Life Weaver (ASOIAF / WORM-OC SI)

[Hordac]

Great Idea. Thank you

 

[Hordac]

Lw 20

Erik's Philosophy in building a city from nothing revolced around two famous quotes he's once heard in his previous life.

The first one was:

"For everything we don't like to do, there's someone out there who's really good, wants to do it and will enjoy it." Josh Kaufman

While the second one was:

"Don't tell people how to do things, tell them what to do and let them surprise you with their results."

- George S. Patton - United States army General

Knowing he had very little desire to play city builder and civilization uplifter while also realizing there were things that could only be done by him alone, he decided to the time-honored thing that great and wise leaders did.

He delegated tasks to the people who were best at it.

He did so by simply briefing them on what he desired them to accomplish then dumped the relevant knowledge into their brains and told them not to disturb him unless it was an emergency.

Gonir was given two tasks.

The first was to train up a large team of carpenters as they would need them almost everywhere in the city. Gonir showing that even though he was a little crazy , he was smart enough to follow his boss's example and promptly delegated the task of carpentry schooling to his most experienced pupil while he himself only taught the advanced students the art of shaping wood.

His other task was the one Gonir focused most of his efforts on as it was his passion. Ship building , more specifically Large ships that he'd seen The Night's watch use in Eastwatch by sea castle to patrol the waters.

Erik had chosen the byzantine Dromond as the first ship to be built as it was similar yet superior to the common galley . This would give them naval superiority without letting them stand out too much and become too noticeable to the wider world

The Byzantine Drummond had offensive capabilities, including a ram and ballista, and its design for carrying marine infantry into combat. The Drummond featured to banks of ores typically with a single mast and a lateen sail optimizing it for both sustained travel and rapid tactical movements in both calm and windy conditions. Furthermore, its ability to deploy the balistas mounted at the Prow gave it an unparalleled edge devastating enemy wooden ships from a distance. The vessel also incorporated raised fighting platforms called a folil and after castle, which provided elevated positions for archers and other marines. In naval engagements, the Drummond's design allowed for versatile tactics. Commanders could use its speed and maneuverability to outflank opponents, employ the ram to puncture hulls, or close the distance for grappling and boarding actions by its marine contingent. Its unique combination of propulsion, advanced weaponry, and design for infantry combat enabled the Byzantine Empire to defend its vast maritime borders, project its influence across the Mediterranean, and effectively deter its adversaries for hundreds of years.

Halldis storm was put in charge of the fishing team. Their duties were to go out to fish, bring back the catch, and smoke the fish for preservation. They were also responsible for building and maintaining fishing nets. All aspects of the fishing operation—fishing, netting, smoking, and the smaller tasks required to keep the process running smoothly and efficiently—fell under her authority.

She was also placed in charge of the salt operation, a task just as vital as fishing itself. Using seawater drawn from the shore, her team boiled and evaporated it in wide, shallow pans, harvesting the salt crystals that formed as the water was driven off. This salt became essential for preserving fish and meat, curing hides, and storing food for the long winters. She managed the gathering of seawater, the cutting of firewood and peat for the salt fires, and the storage and rationing of the finished salt so none of it was wasted.

With Erik's help, she also oversaw the construction of fish traps along the river that marked the southern edge of the valley. These traps were set into the riverside and shaped to guide fish with the current into narrow holding chambers from which they could not escape. They worked day and night, catching not only river fish but also eels, shellfish, and other river-borne marine life that followed the tides inland. The traps were checked, repaired, and reset with care, ensuring a steady supply of fresh food even when the seas were rough or boats could not sail.

Jacob, ever the free spirit and natural scout, had no desire to remain in one place for long. Restlessness followed him as closely as his shadow, and so he was placed in charge of the scouting parties and sent out to range across the surrounding lands. His task was to observe, map, and identify anything of value—resources, dangers, game trails, fertile ground, defensible terrain, or anything else that might one day strengthen the village.

His first and most important priority was clear: to locate auroch herds. Now that the group had settled, they could afford to think beyond simple survival. If auroch could be found, captured, and tamed, they would become a living resource. Their milk could be used for dairy, their meat for food, and their long, thick hair—along with the dense fur that covered much of their bodies—could be shorn and spun as an alternative to wool. Worked on handlooms, these fibers would produce warm, durable clothing suited for cold winds and harsh winters.

Beyond this primary task, Jacob was instructed to note migration routes, water sources, and seasonal changes, and to watch for signs of other tribes, raiders, or creatures that might pose a threat or present an opportunity. He marked paths that carts could travel, passes that could be defended, and valleys that might one day support farms or outposts. Whenever possible, he sent runners back with reports, hides marked with charcoal maps, and samples of plants or fibers he believed useful.

Of all the people he had rejuvenated and gathered into his core team, only Skaldi had demonstrated both a sharp tactical and strategic mind and a genuine fondness for combat. That rare combination made him not only suitable, but the obvious choice to place in command of their armed forces.

Skaldi was given full responsibility over everything related to military affairs. All training, all defenses, and all armed personnel fell under his authority. It was his duty to ensure that everyone was properly drilled, that all four entrances and exits to the valley were guarded at all times, and that scouts and patrols were constantly ranging outward. Any information gathered beyond the valley ultimately flowed back to him. Above all, he was responsible for maintaining military balance, discipline, and readiness.

To aid him in this task, Erik shared with Scalding a large amount of military knowledge from his previous life—information on organization, structure, discipline, and command. This ensured that their forces would grow into something far more effective than a loose medieval tribal warband.

Using this knowledge, Skaldi reorganized their growing army into a modern hierarchical structure. He formed squads of eight led by a sergent. Three of such squad formed a larger platoon led a lieutenant, three squads then formed company led by a captian. This way he created clear chains of command. He established ranks such as sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and majors so the army could function smoothly even as it expanded. They were far from the proper military of his old world but they were much better than the barbaric horde they used to be.

Skaldi ensured that everyone trained regularly, that no one was allowed to slack off, and that the soldiers were properly armed, fed, and cared for. Discipline was strict, corruption was not tolerated, and instability was stamped out early. This was especially important when dealing with the former raiders, those forced to serve as penance. They were watched closely, integrated carefully, and kept firmly under military oversight to prevent any threat to the unity and stability of the growing force.

The quiet sharpshooter of the group, Orvar, was placed in command of the cavalry archers. The mounted archers formed the backbone of their fighting force and were counted among the most numerous of their warriors. It was made mandatory for all to learn mounted archery with basic proficiency, ensuring that anyone could help organize defenses or, when needed, be folded into a great host of cavalry archers to unleash waves of arrows and lightning raids.

Orvar, though a man of few words, excelled in his role. He loved to shoot, and he loved to do so while riding. That passion carried into his command, and under him the unit became disciplined, proud, and fiercely loyal. His riders believed that they were the finest warriors in the land and a key pillar of both the defensive and offensive strength of their rising nation.

His wife, Yrsa, was given charge of the woolly-rhino assault cavalry. Though they numbered only a dozen, the beasts more than compensated with sheer mass, rage, and brutality. Towering, thick-framed, and perpetually furious, the rhinos were living weapons, perfectly suited for close-range shock charges. Where southern kneelers relied on armored skittish horses and lances, these riders needed no such tools—the rhinos' colossal horns and crushing bodies did the lancing themselves. The rider's role was to finish the work, delivering sweeping cuts and thrusts with heavy glaives as the enemy line collapsed. Yrsa loved her command. She was offense incarnate and the rhinos suited her perfectly.

Turik the tanner was placed in charge of what he knew best. All leatherworking fell under his authority: tanning hides, curing pelts, and crafting leather goods such as cloaks, boots, belts, and shoes. His workshops quickly became essential to both daily life and military supply.

In addition to this, Turik was made responsible for assembling armor. He oversaw scale armor units assembly according to the methods Erik had taught to the villagers. As with those earlier efforts, Erik provided the advanced materials, carbon fiber sheets, resins, spider silk and binding compounds, while the workers assembled them into scale armor and reinforced composite plates. Through this system, Turik ensured that every member of the armed forces was properly equipped with functional, standardized armor.

Beyond outfitting the military, Turik also managed the quality and storage of hides. He was specifically instructed to set aside the finest and most pristine pelts. These were carefully preserved for future trade, once a ship could be built and sea routes opened. High-quality furs and leather would serve not only as protection against the cold, but as valuable trade goods and a cornerstone of their emerging economy.

Turik also oversaw several of the handlooms. This technology was used by the free folk people even in earlier generations, were large and crude machines. Eric refined and expanded them, making the looms larger, faster, and far more efficient. They were still entirely hand-driven, demanding great manpower and long hours, but they were vastly superior to what had existed before. As they lacked sheep, they turned to auroch and wooly rhinos for raw material. Auroch and wooly rhino wool proved to be a strong and practical alternative, well-suited for producing thick warm clothes on the handlooms. There didn't have much auroch wool as their captured herd of wild aurochs was small but Jakob kept finding more aurochs and capturing more and more for them. Both animals were alsp undergoing an expedited breeding program with Erik's help.

When it came to animal husbandry, there were no obvious candidates with prior experience suited for the task. But Erik had spent time observing his people, and one man stood out. Ketil stone-slinger had a natural fondness for animals. He lingered among the elks and the warg-bonded beasts, speaking to them softly, petting them, and tending to them without being asked. More importantly, the animals responded to him, calm, receptive, and trusting.

Seeing this natural affinity, Erik decided that Kevil was the right choice to oversee their animal husbandry. Kevil was placed in charge of all living stock: the elks, the woolly rhinos, and the other beasts that supported both labor and war. His duty was to ensure they were healthy, well-fed, and properly cared for.

Beyond their war animals, they had also begun capturing aurochs and bringing them into the valley to be bred. aurochs proved to be an excellent resource, providing milk, meat, and thick fur that could be worked into wool and clothing. Alongside this, Kevil oversaw the taming and domesticating of other wild animals native to the region, including goats and other tundra animals, gradually expanding their herds.

The tundra offered little in the way of traditional farming, but it was well suited for grazing animals. Plans were already underway to clear the forests beyond the valley and convert that land into open pasture. There, captured and bred animals would be raised in large numbers to support the growing settlement.

Kevil, though inexperienced at first, embraced the responsibility with enthusiasm. Whenever he faced difficulties, Erik guided him, teaching, correcting, and sharing knowledge from his photographic memory. In time, Kevil grew confident and capable, carrying out his duties not only successfully, but with genuine passion.

Helga was entrusted with two responsibilities by Erik. As one of the few among them with genuine experience in cultivating plants, she was well suited to oversee farming efforts. Though her knowledge came from tending a small personal herb garden rather than large fields, she possessed a true understanding of plants and a green thumb that set her apart.

Under Erik's guidance, Helga began transforming her modest gardening experience into the foundation of large-scale agriculture. Together, they planned extensive fields of hardy tundra crops, carefully chosen for survival in the harsh climate and further enhanced by Erik to withstand cold, wind, and unpredictable weather. Barley and hardy rye formed the backbone of their grain supply'fast-growing, cold-resistant staples that could be harvested reliably. Oats were planted as well, serving both as food for the people and as essential feed for animals.

To ensure dietary variety and resilience, Helga oversaw the cultivation of root vegetables such as turnips, carrots, and beets, all of which thrived in cool soils and stored well through long winters. Frost-tolerant greens like cabbage and kale were added to the fields, providing vital nutrition even late into the cold season. Alongside these, peas and broad beans were planted not only for food, but for their ability to enrich the soil itself, restoring fertility to the land and supporting future harvests. They also started some mushroom farming in the warm, dark and damp tunnels under the mountains.

Helga's second task was far more spiritual and very influential. She was appointed High Priestess of the Old Gods for the growing nation. Among all their people, she was one of the most zealous in faith and devotion, and she held Erik in reverence that went beyond admiration. To her, he was more than a man, someone chosen, and elevated by powers greater than the world itself. She was not alone in this belief, but she was the one best suited to give it form and structure.

The people of the North were deeply religious, bound by old customs and beliefs, and they required guidance as their society began to change. Helga became that guiding hand. Through sermons and quiet instruction, she shaped belief in ways Erik deemed necessary for a more civilized nation. She taught cleanliness and hygiene as sacred duties, respect for personal rights as divine law, and condemned old barbaric customs—wife-stealing, blood feuds, and unchecked cruelty that had once been accepted as part of northern life. Slowly, through faith rather than force, the people began to change.

Beyond her public role, Helga also oversaw something less visible. Around her gathered the most loyal and fervent believers, men and women who trusted her absolutely and saw her as Erik's chosen voice. These people spoke to her in confidence, bringing word of dissent, quiet resentment, or those who secretly opposed Erik's rule or sought to undermine the new order.

No great threats had yet emerged, but Helga understood the danger of unchecked ambition, personal vendettas, and lingering attachment to the old ways. She instructed her followers to observe such individuals closely, not to act, but to watch and report. In this way, an informal network took shape: a quiet system of internal vigilance that ensured stability, foresight, and control.

Thus, Helga became not only the spiritual heart of the nation, but also its unseen guardian, ensuring that faith, order, and loyalty grew together as one.

Responsibility for education was placed in the hands of Eldri Runetongue and her own student, Einar. Though Einar was a prodigy in mathematics, his knowledge of other subjects was limited. Still, he possessed more learning than nearly anyone else available, and so the task fell to him. His first duty was to gather a group of grown adults and teach them the fundamentals, basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, so that they, in turn, could pass this knowledge on to children and to any others willing to learn.

Einar did not enjoy the role. It was forced upon him not by desire, but by necessity. He was the most qualified, the most capable, and more importantly the most available, as everyone else who could read and write was already burdened with other essential duties. Despite his reluctance, he carried out the task diligently. And from time to time, Eric himself instructed Einar in higher mathematics and advanced knowledge, ensuring that the young prodigy continued to grow beyond the limits of his current role.

Alongside him, Eldri guided the deeper and more esoteric side of education. While Einar focused on practical literacy and mathematics, Eldri devoted herself to teaching runes. She observed all their young students and indeed the wider population searching for those who possessed even the faintest touch of magic. Anyone who showed the slightest potential was selected for mandatory runic training.

These few would later form the foundation of a runic guild, one destined to enchant weapons, tools, and structures with runic magic. For now, they were few in number and still in the early stages of learning, but Eldri trained them carefully and methodically.

Compared to the duties entrusted to others, the task given to Hjalti Berserkir's was neither glorious nor extremely honored but it was essential. He was placed in charge of all lumber and timber operations. Under his authority fell the forests to the north, west, and north-northwest, and even those stretching south beyond the Antler River. These woods were to be felled and processed so their timber could be turned into houses, boats, tools, firewood, kindling, and the countless other necessities upon which a settlement depended.

Hjalti though a berserker by nature and a lover of combat, proved surprisingly well suited to the work. Cutting trees demanded strength, endurance, and relentless force,qualities he possessed in abundance. Swinging an axe into living wood was not so different from smashing shields or cracking skulls, save that the forest did not bleed or fight back.

He did not find the work glorious, but he found it relaxing. A quieter outlet for his fury, a peaceful alternative, however dull to his fierce and violent ways.

An equally vital responsibility was entrusted to Sigurd. Already serving as the group's chief cook, she was formally appointed quartermaster as well. In this role, she oversaw supplies, storage, and distribution, ensuring that nothing was wasted and that every need was met. She also commanded the cooks and chefs responsible for preparing the communal meals, making certain that the food was not only filling, but healthy, nutritious, and well prepared.

Sigurd was a severe taskmaster, but an effective one. A mother many times over, she ruled the kitchens and storehouses with firm discipline and sharp eyes. Order, cleanliness, and accountability were demanded at all times. Nothing went missing under her watch, mistakes were swiftly corrected, and waste was not tolerated.

Through her authority and experience, the daily meals became a stabilizing force for the settlement, quiet proof that survival was not only about strength and war, but about care, routine, and discipline.

Korb was appointed general overseer of all managers. Reasonably intelligent and gifted with a natural talent for solving problems and handling difficult situations, he acted as the steady hand that kept the many moving parts of the settlement working together. As his second in charge, he took on many of Erik's administrative responsibilities leaving Erik more time to experiment and learn new things.

Runa had appointed herself as Erik's personal assistant. The role had not been formally given to her; she had simply taken it upon herself, insisting that Erik needed someone to ensure he took care of himself. He was responsible for so many people, and she believed he must also look after his own well-being.

Beyond that, Runa was there to assist whenever Erik worked on experiments, offering help or a second set of eyes when needed. She was also a sounding board—someone who could listen, offer insight, and support him in decision-making. And, as his girlfriend, she provided him the rare chance for quiet, meaningful time together—a way for them to share moments of closeness and intimacy amidst the demands of leadership.

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Amid the hundreds of minor responsibilities that demanded Erik's attention, his true focus never wavered. Throughout this period, his mind remained fixed on a single undertaking, the culmination of his experiments to create a fusion between a weirwood tree and the thorium tree of his previous world. In that other reality, the thorium tree had been a vast, sentient plant capable of influencing living beings through spores. Erik did not intend to recreate it fully as such a thing would be far too invasive. He fashioned something controlled, restrained, and shaped to his will.

His experiments eventually reached a promising stage. The saplings he had cultivated evolved into pod-bound plants that showed clear signs of semi-sentience and emerging telepathic capability. They produced spores capable of bonding with living creatures—sentient and non-sentient alike. At the very least, this thorium–weirwood hybrid would be able to observe those it bonded with, and potentially exert subtle influence over them. The full extent of its abilities remained unknown; the plant was still young and would need to grow and bloom before its potential could be tested properly.

After months of tireless experimentation, Erik judged the hybrid ready. One day, he ordered the central clearing, designated as the administrative heart of the settlement to be completely evacuated. The yurts were moved beyond the great circular district, leaving the center bare. There, Erik planted the thorium–weirwood hybrid.

He empowered it through ritual and sacrifice: a single animal offering, his own blood, and a steady channeling of his personal power. Day after day, for months, he repeated the process. Each offering fed the tree, and each day it grew—slowly at first, then with terrifying speed. Within days it rivaled a great oak. Soon after, it surpassed even the largest redwood. Within a month, it became the largest tree any living soul had ever witnessed.

Its trunk alone reached nearly a hundred meters in radius. Its canopy stretched outward more than a kilometer, forming an almost perfect circle of deep crimson leaves that cast the entire settlement in red-tinged shade. The bark of the trunk was smooth, pale white, and perfectly straight.

During its growth, Erik shaped the tree from within. Gradually, he formed chambers, tunnels, and vast cavities—an interconnected internal network reminiscent of an ant colony. Hundreds of rooms were carved into the living wood, winding upward through the trunk and branches. These spaces became living quarters, offices, kitchens, workshops, and halls, every structure required for governance and life, all contained within the living body of the tree. The thorium-weirwood became Erik's home, palace, and seat of power, crafted entirely by his own hand from the moment of its birth.

Months later, the tree bloomed. Invisible, microscopic fungal spores were released into the air, drifting unseen through the valley. They entered every living being—human, animal, and war-beast alike—bonding seamlessly with their nervous systems. Through this bond, the tree became a vast sensory organ.

The hybrid itself was semi-sentient, its mind malleable under Erik's guidance. Though it could not think as a human did, it could sense all life within the valley and several kilometers beyond. Through the spores, Erik gained awareness of movement, presence, and intent. With focus, he could even glimpse surface thoughts—an ability reminiscent of a great cerebral mind, though one bound entirely to the living network created by the tree.

Thus, the thorium–weirwood stood at the center of the valley: a living palace, a watchful guardian, and the silent heart of Erik's growing dominion.

Author's notes

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[Hordac]

LW 21

Time had flown by while they were busy thriving. Before Erik truly had the chance to pause and take stock of all they had accomplished, six months had already passed in near-constant motion as the foundations of their new city were laid.

The people had chosen to name their growing settlement Weirstad: Weir for the colossal Weir tree that stood at its heart, and stad for the city rising around it. Thanks largely to Jacob and the tireless work of the scouts, word spread quickly among wandering nomads and scattered tribes that there now stood a safe sanctuary, one where people were welcomed, fed, and protected.

The Children of the Forest took upon themselves a monumental task: the shaping of a true heart tree from the weirwood that Erik had grown.

They began at the base, where a vast natural hollow opened at the trunk's roots. With careful carving and ancient craft, they transformed the opening into the likeness of a mouth, as though one entered the heart tree by passing through its open maw. Around the hollow they sculpted a fierce and ancient face, its expression both watchful and terrible, befitting a guardian of the Old Gods. The opening was immense, wide enough that even a mammoth or a giant could pass through it with ease.

Above, the eyes of the visage wept red sap that flowed down like frozen tears, lending the face an unsettling, sacred presence. Beyond the mouth lay a colossal interior chamber, from which tunnels and living corridors branched outward. These passages led deeper into the tree, opening into residential halls, communal spaces, and the palace and government chambers Erik had planned each grown and carved in a spiral structure that rose upwards into the tree, the living wood shaped to purpose without killing it. It was similar to an ant hill with large rooms connected by smaller stairs or corridors that spiralled upwards.

Word spread swiftly that the greatest heart tree in existence now stood in the north in a valley where food was abundant and safety was promised. Add to that there was a champion of the Old Gods who was a healer and their valley became quite attractive to all the nomadic tribes.

When the people of the North and the Free Folk of the valley heard of it, many came simply to witness the marvel with their own eyes. They were astonished not only by the tree itself, but by the facilities and shelter it provided. A great number chose to remain, swelling the city's population yet again.

Many of the Children of the Forest also migrated into Weirstad, settling among the massive roots of the heart tree at its center. There, the roots formed natural sanctuaries, warm, protected spaces where they could live and thrive. In return, they aided the city in numerous ways like magically boosting crops, calming and domesticating wild animals and ensuring that every living system functioned in balance. When people saw the legendary children of the forest , they were further enchanted by the place and it affirmed Erik's position in their minds as a true champion and chosen of the Old Gods

Above all else, they devoted themselves to the care of the hybrid heart tree, now both their home and their sacred center. Through the spores it produced, they joined with it telepathically. Unlike the others, the Children could answer back—communicating with the tree and, through it, with one another. A living network of shared thought and sensation spread through roots and wood, a communion they cherished deeply.

For the first time in countless centuries, they could truly speak to a tree again and it spoke back.

Outside their little peaceful valley, the rumors of their exitance spread further until they reached the far corners of the north. They spoke of a champion of the Old Gods, who watched over the city. A great healer, a guardian who ensured justice and balance. They said that Weirstad was a place of warmth and safety, of abundant food and shared labor, where all that had long been lacking could be found, so long as one came in peace and was willing to join the community and accept the champion as their leader.

And so, they came. Peaceful nomads and honest folk arrived in steady streams, swelling Weirstad's numbers until its population nearly doubled. Most were non-combatant women and children along with few warriors. A few came to steal and cause trouble but the diligent telepathic senses of the giant Weirwood/Thorian hybrid sensed their ill intent and alerted Erik and the children of the forest who took care of them swiftly. Some tried to challenge Erik in combat for leadership. They were soundly defeated by Erik to make sure they didn't question his authority and then Erik would give the defeated warriors a chance to flourish and be happy after he'd planted some subtle suggestions in their brain not to betray him.

But fortune casts a long shadow. The same tales that drew the weary and the hopeful also reached darker ears. Not all who heard of Weirstad came seeking sanctuary.

-----

Erik woke with a sharp gasp, lungs dragging air as if he had surfaced from deep water.

Beside him, Runa jolted upright, instantly alert. "Erik?" she asked, voice tight with worry. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He sat there for a moment, staring into the darkness, heart hammering against his ribs. The image still burned behind his eyes, blood, gore and shadows moving through endless trees. Feasting on human flesh.

"I've had a vision," he said at last. His voice was low, unsteady. "The gods showed it to me."

Luna's breath caught. She reached for his arm. "What did you see?"

Erik swallowed. "A great clan from the Ice River. Cannibals. More than we've ever faced." He ran a hand through his hair. "They've heard the rumors of our valley, of its bounty and of the great weirwood heart tree."

Runa's eyes widened.

"They come from lands frozen to the stone in the far east," Erik continued. "They're already moving. Toward us. Toward Weirstad. Not to raid but to take it. To destroy it. To make this place theirs and kill everyone who stands in the way."

For a moment, only the wind answered them, whispering through the night beyond the walls.

Then Runa said quietly, "Who needs to know?"

"Everyone," Erik replied at once. "The council. Now. This can't wait for dawn."

He turned to Runa, already rising from her bedding. "Wake them. All of them. Call a council—now, in the heart tree hall."

Runa nodded, her face pale but resolute. She dressed quickly and moved swiftly into the night.

As Erik stood, the weight of the vision settled fully upon him. Outside, Weirstad slept unaware that far beyond the forests and frozen passes, something was already coming.

And they were hungry for their flesh.

They gathered in the great hall within the heart tree, It was partially open to the side as it was on top of one of the massive main branch of the tree. Its vast interior shaped like an auditorium carved from living wood. The walls curved upward in smooth tiers, veins of red sap glowing faintly beneath pale bark. High above, the canopy stirred, and red leaves whispered softly as the night wind slipped through hidden vents, carrying with it the distant scent of salt.

At the center stood a long table grown directly from the tree itself.

Gonir dropped into his seat with a crooked grin, rubbing his hands together as if amused by the whole affair.
Skaldi sat with an irritated look on his tired face. Yrsa stood instead of sitting, alert even now. Eldri and Halldis muttered to one another. Turik stifled a yawn. Sigrun sat straight-backed but her eyes were closed. Hjalti leaned back, arms crossed. Korb stood near the shadows, eyes half-lidded, watching rather than listening. Bloom sat quietly, fingers brushing the wood as if feeling for something beneath it.

Gonir let out a soft laugh. "Ahhh, look at us," he said lightly. "All dragged from our warm little dreams into the belly of a talking tree." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Did the tree whisper secrets? Or did someone simply miss us terribly?"

Halldis scowled. "This better be important."

Before tempers could rise, Runa spoke.

"Enough."

Her voice was calm, smooth, and carried effortlessly through the hall. Everyone turned toward her.

"Erik called this meeting," she said coolly. "He will be here shortly. If you were woken, then it is because sleep was no longer an option."

The room quieted, irritation giving way to unease.

Gonir chuckled again, softer this time, rubbing at his beard.
"Ohhh, that doesn't sound comforting at all," he murmured. "Sleeping should always be an option. I like sleep. Sleep keeps the madness away."

Yrsa yawned openly, stretching her shoulders.
"Me too," she said. "We work our backs raw all day for our mighty and wise leader." A faint smirk tugged at her mouth. "We deserve our beauty sleep."

A few quiet snorts rippled around the table, the tension easing for a heartbeat before the whispering leaves above reminded them that something must be very wrong.

Helga shifted in her seat. "He has reason."

Yrsa turned sharply. "You sound certain."

Helga nodded once. "I was woken too."

A beat passed.

Bloom looked up, eyes bright with concern rather than fear. "So was I," she said gently. "And… it wasn't pleasant."

The hall fell silent.

Eldri leaned forward. "Then tell us what you saw."

Helga shook her head. "No."

Korb spoke then, voice low and gravel-rough. "Means it's bad."

All eyes turned to him.

Bloom nodded, hugging her arms lightly. "This kind of silence usually means something is already moving."

Gonir's grin faded just a little. "Ah," he said softly. "That kind of night."

Helga met their gazes one by one. "It isn't mine to explain."

Bloom added, quietly but firmly, "Erik needs to be the one to say it."

Runa's eyes flicked toward the entrance. "And he will."

The heart tree's leaves rustled overhead, longer this time, the sound rippling through the hall like a held breath.

Footsteps echoed from the far passage.

Korb straightened slightly. "He's here."

Every voice died away as Erik entered carrying a large map and sat down close to them. He spread the map on the table.

"We've got a big problem heading our way, One of the Ice River clans" Erik said without preamble. "They come far from the east, leaving their desolate lands to take ours. Two thousand cannibals, maybe more."

"Definitely more, I too had visions" Helga replied recalling her own vision "Very fierce and half feral. They bring families when they intend to settle and feast on us"

Runa swallowed. "They know this land is new. They think we are weak and weakness draws predators."

Erik's jaw tightened. "Then they will learn that Weirstad is not prey."

Below them, the settlement still looked young—half-raised timber halls, earthworks not yet hardened, canals still being shaped by hand. But beyond that youth lay preparation. The cliffs, the tunnels, the tree itself, and people who had already learned to build, to adapt, to fight.

Erik stood at the center, a stick in hand, pointing on the large leather skin map spread on the table

"They are passing through the Skirling pass now" he said, dragging a long curve. "At their current speed, they will come down it and reach the fist of the first men in two weeks. They have scouts moving ahead of the bulk moving on foot. Once they have cleared the pass, it's just the vast forests between them and us"

Jacob leaned forward, eyes sharp. "They won't rush blindly. Cannibals they may be but they're not stupid. They constantly fight the eastern shore bone sled nomads to feed on them. They will probe first."

Yrsa crossed her arms, her axe resting against her shoulder. "Which means we strike and kill the scouts. Break their confidence before the main force arrives."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the circle.

Helga, seated near the fire, shook her head slowly. "Or we let them see us retreat."

Several heads turned.

"Retreat?" Skaldi scoffed. "After all we have trained and built?"

"Not retreat," Helga corrected calmly. "Lure."

"That is a good idea Helga" Erik agreed " We can lure them into traps. It can be s part of our overall strategy. Any other idea?"

"We have speed," Yrsa said. "Cavalry archers trained to fire at full gallop. Once they cross the fist of the first men and enter the forests , We bleed them there, turn their advance into chaos."

She gestured sharply. "And when they try to regroup, the rhinos charge. Nothing breaks morale like two tons of fur and horn smashing through shield walls."

A young warrior's eyes lit up. "The Ice River Clan has never faced beasts like ours."

"They will run," Helga continued. "And they will scatter. Easy pickings for our riders"

"Our riders will also have a difficult time in the dense forests. I suggest we attack only when they are in the open areas or when they are camped for the night" Jacob nodded slowly. "A forward strike could cut their numbers and morale in half before they even see the gates."

"How many do have?" Erik asked

"If we take everyone that can ride and shoot? Around two hundred cavalry archers. All fully kitted with scale armor,sheild , bone sword and a compound bow" Skladi replied " and fifteen Wooly rhino chargers"

Erik remained silent, eyes fixed on the map. Then he drew another line—this one jagged.

"This," he said, "is the caldera rim and this our western tunnel entrance. We must prepare it as a fall back if the cavalry can't stop them before they reach our valley tunnel gates" He tapped the drawing

"If we fight them in the valley," Jakob cautioned, "we gamble everything on one battle. Win, yes, but if something goes wrong, there is nowhere to fall back."

Skaldi nodded. "The tunnels turn numbers into a liability."

He leaned forward, voice steady. "Smoke. Collapsing gates. False retreats. Kill zones where five of ours fight fifty of theirs."

Sigrun scowled. "And let them get that close to the city?"

"They won't see the city," Korb stated with certainty. "Only stone, darkness, fear and death."

Bloom spoke up. "The tunnels can be sealed behind them using magic. If they push too far in, we can trap them in sections of the tunnel where they will starve underground."

Another added, "The caldera walls echo. We can make them think they're surrounded. Traps can also be used to cause panic and fear"

Halldis snorted. "You want to turn this into a siege underground? Cannibals don't fear starvation, they'll just eat their own"

"I agree" Erik replied "Starving and trapping them in won't work in this situation"

"Then we strike first," Erik nodded. "Take their momentum and kill as many as we can before they reach us and try to lure them away if possible"

"Forward harassment," Jacob said. "Not a full engagement. Cavalry archers hit them randomly specially when they want to rest at night. Never stop. Never commit."

Korb's eyes narrowed. "And when they grow angry or desperate?"

"They'll chase after us" Yrsa replied. "That's when we vanish either into the forests or later into the caldera."

Runa's lips curved slightly. "Bleed them at the tunnel gates and when the gates fall, draw them into the tunnels exhausted and angry. With all the traps inside they'll surely loose what little morale they have"

Helga considered this, then nodded once. "And if they try to pull back?"

Erik tapped the map again, this time drawing a thunderous arc. "Then the cavalry hit their rear and grind them down between our two forces. The cavalry and the tunnel defenders"

Silence followed as the idea settled.

"Force them forward," Bloom said softly. "Or break them from behind."

Hjalti exhaled through his nose. "Hjalti don't like waiting."

Erik met her gaze. "This isn't waiting. This is us making the odd swing in our favor. "

"Is is decided then "Erik announced loudly as he stood up "Make preparations to welcome our unwelcome guest. Make good use of this warning given to us Ramp up arrow production. Increase drill time specially for the newer recruits. Arm everyone man woman and older children with bone swords or daggers. Fortify both ends of the tunnels gates and lay traps in the tunnels"

Above them, the heart tree's leaves rustled though the air was still.

"The Ice River Clan believes only in strength," Erik said. "So, we show them something worse. Something they can't understand"

He closed his fist over the map.

"We show them guile and cunning strategy. We don't fight head on. We don't let them rest. We make them angry. We make them panic. We whittle them down and destroy them piece by piece."

The council rose one by one, the plan taking shape in their minds—arrows, shadows, tunnels, thunderous beasts waiting in the dark.

Outside the caldera, danger crept closer.

Inside Weirstad, war was being prepared for.

------

The scouts of the Ice River Clan never heard the hooves.

They moved along the riverbanks where the river widened, spreading out in loose lines, bone charms clacking softly against seal-hide armor. Their breath steamed in the pale morning light as they searched for signs of settlement, tracks or general activity.

They found arrows instead.

A sharp whistle cut the air, followed by a wet impact. One scout spun and collapsed with a gurgling sound, an arrow buried deep in his throat. Another screamed as a shaft punched through his thigh, pinning him down.

Then the ground itself began to move.

Riders burst from behind low ridges and the forest riding Giant Elks that were massive yet swift and sure-footed. They did not slow. They did not shout.

They circled.

"Shields!" one of the cannibals roared, yanking a crude shield from his back.

Too late.

The riders loosed in volleys while at full gallop, arrows striking from different angles, throats, knees, hands clutching weapons. An Elk veered close enough that a rider reached down and buried a short blade into a man's collarbone before pulling away, already turning for another pass. Another was gorged by a pair of massive antlers and thrown aside casually.

The rest of the Ice River scouts tried to flee but they were slaughtered when arrows struck them from behind ending them.

A horn sounded from farther ahead that was deep and furious.

More cannibals poured down the riverbank, some dragging sleds, others running with axes raised high. They howled when they saw their dead, pounding weapons against shields, blood painting their faces as if daring the riders to come closer.

The riders obliged.

They closed in just long enough to loose another volley of arrows again, then peeled away, arrows sprouting from fur and flesh. When the cannibals charged, the cavalry archers simply outran them, leading them across uneven ground, toward the denser forest that slowed pursuit.

A rider laughed breathlessly as she loosed backward, her arrow striking a charging man square in the eye.

"Too slow!" she shouted.

The laughter stopped when a thrown spear lodged itself into her Elk's flank.

The animal screamed and went down hard, throwing its rider. Before the cannibals could reach her, two riders veered back, arrows slamming into faces and throats, dragging the fallen woman up between them and riding off at full speed.

No one was left behind.

---

From a distant rise, Skaldi watched through narrowed eyes.

"Enough," he said. "Sound the retreat"

A rider nearby blow into their horn twice telling the cavalry archers know to retreat

The riders vanished as quickly as they had appeared, breaking into small groups, disappearing into gullies and rock breaks. The cannibals surged forward—then slowed, confused, wounded, angry.

Their cannibals lay dead or dying. Their wounded screamed on the ice.

They had gained nothing.

Attacks continued for the next few days. The cavalry archers had split in smaller groups of forty as the forest was unsuited for a large cavalry to move quickly and silently. Under their leader's guidance they took turns attacking at different times of the day and night.

The next few days was spent harassing and killing the enemy randomly.

Then when the enemy was properly panicking and huddling closer together, sitting ,sleeping in tighter clusters. They unleased the rhino cavalry.

One evening, out of the forest surged shapes massive woolly rhinoceroses wearing armor, their breath blasting from flared nostrils in steaming clouds. Each beast wore layered plating along its shoulders and neck, reinforced where arrows and spears might strike.

On their backs rode warriors of Weirstad.

They did not carry bows.

They carried glaives.

The rhinos did not slow.

They hit the Ice River warriors like a collapsing cliff.

Men were flung aside like broken dolls, shields shattering under horn and mass. One cannibal tried to brace, planting his feet and raising an axe and he vanished beneath a rhino's chest, trampled into the snow without a sound.

A rider leaned low, glaive sweeping in a brutal arc, severing a man's head clean off the neck. Another thrust downward, the long blade punching clean through fur, bone, and spine before being wrenched free as the rhino surged onward.

The Ice River Clan screamed in fear and in shock. They had never seen anything like this.

"TURN—TURN!" someone shouted.

Too late.

The stampede rolled through them, not stopping, not turning, crushing sleds, bodies, and courage alike. Those who survived the first impact scattered, some diving into the river's edge, others tripping over the dead as they fled.

A spear glanced off a rhino's plated shoulder. The beast barely noticed.

One rider stood in his stirrups, roaring as he swung, glaive biting deep again and again, throat, gut, neck. Each strike timed with the beast's unstoppable forward motion.

Then, just as suddenly another horn blast. Short. Sharp.

The rhinos veered as one, angling away, their riders pulling them out of the broken mass before the cannibals could regroup. Bones crunched, people squished and then they were gone, disappearing behind ridges and into the forest. Some of the cannibals tried to follow only to become victims of arrows,

Silence followed, broken only by moans and the crackle of settling ice.

The Ice River war leader staggered to his feet, staring at the carnage.

Flattened bodies.

Split shields.

Destroyed supplies.

He knelt, touching a crushed helm, his hand shaking, not from fear, but from rage.

"They have monsters," he growled.

Far away, atop a ridge hidden by wind and stone, a rider lowered the signal horn.

"Good," Skaldi said beside him, eyes burning as he watched the distant chaos. "Now they're angry."

Bloom closed her eyes, listening to the echoes fade into the caldera's vastness. "And tired. And bleeding."

Below them, the Ice River Clan gathered their wounded and dead, howling oaths into the cold sky.

They would advance.

But it would be Weirstad that would decide how many of them arrived alive.

-------

Ice River Clan — POV

Hunger had always been their guide.

It had led them across frozen rivers where the ice sang beneath their feet, across the mountain pass littered with the bones of weaker clans, across forests that resisted them but always fell in the end. Hunger had never lied. They were the apex predators and everything that breathes was their prey.

Until now.

The first arrows came at dusk.

Not from a charge. Not from a challenge cry. No drums. No horns. Just a whisper through the trees. Then a man screamed as an arrow punched through his throat, clean and silent. He fell clutching at blood that steamed in the cold air.

The scouts vanished first.

Those sent ahead did not return. At first, this was not alarming. The wilds swallowed men sometimes. But when three did not return… then five… the murmurs began.

That night, the arrows came again.

They fell into the camp like rain, hissing from the dark beyond the firelight. One struck a child. Another buried itself in a woman's spine as she ran screaming. Fires were kicked over in panic, embers scattering as shapes moved just beyond sight, fast, mounted, gone before a shout could become a charge.

They tried to pursue but they were on foot and the enemy rode massive beasts

Never had the Ice River Clan heard such beasts.

Huge. Furred. Snorting clouds of steam. Arrows struck from their backs while they moved, while they ran. Men died with eyes wide in disbelief, shields raised too late, feet tangled in roots as the forest itself seemed to grab them. They tried to respond with spears and arrows and apart from one of the beasts falling none were successful as they all had armor.

An Ice River war leader knelt beside a corpse, pulling an arrow free and examining the fletching.

Not bone.

Not flint.

Something that looked like metal.

He bared his teeth in a grin that showed filed points.

"They bleed us from afar," he said. "Cowards"

He stood and howled toward the south.

"Let them run. We will eat them when we reach their homes. They'll have to stand their ground then" He said before looking at his dead and injured fellow clansmen "Take care of the lightly wounded. Kill the rest and put them along with the rest of these worthless idiots in the stew pot."

Far away, unseen, the riders of Weirstad were already turning back, arrows counted, paths memorized, waiting for the enemy to lower their guard.

By dawn, twenty were dead.

By dusk, thirty more.

The clan began to argue.

"They are spirits," one elder snarled. "Forest demons."

"They are people just like us" One of them argued

"Then why do they bleed none?" another shouted back. "Why do they never fall?"

No one had a good enough answer

They marched harder the next day, anger replacing fear. Families were pulled closer to the center. Warriors ringed the column. Scouts were doubled.

It did not help.

Arrows struck when they stopped to drink.

Arrows struck when they slept.

Arrows struck when they relieved themselves in the brush.

sometimes from behind.

Sometimes from the flanks.

Never close enough to touch.

One man swore he heard laughter carried on the wind, mocking, distant, gone.

Another claimed the forest paths shifted when he looked away.

Cannibal courage fed on dominance, on visible strength, on crushed enemies and shared meat.

This enemy did not feed them that.

It starved them of certainty.

By the sixth night, fires burned low and close together. Warriors slept with weapons in hand. No one strayed from the light. Even the bravest watched the trees.

When the thunder came, they broke.

The ground shook.

Trees cracked.

Out of the fog burst beasts of horn and fur. Wooly Rhinos smashed through the outer ring, its rider swinging a blade with such a fine edge that cut men apart easily. Shields shattered. Bones broke. Screams drowned beneath the roar.

They ran.

Not forward.

Not together.

They ran in pieces.

And as they fled, the arrows found them again, relentlessly and mercilessly.

From the shadows, unseen eyes watched.

The Ice River Clan had believed the people of Weirstad were weak, that they were prey.

Now the predators had become prey. For the first time someone now hunted them and they didn't simply didn't know what to do.

Author's notes

Sorry of the delay. Got sick. This winter sucks for me. Anyway , wrote a little more as an apology.

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CH 22

The western tunnel gates loomed out of the stone like the mouth of a sleeping giant.

For the Ice River Clan, it was not merely a wall.

It was a judgment.

The gates were nothing more than massive stones stacked into a crude barrier, with the main door built of thick, tar-darkened timber. No steel, no carvings, no banners. And yet the sheer size of it, the suggestion of hidden depths behind it pressed down on them like a mountain.

They were people of the open world. Endless snow. Rolling tundra. Sky and wind and space.

Not this.

Not stone that rose around them like clenched teeth.

Fires flickered on ledges high above, casting crawling shadows over the broken rim of the caldera. Sometimes the flames vanished into darkness and fog, then reappeared again, further away, as if unseen watchers walked the heights. The clan could feel eyes on them, too many eyes, too quiet.

Warriors adjusted grips on their weapons, though they did not know who or what they expected to fight. Even the fiercest among them, men who had eaten the hearts of enemies beneath the northern lights, found themselves glancing upward instead of forward.

The path funneled tighter the closer they came. What had started as a broad valley narrowed into a single twisted approach, hemmed in by jagged rock. Spears of stone stabbed upward like frozen waves, giving no room for ranks, no space to maneuver, no chance to scatter if danger struck.

The Ice River Clan arrived in ragged pieces.

What had begun as two thousand had dwindled now barely a thousand remained, limping, bandaged, hollow-eyed. They dragged broken sleds. They carried their wounded on crude stretchers. Some had no shields anymore. Others had replaced their missing weapons with sharpened bone stakes.

And every one of them had the same look in their tired eyes.

Anger. Fear. Confusion they were ashamed to speak aloud. They were suppose to be the fiercest, wildest and most dangerous group of peole this side of the wall & they were being helplessly slaughtered.

They had never marched this far while being hunted.

They had never bled this long without striking back.

They gathered before the tunnel mouth, their own camp set up way behind them. Warriors stared at the gate like it might suddenly leap forward and devour them.

No arrows came. No riders appeared. No horns blew. The only sound was that of the wind blowing and leaves shaking. The silence itself became a weapon.

A few men muttered prayers. Others spat, cursing spirits they did not believe in but feared anyway.

Then he came forward.

The warband leader.

Tall. Broad. His hair was matted into long ropes tangled with bones. His cheeks were carved with scars he had cut into himself to prove he did not fear pain. A cloak of stitched human hides draped his shoulders like a king's mantle.

His name rippled through the clan in low, nervous breaths.

Skarkul.

He ruled by breaking those who defied him and feeding the lesson to the rest.

He stalked toward the gate with a confident swagger, though even he did not come too close. He stopped just beyond bow range, lifting his chin, baring filed teeth.

Behind the gate, torches flickered in the darkness, but no faces showed.

"COME OUT!" Skarkul roared, voice echoing across stone. "FIGHT!!!"

He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"You hide in caves like bats!" he bellowed. "You strike from shadows. You do not bleed like men. You do not stand. You have no honor! Is this your strength? Running?"

His warriors beat their shields and roared angrily.

Still no answer.

Inside, Erik stood behind the inner gate, watching through the narrow opening in the gate

He listened.

He counted men.

He marked the ones who carried themselves like killers, the ones like Skarkul who were dangerous not because of their strength but because they kept desperate men obedient.

Helga stood near him, quiet, eyes thoughtful. Skaldi leaned on his axe munching on some fish. The others around were also mostly unaffected by the obvious baiting and taunting. The idea of honorable combat and glory had been stamped out of them by Helga's sermons and war leaders like Skaldi , Yrsa and Kleti repeatedly explaining and debating the uselessness of it.

"Do not answer," Skaldi muttered. "Make him stew."

Erik didn't respond.

Outside, Skarkul spat at the gate.

"I have eaten chieftains," he shouted. "I have broken men stronger than you! I have crossed passes that buried others beneath the ice. And you—" He jabbed toward the gate with his axe. "—you hide behind trees and tricks. Come face me!"

He paced, voice rising.

"I challenge you! Your leader! Your Erik! One on one! We fight — my clan leaves if I fall. If you fall, your people kneel. Your coward tricks end. A fair fight!"

Erik exhaled slowly.

"He lies," Skaldi said flatly.

"Of course he lies," Helga added. "He would cut your throat in a handshake if he thought it amusing."

Erik said nothing.

He imagined stepping out.

He imagined the circle closing in, spears thrusting from every side, the gates rushed, the tunnels flooded with killers.

He saw it like a ghost vision and dismissed it.

Outside, Skarkul spread his arms.

"WHERE IS YOUR COURAGE?" he taunted. "You sent women to shoot us from trees! You sent beasts! You poisoned our path! But you fear a man's blade?"

He slammed his axe into the ground, snarling.

"Come out, Erik. Or I will teach your people what happens when prey refuses to kneel. We will burn your young. We will eat your elders alive. We will—"

His voice stopped.

A horn note drifted from the walls low, cold, unhurried.

Another torch flared to life on the ledge.

Then another.

And another.

Figures appeared, shadowed by the firelight archers, spearmen, armored silhouettes looking down like patient statues of the dead.

The gates did not open.

But a voice carried from within, steady, cutting through the canyon.

"You come here thinking strength is eating your fellow man," Erik called. "You came here thinking you were the ultimate hunters."

A pause.

"Now you know you are not."

Some cannibals shifted, feet scraping the snow.

Skarkul snarled. "Show yourself!"

"No," Erik said simply. "You do not set terms here. You do not choose the ground. You do not choose how this ends.The only thing you can choose is if you want to keep attacking and die or leave"

"Craven! I will eat your heart!" Skarkul yelled "Then I'll be the chosen! And all that is your will be mine!"

He let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating.

"We will not meet you in the open," Erik continued. "We will not give you the fight you understand. You followed us here. That was your mistake. From now on, you move only where we allow. You bleed when we decide."

A ripple of fear cracked through the enemy ranks like wind through dry leaves.

Skarkul's eyes burned.

"You're a weakling!"

Erik almost smiled, tired and grim.

"If refusing to be tricked, surrounded, and butchered makes me a coward…" he said softly, "then yes. I am a coward who intends to live and who intends for you to die where you stand."

"Let him shout," she murmured. "The longer he shouts, the more afraid his people become."

Outside, Skarkul roared again, voice cracking with fury.

But the gate did not move.

And the realization finally began to poison the Ice River Clan:

They had reached the end of their march.

And the people of Weirstad were not going to meet them like warriors.

They were going to bury them like ghosts.

Erik did not move from the gate.

He watched Skarkul rage, threaten, boast, repeat himself. The rhythm of it became predictable — anger swelling, then thinning as his throat grew raw.

"Hold," Erik said quietly. "No horns. No taunts. No answers."

"How long?" Skaldi asked.

"An hour," Erik said. "Maybe two. Let them shout themselves empty and get tired of standing around"

Erik finished giving his orders, then he stepped back from the gate.

"That's enough," he said quietly. "You know what to do. Skaldi the riders leave within the hour. Remind the riders again. No noise. No heroics."

Skaldi thumped his chest in acknowledgement.

Erik didn't linger to bask in authority. He turned to leave.

"Where are you headed?" Helga asked.

"The wounded," Erik answered, already moving. "They brought three in from the last skirmish. Two are fever-hot. One's bleeding inside. If I don't see to them now, we'll lose them by morning. I'm also preparing a special little surprise that we'll test on our guests"

No one argued.

They watched him disappear into the deeper passages of the heart tree, where firelight glowed warm and dim.

Skaldi stood near the ledge rail, staring out into the dark beyond the cliffs. His voice was low but filled with something like awe.

"We've lost only five riders," he murmured. "and even those to lucky shots or idiocy of a few foolish ones that got too close to the enemy. And look at them…" he gestured toward the far plain where faint fires burned. "They came here two thousand strong. Now half of them are gone."

Her words hung in the air.

Helga's eyes softened, following the path Erik had taken.

"It isn't luck," she said.

Oni glanced at her.

Helga's voice was quiet, reverent — but not naive.

"He sees paths others miss. He plans around fear, pride, hunger, exhaustion. He turns their own rage against them." She touched the rough bark of the heart tree, fingers brushing the living grooves. "The old gods sent him to these people — or brought him here because he was needed. Either way… we are not alone in this."

The red glow from the ledges dimmed and brightened as torches were replaced. Frost crept along the lower stones of the gate. Breath misted in slow, patient clouds.

Outside, the Ice River Clan's fury began to fray.

The shouting grew scattered. Men drifted backward. Some sat down, rubbing their legs, shaking their hands to restore feeling. A few laughed too loudly just to convince themselves they weren't afraid.

Then impatience took hold.

A small knot of warriors edged forward, shields raised, crouched low.

They crept closer — thirty paces, twenty—

Arrows whispered from the ledges.

Not a storm. Not a volley meant to impress — only precise, deliberate shots.

One man fell instantly, arrow through the throat. Another screamed, clutching his eye. A third dropped to his knees with a shaft buried in his thigh and began crawling backward like a wounded animal.

The rest scattered, stumbling, slipping, dragging the wounded with them.

The silence returned.

This time, it felt colder.

Skarkul didn't speak again after that. He glared at the gate a long while, jaw tight, rage churning with something far more dangerous. He turned back towards his camp and stomped away angrily

The cannnibals began to slink away. Not in formation. Not proudly. Just… retreating. A slow, defeated shuffle toward their distant camp, fires flickering in the night beyond the rocks.

"Good," Skaldi muttered, stretching his shoulders. "Let the wolves curl up in their den. Easier to bite them while they sleep."

"Helga! Please go wake Yrsa and Orvar" he said. "Tell them to ready the cavalry archers."

Skaldi's eyes sharpened. "All of them?"

"All who can ride and shoot," he replied. "They leave from the northern gate. They circle wide. No torches. No noise. When the clan settles, hit their camp from behind. Fast. Hard. Then pull back and return through this gate."

Helga folded her arms. "You mean to bleed them in their sleep, then make them walk back to these walls and stare at them again."

"Exactly," Erik said. "Every step should feel like death waiting."

Skaldi grinned, savage and satisfied.

"And if they rush the gate while our riders are gone?"

Erik looked back toward the silent mouth of the tunnel.

"They won't," he said. "But if they try… the archers will teach them."

------

They gathered at dawn in the clearing beyond the heart tree council members, warriors, apprentices, even elders leaning on staffs. Frost still clung to the grass, and their breath steamed in the cold air.

In front of them, on a carved stone slab, Erik set down three oversized pine cones.

They did not look like much.

One was brown with a faint yellow sheen.
The second had a soft green tint.
The third was laced with pale white veins like frozen lightning.

Beside the slab, several animals had been tethered to stout posts — aurochs, goats, a pair of deer — restless, stamping, uneasy as if they sensed something was wrong.

Murmurs moved through the crowd.

Skaldi folded his arms. "What in all the frozen hells are we lookin' at?"

Erik raised his voice so everyone could hear.

"These," he said, "are grenades."

He let the strange word hang.

Weapons — but not swords, not arrows, not rhino charges. Something new.

"They are light. Safe to carry. Anyone can use them," Erik continued. "When the time comes, you bite the softer top… throw… and take cover. They explode after about five heartbeats."

He picked up the first ,the yellow-tinted pine cones turning it in his fingers.

"This one is not meant to kill," he said. "It is meant to blind, scatter, and break morale. A skunk-gas grenade."

He bit the top away — a soft rip — and tossed it into the middle of the animals.

One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
Five—

The pine cone burst with a sharp crack and a cloud of foul, oily mist billowed outward.

Instantly the animals screamed and thrashed, eyes flooding with tears, noses running, stumbling against their tethers. A stench rolled over the watching warriors so thick it burned the throat.

A few men gagged. Someone swore.

Erik nodded calmly.

"No one wants to fight when they cannot see, cannot breathe, and smell like death. Panic spreads faster than arrows."

He lifted the second — the green-tinted one.

"This one is more dangerous. A paralyzing grenade. Inside are dozens of tiny dart-needles coated in venom. They do not kill… but they end a fight."

He bit, threw, stepped back.

The second pine cone popped with a whispering burst and the air shimmered with flickers too fast to see. The animals jerked as if stung by invisible insects. Their cries faltered. Legs buckled. One by one they sagged to the ground, shuddering, still awake but unable to move.

Gasps followed.

Runa's expression turned thoughtful rather than horrified. "Crowd control… battlefield denial… clever."

Erik moved to the last pine cone — the one with white veins.

"This is foam."

He held it up so all could see.

"It restrains. It seals. It stops fires. It fills space and makes it ours."

He bit, threw — and again the five-count.

The pine cone burst , not with force, but with growth. A pale, thick substance surged outward like rising dough, climbing, swelling, engulfing hooves and bodies and posts alike. Within breaths, the entire area had become a rounded mound of off-white foam, slowly hardening.

The trapped animals bleated in confusion but could still breathe through the porous material.

Erik turned back to the crowd.

"It hardens quickly. Strong. Difficult to escape without tools. It does not burn. In the tunnels, in narrow streets, in choke points — it becomes a wall. On the battlefield, it can capture instead of kill."

He gestured to all three.

"Tear gas. Paralysis. Restraint. These are not weapons of glory. They are weapons of control. They save lives ours first, and sometimes even theirs. They sow fear. They break formations. They make enemies hesitate at exactly the wrong moment."

Silence followed heavy and thoughtful as they got their head around the idea of a one time use expendable thrown weapon

Skaldi scratched his beard, impressed despite himself. "Small seeds," he muttered, "big trouble."

Helga watched Erik with quiet pride. "This is how we win," she said softly. "Not by being stronger… but by refusing to fight the way they expect."

"This is a good weapon Erik " Ketil rmarked " but you use it once and its gone. Then we'll have to sped time making more. Why not make a weapon that can be used again like an arrow"

"That's another wonderful feature of theses grenades, we don't make them" Erik replied grinning " I've altered some pine trees to grow these pine cone grenades naturally."

"We use them sparingly. Wisely. And never without discipline. Train with them. Learn their timing. Respect them."

He looked over the gathered warriors, people who had once been foragers, hunters and raiders, now preparing to meet a nightmare at their gates.

"War has come to our doorstep," he said. "And we choose how it is fought."

Murmurs rippled through the gathered warriors as the foam mound hardened and the animals quieted, trapped but unharmed.

Erik finished speaking, letting the silence breathe.

Gonir was the first to break it.

He leaned forward, eyes bright, grin crooked — half-delighted, half-uneasy.

"Heh," he said softly. "Little nuts that bite back." He waggled his fingers at the foam. "Oh, this is… this is interesting. Not swords. Not axes. No glorious clash. Just—" he made a popping motion with his hands, "—pfft, and suddenly everyone is crying and stinking and stuck like flies in honey."

He chuckled, then frowned.

"I like it," he added. "And I don't like it. It's clever. Clever things always have teeth. We should be careful what we throw at the world. Sometimes the world throws it back."

Runa crossed her arms, studying the foam, the needles, the still-weeping animals.

Her tone came cool, sharp, thoughtful.

"These are tools," she said. "Not miracles. Tools demand discipline." Her eyes shifted to Erik. "Used properly, they win battles before they begin. Used foolishly, they turn on us — or worse, make us lazy enough to think we no longer need strategy."

She tilted her head, lips curving slightly.

"But I like the idea of an enemy choking on their own arrogance before they ever reach our gates."

Korb stood with his hands resting on his belt, face unreadable. He watched the animals ,watched the foam harden then finally spoke in a low, graveled mutter.

"Messy," he said. "Annoying but Effective."

He glanced at Erik.

"Five seconds isn't long. People panic. Panic ruins plans. Train them until biting and throwing is instinct or we'll lose warriors because they hesitated." He paused, then added, almost grudgingly "Good work. Ugly work. But good."

Hjalti, meanwhile, stared at the foam with a kind of irritated confusion.

He tapped his axe head against his thigh.

"So…" he rumbled. "You… trap them. Make them cry. Make them sleep. Then what? No fighting?"

He snorted, shaking his head.

"Feels strange. A man should see the enemy fall by his strength. Hear the bone break. Smell the blood. This—" he gestured at the mound, "—this is like fighting fog."

But then he shrugged, shoulders rolling like mountains.

"If it wins, it wins. Hjalti smash whatever breaks free."

A thin ripple of laughter moved through the onlookers.

Erik let them speak, let them process. Then he raised his voice once more.

"We will train," he said. "We will fail in practice so we do not fail in battle. These weapons change the fight but they do not replace courage, discipline, or judgment."

The council nodded some wary, some excited, all of them understanding:

War was no longer going to be fought the way they had always known.

And now they had a surprise for the cannibals. A surprise that would spell their doom.

-----

A week later

The Ice River Clan thought they had finally learned.

They had raised walls.

Logs, ripped from the forest and driven into the frozen soil, ringed their camp in a jagged circle. Crude watchtowers leaned at the edges. Fires burned inside. Guards paced restlessly, glancing always toward the shadowed rim of the caldera.

The cavalry could not ride through.
Arrows could not penetrate deep.

They believed they were safe.

Erik knelt beside one of the new slingshots, running his palm across the thick black bands. They gleamed faintly in the torchlight, smooth, strong, humming with stored potential. Two dozen of them now stood along the ridge line — each taller than a man, anchored into rock with bone stakes and resin.

It took three warriors to draw one back.

"Hold the line. No one fires without my direction," Erik said softly.

Messengers waited by his side.

His eyes went distant.

High above the camp, a raven banked with the wind — its pupils darkened, its mind tethered to his. Through that borrowed vision, Erik saw the entire encampment: circles of tents, cookfires still glowing, wounded bundled near the center, sled dogs chained at the perimeter.

"Ready," he murmured.

Yellow-tinted pine cones were loaded one after another into the leather pouches.

"On my count. Loose."

The first volley arced into the night like falling stars — silent, graceful — then vanished behind the wall of logs.

Five heartbeats.

The world inside the camp erupted.

Not with flame — but with stench.

A choking, rotting stink blasted outward. Men gagged. Eyes flooded. Dogs howled and thrashed. Warriors stumbled into each other, clawing at their faces, knocking down tents as they tried to escape a cloud they could not see clearly.

Shouting rose , commands, curses, pleas to spirits.

The walls they had trusted trapped the stink and tear gas inside alongside them. Their fortress had just become their prison.

The raven banked lower. Erik's jaw tightened.

"Let it spread," he said. "Wait… wait…"

The panic thickened. Those nearest the gates shoved to open them, but others pushed back, terrified of whatever lay beyond. The camp became a churning hive of collision, confusion, fists and elbows and blind fear.

Now.

"Green," Erik ordered.

The slingshots creaked. Warriors braced, strained, released.

The next volley fell like rain.

Tiny cracks — then a hundred soft pops.

Toothpick needles hissed through the fog. Men jerked and stumbled. One tried to scream and fell to his knees. Another reached for a weapon and his fingers refused to close. Bodies went rigid, eyes wild and aware, trapped inside flesh that no longer obeyed.

A few burst from the gates at last, gas-slicked and half-blind and the cavalry rose from the shadows like ghosts.

Arrows whispered. Hooves thundered. Those who escaped the wall did not escape long.

It went on relentlessly.

For an hour the slingshots sang and the camp writhed and broke. Leaders tried to form ranks, but their voices were lost beneath coughing fits and riot and the tightening grip of venom.

When the raven finally circled high and saw mostly stillness bodies scattered, many breathing but unmoving while some were dead. Erik lowered his hand.

"Enough," he said. "You know the drill. No more killing unless necessary. Move in."

They entered carefully.

Masks were tied over faces. Buckets of water and cloths were carried alongside spears. Paralyzed Ice River warriors stared hatefully as Weirstad fighters stepped around them binding wrists, checking pulses, dragging the ones near the fires to safer ground.

"Treat the wounded first," Erik ordered. "Enemy or ours, it doesn't matter.Bring the most critical to me"

A rough clearing was chosen. Captives were gathered there. Dozens, then more, then hundreds slumped, shivering, breathing the sharp metallic air. Children clung to their mothers. Old warriors lay silent, eyes hollow with shock.

Skarkul was found beneath a collapsed tent.

He had fought to the last moment, it seemed — scars bright, jaw clenched, hands frozen around his Warhammer thanks to the paralyzing venom

"Bring him," Erik said.

They laid the chieftain on a flat stone. Erik knelt, pressing hands gently to rib and shoulder, feeling for breaks, easing the venom's lingering hold with herbs and steady touch.

Skarkul's breath returned in ragged pulls. Fury burned slowly back into his eyes.

"You should kill me," he rasped.

Erik shook his head.

"Not yet. You asked for single combat before," he said. "I refused — because it would have been a trap. Now it is not."

He handed Skarkul water. Then Skarkul's own Warhammer.

He stepped back and drew his twin bone blades.

"When you can stand," Erik said, "we finish this"

A circle formed.

No cheering. No taunts.

Only watchful silence.

Skarkul rose like a storm gathering, slower than he once had been, but still dangerous, still heavy with rage and pride. He came forward with brutal simplicity: crushing blows, sweeping arcs meant to end fights in one strike.

Erik did not meet them head-on.

He slipped aside. Turned. Counted breath and muscle. Let the man reveal himself: rhythm, habit, desperation.

Steel rang on bone. Sparks leapt.

Skarkul roared, overcommitted for a heartbeat — and that was the opening.

Erik slid inside the swing.

Two cuts both quick and precise.

The warhammer fell. Skarkul dropped to one knee, breath shuddering, blood darkening the ground.

He looked up at Erik, teeth bared — not in triumph. Not in pleading.

In acceptance.

"Finish it," he growled.

"you fought well" Erik commented "But not well enough"

Erik sliced his neck. Swift, clean, without cruelty.

Silence rolled outward like a wave.

He turned to the prisoners.

"You have seen what happens when you bring death here," he said, voice level. "Your leader is gone. Your strength is broken. You have two choices: die here for the blood you spilled… or live — under our law. Work. Serve. Repay the old gods by serving me as their champion."

Eyes dropped. Murmurs rose. Some spat defiance and were dragged aside to be used for rituals later. Others bowed their heads and said nothing.

The sun crept higher over the caldera rim.

The battle was finished — but the cost, the decisions, the weight of it all had only begun to settle.

------

An hour later Erik was halfway through checking the wounded when a rider slid out of the darkness, breath steaming.

"Korb asks for you," the rider said. "Skarkul's tent. Says its important"

That alone was enough to make Erik pause. The Ice River leader was already dead. There shouldn't have been anything left worth seeing.

Still, he went.

The tent was quieter than the others. Guards stood outside, their faces tight — not fearful, exactly, but unsettled.

Inside, the air was stale and sour. Old furs. Unwashed bodies. The faint iron tang of dried blood.

At first glance, nothing looked unusual: a chief's sleeping pallet, a half-butchered haunch of meat, bone charms hanging from the ridgepole. Then Erik's gaze lowered — and stopped.

The man lay on a blanket near the back.

No arms.

No legs.

What was left of them ended in knotted, puckered stumps wrapped in filthy strips of leather. The cuts were uneven. Jagged. Done with no skill, no care — hacked off the way one might butcher a carcass.

The man's chest rose shallowly. His hair, once black, was streaked heavily with grey. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, but still alert. Still aware.

The realization came quickly, coldly.

They had eaten him.

Piece by piece.

Erik crouched, studying the wounds. Infection had chewed along the edges, but there was no rot — someone had sealed them with fire, kept him alive deliberately.

A trophy that breathed.

He swallowed his anger.

"Who are you?" he asked, using the Old Tongue first.

The man blinked at him, confused — then shook his head weakly muttering in the common tongue of the south.

When Erik repeated the question, this time in the common tongue of the south, the man's eyes widened as if suddenly yanked back to the world.

"Ivar," he rasped. His voice was raw, barely more than a whisper. "Ivar Volmark… of the Iron Islands."

Author's notes

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[PaterRichard]

Tftc good Sir!

Can't say I know of Ivar Volmark, if he is of importance, but as he is from the Iron Islands I say let him rot.

 

[Hordac]

I wrote AU in te summary.

 

[Hordac]

Life Weaver chapter 23 can now read for free at:

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