Chương 19: Dream Of The Devil

[Asgar] The sending stone had been beautiful. It was a single hunk of granite, hewn so smooth it seemed magikal already, then engraved with spirals of gold into arcane runes that made Asgar's head spin. It bobbed lazily, suspended in a stream of glowing water that fell upwards from a fountain likewise covered in looping golden script. The whole thing was wondrous to Asgar, and he could tell that his amazement went some way to endearing him to the others after the tense showdown earlier.

He had watched as the Duskwatch captain—Thelmine, she had said—approached the stone and whispered words in an unknown language, then he'd nearly tripped over himself in shock when it had whipped around at a speed he could barely track. The golden runes blurred together until his vision ran with colour, eventually resolving into s single golden pane before the stone.

"This is Watch Captain Thelmine of the Westveil tower, addressing her counterpart at the Pits of Hell. Message to follow." Thelmine gestured him forwards, and Asgar had cleared his throat before delivering the message he'd rehearsed in his head for most of a day. He couldn't even remember what he'd said now, but he'd definitely mentioned Lady Valentia's name, and as Thelmine took over to chant yet more words of power to send the transmission, he had turned to see both Yarrick and Yander wide-eyed at the news.

As they should have been. Hell was reaching out into Ardentia once more, and if this message wasn't received, it could be their families that would pay the price. He hoped it was enough for them to forgive his entrance, though he would not lose sleep if it wasn't. He'd then been escorted to a room for him to recover in, with a meal and a bath provided, alongside some fresh, if simple, travelling clothes. Nothing to be done for his tattered armour, but he had his skill at least.

He hoped they truly did see enough dangerous threats that they didn't consider such a sight to be worth reporting, but he couldn't be sure. With any luck he'd be gone by the time anything came of it, even if the captain did report it. Now, he stared up at the ceiling, running fingers over fresh scars and cataloguing the new injuries he'd accumulated on his way here. It had been worth it though. The message was sent and he'd grown further in power. His class had advanced to level 19. A shame, that.

He'd been hoping to hit level 20 and earn a new skill before meeting the Golden Lance, but life had hardly been fair to him so far. Why would it start now? Besides, Lady Valentia had said he was weak in a one-on-one confrontation. Relatively weak, she'd been sure to stress, but he had filed it away nonetheless. A sufficiently powerful opponent could overwhelm the golden bastard, and Asgar would have to hope it would be enough. It had to be. Sleep soon claimed him, and with it came fractured dreams.

The golden glow of the sending stone pulsed behind his eyelids, its tendrils worming into his subconscious and staining everything indelibly gold. Trapped within the cloying embrace of sleep, he saw visions of a portal yawning wide in the bowels of the earth, and beyond its milky sheen stretched the plains of Hell. Creatures of nightmare crawled from the fetid bogs and buzzed their way to the gate, which blinked like an eye as it strained to hold back the tide.

It failed, and when it ruptured, white viscera sprayed high as a thousand thousand crawling, spitting things climbed towards the light. A ravenous tide assaulted ramparts manned by brave soldiers and mercenaries. Esoteric magik and weapons of impossible artifice roared back to reap a red harvest of the horde, but it was akin to covering a wellspring with one's bare hands. The Hellspawn rose up ceaselessly, heedless of the carnage.

Only when all seemed lost did a figure ride down from above, the golden sun burnishing his silhouette. Astride a mount of purest white, the armoured Knight flew over the hordes of Hell, and molten fire rained down upon them. Creatures screamed and died by the thousands and the defenders cheered. For a single moment Asgar felt hope bloom in his heart— how could evil triumph in the face of Ardentia's noble Knights? Then the golden man turned Asgar's way.

His gaze seemed to bridge the miles between them, and the cheers were replaced by screams of horror. The Pit and its many defenders had vanished. Asgar stood in his village, next to the wishing well beneath the shade of the old oak. That golden gaze still held his though, that same burnished figure sitting astride that same mythical mount, hanging in the sky above Piddlebottom like a guardian angel. Shadows crept in at the edges until all was dark.

Smoke stained the night air, and still the knight hung above, still he kept Asgar captive with his gaze. The chorus of screams was joined by crackling wood, the scent of charred flesh mingling with manure from Old Jansen's field behind. He was back in home once more but the village was burning, the fields were burning, and the people… Asgar cried out in anguish. The scene shattered and he was suddenly moving. He ripped open the door to the tavern, that sick laughter filling his ears.

Kicked in the door to the last room on the 2nd floor to find them there. Soldiers, armour mostly discarded, but on those abandoned brigandines he spotted the golden mark of their commander shining in the dark. Asgar screamed and this time it wasn't anguish or despair that burned hum, but rage. Pure, violent, bubbling anger that filled him to the brim and burst from his throat in an angry torrent. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The scene shifted before he could act on it, and he was outside once more, looking on at the smouldering remains of the old barn. Tears long since dried, eyes rimmed red with despair. Hooves thundered in the distance and he turned in time to see a golden knight astride a white pegasus, lance levelled his way and gleaming eyes locked on his.

Asgar tried to stumble away, but the rider was closing with every second, his speed too great, his lance too long, the drumming of his mount's hooves so loud it shook the sky itself— Asgar jolted awake. Every nerve was afire, his breath coming in gasps. His back was drenched in sweat and every muscle tingled. It was as if his entire body was alive and already in the thick of battle, but his mind had been left at home. He reeled out of bed and crashed into the wall, breath ragged.

He took an active breath and focused. What were his new senses telling him? He'd been unconscious for hours now, a sliver of pale sunlight spearing into the room from the single high window. It was early morning, but that didn't explain his sudden awakening. Nor the calibre of his dreams, which he'd have to think on later. No, for now he needed to be ready. Something was coming. Something powerful, and heading his way. It was…. It was inside the watchtower.

He felt like a fish in the ocean, suddenly and palpably aware of the danger coming from below. Asgar leapt for his weapon belt even as the door burst open. He spun, but of course his weapons were strewn over thirty miles of haunted upland, and all he had in hand was the belt itself. It flopped at the end of his wrist to dangle uselessly as the figure of virile might that was the Golden Lance stepped into his chambers. They stared at one another.

Asgar felt a deep, burning rage still roaring within his chest, and he smothered it frantically. Not yet, not yet, not yet. Now wasn't the time, and he'd surely lose if he tried anything here. Especially with the watch captain just behind the knight. She coughed and turned away, though the Lance only frowned, eyes narrowing somewhat. Besides, Asgar realised, even if he did succeed now, who would save the regiment? How many thousands of soldiers would he condemn for his vengeance?

How many innocents living beyond the safety of city walls? And what of his companions: Strix, Talia, Tansel and Tarkin? It took a near superhuman effort of will, but Asgar bit back at the anger trying to puppet his body, the desire to let the blood rage flow and paint this watchtower crimson with the blood of his enemy. He wrestled it down and straightened, trying to look like anything but the bloodlusted killer he felt at this moment.

The Lance had been giving Asgar an assessing look, but now he brightened and stepped forwards.

"Sorry to bother you, soldier! I'm afraid we don't have time to dally. Asgar, was it not? A pleasure to meet you!" He extended one golden gauntlet across the room, smile jovial and kind. His moustache was white, though his figure held none of the weakness that age should have bestowed, and while there were many lines carved into his saturnine face, he appeared still hearty, still vital and strong. Asgar fought with every iota of his being not to grab the man's wrist and slam him into the stone.

He was assailed with visions of dashing the Knight's skull against the wall, of stamping his face through the floor, of throwing him right out the fucking window. Asgar didn't care for its effectiveness, he just wanted to hurt the bastard, to make him feel even a scant fucking fraction of the pain he'd allowed to be dealt under his command… But his village deserved better than a wasted death.

His oath to God himself had been solemn, and so Asgar mastered himself and shook the knight's hand, though it made his teeth ache to do it.

"Well met," he said roughly. Addressing the Knight with any sort of appropriate decorum was apparently more than he could stomach, though the Lance didn't seem to mind. He just laughed and clapped Asgar on the back, making some joke about his state of undress and generally being friendly. The sick bastard.

"Now listen up," the Lance said, turning suddenly serious, "Every hour I am away from the Pit is a chance for men and women under my command to die. I understand you've risked life and limb to be here already, and while profoundly grateful, i'm afraid I must ask you to rouse yourself again. Your message said the regiment is camped just south of the Haunted Hills?"

"Aye. I can show you the way."

"Then let us away!" he called, sweeping out of the room without a backwards glance.

"Get dressed," he called over his shoulder, "we shall meet in the main chamber. Never mind the armour, we'll be travelling light." Two minutes later, Asgar was standing in awe in the tower's main chamber as he beheld the Lance's mount. She was as beautiful as she was massive. A pegasus, at least thirty hands high and of the graceful build you might find in a fancy noble's favourite race horse, though her back was muscled and thick like a draft horse.

From those great muscles emerged two wings, and while they were currently furled tightly at her side, they still added to her stature. When flared, he was sure she'd cut an even more impressive sight. The Lance was busy securing what looked like a saddle of some kind to one side. He looked up as Asgar arrived and waved.

"That was fast. Good man. Are you ready?"

"... For what? Are you… am I to ride…?" The old knight grinned, and Asgar had to fight the urge to grin with him, so infectious was the man's smile.

"But of course! Hop up, we have many miles to cover and scant enough time to do so. The strand is moving fast, and I daresay it might reach the regiment before midday. We must get there first." For once, Asgar agreed. He shared stiff nods with the people he'd threatened to kill not twelve hours ago, and then he was climbing up to sit behind the man he planned to kill twelve hours from now. His was a strange life, it had to be said.

The Lance whistled sharply and leapt onto his mount's back, landing with his golden sabatons on a plate of ridged bone in the middle of the creature's back where the wings met the torso. The many indentations on the soles of his boots fit perfectly into faint grooves. With a single flick of the reigns wrapped tight around one of the Knight's fists, the pegasus was racing off. It hit full gallop within only a few short strides and then the wall was before them, getting closer by the second.

Asgar tried to lean back, to swing his legs from the saddle-contraption and leap away before he was splattered against the inner wall of the watchtower, but he was stuck fast. His stomach dropped as the pegasus unfurled great owl-fan wings and beat at the air, and all of a sudden he was flying. Straight up, over the wall before corkscrewing around to gallop along the open air above the castle in the direction of the hills.

The massive wings beat slowly, the mythical beast's legs continuing to gallop even though they were now hundreds of yards above the earth. It did not seem to tire, despite carrying two large men, their armour and armaments, and whatever was in the bulging saddlebag the lance had packed.

"So," the Knight said, once the initial rush had worn off.

"How long have you been with the Lady Valentia? How well do you know her?"

"Days," he replied, barely able to get the words out.

"Ah, so she appears still the icy demon queen, then? No matter, I'm sure you'll crack her façade soon enough. And what of yourself, young Asgar?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Well for starters," the Lance said, eyebrow raised as he regarded Asgar over one shoulder, "why don't you tell me about that little class of yours?"