Chương 7: Haunted Hills

Hallowed strike. Asgar grinned, falling out of his introspection and sitting up in the back of the cart. He would have to test it out, but it sure sounded like an offensive skill. He had visions of pulling divine light from the sky to smite his foes, cratering the ground with a single stomp or piercing enemies from a hundred yards away with ghostly attacks. Proper magic stuff, the kind that the Knights of Ardentia were known for.

Not likely, in his case—blood rage gave him boundless energy and strength beyond the norm, but it didn't make him invulnerable or let each of his blows crush steel. Not yet, at least. He was still a Squire, and the true powers lay beyond his first class evolution. The famous classers wielded powers that made them akin to gods. The Golden Lance was said to drop molten fire at will, and when astride his Pegasus mount he could destroy an entire army single-handedly if they lacked the magical might to hold him back.

The Wraith of Harwood walked through the world without care for she could turn incorporeal on command, and the Duskglow could apparently blind thousands with but a whisper. Asgar was a humble soldier when compared to them, but he'd grow. This was but a step towards the power he would one day claim, and once he was strong enough, he'd fulfil his oath and make the ones responsible pay for their crimes. But those were black thoughts better left for later. Asgar shook himself and rose.

He had a beautiful blacksmith to see. When he arrived at Strix's wagon, he found her deep in conversation with a tall woman. She was in many ways the opposite of Strix—slight where the smith was broad, graceful where Strix was solid. But she exuded the same air of casual competence. Taking note of her leather armour and the quiver and bow slung across her back, he suspected she was one of the regiment's many scouts.

She noticed him first, turning quickly, and he was surprised to note the resemblance to Tansel in her sharp features. Strix caught sight of him then, brightening immediately and waving him over. Again, that broad smile, those dimples. Asgar found himself grinning back in spite of his earlier thoughts of vengeance and oaths.

"Well look at you all clean and handsome!" Strix exclaimed. Asgar's smile grew bashful, and he did his best to return the greeting without embarrassing himself. By the way her smile only grew, he suspected he hadn't entirely succeeded.

"Have the two o' you met?" she asked, gesturing to the woman standing next to her. Asgar shook his head so Strix introduced them.

"Asgar, this is Talia Nascandel. Talia, this lump o' meat here is Asgar, newest member o' Lord Finley's company and breaker o' maces." Asgar raised an eyebrow at the title, but before he could defend himself, Talia turned his way.

"Strix must like you," the ranger said with a slight frown, though she quickly hid it behind a tired smile.

"I hear I have you to thank for my sister's survival?"

"Assuming you're Tansel's sister, then I suppose so, though she probably overexaggerated my part in her rescue."

"Hmm," Talia grunted.

"She said you saved her life—twice—and carried her miles through the woods back to the army mere minutes after waking from a severe injury of your own." Strix was staring at him in wonder, as if he'd saved her nan from up a tree. Talia noticed the look, and her smile became brittle.

"Aye, well. I'm glad she's safe now," Asgar muttered awkwardly. Talia's words were kind, but her eyes told another story entirely.

"It's nice to meet you, Talia."

"Ranger Nascandel," she corrected him, hazel eyes boring into his own.

"You understand what that means?" Asgar was taken aback. He did understand—'course he did. The Rangers were near as famous as the Knights themselves. More senior than the regular scouts, they were frequently sent into enemy territory alone for days on end. There wasn't much higher one could rise within the military without a class or noble blood, truth to tell, and there were even rumours that to pass the gruelling training, each had to manifest a blessing from God himself.

Not a full class—that would rule out any but those Knights sanctioned by royal decree, personally blessed by Queen Heartstone herself, and they were far too rare and valuable to waste ranging ahead of regular armies. There was Asgar as well, of course, but he tried not to dwell on the implications of his unique position. No, a blessing was not a class, but it was still potent, and Asgar was rapidly reappraising Talia given her position… which was exactly what she'd wanted.

A threat then, though he had no idea what prompted it.

"Well," the ranger said, somewhat icily.

"She wanted me to convey her thanks. She's very appreciative of your aid." Asgar found himself wondering what he could have done to anger this woman. She'd been cheerful not two minutes ago, and now he'd swear she was trying to cut him with her gaze. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"No thanks necessary. Would have done the same for anyone," he said gruffly.

"I reckon you would, too," Strix said, butting in. Whether she had picked up on the sudden tension or not, Asgar wasn't sure.

"Now, I've got yer armour all fixed up. Not much wrong with it, in fairness, but look here…" In the end, Asgar stayed for another hour or so, with Talia excusing herself almost immediately. When he returned to his position in Lord Finley's company, he found new orders from on high waiting for him. Specifically, from Lord Hendry—the snobbish bastard of a gold-cloak he'd met a couple of days ago when he'd joined the real soldiers.

Word from the scouts was that there'd been no sightings of greenskins in the foothills ahead, and Captain Strand was keen to know why that was. A small expedition was being put together—emphasis on the small—to roam out farther than usual into the Haunted Hills to find out what could be scaring off the usually uncontrollable beasts.

As it so often did in militaries, orders had trickled their way down, and Sergeant Orson had decided that Asgar was the perfect man for the job, despite the bare handful of hours he would have to snatch some sleep after his last excursion beyond the regiment's protection. No rest for the wicked.

Asgar tramped along a widened goat-track wending its way ever upwards through a forested valley. He could feel Sergeant Tarkin's glower burning into his back. The veteran had been recalled from his position with the levies specifically for this mission, which Asgar had mixed feelings about. The man was clearly smart, and rumour was he was not just an old hand in Lord Finley's company, but the most capable combatant by a long shot. That meant this mission was likely very dangerous, which Asgar was pleased with.

He needed an excuse to try out his new class skill, and only a dangerous and chaotic battle in an unpredictable environment might give him the chance without arising undue suspicion. On the other hand, Tarkin had made his suspicion of Asgar clear the day he'd left the levy, and when they'd been reintroduced ahead of this mission hours earlier, he'd given Asgar a look that promised a future conversation. One rife with unpleasant questions, he had no doubt.

Up ahead, Talia set the pace with a keen eye and a wary hand on her long knife. Ranger Nascandel, he mentally corrected himself. Between the suspicious sergeant and the angry ranger, they'd made a horrid little Asgar sandwich, and he wasn't sure what he had done to piss either of them off. He distracted himself by looking around at the beauty on display. Eventually, Tarkin's steady glare got to him, and he spoke in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension.

"Beautiful, ain't it?" Silence. Asgar resisted the urge to look 'round, knowing Tarkin was still behind by the steady crunch of dead leaves.

"You got a strange definition of beauty," Tarkin muttered eventually, tone dour. Asgar considered that a success though. He'd thought he wouldn't answer at all. Asgar had always loved forests—there was a romance to them. Their many boughs hid adventure within, their twisted branches obscuring distance and letting the world feel suddenly bigger even as it shrank to just the next tree, just the next branch.

He loved the dappled emerald that beech trees painted of the loamy earth in summer back home, and he'd spent many winters as a boy prancing through ash and birch groves, wielding little wooden sticks and playing Knights and Hellspawn with the other village kids. The forest that crept through their current valley was slightly different. Gnarled oaks scattered their great branches far and wide, blocking out the meagre evening sun and weaving a roof of green moss and grey lichen a dozen yards above the forest floor.

Asgar still liked it, but he could understand why others wouldn't. Where he saw ancient majesty; a regal sort of timelessness in the size of the trees and the depth of the undergrowth, he could understand how Tarkin might see an imposing sense of decay. Unlike the open beech forests surrounding Piddlebottom, this was not a place wrought for humans. Look too long into the choking undergrowth, peer too deeply away from the path, and things started to look darker somehow. Meaner.

Asgar shivered, looking up to remind himself of the sun. It would be setting soon, the sky already taking on a faint bleeding edge. He sped his steps slightly, Tarkin doing the same, and Asgar wasn't sure if the man was copying him unconsciously, or if he felt the same primal dread creeping up his spine. Forests back home might be beautiful places, but Asgar wasn't back home anymore.

They were in the Haunted Hills now, and while he knew they were named so for the way the wind whistled and moaned through the valleys rather than any truly supernatural cause, that didn't quiet his nerves entirely. They caught up to Talia at a small bulge in the path where it overlooked the valley. The ever-present trees had fallen back to leave a slight clearing, and the ranger gave them a weary once over as they arrived.

"Have you seen anything of note?" she asked.

"Should we have?" Tarkin replied.

"There are more than just boar in these woods," she said calmly. There was something profoundly ominous about hearing bad news delivered so evenly. Then she flicked her head down the path the way they'd come.

"Did you see Dansel behind you at any point?" Asgar shook his head hesitantly.

"No, not seen anyone besides you for miles. Where are the others?" The ranger frowned, then pulled her longbow from her back and began to string it. Her forearms, previously slim and pale, suddenly writhed like rope beneath her skin as she strung the powerful weapon, and Asgar saw for the first time the true power in her wiry frame.

"Dansel should be bringing up the rearguard, sweeping behind us. I've got Jaxon scouting the ridgeline to the left above," she pointed to the overhanging shelf of rock that trailed along the tip of the valley several hundred yards above them, "and Tresca doing the same along the valley floor down by the river. All three of them missed their last check-in."

Tarkin questioned what check-in could work in such a dense forest, but Asgar was too busy turning in a slow circle to listen to the answer, his hand fallen to the axe at his side. Something about a bird call, maybe, but it was far less important than the sudden premonition that something was profoundly wrong. There was a sound, or a feeling… a tickle of some kind, carried by the wind, that was setting his spine to tingling.

Instincts that were barely formed were sounding a warning that he was too deaf to hear, but something of their urgency got through. His skin prickled, every tiny hair on the back of his arms and neck sticking straight up.

"Look alive," the ranger said, pulling a black-fletched arrow from her quiver and knocking it to her bow.

"Something's here." Asgar's axe was almost in his hand when he caught the first whiff of a now familiar scent on the howling wind: blood.