Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story by Kirill Klevanski (ink book reader .txt) 📕

old-fashioned way ― with a pair of daggers and several poisoned darts, which were much better than the newly-invented single-shot pistols.

However, such conservative beliefs didn’t prevent him from carrying several firearms on his belt and a couple of bombs in his bag. At least gnomes were capable of something, unlike their dwarven cousins.

A couple of minutes later, the caravan turned the corner ― four stagecoaches covered with white linen, a dozen travelers on foot and mounts, and the guards. There were no more than a dozen of them, but they had good armor, a couple of marksmen, and a magician at the forefront.

“Chief,” Bloodhound whispered again, “they have no clerics, we checked. But they have a warlock and a druid.”

“That ain’t good,” Vane thought.

Dressed in green and walking in front of the group was the druid. Their kind was easy to handle if there were no forests nearby. Once, in the Marda Forest, Vane had fought a druid. Luck must’ve been on his side then as he and his group of seven managed to take the druid down. Unfortunately, they were now some thirty feet away from a forest so he doubted that they’d have the upper hand.

As for the warlock, Vane wasn’t that worried about him. During his rather longish life, he had met and fought many warlocks. All they could do was spread their fingers. Powerful as they were, they were no match for him and his rusty, but trusty, rapier. Vane doubted that he’d ever run into powerful warlocks, like Urg the Toothless from the famous minstrel’s ballads, the slayer of the Demon Fehem, on an old dusty road. No, roads were full of Ternites fresh out of school.

“Tell the shooters to aim at the druid, I’ll take on the warlock.” He didn’t want to take any chances. If the warlock turned out to be more powerful than he looked, only he could take care of him.

“On my signal...”

The scout disappeared into the foliage. Vane spat; he never liked those who were too scared to take up arms. However, he had to admit that scouts had no equals in terms of speed and stealth and that their espionage work was top-notch. However, even a farmer or a carpenter could defeat them in combat.

Vane took out his weapon of choice. With four needles held tightly between his fingers, he resembled a feline ready to jump. Whoever, his “claws” were more deadly as they were soaked with poison that paralyzed the lungs.

Suffocating to death was one of the most unpleasant ways to go.

“Move out!”

Squatting, he whistled a melody similar to the call of a nightingale. There was a crack, then a rumble that shook the earth. The caravan’s path became blocked by trees that shot out from the ground, raising clouds of dust and debris. The druid had managed to block the attack from the front, but those on the rear weren’t as lucky. Two arches on horseback were crushed to death; the men shouted and the horses whined as their bones and muscles got minced and reduced to a pile of gore.

Vane ran forth. His step was light and his movements swift. The warlock, an inexperienced Ternite, saw the grass sway and then fell over. His spear fell from his hands with a rattle. Eyes bulging and mouth-frothing, he seemed to be tearing his own throat. A sickle soon chopped his head off, putting him out of his misery.

Vane didn’t have to turn around to know who had come to his aid. The mad laughter that broke out was very familiar to him. The owner of the sickles was a mad sadist, but he was well versed in the art of killing and pillaging and was thus a valuable asset.

Seven more needles were released, hitting flesh unprotected by armor and the hardwood of the stagecoaches. People screamed, someone tried to draw their sword but it was quickly claimed by either an arrow or a blade. The bandits were having little trouble taking care of the guards, but the druid still remained a pain in their rear. Whispering a spell, he started untwisting his staff.

Bullets dug into the thorny thickets rising from the ground. At that moment, long spikes sprouted from the enchanted plants.

“The air!” Vane cried.

Fifty shields were simultaneously lifted upward ― a hail of thorns released at an unbelievable speed covered the sky for a moment, turning day into night. As the bodies fell, one could hear both cheers and joyful chuckles. The first was made by those lucky enough to have avoided getting an extra hole in their body, and the second by the onlookers. There never was solidarity among thieves or bandits; one man’s suffering was another man’s cause for fun.

Vane knew from experience that the druid would need a couple of seconds to recover after such a powerful spell. This is why he wasn’t surprised when he heard a lone shot come from the forest. One of his marksmen had waited for his time to shine.

The bullet went through the thorns. The druid didn’t have the time to cry out when the projectile burst into hundreds of smaller ones. The riddled body fell on the ground ― the staff rolled downhill with a dull rattle.

“Ho!” Vane shouted.

“Ho!” the gang responded cheerfully.

The fight began. The guards didn’t stand a chance. They fell dead the moment they unsheathed their swords. Not one of them could fight alone against three or four bandits. There were bloodcurdling screams and shouts, desperate cries for help, clanging of metal and smell of blood, but Vane didn’t allow himself to get distracted. He needed to find the warlock, the only one that was capable of stopping them singlehandedly.

“Warlock!” he shouted, plunging a dagger into the visor of someone’s helmet. “Where are you?!”

A tall man emerged from between the stagecoaches when the last guard fell. He