed her when she saw her wounded allies, and turned out to be an irreplaceable member of the Stumps. She was adept at mending bones, closing wounds, conjuring up blood, and casting invigorating spells.

Mary had broken two more rapiers and a saber during their journey through the swamp, cursing the day she had agreed to buy weapons from a less-famous blacksmith. Her situation was a rather odd one: usually, by the time a person reached the height and fame that Mary had, they’d already have a unique weapon, be that a legendary blade, a staff carved from wood enchanted by a powerful mage, a shield forged from a fallen stare, or a bow carved from a horn of the lord of the forest. But Mary... Mary had none of that.

Having not yet found a faithful companion that wouldn’t break during a tough battle, Mary kept changing sword after sword. Ash sympathized with her, remembering that he had once been in the same situation.

All in all, the Lurk swamp was an annoyingly difficult part of an already difficult route. Leaving behind the stench, muddy, green water of the swamp, and all other monstrosities Lurk was known for, the Stumps now faced a new challenge.

Cold winds raged in the pass, turning the gentle snowflakes into a storm of tiny blades. Somewhere in the blinding whiteness, ice trolls lurked, looking for a warm meal and skins to sew new cloaks from.

In the darkest caves, lived huge salamanders, whose fiery breath could burn alive a knight in their own armor. Stone giants, masquerading as ledges and paths, oftentimes threw into the abyss those who dared disturb them. But all these dangers paled in the face of the magical cold that covered the mountains once inhabited by the dwarves.

“Of course, these are just legends.” Blackbeard chuckled as he helped Alice put on his thick cloak. “But rumors have it that these mountains turned hostile when they were captured by Anna’Bre, the Queen of Blizzards.”

Alice shuddered and buried her face in the fur collar of her cloak.

“And they say that her servants aren’t