Chương 3: Dumb-looking Lad

Asgar lay inside his tent and inspected his status. Class: Squire of Slaughter Level: 6 Alignment: Celestial Blessings: None Class Skills: Blood Rage The words were nothing new, but they struck him all the same. As they had every time he'd looked, surprisingly rare though that was. He had a class now. He was chosen. These things just didn't happen to peasant boys like him. A fucking turnip farmer technically outranked every elevated captain in the regiment right now, not that he believed it in practice.

Strange times indeed.

'Champions of the unworthy arising'. The words came back to him on wings of memory. A roving drunkard had come through his village years ago, raving about the end times and apocalypses and all that drivel. Asgar had dismissed him at the time, as had everyone else, but when he considered the enormity of his task and the power of his enemies… Well, the drunkard was starting to look like the smart one. Still, unworthy or not, Asgar had a class. A powerful one, too, from what he could see. And it was growing.

Inspecting his status gave him a thrill every time he beheld his progress, but he didn't do it often. It required him to look in towards his soul, and that burned. Not just metaphorically, though there surely was an emotional whiplash each time, but actually physically burned. His soul was a bonfire in his chest, a blazing, raging inferno that swallowed all focus. The preosts of the Church of Ardent Light taught that the soul was a repository of experiences.

A life well lived built a good one, while a wicked man was slaved to a wicked soul. Asgar's soul was painful to even behold. He observed it as if from a great distance, put off by the roiling heat and smoke. Inside, he saw flashes of memory. The taste of ash scalds his tongue as he trudges towards the crackling flames. His arms ache from the weight of the body he carries, but it's dull. Distant. Like everything since he'd witnessed the laughter.

It rebounds in his head: the sick glee in their voices, the way it turned to horror as he'd burst through the door. He hears it now, replaying over and over— Asgar rolled to his feet. It was more of a stagger if he was honest. Everything ached, despite the healer's best efforts, but stretching brought some relief. No use dwelling on bitter memories. He had his task, his oath, and he'd see it through.

Indeed, it had started about as well as could be reasonably expected, given the position he now enjoyed as an armsman sworn to the noble Lord Finley. He considered his stained and battered equipment, and thought it was time he went to the blacksmith. If he was to fight with the soldiers, he should at least look like one. The birds were already twittering away even if the sun was yet to rise, and now was as good a time as any.

"Fuck off!" the blacksmith spat, resuming her hammering with obvious annoyance. Turned out it wasn't as good a time as any. Turned out, it was the worst fucking time to disturb the blacksmith that there had ever been. Asgar should have been ashamed of himself for his approach. There probably wasn't a worse time in the history of times! That's at least what it felt like after seeing the contempt on the blacksmith's face. He almost walked away. Would have, a few months ago.

But things were different now, so he drew himself up with a confidence he definitely didn't feel, and hoped to God above that Lord Finley had talked to the smith last night as he'd promised he would.

"Afraid I can't do that," he said to the imposing woman. She straightened from her anvil, glower fixed firmly on her soot-stained face. Despite the urge to explain himself; to cower in the face of the muscular woman, or even, spurred on by a much more recent part of his soul, to meet her fire with his own, Asgar held himself back and simply waited. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

After only a few seconds, her expression of menace crumpled to reveal a surprisingly warm and open face.

"Fine! What are you here for? I warn you; we're low on basically everything, so I'm under strict orders not to equip the levies. If yer asking for anything like that, you'd best scram 'fore I make you." Asgar grinned.

"If that poor helmet there's any indication, that's not a fight I'd walk away from easily."

"Not in one piece at any rate." She returned his grin with one of her own, slipping the hammer into a loop at her belt and wiping her shining forehead with the back of one large glove.

"So what d'you want, soldier?"

"Soldier?" Asgar asked, finding he quite liked seeing that smile on her face.

"Appears I've earned myself an upgrade."

"Aye, well. None o' the levies would be stupid enough to waste my time, so you must be. I wasn't lying earlier though, I am running out of all an' sundry."

"You're gonna hate me then, I reckon. I need kitting out. Lord Finley's orders." She grunted, not disagreeing in the slightest.

"What d'you need?"

"What have you got?"

"That ain't how it works, soldier. What have you got?" Asgar spread his arms with an embarrassed smile.

"Just what you see here."

"Avarron's balls," she muttered, blowing out her slowly paling cheeks.

"Those clothes o' yours might well be ruined judging by the smell, but that's the quartermaster's job, so take it up with him. As for armour?" She ran an appraising eye up and down Asgar's frame.

"You're a big one, so I won't guarantee we can find all the right pieces. Give me another day or two and I can get something altered, but for now you'll be mismatched."

"No problem here. I'm a farmer—used to wearing hand-me-downs." She barked a laugh.

"Explains the gormless look you came over here with. I'm Strix. Nice to meet you."

"And you," he replied.

"Asgar, by the by. Recent promotion to Lord Finley's company."

"My condolences," Strix said as she searched the wagon behind her. Asgar frowned.

"What's he like?"

"You tell me." Time to take a chance.

"He seems like a fop," Asgar offered.

"Typical noble, likely to get me killed. Am I right?"

"Well… Don't go spreading this around or nothing, but his company's got a… high turn-over rate, let's just say that." She gave him a knowing glance.

"He's a reckless one, even for a gold-cloak. All infatuated with stories and legends, you know? Bad business when you mix that with real war, mark my words. He might survive this here training march—with a little help—but when we reach the Pits themselves?" She tutted. Asgar accepted a dented chest plate from the red-headed smith and plonked it on the table besides the mismatched gauntlets and greaves Strix had already given him.

"He got any competent sergeants with him?" he asked.

"Oh aye, else the ponce would be dead a few times over. Some unlucky bastard saved him only yesterday from that nasty business with the orcs, I heard. Would have been better for everyone if he hadn't, but apparently he was a dumb-looking lad, so…" Strix straightened, trailing off. She turned back to him and gave him a careful once over, before grunting in amusement.

"Guess that's you then?" Asgar shook his hands out to either side.

"Tada!" She snorted.

"Sorry. Thoughtless o' me. You do have a certain look about you though. You ever seen a bear emerge from hibernation all confused?" Asgar couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from deep in his belly.

"No offence taken, honest. Nothing I've not heard before. Besides," he held up the functional helm she'd just handed him, "you've given me something that'll more than likely save my life soon. I consider that a worthy trade." Strix beamed his way and Asgar decided he definitely liked seeing those dimples of hers.

"Hold on," she said, ducking back into the wagon. She came out bearing a red scarf and threw it his way. Catching it, Asgar turned it over in his gloved hands, feeling a slight ache in his chest as he touched it.

"Enchanted?" he asked in wonder. She shot that beautiful smile at him again, strong hands planted on her strong hips in a triumphant pose.

"You've a good eye! Nothing too special. Don't go getting dreams of flight or enhanced strength or nothin', but it might just save your life in a pinch."

"What is it?" he asked. It smelled of lavender and bloodwort.

"A tourniquet. If it touches skin, it wraps around in an instant and tightens to cut off circulation. Handy little thing; healer's love 'em." Asgar tucked it into his pocket, resolving to tie it properly to his armour later for easy reach.

"My thanks," he said with a bow of his head. Strix held his gaze, smile dimming slightly.

"Least I could do after insulting you. Listen… speak to sergeant Orson. He's the most competent in the company now that Tarkin's lookin' after the levies. Stick close to him and he'll see you right."

"I'm afraid I've ended up as Lord Finley's personal bodyguard, far as I can tell," Asgar sighed.

"I expect i'll go where he goes." Strix winced.

"Luck to you then. Come see me in a few days, and I'll have something more worthy of a warrior." Asgar left after some parting words, arms laden with new gear. He got the distinct impression that Strix didn't expect to see him again. He was pleased to note that she seemed sad about that fact, at least. Still, while he reckoned she was correct about the danger, she didn't know about his class, and that was one hell of an advantage in a battle. Four more levels and he'd earn another class skill.

He looked to the iron-grey sky above, dawn's blush just creeping over the horizon. He only hoped Avarron approved of the slaughter to come, because he needed the strength quickly. Duskendale was only a few weeks march, and he was still far from a match for what waited for him in the Pits.