Chương 6: Progress and Power

Jaws. That was the first thing Asgar saw when he woke. Massive, yellow-white fangs baring down on him. The orc leaned forwards, long purple tongue flopping across Asgar's face in a string of drool that made him flinch away. But there was nowhere to go; his head was firmly in the mud already. Seconds passed with no movement, and Asgar frowned. His head near exploded again at the simple movement of his brows, but he fought through the pain. Something about the scene was wrong.

The orc's eyes were twin pools of ink, empty of thought. The creases and lines in its weathered face were slack, the jaw hanging open. It was dead, he realised. Relief swept through him. He'd survived. He'd fucking survived! Avarron be blessed, he'd done it. His oath could still be fulfilled.

When the orc jerked forwards again, he near enough shit himself in fright, but it fell back and rolled away just as quick to be replaced by the freckle-faced and hazel-eyed visage of the soldier he'd thrown up the tree earlier.

"Tansel?" he asked, still slightly dizzy. She beamed at him, her smile far too innocent for her blood and grime smeared face.

"The very same!" she declared.

"Need a hand?"

"Need a few," he muttered, reaching out and letting her pull him to his feet. He wobbled precariously, and she held him tight 'till he was steady.

"Thanks," he rasped.

"What happened?"

"You saved my life," she said, gratitude practically bursting from her.

"After that, I mean."

"The orcs came through here. They were running from the army, and you threw me up the tree then got hit by one of the big ones at the front of the warband. You both went down, and I couldn't see what happened, but there were orcs everywhere! They must have thought you were dead. I thought you were dead." That last part was said sullenly, almost like it was Asgar's fault somehow. How dare he save her life and then die, leaving her all alone stuck up a tree. He chuckled.

"How long was I out?"

"Half an hour, maybe? I didn't want to come down sooner because there were still a few goblins looting the dead even after the orcs ran." Asgar nodded—immediately regretting it—and looked down at himself. Once again, he was gore-covered. Congealed green ichor crusted his right gauntlet, reminding him of the rondel he'd left in the orc. He crouched down with a groan and began searching for it. Found it tucked up beneath one of the creature's thick ribs, the handle half encased in flesh.

Removing it was a gruesome task and Tansel gagged as he pulled it from the wound with a gush of fluids and offal. He shook it out, wiped it across his stained surcoat and sheathed it. Strix would have his balls for treating her gear in such a fashion, but now wasn't the time for flights of fancy.

"We need to get back to the regiment," Asgar said, stretching out his back. Tansel faltered.

"I can't walk. It took me nearly five minutes just to get down from the tree, and—What are you doing?" Asgar had stuck his mace through his belt loop and approached her with a sigh. She tried to protest, but he just bent down and grabbed her in a fireman's carry, hefting her over one shoulder. He grunted as her weight fell across his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Heavy," Asgar gasped out, before taking a tentative step. Everything seemed to be working, so he began trudging off. Tansel huffed indignantly.

"I'm not that heavy. It's the armour." Asgar shrugged—a herculean effort considering his current burden.

"I've been lifting heavy sacks my entire life. It's no problem."

"I am not a 'heavy sack'," she hissed dangerously, which only made him smile. Something about surviving near death encounters was making him faintly giddy.

"Hush now, milady, your royal entourage awaits."

When Asgar finally caught up to the rearguard of the column, Tansel draped over his shoulder and both of them covered in so much blood they looked more wraith than human, the soldiers parted for them in disconcerting silence. Thankfully, the healers were more professional and he was swiftly checked over as well before being ushered away from the wounded like a bad smell.

At night when the regiment set camp, the healers set up a few enormous tents for the wounded to rest in, but while they still marched, that luxury wasn't possible. There were half a dozen wagons equipped for the seriously wounded and bedridden to ride in while the healers worked on them during the day, and it was to one of those Asgar had deposited Tansel. He took a deep breath of the cool air and let it fill his lungs.

He wanted nothing more than to disappear into his tent and inspect his soul—his final kill of that orc had pushed him over the threshold to level 10 and he felt the need to check on his new class skill like a physical compulsion—but there were other mundane tasks he had to complete first. Stolen novel; please report. He needed to report to Lord Finley and Sergeant Orson. He also needed to get his gear fixed, not to mention he'd promised Tansel he'd alert her sister to her predicament if he could find her.

Easy enough in principle, assuming she wasn't out scouting, but despite Asgar's nominal position as a soldier in Lord Finley's company, he had only the faintest clue how the army actually functioned. Could he just ask around, or should he speak to Sergeant Orson to check in on his behalf? Was that even appropriate? Asgar sighed. Such thoughts seemed ridiculously inconsequential. He could still see the goblin stabbing that soldier when he closed his eyes, could still hear those ghastly groans and giggles.

There was so much to do, but honestly? He wanted a smile or two to banish the horror, so he turned his feet in the direction of the company's blacksmith. Strix smiled when she saw him, then turned up her nose as he arrived.

"Don't say it," he warned. She squinted at him, no doubt trying to make out his expression beneath the grime. He tried to set his face in as friendly a shape as he could muster, and while he wasn't sure how successful he was, Strix soon broke into that beautiful grin again.

"You're due another date with that stream o' yours, I reckon," she said, eyes sparkling.

"Aye, well, seems I have a habit of ruining your gear."

"Oh no, no no no. I fix the gear, but it's you lot that clean and maintain it. I'll not be scrubbing out your greaves no matter how nice you ask." Asgar laughed.

"And here I thought we were getting along so well." He pulled the mace from his belt and handed it over.

"No. I was hoping you'd take a look at this? Bent some of the flanges in my last battle, and one of them broke off this time." The smith took it from him with an annoyed tsk, grabbing a spare cloth from the wagon and scraping away the blood that crusted its surface.

"How d'you even break a fuckin' flange?" Asgar, standing there caked quite literally head to toe in blood and gore after fighting orcs and goblins for what felt like hours, just shrugged helplessly.

"Monsters keep falling into my weapon, I guess." Strix barked a laugh, throwing her head back a little as she did so. He found his gaze roaming down her neck, tracing the shape her broad shoulders and down to the swell of her—"What's that?" he blurted guiltily, brought back to reality by the sudden silence. Strix was looking at him, a faint smile on her face, though this was of a different sort now. One he wasn't used to seeing.

"Strip," she commanded him. Asgar looked around, wide-eyed.

"What?" he choked out again, hands nevertheless fumbling at the buckles on his chest plate. Her eyes danced with dark amusement.

"Leave yer armour here, I'll take a look at it. If you've managed to break a fucking mace, there's a good chance you've got some o' yer armour at least a little bent, and that'll need hammerin' out. I expect you back here—clean and clothed, mind—in an hour. Understood?"

"Understood," Asgar replied, ducking his head to hide his flush. He was still a little embarrassed at his own thoughts. Once he was free of the armour, he muttered, "in an hour then," and scurried away.

Asgar sighed in satisfaction as he pulled on a clean tunic. He'd been poor even before his village had been burned to the ground, so even the spartan kit given to soldiers of the Lance's 2 nd regiment felt like a luxury. He was near the back of the regiment after a thorough wash in a nearby creek, having grabbed fresh clothes from one of the wagons carrying his company's supplies.

It had taken some begging from the quartermaster, but Asgar had already made a bit of a name for himself within Lord Finley's company, so he was given a leniency that most of the others wouldn't be.

He'd dropped by Lord Finley and Sergeant Orson before washing, figuring it was better to present himself as a blood-soaked badass than a fresh-faced baby boy when he delivered his report, and now he was sitting in the back of a wagon trundling along behind the rest of his company with a quarter of an hour left before he needed to return to Strix. He looked about, seeing nobody looking, and lay back down. He couldn't wait for tonight. New power was his, and he needed to know what it was.

Not to use it yet—would be far too dangerous when surrounded by so many eyes and ears—but at least to know. His secret was safe for now, though he suspected that Sergeant Orson at least had an inkling something was different about Asgar. He thought back to faintly glowing amethyst eyes, and Lady Valentia's hawk-like gaze following him after their meeting a few days ago. She knew something, too. Hopefully they both thought he was simply blessed.

It was common enough amongst the soldiery—Avarron was a war-god, after all, and he often doled out blessings to the deserving. Little dollops of magic that soldiers could use for minor feats: flashes of blinding light, casting a sword aflame before a charge, sudden unexplained strength and the like. Slight, temporary enhancements as opposed to the dramatic and lasting changes brought about by a class. Asgar shivered at the thought of his class becoming public knowledge.

Everyone knew that the royal line was the only institution capable of bestowing classes. Not the Ardent Church, not the knightly orders, not the magespires or deep-dwarves or the flighty elves in their primordial forests. Given that he'd never met Queen Anora Heartstone in his entire life, he was currently an aberration, which was worse than it sounded. Aberrations required investigation.

Investigations involved questions, and every answer would point back to Piddlebottom, the dead nobles of several major houses and the officers of one particularly famous commander. Which, unfortunately for Asgar, would inevitably lead to a long, less than pleasant stay in the dungeons below Caer Andel. So, no using the skill, no matter how exciting it was. But he could look. Just a little peak. Couldn't hurt, right? Asgar wiggled in between two large crates and sent his focus inwards.

Past the notification that he'd received when waking beneath the dead orc earlier. Avarron approves of your slaughter. You have gained a level. Level 10 achieved. Past the swirling shadows of his fears and obscuring fog banks of his insecurities. Asgar searched for the light, the heat, the ever-blazing pyre that his true soul had become. The rage and the pain and the burning need to see justice done for what he'd witnessed.

He felt it warm him, and was surprised to note that it felt more comfortable now, more controlled. Not quite welcoming and certainly still deadly, but his soul didn't burn him any longer just to view it from afar. Progress then. Asgar observed in silence, letting the memories and experiences flash past in the burning pyre, doing his best not to get caught up.

If he let his anger rekindle now, that same pyre would surge high, flaring its heat outwards—it would immolate him from the inside out and devastate his surroundings. So he watched, and tried his best to detach from the pain. Eventually, he glimpsed the words in his soul, the information he'd been seeking on this new skill granted by God above himself. New class skill received: Hallowed Strike.