Chương 10: A Fell Purpose

Asgar met the incensed gaze of the corrupted creature across the clearing. It flapped great shadowed wings and leapt into the sky, pivoting in the air to dive down at him in a rush of wind. He rolled, barely avoiding talons as sharp as any blade. Talia was out of the fight—possibly dead—but Tarkin was still in play. He turned to Asgar, eyes wide and face covered in blood. Whether his own or that of the snake he'd wrestled, Asgar had no idea.

"Fucking witches!" he screamed, and if Asgar hadn't been fully emersed in the blood rage, he might have laughed.

"Here!" the veteran shouted, throwing something his way. Asgar caught the twisted length of wood in hand and turned to the sky once more. The creature wheeled and came speeding down in another dive, and Asgar knew dodging wasn't an option this time. He flexed his fingers on the thick stick in his hand, praying it would hold up enough to damage the witch rather than simply shatter on contact. He wished he had his axe, but she'd already destroyed that, and you had to make do with the tools at hand.

He reached into his soul, to that strange well of power, and waited with bated breath. The witch screeched with its inhuman, distended throat and Asgar roared and swung. Hallowed strike sheathed the stick, limning the strange white banding around the weapon with a faint blue light. When the two met, the clearing was filled with the crack of bone and the echo of roiling power.

Class: Squire of Slaughter Level 11 Alignment: Celestial Blessings: Abilities: Blood Rage, Hallowed Strike Silence surrounded him like a cloak, and to Asgar it was a blessing. No birds chirped, but neither did they hack and bark in unnatural ways. No creatures rustled in the undergrowth, but neither did vines slither of their own volition toward his companions. The moon was still out and full, but its light was pure and bright now, rather than tinged with a sickly yellow glow.

Asgar limped over to Tarkin, pulling the man to his feet and inspecting his head. The veteran waved him off though.

"I'm fine, lad. Just a scratch." Looked like more than that, in Asgar's opinion; a flap of skin torn open at the man's temple, dribbling blood down one side of his face. But he was standing, and that was good enough for Asgar. Talia was in worse shape. She was still insensate, her eyes rolled up in her head and not moving behind her eyelids. He wasn't much for healing, but he didn't think that was a good sign. He snorted a laugh at the thought of carrying her back to the army.

Not only was it several miles too far for him to manage, even ignoring his present exhaustion, but he'd also run the risk of gaining a reputation if he kept rescuing women. He'd have to carry Tarkin next time, and the man would probably stab him first rather than allow that. He let his companion fuss over the ranger, rolling her onto her side and performing some checks of what purpose Asgar couldn't say. He busied himself inspecting the clearing. The witch was well and truly dead.

His empowered strike had destroyed her neck, torso and legs in that blinding flash. Something of her foul magic had reacted to his own, and she was little more than a burnt hunk of flesh and feathers now. Asgar left her corpse to rot and turned in search of her head. He found it several yards away, yellow-white eyes bulging in rage, beaked mouth open in a silent scream and matted hair wild. Hard to believe it had once been human. His axe-head was nowhere to be found, but the haft was.

The stick Tarkin had thrown his way was in fact the remains of that haft, but it was changed. The witch's magic that had transformed it into a living, squeezing python had enforced it somehow, and when she'd died, it had been stuck half-in, half-out of its transformation. Now, it was a slightly curved shaft of wood, with the snake's spine travelling up its underside and its many ribs ringing the wood in regular intervals. It was a bizarre fusion of bone and wood, but it was far stronger than the sum of its parts.

It had somehow survived that clash at the end, and Asgar knew his own strength. He'd bent the flanges of an iron mace with weaker blows, and yet the wood wasn't even chipped. As it was, it was a poor weapon: not long enough for a staff or walking stick, it was essentially a billy club. Great for disciplining kids and beggars in the capital, not so great for facing savage orcs and chitin-plated Hellspawn. Still, he'd bring it back to Strix and see what the smith could do with it.

Alongside the witch's head, it would be useful proof to corroborate their outlandish claims. Talia had been right, after all—witchery had been stamped out in the Barrenwoods campaign back before Asgar had been born. Everyone knew that. He suspected they'd have a hard time convincing Captain Strand of the threat without proof. Harder still Lord Hendry. The less said about Lady Valentia the better. Asgar sighed and gathered their things, doing his best to ignore the throbbing from his shin.

There was more to be found in these hills, but their group was in poor shape. Two confirmed dead, one missing, one unconscious and two standing but wounded. No matter their mettle, as Lord Finley would say, they needed to regroup, resupply and get reinforcements. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. It would be a long march for him and Tarkin, but the army needed to know what was brewing in these hills.

Talia Nascandel woke several hours later in Asgar's arms. He'd switched her from a fireman's carry to a princess carry in the hope of avoiding vomit down his back. He'd learned that lesson earlier, and it was one that only needed teaching once. She blinked up at him groggily, and he offered her a tight smile.

"Welcome back," he said quietly. Tarkin turned back to him, sparing only a moment to squint their way and then nod in satisfaction. Then he was back to scanning the trees around them, pitted sword held ready at his side. He, like Asgar, was worried at the possibility of more of the foul witches being in residence. Where there was one, there were many.

It took Talia a good few minutes to regain her senses, and while she could walk, she was unsteady enough on her feet that Asgar kept an arm under her shoulders to support her.

"Thank you for saving me," she said after hearing his explanation of what she'd missed.

"I owe both of you a debt."

"Nonsense," he replied.

"We're soldiers—that's the job. Besides, you saved both of us by distracting her for a time. Far as I'm concerned, we're even."

"Still feel like I owe you," she muttered.

"Just like your sister," he joked.

"Doesn't make it true though." Rather than be cheered, her mood seemed to plummet.

"Don't hurt her," she said, after a few beats of silence. Her tone was somewhere between harsh and pleading.

"I… what?" Asgar asked, genuinely perplexed.

"I saw how you were looking at Strix. And how she was looking at you, too. Don't lead Tansel on if you're going to—""Hey, hey!" Asgar said, interrupting her tirade as it started to build.

"Easy. Where's all this coming from?" She only eyed him with anger.

"Are you really going to pretend to be that oblivious?"

"I mean… Strix I was getting a possible hint from. But that's far from a sure thing, and I don't have the faintest idea how to…" Talia seemed very much unsympathetic to his plight, so he zeroed in on the real issue.

"But I've got no intentions of pursuing your sister. I saved her life. That's it. Same as you, same as Tarkin."

"That's it?" Talia snorted.

"You expect me to believe you'll ignore a beautiful woman throwing herself at you—that you won't hold this over her?"

"… Yes?" he replied dumbly.

"I don't know what you expect me to say here, Talia. Tansel is a nice woman. No doubt she's beautiful, too, but I'm not looking for anything like that. Don't have the time nor the temperament. I'll take a friendly face and an ear every now and then if they're on offer, but I'm not…" He trailed off, unsure how to allay her fears. His helpless shrug didn't seem to do the trick.

"I'm not sticking around for long," he finished. Talia was watching him carefully.

"I've met many men, Asgar, and many feel entitled to far more for far less. Even brave soldiers. Especially brave soldiers."

"Well, I'm not even a fucking soldier, so there's your answer," he said, patience running thin.

"You don't have to believe me. I don't care if you watch me like a hawk for the next month. But don't bother trying to threaten me, because we both know that would be a fucking joke."

"That's what scares me," she said quietly, and Asgar's anger drained away in an instant.

"She's my little sister, Asgar. Our parents died when we were young, and I've been keeping her safe ever since."

"She's tough," he replied hesitantly.

"She's just as much a soldier as any in the regiment, ain't she?"

"Not like every other soldier. She's different. Like you." His eyes widened, but she continued quickly.

"I know you're blessed. I am, too—every ranger is in the end. I'm sure you've heard the rumours. Most of us don't get godly power like you did, but I can feel it. You should, too. Tarkin is as well, did you know that?" Asgar relaxed a fraction. This conversation was treading into dangerous territory, but if she still thought him only a soldier with a blessing, then it might be worth indulging in to find out more.

He was woefully ignorant of the world, after all, and couldn't really afford to turn down new information. But fuck him if he wasn't piss-poor at all this cloak and dagger stuff—he was terrified he'd give himself away with an errant word.

"Tansel is blessed, but where we rangers tend to get small boosts that help us fight or track, as in my case, she got something stranger. We don't truly understand it, but people are drawn to her, consciously or not. She attracts attention, and believe me when I say most of it hasn't been good. We joined the army to get away from a particular noble scion, and the gold-cloaks here haven't been much better.

My position has let me shield her from the regular soldiers, and even some of the officers, but people like you?" She let the sentence hang, and Asgar knew what she was afraid of. Memories came unbidden to his mind; of the horror he'd interrupted, the bodies he'd carried in his arms back to Da's old barn before setting it alight to hide the traces of horrific crimes and his own bloody vengeance.

"I've learned that powerful men are to be feared, Asgar." Talia turned her hazel eyes his way, her gaze piercing.

"Each time I wish that I'm wrong, and each time I find out that they're less than they should be. Why should I believe you're any different?" It was a fair question, but Asgar was lost in memories he'd rather not dwell on. Didn't mean he wouldn't though. Something pathological about it, perhaps, but he often found himself picking at them like a scab, unveiling the wound within and wincing at the pain even as he relished it. It would never heal like that, but some wounds couldn't be healed.

He thought of the raucous laughter and the dancing silhouettes in the inn's windows that night. Talia was right—entitlement was a good word for it, but she was wrong on the scale.

"I'm not powerful," he said darkly.

"Compared to who!?" she asked with a laugh.

"You obliterated a witch with a single strike. You stand in shield walls like a fucking titan, and if half the rumours about you are true, you've killed more orcs than most veterans in less than a week. If you're not powerful, then who the fuck is?"

"The Golden Lance," he said, lip curling.

"Oh, just the most storied Knight in the kingdom?" the ranger laughed again.

"Give it two hundred years of service and you might be. Pits, make sure to get yourself a mount out of legend, raid hell itself for your armour and armaments, and ensure you're beloved by Avarron himself, and you're there. Why would you compare yourself to the Golden Goddamn Lance?" Asgar finally pulled his attention away from his soul. He'd heard her words, but they were nothing he hadn't told himself before.

He had his oath, and his purpose was written in a rage so enduring that he would rather die than even consider ignoring it. He turned her way, and the ranger—a woman that had endured the harshest training the army could throw at her, the woman that had fought tooth and nail against an enemy thought lost to history—flinched at what she saw in his gaze.

"Because I'm going to kill him."