Reborn Financier-Chapter 11: Aschel: The Waste Land

There was a room shadowed with the stench of burning wax and damp stone, candle flame casting endless, distorted shadows upon the ancient walls. There was a form at the rear of the room, his form looming, but his own face obscured by the darkness. His cloak was wrapped around him like the shadows themselves, attracting to himself all the light that would come near.

In front of him, tight-lipped but tense gaucheness, stood Lord Ravenswood. There was a superior smirk on the face of the nobleman, but beneath his sneer lay a tension. His earlier defeat was not forgotten.

"You failed to annihilate the Valtorin family, Lord Ravenswood," the enigmatic man declared, his voice a whispering tempest—low, but lethal.

"I am. disappointed."

The words sliced through the silence like a knife, and for an instant the room was stifling.

Lord Ravenswood bowed his head gallantly but never wavered in the smile on his mouth. "Forgive my delay, sir," he said with a voice as smooth and seamless as the unstirred face of a lake. "But do not worry, all remains under my hand."

The stranger spoke not a word, only stayed and looked on. The silence was oppressive, oppressing Ravenswood as if there were invisible hands around his throat. But he was not to be deterred.

"Despite that they did succeed by accident in violating my initial plan," Ravenswood continued without hesitation, "they are already travelling towards the Aschel. You and I both understand that no warrior or lord who enters that land ever returns as he entered. They most times come in bruises or missing a limb or more, plus the fact they are going to live there. If they survive at all. Two months. that is all it will be before they perish from that which awaits them."

A wicked, slow grin spread across his face as he laughed, his taunting becoming full-blown guffaws. His laughter echoed off the walls of the stone chamber, an evil laugh with malice and confidence.

But the mysterious man did not blink, his eyes unwavering. A second that felt like an eternity had passed before he moved, finally.

"Rejoice too soon, Lord Ravenswood," he said seriously, cutting into Ravenswood's laughter. "It appears they have at least an Advanced Mage on their payrol, probably even at the seventh circle —someone who has already acted and ruined your plan."

For the first time in their conversation, Ravenswood's eyebrow twitched, but his smile never wavered. "Ah, that. yes, I was told of him." His voice was flippant, even disdainful.

"But sir, do not trouble yourself. A mage, even a strong one, still operates under the same limitations. His magic is something that requires preparation—rituals, incantations, and time. And time is something he will not have when my troops descend upon him."

He strode forward threateningly, with his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "If he proves to be too much trouble, I will simply call Felix the royal Martial Master who owes me quite a lot, to deal with him.

When dealing with a fighter such as he, he won't even be able to get off one spell before he is killed."

The odd guest spoke not at first, only allowing tension to accumulate in the room. Dominating, yet still not contradicting the words of Ravenswood in so many words.

Ravenswood, finding courage in the lack of instant response, allowed his laughter to grow again. Louder now, his confidence ringing out with the sound of his own laughter.

But the enigmatic traveler didn't twitch, his own face hidden under the darkness of the hood.

****

The Valtorin people had lingered a week later than their original intention, so many more weeks than they ever dared to dream. Though never openly expressing their reservations, having waited had the effect of aggravating their temper.

And now, having endured two months of relentless weather, they were coming up to the dreaded border—the door to a world forsaken by civilization itself.

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The trip hadn't been kind. Although no single disastrous thing had happened to them, they had had to be constantly on watch. Nighttime was haunted by terrible creatures roaming the desert, forcing them to fight losing battles in attempts to protect their caravan. No respite. The country was cruel. Rations had to be made to last, augmented only in small villages where even the locals eyed them distrustfully.

But they had not anticipated what occurred as they reached the border of Aschel.

As their carriage rode along the trodden road, the world ahead chilled their blood.

Before them was an ocean of human misery—misery they clung to with battered brains and what rags of life they could hold on to in a desperate bid to stay. Their eyes seethed with fury and vacant hopelessness, their eyes regarding the arrival of the Valtorin clan with suspicion, outrage, and something else. hunger.

The lower it went, the more wretched it got.

Ill-bred males with ill-bred wounds leaned against splintered walls, their huge bodies radiating the look of veteran professionals. Females, in silks tattered but beautiful, leaned against broken-down walls with cultivated allure, their faces smeared by the black of a life of need rather than desire. Beggars clung, their bony hands outstretched, their whispers merging into a generic cry for cash or pity.

The Valtorin clan looked at one another in the carriage. There was certainly a shift in the atmosphere—this was a world where there were no laws, but survival.

The carriage passed through the rabble poor, their existence an exception in this world of misfits and criminals. They soon arrived at what could only be described as a figure of authority.

The "knights" manning the castle entrance were far from professional.

Their armor was behind them, negligently maintained, belts full of mugs of ale, and not swords. They were sitting on the gate, drunkenly laughing, some rolling dice. They roared with drunken revelry, laden bodies—no duty, no discipline.

It wasn't until the carriage passed very near that they fled, struggling to muster so much as a pretense of awareness. The Valtorins already knew them well enough to be what they were, though.

Untrained!. Undisciplined!!. Unqualified!!! to wear the cloak of knighthood.

In front of him, the family brushed aside pretense and walked on through the gate, creaking doors grumbling to admit them onto castle grounds.

But as they came through the gate, a terrible thought still nagged at them.

This wasn't quite so good as they had hoped.

A hellhole of anarchy. A den of deceit.

And they'd gone and marched right into its mouth.

It's Aschel, the land of waste, their new home.

To be continued...