Chương 18: Watchers On The Wall

He didn't know what else to do, so he grit his teeth against all the trauma and heartache that filled his chest like a furnace, and dove into the depths of his soul. And there it was. Blessings: Stonehoof Already, he knew what it would do. His mastery of his soul was growing, and as it did, so did his understanding. Blessings were similar to skills in a way.

Weaker, obviously, because they didn't provide the same potent physical enhancements that a class did with each level, or the other skills that would work in synergy with one another. But blessings still had their uses. Stonehoof would ground him when activated, root him in place as the mountains are rooted in the bedrock of the world, letting enemies break upon him like aeons of rain without ever washing him away.

It would certainly have come in handy during the fight just gone—no more being picked up and slammed about like flotsam in a flashflood. He didn't know who the Mountain Father was; another god like Avarron? An ancient spirit? Right now, he didn't care. Clearly, he was linked in some way to the plinths adorning each peak Asgar had so far climbed, but whether he was malicious or benevolent, he was offering Asgar power, and that mattered the most.

Asgar groaned as he rolled to his feet, but already he could feel the strength returning to him. His soul was refilling with the blessed energy he used to activate his skills, and the bounty of his recent level would buoy him further. Whether it would be enough to get him to the watchtower remained to be seen. He gathered his weapons, took a moment to look down at the drop over which Gendry had tumbled. He had been brave in the end, and that's what counted to Asgar.

He could only hope he'd have the same courage when his time came. Then he turned and set off in a familiar, loping run. The watchtower was waiting, and so were his enemies.

[Yorrick]"You know what I miss most about her, Yorrick?" Yorrick sighed.

"I know you're about to tell me."

"Her cooking," Yander said wistfully.

"She's got this three-bean casserole. Comes out the oven all golden on top, and it's good. Oh, it's so good. I'd kill for it right now. Warms your bones after a cold night, there's no doubt about that."

"What's her secret?" Yorrick asked half-heartedly. He'd long ago realised that his friend—colleague, really—would talk no matter what, so the best he could do was steer him towards banality and away from the flights of ridiculous romanticism the man was prone to. Especially when he talked of his new wife.

"Something to do with curds," Yander said, as if pondering the secrets of the world atop one of the mage-spires.

"Never lets an ingredient go to waste, my Bessie. She's resourceful." A pause to consider his perfect wife, then he asked, "so how's about you then, Yorrik? How goes your love life?" Yorrick sighed.

"No need to rehash old arguments."

"Ah, but it's a black day indeed when a man ceases to listen to his heart! The depths you might sink to, the joys you'll miss out on…"

"I'm sure I'll survive without three-bean casserole for a while longer," Yorrick muttered as he looked out over the road. He did so from under the lip of the crenelated tower that loomed above them. Rain hammered down, plinking off the wall in front and spraying up to splash Yander, who shivered in his overcoat. Yorrick had been a watcher for two decades now, most spent stationed at this very tower, and he'd long ago learned to stay out of the rain.

Could see the road well enough from where he huddled, and there was no need to get wet on account of a bit of guarding. Wouldn't help nobody if he froze to death on duty. Of course, he'd told Yander that many times, but the younger man was stubborn. There was a reason he was dreaming of his wife's cooking all of a sudden, but he was too mud-brained to do the smart thing.

"You ever think­—""What's that?" Yorrick asked suddenly.

"Well if you'd let me bloody finish a sentence then you might find­—""Shut it. What's that down on the road?" They both squinted through the gloom. A creature was stumbling towards them. Yorrick gripped the crenelated wall tight, then while his friend still strained his eyes, the veteran watcher pulled his crossbow from the wall behind and fumbled in his belt-pouch for a bolt.

"What is it?" Yander whispered. Lightning lit the world. The clouds above became briefly visible like bruises in the flesh of the sky, and beneath them, the watchers caught their first true glimpse of the figure. It was a man, soaked and shivering, stumbling along the path with a shambling gait, tattered clothes hanging from his frame. His long hair was matted to his forehead, smeared with mud, but his eyes seemed to flash as they reflected just a hint of that lightning. He was staring straight at them.

Yorrick paled.

"Get the watch captain."

"Are you sure?" Yander asked.

"What if he's just on his way past? We should probably confirm—""Ring the fucking bell, watch-brother!" Yorrick's voice was granite hard, and the reminder of their position seemed to spur the younger watcher to action. As he hurried off down the stone stairs, Yarrick kept his eyes, and weapon, trained on the limping man below. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. He looked painfully weak.

Strips of reinforced brigandine and a single glove all that remained of his armour, weapons belt empty and body absolutely caked in grime. But what was a lone man doing out on the Western Road at night? And coming from the depths of the Haunted Hills at that? Yorrick's spine tingled. The three of them met him at the gate below a few minutes later.

Yander and Yorrick both bore the watcher's signature crossbows, while the captain stood before them with her dawn-axe propped against one shoulder, iron-bossed pommel brushing the stone. It did Yorrick's old heart good to stand behind her. She was a capable woman, new to the position but well-versed in their order's history and a potent warrior by all accounts. The way she held the enchanted weapon certainly implied as much.

Yorrick had seen all manner of danger in his time—self-proclaimed bandit kings, murderers escaped from the queen's prisons, cultists from the north, and even a wanted malefice running from the Church's Illuminaries—but he'd yet to see the watch-captain quail before any of them. She was as steady as the watchtower itself. Still, he was relieved when the traveller stumbled up to the gate, and the torches on either side illuminated just a rough looking man.

A big man, no doubt, and clearly some sort of fighter given his equipment, but a man nonetheless. He looked surprisingly young, as a matter of fact, and Yorrick was hit with a sudden surge of sympathy. How terrified he must have been out there on his own.

"Who are you, traveller?" the watch captain asked.

"What brings you to the Westveil tower?"

"Just a soldier," the man answered in a voice dripping with exhaustion.

"Have a message… for the watchers."

"Who are you?" she asked again, firmer this time. The man looked confused.

"Asgar," he replied after a pause. The watch captain banged the haft of her axe against the stone. When she spoke next, her voice was unyielding.

"As watch captain, it is my sacred duty to record all that come this way. You will identify yourself." The man blinked in confusion. He straightened from his half-stoop and the exhaustion slipped from his shoulders. When he met the captain's gaze, he suddenly looked much more a soldier than a bedraggled young man lost in the night. Yorrick shifted, spine tingling again.

"My name is Asgar, soldier of the Lance's 2nd infantry regiment and adjutant to Lady Valentia Silverspire. I come bearing a message of grave importance for the watchtower."

"Just Asgar?" The captain asked.

"The records will want more than that."

"Aye, well, Asgar of Piddlebottom don't sound quite so impressive now does it?" The man's tired smile seemed to melt the tension in the air, and the captain finally relaxed. She banged her long axe's pommel into the ground again and this time spoke a word of power alongside the movement. Magikal seals in the stone around the portcullis glowed gold. There was a heavy thunk as metal locks retreated, and then Yorrick and Yander hurried to the pullies to winch up the portcullis. It slid upwards on oiled hinges.

With a grateful nod, the stranger entered the Westveil watchtower. Together, they shuffled into the main hall, both Yander and Yorrick shedding their overcoats. When the younger man went to prop his crossbow against the wall though, Yorrick stopped him. Some instinct bade him remain alert as the stranger followed the captain to the centre of the room. Each of his steps left brackish puddles behind.

"Don't let your guard down yet," Yorrick murmured. As he approached them, he noted his captain's suddenly tense body language. He slowed his steps and hefted the crossbow.

"... afraid I can't do that," the captain was saying.

"You must," the stranger implored.

"I will not bend protocol on account of a stranger's suggestions."

"I am telling you, as her adjutant, that Lady Valentia Silverspire of the royal-fucking-household has very clearly demanded I deliver this message directly to the Golden Lance. Not the nobles, not the queen, not some administrator in the watch."

"And as I have said, there is protocol to be followed. Your name will be recorded in our ledgers and the request will be made formally through the appropriate channels. You will wait patiently until that is done. That is my order, and there is no authority in the entire Westveil that can overturn that sacred duty."

"Fuck protocol!" the stranger shouted. Yorrick flinched, though the captain did not.

"Thousands will die while this request trickles through 'the appropriate channels'."

"The Order of the Duskwatch is famed for its administrative competence," the captain explained evenly.

"There will be no undue delays."

"There will be no undue delays," the stranger said quietly, and his shape seemed to swell even as his voice dropped, "because you will relay a message through the sending stones directly to the Pits themselves where the Golden Lance is waiting."

"Stand down, soldier." But the stranger did not stand down. He continued to loom, stepping forward, and now his height felt stifling in the cavernous chamber. The captain stood before him as a stalwart barrier, but even her composure began to flag in the face of his presence. The air grew charged, something about him setting primal instincts flaring.

"I did not fight my way through hordes of greenskins and abominations to be waylaid by simple administration," the stranger growled.

"There are worse terrors in this world than orcs alone," the captain said, and Yorrick was amazed to hear no quaver in her voice.

"The Duskwatch stand vigilant against those threats. We keep the roads and mark the path, and it is precisely because of those procedures you disparage that Ardentia has stood for three hundred years." The room seemed to pulse, and Yorrick's spine tingled and fizzed. If he thought the man had loomed before, he was wrong. Now the stranger seemed to suck in all focus. He found his crossbow rising to point at the man's chest, and he flinched as he saw the stranger's eyes flick his way.

In a single heartbeat, the man transformed. Gone were the rags and tatters of armour, the mud-streaked splatters of the road. In front of the captain now stood a titan of armoured might. Heavy plates of dark, jagged iron bound the warrior, and even without a weapon he looked as lethal as the threats the captain had just referenced. Behind the visor those faintly glowing eyes sought Yorrick out.

"I know what's in those hills, captain." Echoing from that blunt helm, the title sounded like an insult in the man's gravel voice.

"I've killed witches and the aberrations they stitch together by the score while you hide behind walls. Don't speak to me of threats you've not faced yourself. I was given an order by Lady Silverspire, and I will see it done." The stranger took another step towards them, and Yorrick's finger tightened on the trigger. The captain's long axe whipped forwards to bar the stranger's path in a golden arc, but then he moved.

It happened so fast that Yorrick could barely track, but the next thing he knew, the armoured stranger was standing over the captain, one hand holding the haft of the axe out to one side while the captain strained to bring it around. Yorrick watched the captain's shoulders bunch, recalled her strength when they had sparred on occasion, and as he witnessed the apparent ease with which the stranger held her in place with one arm alone, his blood ran cold. To his left, a bow twanged and a bolt flew free.

It clanged off the warrior's helm without effect, then the captain was diving to the ground.

"Get down!" she called, and instincts drilled over years had Yorrick hitting the floor immediately. A crack of thunder filled the chamber and the room flashed gold. As he blinked away the afterimages, Yorrick was expecting to find a crumpled suit of armour and the remains of a ruined body within, perhaps blasted into the wall twenty yards back. But the stranger still stood where he had, the axe in his grip smoking and dull from where its potent energy had been drained in that singular attack.

He spoke quietly, though his voice was no less threatening for it.

"If I have to kill all of you and spend my life in irons for the privilege of sending this message, then so be it. I'll not condemn the borderlands to death on account of fucking process!" The captain, who was staring wide-eyed up at him from the floor, spoke.

"While we live, this tower will not yield to evil." The blunt helm tilted to one side. Then the stranger sighed, and in a swirl of black ash, his armour retreated. He threw the axe to the ground near the captain, then limped over to kneel before them.

"I'm not evil. I'm not your enemy. I just want to save my friends. Please, help me."