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Life Weaver (ASOIAF / WORM-OC SI)
Life Weaver chapter 20
Hordac
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2025
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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.
------------------
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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------------------------
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.
------------------
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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Life Weaver chapter 21
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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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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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Life Weaver chapter 22
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Hordac
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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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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
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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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.
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
Getting sticky.
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Life Weaver chapter 23 can now read for free at:
Life Weaver chapter 23
New
Hordac
Getting sticky.
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LW 23
Erik said nothing at first only shifted closer and set a hand gently along the man's shoulder, so he would not feel alone and to check up on him using his powers.
"Tell me Ivar Volamark" Erik said quietly "How did you end up here in this state?"
The crippled Ironborn smiled. A smile that was eerily wide and calm.
The smile of a man who had long since fallen past pain.
"Well," Ivar rasped. "You want a story. You have the eyes of a man who wants to know what he kills before he kills."
He gave a soft, humorless laugh.
"I like that."
He licked cracked lips.
"I am… was… captain of the Reaver's Mercy. Born Volmark. Fifth son in line of succession for hose Volmark. Salt and iron in my blood since the cradle. I have sailed every cold and warm shore I could find. The North. The Reach. Dorne. Braavos. Qarth. I have made my fortune as a trader when it paid well. As a corsair when it didn't. As pirate when the coin was sweetest."
His eyes drifted away in remembrance somewhere far beyond the tent.
"We Iron born come to the wild north often. These frozen shores are rich when you know where to look with no organized resistance or politics to stop us. Tall trees. Good lumber for ships. Rare Pelts for trading. Ivory. Salt wives, if the Drowned God blesses us."
He smirked faintly.
"We thought ourselves clever. We got away with it. Well almost always got away with it"
He drew a breath that trembled like worn rope.
"A few months ago, we came upon a skirmish. Ice River cannibals against the tundra sled riding nomads. Ugly fight. Bloody. We waited. Watched. Let both bleed each other and weaken the victor"
His jaw clenched.
"When the nomads lay dead or bound… we struck. Quick. Hard. Took their spoils. Took their women. Took their meat. Took what the cannibals had already taken."
He paused.
"They fought like animals. Fierce and unafraid but they had no steel weapons or swords like we did."
His voice fell quieter.
"We killed many. Including… one young man. Young. Fiercer than the rest . Kiled two of my men before I killed him myself."
Ivar swallowed.
"He was Skarkul's favorite son, as it turns out."
The tent seemed to grow colder.
"Skarkul was not there. But he heard from those that fled the skirmish. And when we were loading our ships… he fell upon us like winter itself."
His expression flickered between rage, grief, hollow amusement.
"My men died screaming. They burned the ships. They butchered the crew. They kept me alive and made me watch."
His eyes glistened.
"Not for ransom. Not for slavery. For hate. For revenge"
He lifted one stump slightly, as if showing a prize.
"He said I would learn what it was to be eaten slowly. To feel myself disappear. To watch every friend I had ever had become meat before my eyes. He even force fed me some"
His voice broke, just once then steadied.
"He started with my feet. Laughing. Talking to me like an old friend while he chewed. He would cut. Eat. Then burn the wounds shut so I lived."
Helga covered her mouth.
Skaldi swore under his breath.
Even Korb's eyes hardened like iron.
Ivar continued softly:
"He made certain I didn't die. Not even when I begged him. Not when I cread and my voice grew horse from all the screaming. He said death was a gift, and I was not worthy."
He closed his eyes.
"I don't want to live like this." Skarkul said "If I have to be taken care of like a new born then I rather die"
Silence.
Then Erik leaned forward, voice low, steady.
"Then you are in luck" Erik replied "For I can give back to you what Skarkul has taken away"
He pressed his palm gently over Ivar's chest , warmth spreading, pain easing, fever dimming.
Ivar blinked, confused.
"What… are you doing?"
"Stopping the infection," Erik replied. "Removing the pain. You will sleep. When you wake… you will have a chance to live again. Whole."
For the first time, true emotion cracked Ivar's mask.
Fear. Hope. Disbelief.
"No one can fix this" Ivar grumbled "Why do you torture me with false hope"
Erik nodded.
"I can.I have It will take time. But I promise it." Erik repleid poiting at Skaldi " This is Skaldi. He'd lost his hand in combat. I restored it"
" The life waever speaks true "Skaldi said as he lifted his right arm " for yeas I was an old cripple . then Erik not only give me a new arm, he also restored all of us to our youths so we may serve him/ the old gods sent him to us"
Tears slipped silently from the Ironborn's eyes.
He laughed — soft and broken.
"Then… perhaps your gods are kinder than mine." Ivar said " Heal me then! Make me whole and I'll serve"
Erik squeezed his shoulder.
"Sleep now, Ivar Volmark."
The Ironborn exhaled slowly relieved and slipped into deep, dreamless rest.
Helga whispered:
"The gods send you where you are needed."
Erik looked at the mutilated man, jaw tight.
"No one deserves that fate. Not even an Ironborn raider." Erik replied "But you are right Helga, we needed an experienced sailor and we just got one"
They lifted Ivar carefully, wrapped him, and carried him toward Weirstad.
------------------
The days that followed the fall of the Ice River Clan were filled with celebrations of victory. Not only had they soundly defeated the equally feared and despised ice river cannibals , thye had done so with only a few lives lost on their end.
Erik honored the fallen by carving the names into the trunk of the tree. A tradition that would continue as more people fell in service of Weirstad. A feast was held in th fallen's honor where their life and deeds were remembered and celebrated.
Three days of honoring and celebrating later , everyone went back to work.
Not the frantic, desperate work of survival but something quieter, heavier ,the work of building a future.
Weirstad had swelled almost overnight once again. Former raiders, broken captives, wandering nomads, and those who simply had nowhere else to go drifted toward the caldera like moths toward a hearth fire.
Some came for food.
Some for safety.
Some came because they believed Erik was touched by the Old Gods so the magical valley was a holy site to them
And all of them were told the same thing. They were welcome if they chose peace and obeyed the rules.
The captives, those who had taken the penance parasite lived under its silent, watchful bond. It did not command their thoughts, nor steal their emotions but when murderous intent flared, when treachery sharpened in the back of the mind like a knife, the thing rooted in their body and brain punished them with crippling pain and soon the urge unraveled before it could bloom.
Not forgiveness. Not absolution. But control so they could learn to live differently.
The great weirwood hybrid helped as well.
Its branches stretched like pale veins across the inner walls of the caldera, leaves whispering soft prayers in the wind. Its spores lived in every lung, every breath, every heartbeat inside the folks of Weirstad. A psychic web. A quiet song under the skull.
Not domination — but awareness.
When cruelty stirred, the tree felt it.
When hatred tried to gather itself, the tree listened.
And if something dark began to bloom, Erik or the sherrifs would be informed and they would arrive long before blood ever spilled.
The sherrifs were the ;aw enforcement divison that Erik had created. They had a force of twenty sherrifs whose jon was to maintain peace , enforce the laws and fight crime. Each sheriff was more deeply coneected to the Hybrid tree allowing them to speak telepathically with it so they could do their job better. The hybrid tree in turn had dozens of animals like ravens, wolves and shadowcats that the hybrid tree and the sheriffs used to keep an eye on everything.
Children ran beneath the roots without fear now. Dogs slept at the base of the trunk. Hunters returned from the forests and laid their kills at the offering spots at te tree's trunk, murmuring thanks.
The old ways did not disappear overnight.
But they began to loosen.
Helga and the other priests preached almost every evening , gently, steadily but also relentlessly.
No more wife-stealing.
No more raiding the weak only because they were weak.
Strength was no longer measured in what you could take.
It was measured in what you could do for the society.
Some argued.
Some resisted.
But hunger faded. Safety grew. People slept with doors unbarred, for the first time in their lives.
And slowly… the sermons stopped sounding strange.
Men still sharpened spears. Women still practiced with bows. Warriors still trained in the yards because Weirstad was not naive.
But they did so with a different purpose now.
To protect what they had, not to devour what others had built.
At night, Erik would stand beneath the weirwood hybrid and used its connection to feel the faint hum inside his skull that was the whispers of hundreds of lives, hundreds of minds, not as slaves, not as puppets…
But as threads in something larger.
In a corner of his mind he always wondered not without fear at what he was becoming.
But the wonderful result of what Weirstad was slowly turning into reassured him. Barely.
------
The afternoon light filtered through the carved windows of the great hall, catching dust motes in soft gold. Chalkboards, slates, and scraps of parchment were spread across the long table.
Ainar was already there, sleeves rolled up, tongue poking out slightly as he worked through numbers.
Erik paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"Sorry," he said gently. "Again."
Ainar glanced up.
"For what?"
"For this," Erik said, gesturing around. "For always running from meeting to meeting. For research. For everything. I should be here more. Teaching you myself. You deserved better than—"
Ainar snorted.
"Stop."
Erik blinked. "What?"
"You always say that." Ainar shrugged. "And yet… I am learning. And busy. And tired. So" he grinned "it's fine."
Erik's brows lifted, amused. "Busy?"
"Yes," Ainar said proudly. "Helga has me teaching the smaller ones their letters. And Skaldi wants me to help him keep records for training groups. And Bloom wants me to track plant growth." He rolled his eyes. "Apparently that is important now."
"It is," Erik chuckled. "Very important."
Ainar leaned his elbows on the table.
"Besides, you teach me when you can. And when you don't… I practice. And when I don't understand, I ask. That's what students do."
Erik softened.
"You've grown," he murmured.
Ainar smirked. "Yes. I noticed."
They shared a quiet moment.
Then Erik pulled up a stool and sat beside him.
"All right," he said. "Today I want to talk about something different."
Ainar perked up.
"A weapon?"
"No."
"A new bow design?"
"No."
Ainar thought. "…a new kind of grenade?"
Erik laughed despite himself.
"Currency."
Ainar blinked.
"Money?"
"Yes."
Ainar frowned thoughtfully.
"But… we trade with the other large nomadic tribes. Pelts for salt. Leather for tools. Food for work. Why do we need little metal circles to do it for us?"
"Good question," Erik said. "Tell me, what happens when I need a fur cloak from the tanners, but I have nothing they want?"
Ainar squinted.
"You… owe them?"
"Exactly. And they owe someone else. And so on." Erik traced a circle on the table. "It becomes complicated. Slow. Unfair sometimes."
Ainar nodded slowly.
"So money makes trading easier."
"Yes. It is a promise," Erik said. "A small, universal promise: This is worth something no matter who holds it."
Ainar leaned back.
"So… we just make some? And everyone believes us?"
Erik smiled faintly.
"That's the hard part."
They fell quiet.
Ainar tapped the table thoughtfully.
"What would it be made of? Silver? Iron? Bone?"
"Metal is good," Erik said. "Hard to fake. Hard to break. But rare enough that people value it."
Ainar drummed his fingers.
"What if… instead of kings stamping their faces on coins… we stamp the tree?"
Erik's head tilted.
"The weirwood?"
Ainar nodded.
"Everyone here respects it. Fears it. Trusts it. If the coin carries the tree… then it says this coin belongs to all of Weirstad, not just one man."
Erik's eyes warmed.
"That," he said softly, "is very wise."
Ainar pretended not to glow with pride.
"And on the other side of the coin?" Erik asked.
Ainar thought for a long moment.
"You"
"Me?"
"Yes," Ainar said. "You are our leader, our founder. You are the champion"
Erik exhaled slowly.
"That's exactly what many kingdoms have. I'm not comfortable with my face on it"
Ainar smiled faintly.
"So each coin means… food grown. Wood cut. Leather tanned. Something real."
"Yes," Erik said. "And that means we must promise not to create more coins than our work allows. Otherwise… the coins become lies."
Ainar nodded.
"Then we should write rules."
He reached for a slate.
Erik watched him begin scribbling.
rule one: coins only for real work
rule two: tree mark means trust
rule three: no one is above the rules (not even erik)
Ainar slid the slate toward him.
Erik blinked.
Then laughed softly.
"Especially the last one?"
Ainar shrugged.
"You're busy. You might forget."
Erik rested a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Then it's good I have students like you to remind me."
Ainar grinned.
"And teachers like you to explain money."
They went back to work, the hum of voices outside floating into the hall, the future slowly taking shape in chalk, ink, and quiet conversation.
-----
The sea wind rolled in cold and salt-heavy, snapping at cloaks and tugging at hair.
The new docks stretched out over the dark water — timber still pale where the sun hadn't yet kissed it enough times. Men worked along the pilings. Ropes creaked. Gulls screamed.
And beyond everything else…
She waited.
The dromond.
Fifty meters from carved prow to stern. Six meters wide along the beam. Slender. Predatory. The hull gleamed with Erik's black varnish, not quite tar, not quite pitch, something thicker, glossier, more alive.
Water beaded on it and ran off like it feared to stay and marine pests like sea urchin died from it.
Two masts rose skyward: the foremast nearly twelve meters, proud and tall; the second mast standing back amidships, slightly smaller, eight meters, balanced like a hunter's stance.
From each mast hung the long yards where the triangular lateen sails would stretch out like wings, ready to bite the wind from nearly any direction.
Oars rested pulled in fifty on each side, polished and waiting.
A ship built for speed. For maneuver. For war.
Erik let out a slow breath.
"We did it."
Beside him, Ivar Volmark rested on his cane, cloak fluttering, watching the vessel with an expression halfway between reverence and hunger.
He was whole again.
Arms. Legs. Stronger than before, muscles newly grown and trained. But scars traced faint patterns under the skin, pale reminders of the horrors he had endured. His eyes, though….
They were keener now.
And quieter.
"A dromond," Ivar said softly. "It looks like the galleys of the southerners but not like the ones of the south. This one…" He smiled crookedly. "This one is tougher."
Skaldi whistled.
"She looks fast."
"She will be," Ivar replied. "With a good wind and disciplined oars… she'll outrun most longships. Maybe catch some." He tilted his head. "Maybe outrun death itself."
Helga crossed her arms, impressed despite herself.
"And the hull?" she asked, looking at the glossy black surface.
Erik nodded.
"My mixture. Tree resins. Oils. A few… additions. Waterproof. Rot-resistant. And sea-things won't burrow into it."
"Sea urchins," Gonir muttered. "Little bastards."
Ivar chuckled.
"They won't like this. Nothing will. You have built something… very clever."
He said it lightly but he meant it.
The crew moved about the deck with quiet competence. Lines coiled. Knots tied. Commands spoken and obeyed.
Men who had never touched the ocean two months ago moved like seasoned sailors.
Because they were.
Erik's gift had folded itself inside their nerves: Ivar's knowledge, Ivar's instincts, Ivar's memory of storms and reefs and treacherous shoals ,copied and shared among them like lanterns lit one after another.
Then trained again and again and again unitl the fragile transplanted memories took root and became as good as their own.
Ivar watched them, jaw tightening with something like pride and something like loss.
He spoke softly, just for Erik:
"They move like men who have lived at sea all their lives."
"They have your sailing instincts," Erik said. "But not your temper."
Ivar smirked.
"Shame."
He leaned forward on a cane he liked carrying around, eyes narrowing at the way the men tightened the rigging.
"You gave them the skill. I gave them the sea's heart. Together, we made sailors."
A wind shift rippled across the bay. The ship swayed, whispering against the dock.
Gonir ambled up, grinning like a mad prophet, eyes glinting.
"Ohhh, look at her," he murmured. "Big, black, beautiful, like a raven that learned how to swim. She'll glide. She'll stalk. She'll eat ships. Yes, yes… the sea will be jealous."
Runa stood slightly apart, cloak stirring, studying both ship and men. Her voice, smooth and controlled, carried easily.
"You have changed the balance of power, Erik. One month ago, we were land-bound. Now… we look outward."
Korb grunted, arms folded.
"Ships could bring back more war. And trouble."
Ivar laughed softly.
"Everything worth having does."
He turned to Erik, voice lowering again, sincere beneath the sarcasm.
"You rebuilt me. You gave me purpose. You gave me command again even if you keep a leash around my neck."
His hand brushed near his collarbone, where beneath the skin the weirwood parasite nestled , obedient, listening. Protective. Controlling.
He did not resent it.
He acknowledged it.
"I will not betray you," Ivar said simply. "Not because of your seed in my blood, or your whispers in my mind. But because…" He hesitated. Smirk softened. "Because I am interested in building what greatness you will if you are not stopped."
Erik studied him carefully.
"You still have your will."
"Of course." Ivar shrugged. "I just… cannot entertain certain thoughts anymore. Ironborn reavers are opportunist and back stabbers by nature. Not able to think such thought frees up my mind" His voice turned amused. "It is strangely peaceful."
A horn sounded down the docks.
The crew climbed aboard, taking positions hands on oars, lines, blocks and tackles.
"Ready!" a sailor called.
Ivar straightened.
"Good. Then let us see if my ship wants to fly."
Erik nodded.
"Take her out. Half-sails. Quarter-row. Test the hull. No risks. Don't go too far in to the open sea yet"
Ivar's grin flashed like a knife.
"Aye, Lord of Trees."
He walked toward the gangplank cane in hand, moving with authority, voice cracking out like a whip.
"Raise the yard! Set the lateen! Foremast first! Gentle… let the wind flirt before you let it court! You! tighten that line! No slack! If you love your fingers, keep them OUT of the pulleys!"
Men obeyed.
The sail unfurled.
The dromond shuddered , then eased forward as if it had taken a breath.
The oars dipped in unison. Water parted.
Runa watched, eyes calm.
"This," she said, "is the beginning of something larger."
------
The map covered half the table, parchment stretched flat under smooth stones. Rivers, coastlines, and mountain ridges were marked with careful ink strokes. Erik's handwriting ran along the edges, and Ivar's neat notes filled the margins.
The council gathered close, murmuring.
Ivar tapped the coastline with a charcoal stick.
"Here. We're here. The coast runs south to Westeros. From there, every harbor opens the world. We can also go east to Essos"
Erik folded his arms, looking at the council members "We need to decide where to take our dromond's on its maiden voyage"
"We have one voyage," he said quietly. "One first impression. Salt. Pelts. Leather. Carbon-fiber Longbows and compound bows. We need a place that will pay well… but also somewhere that we won't stick out like s sore thumb."
"Closest is safest. White Harbor." Korb advised "Tis the closest. They are Northmen still. We'll stand out less there"
A few heads nodded.
"But White Harbor answers to Winterfell," another councilor added, uneasy. "Banners, taxes, questions. A strange ship arrives with strange goods and stranger armor…" He let the thought hang.
"They'll demand to know where we come from," said Helga, quietly. "Or worse, they'll invite us to feast while they plan how to take everything we've shown them."
Silence followed.
"Pentos, then?" Ivar leaned forward. "Rich city. Spices. Silk. Coin. They love traders."
Erik frowned at the map.
"Pentos is a part of the Valyrian Freehold. If they think we're worth it, they'll try to own us. If they think we're a threat, they'll try to erase us.I'd rather not go there first"
He tapped the parchment gently.
"Too many eyes that look upward for permission." Ivar smiled slightly. "That's why I say Braavos."
He circled it with the charcoal , the dot almost swallowed by the sea.
"Free city. Built by runaways. They don't bow to Valyria. They see everything . Pirates, merchants, princes, beggars, bankers. No one looks strange there… because everyone is strange."
Skaldi grunted.
"And their fleet?"
"Strong," Ivar admitted. "But they respect trade. They respect coin. If we stay humble, we're just another ship."
"And our goods?" asked one of the leatherworkers. "Will they even care?"
Ivar began counting on his fingers.
"Salt is always needed. Pelts from the north are rare in Essos, especially snow-cat and snow bear. Leather is always in demand. Carbon fiber armor… they'll call it sorcery and they'll trade for it eagerly! which is exactly why we don't sell much. We show enough to impress then pull back."
Erik nodded slowly.
"And the carbon fibre bows?"
Helga smiled.
"Let them try them. Let them envy. But never sell the best."
The council murmured in agreement.
Erik placed his palm over Braavos.
"If it goes badly, we run. If it goes well, we return richer and wiser. We learn the currents, the prices, the politics. Then we return home. Then White Harbor. Then Pentos. Then Valyria. One step at a time."
He looked around the table.
"No boasting. No secrets carelessly spilled. We go as traders. Quiet, polite… and ready."
A slow ripple of assent moved around the room.
Ivar rolled up the map and tied it with leather cord.
"Then it's decided," he said softly. "We sail for Bravos."
Author's notes
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Erik said nothing at first only shifted closer and set a hand gently along the man's shoulder, so he would not feel alone and to check up on him using his powers.
"Tell me Ivar Volamark" Erik said quietly "How did you end up here in this state?"
The crippled Ironborn smiled. A smile that was eerily wide and calm.
The smile of a man who had long since fallen past pain.
"Well," Ivar rasped. "You want a story. You have the eyes of a man who wants to know what he kills before he kills."
He gave a soft, humorless laugh.
"I like that."
He licked cracked lips.
"I am… was… captain of the Reaver's Mercy. Born Volmark. Fifth son in line of succession for hose Volmark. Salt and iron in my blood since the cradle. I have sailed every cold and warm shore I could find. The North. The Reach. Dorne. Braavos. Qarth. I have made my fortune as a trader when it paid well. As a corsair when it didn't. As pirate when the coin was sweetest."
His eyes drifted away in remembrance somewhere far beyond the tent.
"We Iron born come to the wild north often. These frozen shores are rich when you know where to look with no organized resistance or politics to stop us. Tall trees. Good lumber for ships. Rare Pelts for trading. Ivory. Salt wives, if the Drowned God blesses us."
He smirked faintly.
"We thought ourselves clever. We got away with it. Well almost always got away with it"
He drew a breath that trembled like worn rope.
"A few months ago, we came upon a skirmish. Ice River cannibals against the tundra sled riding nomads. Ugly fight. Bloody. We waited. Watched. Let both bleed each other and weaken the victor"
His jaw clenched.
"When the nomads lay dead or bound… we struck. Quick. Hard. Took their spoils. Took their women. Took their meat. Took what the cannibals had already taken."
He paused.
"They fought like animals. Fierce and unafraid but they had no steel weapons or swords like we did."
His voice fell quieter.
"We killed many. Including… one young man. Young. Fiercer than the rest . Kiled two of my men before I killed him myself."
Ivar swallowed.
"He was Skarkul's favorite son, as it turns out."
The tent seemed to grow colder.
"Skarkul was not there. But he heard from those that fled the skirmish. And when we were loading our ships… he fell upon us like winter itself."
His expression flickered between rage, grief, hollow amusement.
"My men died screaming. They burned the ships. They butchered the crew. They kept me alive and made me watch."
His eyes glistened.
"Not for ransom. Not for slavery. For hate. For revenge"
He lifted one stump slightly, as if showing a prize.
"He said I would learn what it was to be eaten slowly. To feel myself disappear. To watch every friend I had ever had become meat before my eyes. He even force fed me some"
His voice broke, just once then steadied.
"He started with my feet. Laughing. Talking to me like an old friend while he chewed. He would cut. Eat. Then burn the wounds shut so I lived."
Helga covered her mouth.
Skaldi swore under his breath.
Even Korb's eyes hardened like iron.
Ivar continued softly:
"He made certain I didn't die. Not even when I begged him. Not when I cread and my voice grew horse from all the screaming. He said death was a gift, and I was not worthy."
He closed his eyes.
"I don't want to live like this." Skarkul said "If I have to be taken care of like a new born then I rather die"
Silence.
Then Erik leaned forward, voice low, steady.
"Then you are in luck" Erik replied "For I can give back to you what Skarkul has taken away"
He pressed his palm gently over Ivar's chest , warmth spreading, pain easing, fever dimming.
Ivar blinked, confused.
"What… are you doing?"
"Stopping the infection," Erik replied. "Removing the pain. You will sleep. When you wake… you will have a chance to live again. Whole."
For the first time, true emotion cracked Ivar's mask.
Fear. Hope. Disbelief.
"No one can fix this" Ivar grumbled "Why do you torture me with false hope"
Erik nodded.
"I can.I have It will take time. But I promise it." Erik repleid poiting at Skaldi " This is Skaldi. He'd lost his hand in combat. I restored it"
" The life waever speaks true "Skaldi said as he lifted his right arm " for yeas I was an old cripple . then Erik not only give me a new arm, he also restored all of us to our youths so we may serve him/ the old gods sent him to us"
Tears slipped silently from the Ironborn's eyes.
He laughed — soft and broken.
"Then… perhaps your gods are kinder than mine." Ivar said " Heal me then! Make me whole and I'll serve"
Erik squeezed his shoulder.
"Sleep now, Ivar Volmark."
The Ironborn exhaled slowly relieved and slipped into deep, dreamless rest.
Helga whispered:
"The gods send you where you are needed."
Erik looked at the mutilated man, jaw tight.
"No one deserves that fate. Not even an Ironborn raider." Erik replied "But you are right Helga, we needed an experienced sailor and we just got one"
They lifted Ivar carefully, wrapped him, and carried him toward Weirstad.
------------------
The days that followed the fall of the Ice River Clan were filled with celebrations of victory. Not only had they soundly defeated the equally feared and despised ice river cannibals , thye had done so with only a few lives lost on their end.
Erik honored the fallen by carving the names into the trunk of the tree. A tradition that would continue as more people fell in service of Weirstad. A feast was held in th fallen's honor where their life and deeds were remembered and celebrated.
Three days of honoring and celebrating later , everyone went back to work.
Not the frantic, desperate work of survival but something quieter, heavier ,the work of building a future.
Weirstad had swelled almost overnight once again. Former raiders, broken captives, wandering nomads, and those who simply had nowhere else to go drifted toward the caldera like moths toward a hearth fire.
Some came for food.
Some for safety.
Some came because they believed Erik was touched by the Old Gods so the magical valley was a holy site to them
And all of them were told the same thing. They were welcome if they chose peace and obeyed the rules.
The captives, those who had taken the penance parasite lived under its silent, watchful bond. It did not command their thoughts, nor steal their emotions but when murderous intent flared, when treachery sharpened in the back of the mind like a knife, the thing rooted in their body and brain punished them with crippling pain and soon the urge unraveled before it could bloom.
Not forgiveness. Not absolution. But control so they could learn to live differently.
The great weirwood hybrid helped as well.
Its branches stretched like pale veins across the inner walls of the caldera, leaves whispering soft prayers in the wind. Its spores lived in every lung, every breath, every heartbeat inside the folks of Weirstad. A psychic web. A quiet song under the skull.
Not domination — but awareness.
When cruelty stirred, the tree felt it.
When hatred tried to gather itself, the tree listened.
And if something dark began to bloom, Erik or the sherrifs would be informed and they would arrive long before blood ever spilled.
The sherrifs were the ;aw enforcement divison that Erik had created. They had a force of twenty sherrifs whose jon was to maintain peace , enforce the laws and fight crime. Each sheriff was more deeply coneected to the Hybrid tree allowing them to speak telepathically with it so they could do their job better. The hybrid tree in turn had dozens of animals like ravens, wolves and shadowcats that the hybrid tree and the sheriffs used to keep an eye on everything.
Children ran beneath the roots without fear now. Dogs slept at the base of the trunk. Hunters returned from the forests and laid their kills at the offering spots at te tree's trunk, murmuring thanks.
The old ways did not disappear overnight.
But they began to loosen.
Helga and the other priests preached almost every evening , gently, steadily but also relentlessly.
No more wife-stealing.
No more raiding the weak only because they were weak.
Strength was no longer measured in what you could take.
It was measured in what you could do for the society.
Some argued.
Some resisted.
But hunger faded. Safety grew. People slept with doors unbarred, for the first time in their lives.
And slowly… the sermons stopped sounding strange.
Men still sharpened spears. Women still practiced with bows. Warriors still trained in the yards because Weirstad was not naive.
But they did so with a different purpose now.
To protect what they had, not to devour what others had built.
At night, Erik would stand beneath the weirwood hybrid and used its connection to feel the faint hum inside his skull that was the whispers of hundreds of lives, hundreds of minds, not as slaves, not as puppets…
But as threads in something larger.
In a corner of his mind he always wondered not without fear at what he was becoming.
But the wonderful result of what Weirstad was slowly turning into reassured him. Barely.
------
The afternoon light filtered through the carved windows of the great hall, catching dust motes in soft gold. Chalkboards, slates, and scraps of parchment were spread across the long table.
Ainar was already there, sleeves rolled up, tongue poking out slightly as he worked through numbers.
Erik paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"Sorry," he said gently. "Again."
Ainar glanced up.
"For what?"
"For this," Erik said, gesturing around. "For always running from meeting to meeting. For research. For everything. I should be here more. Teaching you myself. You deserved better than—"
Ainar snorted.
"Stop."
Erik blinked. "What?"
"You always say that." Ainar shrugged. "And yet… I am learning. And busy. And tired. So" he grinned "it's fine."
Erik's brows lifted, amused. "Busy?"
"Yes," Ainar said proudly. "Helga has me teaching the smaller ones their letters. And Skaldi wants me to help him keep records for training groups. And Bloom wants me to track plant growth." He rolled his eyes. "Apparently that is important now."
"It is," Erik chuckled. "Very important."
Ainar leaned his elbows on the table.
"Besides, you teach me when you can. And when you don't… I practice. And when I don't understand, I ask. That's what students do."
Erik softened.
"You've grown," he murmured.
Ainar smirked. "Yes. I noticed."
They shared a quiet moment.
Then Erik pulled up a stool and sat beside him.
"All right," he said. "Today I want to talk about something different."
Ainar perked up.
"A weapon?"
"No."
"A new bow design?"
"No."
Ainar thought. "…a new kind of grenade?"
Erik laughed despite himself.
"Currency."
Ainar blinked.
"Money?"
"Yes."
Ainar frowned thoughtfully.
"But… we trade with the other large nomadic tribes. Pelts for salt. Leather for tools. Food for work. Why do we need little metal circles to do it for us?"
"Good question," Erik said. "Tell me, what happens when I need a fur cloak from the tanners, but I have nothing they want?"
Ainar squinted.
"You… owe them?"
"Exactly. And they owe someone else. And so on." Erik traced a circle on the table. "It becomes complicated. Slow. Unfair sometimes."
Ainar nodded slowly.
"So money makes trading easier."
"Yes. It is a promise," Erik said. "A small, universal promise: This is worth something no matter who holds it."
Ainar leaned back.
"So… we just make some? And everyone believes us?"
Erik smiled faintly.
"That's the hard part."
They fell quiet.
Ainar tapped the table thoughtfully.
"What would it be made of? Silver? Iron? Bone?"
"Metal is good," Erik said. "Hard to fake. Hard to break. But rare enough that people value it."
Ainar drummed his fingers.
"What if… instead of kings stamping their faces on coins… we stamp the tree?"
Erik's head tilted.
"The weirwood?"
Ainar nodded.
"Everyone here respects it. Fears it. Trusts it. If the coin carries the tree… then it says this coin belongs to all of Weirstad, not just one man."
Erik's eyes warmed.
"That," he said softly, "is very wise."
Ainar pretended not to glow with pride.
"And on the other side of the coin?" Erik asked.
Ainar thought for a long moment.
"You"
"Me?"
"Yes," Ainar said. "You are our leader, our founder. You are the champion"
Erik exhaled slowly.
"That's exactly what many kingdoms have. I'm not comfortable with my face on it"
Ainar smiled faintly.
"So each coin means… food grown. Wood cut. Leather tanned. Something real."
"Yes," Erik said. "And that means we must promise not to create more coins than our work allows. Otherwise… the coins become lies."
Ainar nodded.
"Then we should write rules."
He reached for a slate.
Erik watched him begin scribbling.
rule one: coins only for real work
rule two: tree mark means trust
rule three: no one is above the rules (not even erik)
Ainar slid the slate toward him.
Erik blinked.
Then laughed softly.
"Especially the last one?"
Ainar shrugged.
"You're busy. You might forget."
Erik rested a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Then it's good I have students like you to remind me."
Ainar grinned.
"And teachers like you to explain money."
They went back to work, the hum of voices outside floating into the hall, the future slowly taking shape in chalk, ink, and quiet conversation.
-----
The sea wind rolled in cold and salt-heavy, snapping at cloaks and tugging at hair.
The new docks stretched out over the dark water — timber still pale where the sun hadn't yet kissed it enough times. Men worked along the pilings. Ropes creaked. Gulls screamed.
And beyond everything else…
She waited.
The dromond.
Fifty meters from carved prow to stern. Six meters wide along the beam. Slender. Predatory. The hull gleamed with Erik's black varnish, not quite tar, not quite pitch, something thicker, glossier, more alive.
Water beaded on it and ran off like it feared to stay and marine pests like sea urchin died from it.
Two masts rose skyward: the foremast nearly twelve meters, proud and tall; the second mast standing back amidships, slightly smaller, eight meters, balanced like a hunter's stance.
From each mast hung the long yards where the triangular lateen sails would stretch out like wings, ready to bite the wind from nearly any direction.
Oars rested pulled in fifty on each side, polished and waiting.
A ship built for speed. For maneuver. For war.
Erik let out a slow breath.
"We did it."
Beside him, Ivar Volmark rested on his cane, cloak fluttering, watching the vessel with an expression halfway between reverence and hunger.
He was whole again.
Arms. Legs. Stronger than before, muscles newly grown and trained. But scars traced faint patterns under the skin, pale reminders of the horrors he had endured. His eyes, though….
They were keener now.
And quieter.
"A dromond," Ivar said softly. "It looks like the galleys of the southerners but not like the ones of the south. This one…" He smiled crookedly. "This one is tougher."
Skaldi whistled.
"She looks fast."
"She will be," Ivar replied. "With a good wind and disciplined oars… she'll outrun most longships. Maybe catch some." He tilted his head. "Maybe outrun death itself."
Helga crossed her arms, impressed despite herself.
"And the hull?" she asked, looking at the glossy black surface.
Erik nodded.
"My mixture. Tree resins. Oils. A few… additions. Waterproof. Rot-resistant. And sea-things won't burrow into it."
"Sea urchins," Gonir muttered. "Little bastards."
Ivar chuckled.
"They won't like this. Nothing will. You have built something… very clever."
He said it lightly but he meant it.
The crew moved about the deck with quiet competence. Lines coiled. Knots tied. Commands spoken and obeyed.
Men who had never touched the ocean two months ago moved like seasoned sailors.
Because they were.
Erik's gift had folded itself inside their nerves: Ivar's knowledge, Ivar's instincts, Ivar's memory of storms and reefs and treacherous shoals ,copied and shared among them like lanterns lit one after another.
Then trained again and again and again unitl the fragile transplanted memories took root and became as good as their own.
Ivar watched them, jaw tightening with something like pride and something like loss.
He spoke softly, just for Erik:
"They move like men who have lived at sea all their lives."
"They have your sailing instincts," Erik said. "But not your temper."
Ivar smirked.
"Shame."
He leaned forward on a cane he liked carrying around, eyes narrowing at the way the men tightened the rigging.
"You gave them the skill. I gave them the sea's heart. Together, we made sailors."
A wind shift rippled across the bay. The ship swayed, whispering against the dock.
Gonir ambled up, grinning like a mad prophet, eyes glinting.
"Ohhh, look at her," he murmured. "Big, black, beautiful, like a raven that learned how to swim. She'll glide. She'll stalk. She'll eat ships. Yes, yes… the sea will be jealous."
Runa stood slightly apart, cloak stirring, studying both ship and men. Her voice, smooth and controlled, carried easily.
"You have changed the balance of power, Erik. One month ago, we were land-bound. Now… we look outward."
Korb grunted, arms folded.
"Ships could bring back more war. And trouble."
Ivar laughed softly.
"Everything worth having does."
He turned to Erik, voice lowering again, sincere beneath the sarcasm.
"You rebuilt me. You gave me purpose. You gave me command again even if you keep a leash around my neck."
His hand brushed near his collarbone, where beneath the skin the weirwood parasite nestled , obedient, listening. Protective. Controlling.
He did not resent it.
He acknowledged it.
"I will not betray you," Ivar said simply. "Not because of your seed in my blood, or your whispers in my mind. But because…" He hesitated. Smirk softened. "Because I am interested in building what greatness you will if you are not stopped."
Erik studied him carefully.
"You still have your will."
"Of course." Ivar shrugged. "I just… cannot entertain certain thoughts anymore. Ironborn reavers are opportunist and back stabbers by nature. Not able to think such thought frees up my mind" His voice turned amused. "It is strangely peaceful."
A horn sounded down the docks.
The crew climbed aboard, taking positions hands on oars, lines, blocks and tackles.
"Ready!" a sailor called.
Ivar straightened.
"Good. Then let us see if my ship wants to fly."
Erik nodded.
"Take her out. Half-sails. Quarter-row. Test the hull. No risks. Don't go too far in to the open sea yet"
Ivar's grin flashed like a knife.
"Aye, Lord of Trees."
He walked toward the gangplank cane in hand, moving with authority, voice cracking out like a whip.
"Raise the yard! Set the lateen! Foremast first! Gentle… let the wind flirt before you let it court! You! tighten that line! No slack! If you love your fingers, keep them OUT of the pulleys!"
Men obeyed.
The sail unfurled.
The dromond shuddered , then eased forward as if it had taken a breath.
The oars dipped in unison. Water parted.
Runa watched, eyes calm.
"This," she said, "is the beginning of something larger."
------
The map covered half the table, parchment stretched flat under smooth stones. Rivers, coastlines, and mountain ridges were marked with careful ink strokes. Erik's handwriting ran along the edges, and Ivar's neat notes filled the margins.
The council gathered close, murmuring.
Ivar tapped the coastline with a charcoal stick.
"Here. We're here. The coast runs south to Westeros. From there, every harbor opens the world. We can also go east to Essos"
Erik folded his arms, looking at the council members "We need to decide where to take our dromond's on its maiden voyage"
"We have one voyage," he said quietly. "One first impression. Salt. Pelts. Leather. Carbon-fiber Longbows and compound bows. We need a place that will pay well… but also somewhere that we won't stick out like s sore thumb."
"Closest is safest. White Harbor." Korb advised "Tis the closest. They are Northmen still. We'll stand out less there"
A few heads nodded.
"But White Harbor answers to Winterfell," another councilor added, uneasy. "Banners, taxes, questions. A strange ship arrives with strange goods and stranger armor…" He let the thought hang.
"They'll demand to know where we come from," said Helga, quietly. "Or worse, they'll invite us to feast while they plan how to take everything we've shown them."
Silence followed.
"Pentos, then?" Ivar leaned forward. "Rich city. Spices. Silk. Coin. They love traders."
Erik frowned at the map.
"Pentos is a part of the Valyrian Freehold. If they think we're worth it, they'll try to own us. If they think we're a threat, they'll try to erase us.I'd rather not go there first"
He tapped the parchment gently.
"Too many eyes that look upward for permission." Ivar smiled slightly. "That's why I say Braavos."
He circled it with the charcoal , the dot almost swallowed by the sea.
"Free city. Built by runaways. They don't bow to Valyria. They see everything . Pirates, merchants, princes, beggars, bankers. No one looks strange there… because everyone is strange."
Skaldi grunted.
"And their fleet?"
"Strong," Ivar admitted. "But they respect trade. They respect coin. If we stay humble, we're just another ship."
"And our goods?" asked one of the leatherworkers. "Will they even care?"
Ivar began counting on his fingers.
"Salt is always needed. Pelts from the north are rare in Essos, especially snow-cat and snow bear. Leather is always in demand. Carbon fiber armor… they'll call it sorcery and they'll trade for it eagerly! which is exactly why we don't sell much. We show enough to impress then pull back."
Erik nodded slowly.
"And the carbon fibre bows?"
Helga smiled.
"Let them try them. Let them envy. But never sell the best."
The council murmured in agreement.
Erik placed his palm over Braavos.
"If it goes badly, we run. If it goes well, we return richer and wiser. We learn the currents, the prices, the politics. Then we return home. Then White Harbor. Then Pentos. Then Valyria. One step at a time."
He looked around the table.
"No boasting. No secrets carelessly spilled. We go as traders. Quiet, polite… and ready."
A slow ripple of assent moved around the room.
Ivar rolled up the map and tied it with leather cord.
"Then it's decided," he said softly. "We sail for Bravos."
Author's notes
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Despacitoleo
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Noce chapter Mate cant wait for the mcs bullshit later lol
Hordac
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Life Weaver chapter 24 can be read at:
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Life Weaver chapter 24
New
Hordac
Getting sticky.
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LW 24
The sea rolled black and cold beneath the hull, the waves slapping rhythmically against tar-dark planks.
The dromond cut through the Shivering Sea like a knife.
Leaf-green sails bellied with the wind. Ropes creaked. Oars dipped in steady rhythm.
And across the upper deck dozens of animals lay comatose in neat rows. Deer. Goats. wolves. rabbits.
If one couldn't see the rising and falling of their chests one would think them as it was they were all brain dead.
Ivar leaned on the rail, cloak flapping, chewing thoughtfully on nothing, jaw tense.
"Obsidian Leaf," he muttered. "Good name for this ship. Black as death and fast as a shadow. Of course I would have chosen better something more fierce"
He turned his head slightly.
"Now explain to me," he said, voice dry, "why the hell we are sailing northeast… into a sea no sailor with a sane skull ever seeks… while our deck looks like a butcher's yard for ghosts with all these animals?"
Erik stood beside him, hands resting calmly on the rail, watching the horizon.
"We're not going to die," Erik said lightly. "Probably."
Ivar stared at him.
"That is not what a captain likes to hear."
Erik smiled faintly.
"You'll see soon."
Ivar clicked his tongue and exhaled through his nose.
"I hate when you do that. 'You'll see.' You sound like a smug oracle."
-----
"So. Tell me, Lord of Trees…" Ivar drawled, tilting his head with that crooked, unnerving smile. "Are you finally going to explain — or must I keep guessing like an idiot until I irritate the truth out of you?"
"You already irritate the truth out of me most days," Erik said.
Ivar's grin widened — sharp, boyish, dangerous.
"Good. Then I still have my uses."
"You have value because you're an experienced captain," Erik replied. "And because you think faster than most."
Ivar's expression shifted — mock hurt.
"Ah. So not because you like me."
"I don't need to like you," Erik said calmly. "I only need to trust you enough to stand beside me."
Ivar gave a short laugh that was quiet and bitter.
"That is the most honest thing anyone has said to me in years."
There was a pause in their conversation and the only sounds were the Wind blowing and the oars splashing.
"You're afraid." Ivar stated as a matter of fact
"Merely cautious." Erik replied
"No" Ivar shook his head eyes narrowed like a predator who had scented something. "Afraid. When you stare at the horizon like that, you're not planning. You're measuring the cost. You're counting the dead."
"Everything has a cost." Erik said nodding his eyes still on the horizon
"Yes. And men like us always think we're the ones chosen to pay it." Ivar grinned
"You regret what you were?" Erik asked finally looking at Ivar
Ivar's smile twisted into something wounded and feral.
Sometimes. Sometimes I miss it." Ivar shrugged, his smile was bittersweet "Sometimes I wake wanting to burn the world just to see if anyone can stop me."
"And now? "Erik asked
"Now I wake, remember the thing you planted in me…" Ivar tapped his over his heart where the weirwood seed roots encircled his heart protecting Ivar but also protecting Erik from Ivar "…and the thought just… dissolves. Like ash in the wind"
I should hate you for that." Ivar commented offhandedly
"Do you?" Erik asked curious
Ivar didn't say anything for a while
"No" Ivar replied softly "Because without it… I would have ruined Weirstad already. And I have grown to like that place."
"You still have your will." Erik pointed out
"Oh, I know. I simply can't betray you and yours anymore. Which is irritating" Ivar smirks "And strangely peaceful."
"But that doesn't mean you won't challenge me." Erik said
"Oh, I will challenge you every chance I get" Ivar laughed "But from beside you. Not behind your back."
He studied Erik.
"Will you just Stop dancing around it andtell me what you're really doing out here?" Ivar asked "This curiosity, its not good for my fragile mental health"
"Testing limits." Erik replied cryptically enjoying the look of frustration on Ivar's face
"Of the sea?" Ivar asked
"No" Erik replied "Of myself."
"Dangerous habit." Ivar muttered
"I live by it" Erik stated "You lived by it too once"
"Yes. And look how well that turned out." Ivar said
They both allow a brief, grim smile.
"Promise me one thing." Ivar
"What?" Erik asked
"If you ever misjudge… if your power starts to eat you, like Skarkul ate my men" Ivar turned serious "let someone stop you. Don't become another monster wearing good intentions."
"And who will stop me?" Erik asked
"I can't. Your leash still won't let me." Ivar mused "I will simply have to convince others to do it"
"Fair enough" Erik replied nodding in agreement
"Good. Now go do your impossible thing. I'll make sure the ship doesn't sink while you play god."
Behind them, boots thumped.
Stigr, a thin young man who was recently discovered to be a warg bounced over, practically vibrating with excitement, grin wide enough to split his face.
"Lord Erik!" he blurted. "I knew it! I knew it! This is going to be something huge, isn't it?"
Ivar closed one eye, unimpressed. "Careful, boy. If you grin any harder, your skull will fall off."
Stigr ignored him entirely.
He gestured wildly at the animals.
"Look at them! No thought in their heads! No fear! No kicking! Only Erik can do that! This is definitely a ritual! A big one! Like he did with the Weirstad tree Maybe he'll make a sea monster! Or grow a giant tree in the ocean! Or—"
"Stigr," Erik said calmly.
"Yes, Lord Erik!" Stigr straightened like a soldier.
"Breathe."
Stigr inhaled like he had forgotten air existed.
Ivar smirked.
"He worships you," he said lazily. "Like a child staring at thunder for the first time."
Stigr puffed his chest.
"Of course, I do not! I'm a devout follower of the old gods and Erik is their champion. He grows forests. He heals the broken. He makes weapons from seeds. And now—" He pointed to the sea, almost shaking with anticipation. "Now he's going to do something even more insane!"
He leaned closer to Erik, whispering loudly, badly:
"Are you going to make the sea obey us?"
Erik kept watching the horizon.
"Something like that."
Ivar rolled his eyes.
"There it is again. 'Something like that.' You know, back when I was captain of reavers, the men feared me because I told them exactly how they might die that day. You…" He gestured. "You make them afraid by saying nothing at all."
He gave a crooked grin.
"And somehow it works."
Stigr nodded enthusiastically.
"It works because he always wins."
Erik finally turned not arrogant, not proud.
Just steady.
"I don't always win," he said quietly. "I just prepare."
Ivar's gaze drifted back to the animals.
"Preparation," he echoed. "Right. So these poor things?"
"Not poor," Erik said. "Their minds are sleeping. They feel nothing."
Stigr leaned against the rail beside him.
"But why bring them out here? Why not do your ritual in Weirstad?"
Erik watched the water turning darker ahead.
"Because some things," he said, "should not be done near home."
A shiver ran across the deck — not from cold.
Men glanced at each other.
Ivar straightened slowly, instincts prickling.
"You're going to change something," he murmured. "Not a man. Not a tree. Not a wall."
He looked at the sea.
"You're going to change this."
Erik didn't answer.
The sails snapped harder.
The Obsidian Leaf surged forward.
Stigr's grin returned brighter, wilder.
"This is going to be amazing."
Ivar muttered under his breath:
"Or the stupidest thing I have ever agreed to."
But he didn't walk away.
He stayed.
Because whatever Erik was about to do…
He wanted to see it.
By noon, there was no land in any direction.
Only endless gray water. Endless gray sky. The world had become a circle of cold nothing.
The crew shifted uneasily.
Even hardened warriors grew quiet out here.
Ivar stood at the prow of the Obsidian Leaf, cloak whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed.
"This is it?" he muttered. "Middle of nowhere. Middle of nothing."
Erik stepped forward, calm, focused — almost distant.
"Yes," he said. "We are exactly where we need to be."
Some of the men whispered brief prayers to the Old Gods.
On the deck, the rows of comatose animals breathed shallowly, unmoving, blank-eyed.
Stigr stared at them, trembling with excitement.
"This is it," he whispered. "This is really it."
Ivar's voice turned sharp.
"What are you doing, Erik?"
Erik's eyes went to the sea.
"There is something beneath us," he said quietly. "Something gigantic and deadly. Something strong enough to change everything if we can make it obey."
A murmur rippled through the crew.
Someone whispered, hoarse:
"Leviathan…"
Even saying the word seemed to chill the air.
Ivar frowned.
"You're going to warg a leviathan?" he said, incredulous. "A creature bigger than dragons? Have you lost your mind?"
"Maybe," Erik said. "Stand ready."
He stepped into the center of the deck.
He placed his hands on the nearest comatose animal.
Stigr watched with shining devotion.
"He's drawing strength," he whispered reverently. "He's sharing their life. Borrowing it."
Ivar's eyes darkened.
"Pray he knows when to stop."
Erik closed his eyes.
And reached.
Down.
Deep.
Through the freezing layers where sunlight died… deeper still, into the crushing black.
Into something vast.
Something sleeping.
Something dreaming in hunger.
He touched it.
And it woke.
A sound rose from the oceans depths was not something heard with ears alone, but felt in the bones.
A bass, thunderous tremor that rattled shields and teeth.
The water ahead bulged.
Then split.
And the leviathan broke the surface.
It was enormous.
Bigger than any whale men had ever seen or spoken of around firelight.
A mountain of wet, black flesh. Barnacles like white knuckles gripped its hide. Old scars scored its body like runes carved by time and violence. Its eye a vast, dark orb the size of a shield rolled up and fixed on the ship.
The crew froze.
One man whimpered.
Another fell to his knees.
Ivar whispered, stunned despite himself:
"By every damned god…"
The leviathan exhaled.
A geyser erupted skyward.
The air stank of deep-sea rot and ancient salt.
Erik's mind slammed against its mind.
The leviathan felt him.
It did not submit.
It raged. It was not merely sentient but also sapient like a dolphin.
The ship rocked violently.
Ropes creaked. Oars scraped. Men shouted.
"Hold fast!" someone yelled.
Erik clenched his jaw, eyes still shut, sweat already beading on his brow.
It fought him with raw, primal fury.
Not mindless but wild and unyielding.
It shoved him away like a storm tossing a leaf.
He staggered only barely staying upright.
Stigr gasped.
"Lord Erik!"
Ivar grabbed the rail.
"Break it off!" he barked. "Let it go! This isn't like wolves or ravens. This thing was born to drown worlds!"
Erik ignored him.
He reached again with all his might. Deeper. harder.
Their bodies stiffened.
Their life-energy bled outward into him like warm rivers and they withered faster.
The bond thickened.
He surged back into the leviathan's mind like a spear of light.
The leviathan roared. It turned.
And charged.
The sea exploded around its massive bulk as it surged forward, its shadow swallowing the ship.
"TURN HER!" Ivar shouted, instantly snapping into command.
"Hard starboard! Row! Row, you bastards, row!"
Oars bit the water.
The Obsidian Leaf creaked violently as it tried to pivot away.
But the leviathan was too fast.
It came like a black wall.
Like doom.
Men screamed.
One dropped his oar and ran only to be shoved back into place by another.
The shadow loomed over them.
And Erik was still standing, eyes shut, teeth clenched, gripping the sacrificial animals with both hands now.
The beasts beneath his palms shuddered then went limp.
He pushed harder.
Blood trickled from his nose.
The leviathan rose higher, mouth yawning open showing a cavern of baleen and darkness.
Ivar's voice cut through the chaos, harsh and furious:
"ERIK! NOW! OR WE ALL DIE!"
The ship rattled. Water slammed across the deck.
The world was nothing but thunder and cold and screaming wood.
Erik finally broke through.
He didn't crush the leviathan's will.
He didn't conquer it like a slave.
He wrapped around it.
Coiled through its instincts.
Twined through its hunger.
He became another current in its thoughts.
The leviathan faltered.
Its bulk slowed.
The massive head hovered meters from the prow, close enough for men to see their reflections in its wet black hide.
Silence fell.
Only the sea breathed.
Erik opened his eyes.
They glowed faintly, distant, unfocused.
Slowly…
The leviathan eased backward.
It sank, calm now, circling beneath the ship like a tamed storm.
Breaths released across the deck.
Men slumped.
One laughed hysterically.
Another wept openly.
Ivar stared at Erik equal parts awe, fury, and dread.
"You," he said slowly, voice low. "Are going to get us all killed one day."
Erik swayed but remained standing.
"No," he whispered. "I'm going to make sure that our ships have the best guard and speed booster in the world"
Below, deep in the cold black, the leviathan turned obedient now.
The sea had gone strangely calm.
As if the water itself was waiting.
Erik stood at the rail, eyes distant, still half inside the leviathan's mind.
Then he turned.
"Stigr," he said quietly. "With me."
Stigr froze, pointing at himself.
"M-Me?"
"Yes," Erik replied. "Come."
Stigr swallowed then nodded with fierce determination.
"I'm ready."
Ivar muttered darkly.
"This is how fools die."
Erik only smiled slightly and climbed down the rope ladder.
Stigr followed.
The water was shockingly cold, biting like teeth but moments later, the shadow rose beneath them.
The leviathan surfaced again, slow and deliberate.
Enormous.
Alive.
Its vast eye rolled toward Erik.
He laid a hand on its wet hide, fingers sinking slightly into barnacle-studded flesh.
His voice was soft , the way someone might speak to a wounded animal.
"You will obey," he whispered. "You will not break. You will not turn. Not while my people sail this sea."
The leviathan resisted , a faint tremor.
Erik pressed further.
Roots of will tightened.
The creature's mind bent not broken but guided.
Then he took Stigr's wrist.
"Hold on," Erik said.
Stigr blinked.
"Okay!"
Their fingers interlaced, and Erik pulled Stigr gently forward until his palm rested on the leviathan beside his.
Power moved.
Warm. Heavy. Ancient.
Stigr gasped.
He felt something move inside his skull like an entire ocean slowly opening.
"What— what is this—?"
"You," Erik said, voice firm and calm, "will be its rider. Its voice. Its anchor. You will be its warg. Do not abuse it."
Stigr's expression turned solemn and serious in a way few had ever seen.
"I won't. I swear it."
Erik closed his eyes.
He unwound his bond.
He threaded it through Stigr.
For a heartbeat, the leviathan shuddered uncertain.
Then its massive eye focused.
On Stigr.
The boy laughed breathless, stunned, joyful.
"I can feel it! It's… huge! And sleepy! And grunpy! And kind of lonely!"
"Guide it," Erik said. "Do not command it like a slave. Treat it like a friend too strong to understand its own strength."
Stigr nodded fiercely.
"Yes!"
They swam back, the leviathan circling docilely beneath.
When Erik climbed aboard, dripping and exhausted, he pointed to the rows of living, comatose animals.
"Throw them over," he said softly.
The crew hesitated.
"But—"
"The animals, theone that are still live," Erik said. " throw then one by one towards me"
One by one, the animals splashed gently into the sea and began drifting slowly, carried by soft waves
Then Erik crouched by the rail.
His hands grew busy.
Bone, tendon, resin , drawn from seed and flesh and strange bio-alchemy wove together in living strands. A massive organic harness took shape, wrapping around the leviathan without piercing skin, distributing pressure like a second hide.
Pre-existing rings that were on the ship's bow, the harness slid into hidden sockets carved there from the very beginning.
Ivar stared wide-eyed.
"You planned this from the start? Even when we wer building the ship"
Erik only shrugged.
"It was… a possibility."
Ivar laughed sharp, incredulous.
"You insane, brilliant bastard."
The harness locked.
The leviathan drifted forward, and the ship tugged gently like a toy on a river.
Erik and Stigr quickly climbed back on the ship
"Now," Erik murmured. "Reach."
Stigr closed his eyes.
His breath steadied.
Below, the leviathan stirred.
The Obsidian Leaf surged forward.
A ripple of awe moved across the crew.
"By the gods…"
"We're flying…"
"Look how fast—"
Water foamed past the hull, the ship slicing ahead faster than any wind-driven sail.
Twice its normal speed. Maybe more.
Ivar leaned at the rail, wind snapping his cloak, eyes gleaming like a child who had just seen war for the first time.
"Leviathan…" he murmured. "You know, Erik — that creature… it is the sigil of my house. House Volmark. I grew up hearing tales of it. Devourer of fleets. Destroyer of kings. Eater of krakens"
He clicked his tongue, half-laughing.
"I never imagined I'd see one. Much less hitch it to a damn ship."
Erik arched a brow.
"You object?"
Ivar smirked.
"Oh, no. I approve. Entirely. This is… magnificent."
He turned slightly serious.
"Just remember, men will fear us twice as much now. And fear is a tricky currency."
The crew settled into silent wonder.
Some knelt and prayed.
Others just stared, stunned.
Stigr stood like a captain at the prow with hair whipping, grin stretched ear-to-ear, eyes bright.
"I can feel the currents!" he shouted happily. "He likes to swim where it's deep! He's humming!"
Ivar groaned.
"Wonderful. The scary monster of my childhood stories …. hums."
Erik simply watched tired, satisfied, thoughtful.
Behind them, the sun lowered and ahead, the world shrank as the speed carried them homeward.
By dawn, the caldera cliffs would be in sight.
And the people of Weirstad would see something no one had ever seen before:
Their ship…
Dragged by a creature some considered a god of the deep.
Author's notes
If you want to support my writing and get exclusive pre-release ACCESS TO THE NEXT FIVE CHAPTERS of the story, consider becoming a Patron of this work.
You also get access to the pictures, information sources, music, and videos that I consulted with or that inspired me during the writing process
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The sea rolled black and cold beneath the hull, the waves slapping rhythmically against tar-dark planks.
The dromond cut through the Shivering Sea like a knife.
Leaf-green sails bellied with the wind. Ropes creaked. Oars dipped in steady rhythm.
And across the upper deck dozens of animals lay comatose in neat rows. Deer. Goats. wolves. rabbits.
If one couldn't see the rising and falling of their chests one would think them as it was they were all brain dead.
Ivar leaned on the rail, cloak flapping, chewing thoughtfully on nothing, jaw tense.
"Obsidian Leaf," he muttered. "Good name for this ship. Black as death and fast as a shadow. Of course I would have chosen better something more fierce"
He turned his head slightly.
"Now explain to me," he said, voice dry, "why the hell we are sailing northeast… into a sea no sailor with a sane skull ever seeks… while our deck looks like a butcher's yard for ghosts with all these animals?"
Erik stood beside him, hands resting calmly on the rail, watching the horizon.
"We're not going to die," Erik said lightly. "Probably."
Ivar stared at him.
"That is not what a captain likes to hear."
Erik smiled faintly.
"You'll see soon."
Ivar clicked his tongue and exhaled through his nose.
"I hate when you do that. 'You'll see.' You sound like a smug oracle."
-----
"So. Tell me, Lord of Trees…" Ivar drawled, tilting his head with that crooked, unnerving smile. "Are you finally going to explain — or must I keep guessing like an idiot until I irritate the truth out of you?"
"You already irritate the truth out of me most days," Erik said.
Ivar's grin widened — sharp, boyish, dangerous.
"Good. Then I still have my uses."
"You have value because you're an experienced captain," Erik replied. "And because you think faster than most."
Ivar's expression shifted — mock hurt.
"Ah. So not because you like me."
"I don't need to like you," Erik said calmly. "I only need to trust you enough to stand beside me."
Ivar gave a short laugh that was quiet and bitter.
"That is the most honest thing anyone has said to me in years."
There was a pause in their conversation and the only sounds were the Wind blowing and the oars splashing.
"You're afraid." Ivar stated as a matter of fact
"Merely cautious." Erik replied
"No" Ivar shook his head eyes narrowed like a predator who had scented something. "Afraid. When you stare at the horizon like that, you're not planning. You're measuring the cost. You're counting the dead."
"Everything has a cost." Erik said nodding his eyes still on the horizon
"Yes. And men like us always think we're the ones chosen to pay it." Ivar grinned
"You regret what you were?" Erik asked finally looking at Ivar
Ivar's smile twisted into something wounded and feral.
Sometimes. Sometimes I miss it." Ivar shrugged, his smile was bittersweet "Sometimes I wake wanting to burn the world just to see if anyone can stop me."
"And now? "Erik asked
"Now I wake, remember the thing you planted in me…" Ivar tapped his over his heart where the weirwood seed roots encircled his heart protecting Ivar but also protecting Erik from Ivar "…and the thought just… dissolves. Like ash in the wind"
I should hate you for that." Ivar commented offhandedly
"Do you?" Erik asked curious
Ivar didn't say anything for a while
"No" Ivar replied softly "Because without it… I would have ruined Weirstad already. And I have grown to like that place."
"You still have your will." Erik pointed out
"Oh, I know. I simply can't betray you and yours anymore. Which is irritating" Ivar smirks "And strangely peaceful."
"But that doesn't mean you won't challenge me." Erik said
"Oh, I will challenge you every chance I get" Ivar laughed "But from beside you. Not behind your back."
He studied Erik.
"Will you just Stop dancing around it andtell me what you're really doing out here?" Ivar asked "This curiosity, its not good for my fragile mental health"
"Testing limits." Erik replied cryptically enjoying the look of frustration on Ivar's face
"Of the sea?" Ivar asked
"No" Erik replied "Of myself."
"Dangerous habit." Ivar muttered
"I live by it" Erik stated "You lived by it too once"
"Yes. And look how well that turned out." Ivar said
They both allow a brief, grim smile.
"Promise me one thing." Ivar
"What?" Erik asked
"If you ever misjudge… if your power starts to eat you, like Skarkul ate my men" Ivar turned serious "let someone stop you. Don't become another monster wearing good intentions."
"And who will stop me?" Erik asked
"I can't. Your leash still won't let me." Ivar mused "I will simply have to convince others to do it"
"Fair enough" Erik replied nodding in agreement
"Good. Now go do your impossible thing. I'll make sure the ship doesn't sink while you play god."
Behind them, boots thumped.
Stigr, a thin young man who was recently discovered to be a warg bounced over, practically vibrating with excitement, grin wide enough to split his face.
"Lord Erik!" he blurted. "I knew it! I knew it! This is going to be something huge, isn't it?"
Ivar closed one eye, unimpressed. "Careful, boy. If you grin any harder, your skull will fall off."
Stigr ignored him entirely.
He gestured wildly at the animals.
"Look at them! No thought in their heads! No fear! No kicking! Only Erik can do that! This is definitely a ritual! A big one! Like he did with the Weirstad tree Maybe he'll make a sea monster! Or grow a giant tree in the ocean! Or—"
"Stigr," Erik said calmly.
"Yes, Lord Erik!" Stigr straightened like a soldier.
"Breathe."
Stigr inhaled like he had forgotten air existed.
Ivar smirked.
"He worships you," he said lazily. "Like a child staring at thunder for the first time."
Stigr puffed his chest.
"Of course, I do not! I'm a devout follower of the old gods and Erik is their champion. He grows forests. He heals the broken. He makes weapons from seeds. And now—" He pointed to the sea, almost shaking with anticipation. "Now he's going to do something even more insane!"
He leaned closer to Erik, whispering loudly, badly:
"Are you going to make the sea obey us?"
Erik kept watching the horizon.
"Something like that."
Ivar rolled his eyes.
"There it is again. 'Something like that.' You know, back when I was captain of reavers, the men feared me because I told them exactly how they might die that day. You…" He gestured. "You make them afraid by saying nothing at all."
He gave a crooked grin.
"And somehow it works."
Stigr nodded enthusiastically.
"It works because he always wins."
Erik finally turned not arrogant, not proud.
Just steady.
"I don't always win," he said quietly. "I just prepare."
Ivar's gaze drifted back to the animals.
"Preparation," he echoed. "Right. So these poor things?"
"Not poor," Erik said. "Their minds are sleeping. They feel nothing."
Stigr leaned against the rail beside him.
"But why bring them out here? Why not do your ritual in Weirstad?"
Erik watched the water turning darker ahead.
"Because some things," he said, "should not be done near home."
A shiver ran across the deck — not from cold.
Men glanced at each other.
Ivar straightened slowly, instincts prickling.
"You're going to change something," he murmured. "Not a man. Not a tree. Not a wall."
He looked at the sea.
"You're going to change this."
Erik didn't answer.
The sails snapped harder.
The Obsidian Leaf surged forward.
Stigr's grin returned brighter, wilder.
"This is going to be amazing."
Ivar muttered under his breath:
"Or the stupidest thing I have ever agreed to."
But he didn't walk away.
He stayed.
Because whatever Erik was about to do…
He wanted to see it.
By noon, there was no land in any direction.
Only endless gray water. Endless gray sky. The world had become a circle of cold nothing.
The crew shifted uneasily.
Even hardened warriors grew quiet out here.
Ivar stood at the prow of the Obsidian Leaf, cloak whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed.
"This is it?" he muttered. "Middle of nowhere. Middle of nothing."
Erik stepped forward, calm, focused — almost distant.
"Yes," he said. "We are exactly where we need to be."
Some of the men whispered brief prayers to the Old Gods.
On the deck, the rows of comatose animals breathed shallowly, unmoving, blank-eyed.
Stigr stared at them, trembling with excitement.
"This is it," he whispered. "This is really it."
Ivar's voice turned sharp.
"What are you doing, Erik?"
Erik's eyes went to the sea.
"There is something beneath us," he said quietly. "Something gigantic and deadly. Something strong enough to change everything if we can make it obey."
A murmur rippled through the crew.
Someone whispered, hoarse:
"Leviathan…"
Even saying the word seemed to chill the air.
Ivar frowned.
"You're going to warg a leviathan?" he said, incredulous. "A creature bigger than dragons? Have you lost your mind?"
"Maybe," Erik said. "Stand ready."
He stepped into the center of the deck.
He placed his hands on the nearest comatose animal.
Stigr watched with shining devotion.
"He's drawing strength," he whispered reverently. "He's sharing their life. Borrowing it."
Ivar's eyes darkened.
"Pray he knows when to stop."
Erik closed his eyes.
And reached.
Down.
Deep.
Through the freezing layers where sunlight died… deeper still, into the crushing black.
Into something vast.
Something sleeping.
Something dreaming in hunger.
He touched it.
And it woke.
A sound rose from the oceans depths was not something heard with ears alone, but felt in the bones.
A bass, thunderous tremor that rattled shields and teeth.
The water ahead bulged.
Then split.
And the leviathan broke the surface.
It was enormous.
Bigger than any whale men had ever seen or spoken of around firelight.
A mountain of wet, black flesh. Barnacles like white knuckles gripped its hide. Old scars scored its body like runes carved by time and violence. Its eye a vast, dark orb the size of a shield rolled up and fixed on the ship.
The crew froze.
One man whimpered.
Another fell to his knees.
Ivar whispered, stunned despite himself:
"By every damned god…"
The leviathan exhaled.
A geyser erupted skyward.
The air stank of deep-sea rot and ancient salt.
Erik's mind slammed against its mind.
The leviathan felt him.
It did not submit.
It raged. It was not merely sentient but also sapient like a dolphin.
The ship rocked violently.
Ropes creaked. Oars scraped. Men shouted.
"Hold fast!" someone yelled.
Erik clenched his jaw, eyes still shut, sweat already beading on his brow.
It fought him with raw, primal fury.
Not mindless but wild and unyielding.
It shoved him away like a storm tossing a leaf.
He staggered only barely staying upright.
Stigr gasped.
"Lord Erik!"
Ivar grabbed the rail.
"Break it off!" he barked. "Let it go! This isn't like wolves or ravens. This thing was born to drown worlds!"
Erik ignored him.
He reached again with all his might. Deeper. harder.
Their bodies stiffened.
Their life-energy bled outward into him like warm rivers and they withered faster.
The bond thickened.
He surged back into the leviathan's mind like a spear of light.
The leviathan roared. It turned.
And charged.
The sea exploded around its massive bulk as it surged forward, its shadow swallowing the ship.
"TURN HER!" Ivar shouted, instantly snapping into command.
"Hard starboard! Row! Row, you bastards, row!"
Oars bit the water.
The Obsidian Leaf creaked violently as it tried to pivot away.
But the leviathan was too fast.
It came like a black wall.
Like doom.
Men screamed.
One dropped his oar and ran only to be shoved back into place by another.
The shadow loomed over them.
And Erik was still standing, eyes shut, teeth clenched, gripping the sacrificial animals with both hands now.
The beasts beneath his palms shuddered then went limp.
He pushed harder.
Blood trickled from his nose.
The leviathan rose higher, mouth yawning open showing a cavern of baleen and darkness.
Ivar's voice cut through the chaos, harsh and furious:
"ERIK! NOW! OR WE ALL DIE!"
The ship rattled. Water slammed across the deck.
The world was nothing but thunder and cold and screaming wood.
Erik finally broke through.
He didn't crush the leviathan's will.
He didn't conquer it like a slave.
He wrapped around it.
Coiled through its instincts.
Twined through its hunger.
He became another current in its thoughts.
The leviathan faltered.
Its bulk slowed.
The massive head hovered meters from the prow, close enough for men to see their reflections in its wet black hide.
Silence fell.
Only the sea breathed.
Erik opened his eyes.
They glowed faintly, distant, unfocused.
Slowly…
The leviathan eased backward.
It sank, calm now, circling beneath the ship like a tamed storm.
Breaths released across the deck.
Men slumped.
One laughed hysterically.
Another wept openly.
Ivar stared at Erik equal parts awe, fury, and dread.
"You," he said slowly, voice low. "Are going to get us all killed one day."
Erik swayed but remained standing.
"No," he whispered. "I'm going to make sure that our ships have the best guard and speed booster in the world"
Below, deep in the cold black, the leviathan turned obedient now.
The sea had gone strangely calm.
As if the water itself was waiting.
Erik stood at the rail, eyes distant, still half inside the leviathan's mind.
Then he turned.
"Stigr," he said quietly. "With me."
Stigr froze, pointing at himself.
"M-Me?"
"Yes," Erik replied. "Come."
Stigr swallowed then nodded with fierce determination.
"I'm ready."
Ivar muttered darkly.
"This is how fools die."
Erik only smiled slightly and climbed down the rope ladder.
Stigr followed.
The water was shockingly cold, biting like teeth but moments later, the shadow rose beneath them.
The leviathan surfaced again, slow and deliberate.
Enormous.
Alive.
Its vast eye rolled toward Erik.
He laid a hand on its wet hide, fingers sinking slightly into barnacle-studded flesh.
His voice was soft , the way someone might speak to a wounded animal.
"You will obey," he whispered. "You will not break. You will not turn. Not while my people sail this sea."
The leviathan resisted , a faint tremor.
Erik pressed further.
Roots of will tightened.
The creature's mind bent not broken but guided.
Then he took Stigr's wrist.
"Hold on," Erik said.
Stigr blinked.
"Okay!"
Their fingers interlaced, and Erik pulled Stigr gently forward until his palm rested on the leviathan beside his.
Power moved.
Warm. Heavy. Ancient.
Stigr gasped.
He felt something move inside his skull like an entire ocean slowly opening.
"What— what is this—?"
"You," Erik said, voice firm and calm, "will be its rider. Its voice. Its anchor. You will be its warg. Do not abuse it."
Stigr's expression turned solemn and serious in a way few had ever seen.
"I won't. I swear it."
Erik closed his eyes.
He unwound his bond.
He threaded it through Stigr.
For a heartbeat, the leviathan shuddered uncertain.
Then its massive eye focused.
On Stigr.
The boy laughed breathless, stunned, joyful.
"I can feel it! It's… huge! And sleepy! And grunpy! And kind of lonely!"
"Guide it," Erik said. "Do not command it like a slave. Treat it like a friend too strong to understand its own strength."
Stigr nodded fiercely.
"Yes!"
They swam back, the leviathan circling docilely beneath.
When Erik climbed aboard, dripping and exhausted, he pointed to the rows of living, comatose animals.
"Throw them over," he said softly.
The crew hesitated.
"But—"
"The animals, theone that are still live," Erik said. " throw then one by one towards me"
One by one, the animals splashed gently into the sea and began drifting slowly, carried by soft waves
Then Erik crouched by the rail.
His hands grew busy.
Bone, tendon, resin , drawn from seed and flesh and strange bio-alchemy wove together in living strands. A massive organic harness took shape, wrapping around the leviathan without piercing skin, distributing pressure like a second hide.
Pre-existing rings that were on the ship's bow, the harness slid into hidden sockets carved there from the very beginning.
Ivar stared wide-eyed.
"You planned this from the start? Even when we wer building the ship"
Erik only shrugged.
"It was… a possibility."
Ivar laughed sharp, incredulous.
"You insane, brilliant bastard."
The harness locked.
The leviathan drifted forward, and the ship tugged gently like a toy on a river.
Erik and Stigr quickly climbed back on the ship
"Now," Erik murmured. "Reach."
Stigr closed his eyes.
His breath steadied.
Below, the leviathan stirred.
The Obsidian Leaf surged forward.
A ripple of awe moved across the crew.
"By the gods…"
"We're flying…"
"Look how fast—"
Water foamed past the hull, the ship slicing ahead faster than any wind-driven sail.
Twice its normal speed. Maybe more.
Ivar leaned at the rail, wind snapping his cloak, eyes gleaming like a child who had just seen war for the first time.
"Leviathan…" he murmured. "You know, Erik — that creature… it is the sigil of my house. House Volmark. I grew up hearing tales of it. Devourer of fleets. Destroyer of kings. Eater of krakens"
He clicked his tongue, half-laughing.
"I never imagined I'd see one. Much less hitch it to a damn ship."
Erik arched a brow.
"You object?"
Ivar smirked.
"Oh, no. I approve. Entirely. This is… magnificent."
He turned slightly serious.
"Just remember, men will fear us twice as much now. And fear is a tricky currency."
The crew settled into silent wonder.
Some knelt and prayed.
Others just stared, stunned.
Stigr stood like a captain at the prow with hair whipping, grin stretched ear-to-ear, eyes bright.
"I can feel the currents!" he shouted happily. "He likes to swim where it's deep! He's humming!"
Ivar groaned.
"Wonderful. The scary monster of my childhood stories …. hums."
Erik simply watched tired, satisfied, thoughtful.
Behind them, the sun lowered and ahead, the world shrank as the speed carried them homeward.
By dawn, the caldera cliffs would be in sight.
And the people of Weirstad would see something no one had ever seen before:
Their ship…
Dragged by a creature some considered a god of the deep.
Author's notes
If you want to support my writing and get exclusive pre-release ACCESS TO THE NEXT FIVE CHAPTERS of the story, consider becoming a Patron of this work.
You also get access to the pictures, information sources, music, and videos that I consulted with or that inspired me during the writing process
As I'm trying to make this into a permanent source of income so I write MORE, I need your help in doing so. Join. Every dollar counts.
To Become a Patron Visit: pat reon dot com /Hordac Fics
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Life Weaver chapter 25
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Hordac
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LW 25
The newly built harbor of Weirstad thrummed with life.
Waves rolled slow and steady, washing against the piles of the new docks. Men hauled crates. Women passed bundles. Children stood in clusters, whispering in awe at the massive black-hulled dromond waiting like a predator at anchor.
The Obsidian Leaf.
Black as tar. Green sails furled tight. And in the deeper water beyond the pier, a pale shape turned lazily beneath the surface, gigantic, patient, obedient.
Levi, the leviathan
Stigr leaned over the rail, eyes bright, grin ridiculously wide.
"Levi's excited! I can feel it! He wants to explore."
Hjalti snorted.
"Hjalti thinks boy should not get eaten by his fish."
"It's not a fish," Stigr said proudly. "It's a sea monster."
"Mm." Hjalti grunted. "Sea food."
Runa stood nearby, cloak fluttering, violet eyes taking in everything calmly and sharply
"You've turned the sea itself into a road," she murmured to Erik. "And chained that monster of a leviathan to your wagon."
"Try not to make a habit of it." She teased
Erik exhaled quietly.
"I can't make any promised." Erik replied "who knows what magnificent beast I encounter out there"
Beside them, Ivar Volmark leaned on his cane, staring at the ship like a king admiring a throne.
"The crew is ready," he said softly. "Supplies loaded. Salt, pelts, leather… your miracle bows… that lovely armor… and enough pearls to make half of Essos drool."
He grinned crookedly.
"Braavos will either love us, or plan to rob us."
Gonir wandered past, muttering happily to himself.
"Ohhh, yes, yes! ships and sea monsters and pearls and secrets. The world is showing its hidden mysteries to us. Like an oyster. Or a flower. So Exciting!"
Korb stood apart from the bustle, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.
He looked at Erik.
"You're leaving me the mess."
"I'm leaving you the responsibility," Erik corrected gently. "Keep order. No unnecessary cruelty. No stupid bravery."
Korb grunted.
"I'll try not to burn everything down."
"That's all I ask."
Bloom small in stature yet her large luminous eyes were old and wise as she stepped closer.
"The roots watch. The spores listen. If darkness grows while you are gone… we will whisper."
Erik nodded to her with respect.
"Thank you." Erik replied honestly "honestly if I wasn't connected to hybrid tree's mind and be able to communicate to people here through it, I might not have left Weirstad at all"
He turned then, addressing his council.
"While I'm gone, continue construction. Expand the farms. Keep training the guards. And remember, no raiding. Trade only. We will not attack, only defend what is ours"
Helga bowed her head.
"We will preach peace."
"Good," Erik said.
He faced Ainar briefly, squeezing the boy's shoulder.
"Study. Teach the younger ones. I'll test you when I return."
Ainar grinned.
"I'll be ready."
Runa lifted her chin.
"We should go."
On the deck, Ivar barked commands.
"Lines loose! Bring the gangplank! Oars ready but lightly. Our big friend does most of the work today."
Stigr beamed, eyes turned white as he reached out with his mind.
"Levi hears. Levi is happy. Levi pulls."
Water surged.
The dromond shuddered.
A great, pale shadow rose beneath the bow like a living mountain, then surged forward, towing them smooth and powerful, twice as fast as any ship had a right to move.
Gasps echoed across the dock.
Korb lifted a hand in silent farewell.
Gonir cackled.
"Off to tempt fate again!"
Runa's voice cut through the wind.
"Stay sharp. Speak little. Watch everything."
Hjalti cracked his knuckles.
"Hjalti will kill anyone who needs killing."
Ivar laughed, wild and delighted.
"And I shall make sure we don't drown before he gets the chance!"
Erik looked back one last time, at the docks, at the walls, at the towering weirwood-heart tree watching silently over it all.
He breathed in.
Then turned forward.
"Set sail," he said.
The green wings unfurled.
The Obsidian Leaf flew.
And the world ahead opened.
-------------------
For two weeks, the sea became their world.
Waves. Wind. The slow rhythm of oars. And beneath them, every so often, the massive, pale shadow of Levi sliding silently through the blue depths.
When Levi pulled, the Obsidian Leaf surged like an arrow slicing through the water with startling speed.
When Levi rested, the green lateen sails bellied with wind, and the crew worked with quiet precision.
Ivar loved every second.
He stood near the prow most days, leaning on the rail, grinning like a wolf.
"This," he said, as spray misted his face, "is what captains dream of. Power without oars. Speed without fear. I think I am in love."
Runa rolled her eyes faintly.
"You're in love with control," she said. "And with being the cleverest man on deck."
Ivar smirked.
"Both true. But look at her. She flies."
Stigr dashed past them barefoot, laughing, hair wild in the wind.
"Levi wants to race the birds! Ha Ha! Go, Levi, go!"
The ship lurched forward as if yanked.
Several sailors swore.
Ivar braced himself.
"Tell your giant pet not to drown us, boy!"
Stigr leaned over the rail, eyes shining.
"He just wants to be play! He's happy!"
Runa murmured under her breath:
"Happy monsters sounds quite unpredictable."
Erik stood nearby, watching sea and sky like a man counting odds.
"Let him pull," he said calmly. "Then we give him rest."
And so the rhythm formed.
Half a day, Levi pulled.
Half a day, sails carried them while the leviathan slipped away to hunt and sink back into darkness.
They refilled water from streams along rough, lonely shores where no villages stood. They harvested berries, greens, and mussels where they could. Fish were plentiful. Levi's heloed drive schools of fish toward the surface and their nets.
But they stayed wary.
After several days they reached Skagos. The jagged island rose like broken teeth from the horizon.
Rugged. Wild. Silent.
They anchored in a quiet cove, filling barrels from a cold stream.
Ivar's eyes narrowed.
"I don't like this place. It's worse than the north."
Hjalti rested a hand on his axe.
"Hjalti agrees. Rocks watch us."
Stigr happily stacked driftwood.
"I like it! Feels like an adventure!"
Runa's gaze sharpened.
"No. It feels like ambush."
Movement flickered in the treeline.
Shapes.
Watching.
Erik's voice came flat and immediate.
"Everyone aboard. Now."
They pushed off within minutes, not waiting to see what gathered in the shadows of Skagos.
As they drifted away, Ivar muttered:
"Good instinct. Men there don't parley. They collect skulls."
They hugged the shoreline , south past the Bay of Seals, then further still.
Twice they landed briefly filling barrels, gathering fruit, cutting fresh wood.
Each time, they stayed only as long as they had to.
Once, they spotted riders watching from distant cliffs.
Another time, smoke columns rose behind them after they left.
Each time they came ashore, the sails were trimmed. Torches kept low. Campfires small.
They moved like shadows. As quiet and as quick as they could.
Runa smiled faintly one evening, cloak wrapped tight.
"No storms. No pirates. No angry gods. Almost disappointing."
Ivar laughed softly.
"Never say that at sea. The moment you get bored, she reminds you that you are small."
Stigr sat cross-legged, dangling bread over the water.
"Levi's bringing fish! Lots of them!"
A massive shape surfaced.
Dozens of fish exploded upward.
Stigr whooped.
The crew cheered.
Even Ivar shook his head, half-amused.
"You are either blessed… or profoundly stupid."
-----
A month later they arrived at their destination
The fog came first. Soft, grey and seemingly endless.
Then they heard faint bells and distant voices.
And finally… the shape.
The Titan of Braavos rose from the sea like a giant carved from granite and bronze.
Ivar's voice dropped to reverent awe.
"Braavos."
Runa's eyes gleamed.
"Finally."
Stigr gasped.
"He's HUGE! Can Levi come up to see him?"
"No," everyone said at once.
Erik exhaled, tension he hadn't named now loosening in his shoulders.
"An entire month at sea and we faced no storms, no raids and no accidents. That was anticlimactic."
Ivar chuckled darkly.
"Enjoy the blessing, Lord of Trees. Misfortune is merely waiting its turn."
The sea lanes widened.
Ships everywhere.
Painted sails. Merchant galleys. Slender pleasure craft. Heavy grain barges. Fat and squat Ibenese whalers and slim swan ships.
The Obsidian Leaf glided forward like a dark whisper, toward the greatest free port in the world and with so many different kinds and types of ships, it and its crew didn't stand out
Erik exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Drop Levi back. Keep him deep. No one must see him unless we choose."
Stigr nodded, brow furrowed, eyes distant.
"He'll sleep. He'll wait. He trusts."
Ivar adjusted his cloak, wicked grin forming.
"Good. Let us meet Braavos like regular sailors and merchants… and see what the world thinks of us."
Mist rolled low across the water as the Obsidian Leaf slipped beneath the Titan's shadow and into the maze of Braavos' harbors.
Bell towers chimed somewhere unseen.
Voices echoed across the canals, sharp, musical, layered with accents from half the world.
Painted ships lined the quays. Bright pennants. Perfumed cargo. Soldiers with polished helms stood like statues near the piers.
And waiting at the inspection dock was a sleek harbor galley.
Bronze-faced helms.
Oars dipping in perfect rhythm.
A horn sounded, short and commanding.
Ivar lifted a hand.
"Slow us," he called. "Easy now. Don't scrape their docks or they'll fine us twice."
The Obsidian Leaf drifted gently into place.
Hooks tossed.
Ropes tied.
A gangplank clattered into place.
Three Braavosi officials came aboard. Their cloaks trimmed in purple and gray, badges glinting with embossed keys.
The leader was slender, sharp-eyed, his beard neatly trimmed and oiled. His voice carried the musical lilt of the city.
"Welcome to Braavos," he said in the Common Tongue speaking slowly and carefully. "You dock under the Titan's blessing. State your name, ship, captain, cargo, and intent."
Ivar stepped forward, bowing just enough.
He switched languages smoothly.
Braavosi flowed from his mouth like water.
"Ivar Volmark, honored sirs. Captain of the Obsidian Leaf. We come as traders, not raiders with peace, coin, and goods to sell."
The official arched one brow.
"A Volmark? Iron Islander. A reaver," he repeated mildly. "And now you come as a gentleman merchant?"
Ivar smiled thinly.
"Life changes men. The sea more than most."
The Braavosi studied him a heartbeat longer… then nodded.
"Very well. Captain, list your cargo."
Ivar gestured to the deck crates.
"Salt. Pelts of snow cat, winter fox, and snow bear. Fine leather. A small number of unusual armor pieces and bows. Not many, meant for demonstration, not sale in bulk. And pearls."
The word pearls drew immediate interest.
"Pearls?"
"Large," Ivar said lightly. "Clean. Natural."
Erik stood just behind him, hands folded, expression calm and unreadable.
He listened.
Every rhythm. Every word.
Every accent.
And quietly, beneath the calm, his mind pulled at patterns, the way memory joined sound, the way grammar twisted. Braavosi settled against his thoughts like a puzzle fitting together.
The official snapped his fingers.
Two assistants moved forward to inspect.
They lifted lids.
Examined pelts. Smelled leather. Ran fingers along bow limbs and armor scales.
One examined a pearl, rolling it across his teeth, checking for grit, then nodding slowly.
"These are… impressive," the inspector admitted.
"Nothing stolen?" he added lightly.
Ivar spread his hands.
"You have my word they weren't stolen. If they were cursed, I would not be alive to sell them."
A faint smile appeared on the inspector's lips.
"Fair point."
Then the inspector's gaze sharpened.
"Braavos sees many strange ships. And many stranger captains and goods. If there is nothing to report, there is nothing to investigate."
His gaze shifted.
To Erik.
"And you?"
Erik inclined his head politely.
He spoke — first carefully, then smoother — in Braavosi.
"Erik Weaver. Merchant. Craftsman. Teacher. We come to trade honestly, to learn, and to leave with both friendship and coin."
The inspector blinked, faintly surprised.
"You speak our tongue well."
"I am still learning," Erik replied. "I listen quickly."
Runa's eyes glinted with quiet amusement.
Hjalti stood behind them like a mountain, arms crossed, saying nothing, breathing slow.
The inspector wrote in a ledger.
"You will pay harbor tax. Inspection tax. And market permission fee. You will sell only in approved districts , the Ragman's Harbor first. If business is clean, paperwork extends. If not…"
He tapped the tablet.
"You leave. Or the Sealord's soldiers decides what happens next."
Ivar bowed again.
"Understood."
He pressed a seal into wax.
"Welcome to Braavos, Crew of Obsidian Leaf from places unknown. You may trade here."
He turned.
His men followed.
They left as quietly as they had come.
Only when the harbor galley pulled away did the crew finally breathe again.
Ivar let out a low whistle.
"That," he muttered, "went better than I'd expected."
Runa smiled faintly.
"They know we have secrets and decided not to pry. That's always more dangerous than suspicion."
Erik looked toward the sprawling city of canals and bridges ahead , lanterns glowing gold over dark water.
"Then we move carefully," he said. "We watch. We learn. We sell , but not everything."
Stigr leaned over the rail, grinning, whispering toward the water.
"Stay quiet, Levi. Good boy."
Far below, a massive shape rolled once — silent, unseen — then slipped into darkness.
And Braavos opened before them.
-----
The Obsidian Leaf rested against the stone quay like a coiled beast, black hull drinking in the lanternlight while her green sails were furled tight. Braavos breathed around them, voices echoing over water, bells chiming softly, the city alive and listening.
Stigr leaned so far over the railing that one of the deckhands grabbed his belt.
"Whoa! look at that canal!" Stigr laughed, eyes shining. "It's like the sea got lost and decided to live in a city! Hey…"
He twisted around suddenly, pointing at Ivar.
"Why was he talking to the Bravoosi?"
Ivar didn't even look at him. "Because I have a mouth."
"No, no," Stigr said, waving his hands wildly. "I mean, you're a pirate! A bad one! And Erik did talk like them. He knows their language. Shouldn't the smart, calm, tree-magic guy do the talking instead of the scary untrustworthy one?"
Runa arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, her expression cool and cutting.
"He does have a point," she said. "You're many things, Ivar Volmark. Diplomat is not the first that comes to mind."
Ivar finally turned, eyes bright, sharp, amused, dangerously so. A slow grin spread across his face, the kind that promised both humor and violence.
"That," he said softly, "is exactly why it had to be me."
Erik met Ivar's gaze and gave a small, permissive nod.
Ivar shifted his weight, leaning on the rail like a king slouching on a throne.
"Braavos was built by slaves who ran," he said. "Slaves who broke chains. They built a city that they kept hidden from the dragon lords despite all odds."
He tapped the wood with one finger, rhythmically.
"They didn't build this city by asking where goods came from. They built it by not asking."
Stigr blinked. "So… they're like really rich criminals?"
Ivar laughed—sharp, delighted. "Yes. Exactly like that."
Runa crossed her arms. "You're saying the city tolerates stolen goods."
"Oh, they don't mind stolen goods," Ivar replied. "As long as the stealing happened somewhere else."
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming with that familiar, unsettling intensity.
"If Erik had spoken, they would have seen a mysterious and powerful person. Someone new with riches worth stealing. Something to study and take advantage of."
He bared his teeth in a grin.
"When I speak, they see something old. Familiar. Safe."
Stigr tilted his head. "Safe?"
"A known danger," Ivar corrected. "They know how men like me work. They are used to dealing with us. They think they understand us."
Runa's gaze sharpened. "Then why not let them think the goods are legitimately ours?"
Ivar's smile faded just a little.
"Because then they'd ask where we got our goods," he said quietly. "And once they know there's a growing settlement with strange power and rare goods…"
He spread his hands.
"Some would indeed come to trade honestly but some of them won't come for trade. They'd circle us like predators."
Stigr's grin vanished. "Oh. Like wolves."
Ivar pointed at him approvingly. "Exactly like wolves."
Runa exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the dark water beyond the ship.
"So we let them believe the wealth is stolen," she said. "That way, they look for a victim somewhere else."
"Until Weirstad is strong enough that we don't have to lie," Erik added calmly.
Stigr pumped a fist. "Then we won't hide anymore! We'll just sail in and go 'BOOM! we're awesome!'"
Ivar barked a laugh. "Gods, I like him. I don't know why but I like him"
Runa smirked faintly. "You would."
Ivar glanced down, then back toward the lights of Braavos, eyes burning with anticipation.
"Let them think we're thieves," he murmured. "It keeps them from realizing we're builders that aren't ready to defend ourselves yet."
----
For a week the Obsidian Leaf remained moored among merchant galleys and sleek Braavosi cutters, her black hull drawing curious glances but no trouble. Word spread quickly and quietly about a northern ship with rarities to sell with an iron born captain
Ivar thrived in it.
He moved through the city like he had been born in canals instead of iron isles. Old contacts resurfaced, dock factors, middlemen, men who claimed to be merchants and merchants who claimed to be honest. They greeted him with wary respect and hungry eyes.
"Volmark," one had laughed, clasping his arm. "I heard you died."
"Rumors exaggerate," Ivar replied pleasantly. "I simply became …. Occupied"
Erik stayed close, silent at first, listening. Braavosi flowed around him, fast, musical, sharp and he absorbed it greedily. Every word Ivar spoke anchored the language deeper in his mind. By the second day, he no longer needed to translate.
When it came time to bargain, Erik stepped forward.
Merchants learned very quickly that Erik could tell if anyone was misleading or lying and that tricking him was impossible.
He remembered prices after hearing them once. He noticed hesitation, breathing changes, micro-expressions of greed or fear. When a trader tried to inflate the worth of dyed silk, Erik gently mentioned a warehouse three streets over that had flooded the market. When another attempted to undervalue pelts, Erik casually named three buyers who had already offered more.
Ivar watched, amused.
"You haggle like a man who can see the future," he murmured one afternoon.
Erik didn't look up from the scales. "Only the present. People are very predictable when money is involved."
By the end of the week, the ship's hold had transformed.
Salt, pelts, leather, carbon-fiber armor and bows were gone—sold carefully, never in bulk large enough to draw attention. The pearls caused a quiet stir; Erik let that happen, then withdrew them from sale before questions could form.
With the coin, he began buying.
Iron tools first.
Every type he could find. Axes, adzes, saws, hammers, tongs, chisels. Cheap ones. Expensive ones. Crude and elegant. He bought them not for use, but for study. He also bought other machines like a more advanced loom and crossbows.
"These aren't for us?" Stigr asked, lifting a heavy plane and nearly dropping it on his foot.
"They're for copying," Erik replied. "Understanding design saves years of trial and error."
Erik went to bookstores but didn't buy anything. He browsed and his photographic memory captured every detail. Most were useless but there were some useful bits and pieces here and there.
Next came raw materials.
Bars of iron were hauled aboard in careful stacks. Gold and silver followed, less volume, more weight, wrapped in oilcloth and secrecy. Erik ran his fingers over the metal once, already imagining molds, alloys, coinage. He also got small amounts of every other metal or chemical he could find. He also got bundles of cloth, seed of new plants and crops
Runa watched the transactions with narrowed eyes.
"You're not just buying tools," she said. "You're buying independence."
Erik nodded. "Yes. But nots just independence. It will take years but there will come a time when we will be the one selling to them"
The last purchases were the quietest and the most important.
Ivar found them in back alleys and guild halls: craftsmen whose luck had turned, artisans trapped by debt, apprentices beaten down by masters who had wrung every drop of talent from them and still demanded more.
Erik listened to their stories.
A tailor whose hands shook too much to keep up with fashion but not enough to lose skill.
A smith with a ruined knee who could no longer stand at the forge all day.
A carpenter whose master had died, leaving him buried under obligations he never agreed to.
A jeweler too old to compete, too proud to beg.
An old shipwright with a missing arm
A crippled engraver.
A sick leatherworker.
A severely injured cobbler.
A crossbow maker in trouble for gambling
An alchemist blinded in an chemical accident.
Two brilliant apprentices drowning in debt.
Erik paid their debts without haggling and subtly helped their ailments a little bit.
That alone convinced half of them.
The rest took more.
"We're building something new," he told them, again and again. "No guild chains. No inherited cruelty. You work. You teach. You live safely. That is the contract."
Some stared at him like he was lying.
Others looked at him like he was insane.
A few looked at him like he was telling the truth.
Ivar watched one such group board the Obsidian Leaf under cover of dusk, bundles in their arms, fear and hope warring on their faces.
"You're stealing people now," he said lightly.
Erik glanced at him. "Rescuing potential."
Runa's smile was sharp but genuine. "Braavos will miss them."
"No," Ivar said coolly, watching the city lights ripple on the water. "Braavos will replace them. Cities always do."
By the end of the week, the ship sat lower in the water, heavy with iron, coin, tools, chemicals, bundles of cloth, seed of new plants and crops and people who had nowhere else to go.
And for the first time since leaving Weirstad, Erik felt it clearly:
They were investing.
=======
The armorers' district lay under a haze of coal smoke and habit.
Hammers rang from open forges, men shouted prices, apprentices ran with buckets and tongs. Rows of breastplates and shields hung like dull mirrors, thick, heavy, overworked iron that all looked much the same.
At the far end of the street stood a shop most people walked past.
Its sign was faded. Its door half open. Dust lay thick on the threshold.
Ivar stopped, resting his weight on his cane, eyes narrowing.
"Ah," he said softly peekig inside. "What's so special about this place? Other than a female blacksmith running it?"
Runa folded her arms, skeptical.
"Yes. If it's so good," she said coolly, "why does no one go in?"
Erik didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer to the open doorway.
Inside, among the dull iron, one piece stood out.
A chestplate hung on a wooden stand, subtly different. Thinner. Cleaner lines. The surface caught the light not with the crude shine of over-polishing, but with a deeper, darker gleam. It looked flimsy compared to others.
Erik pointed.
"That one."
Ivar followed his finger, brows lifting slightly.
"…Interesting."
Runa tilted her head. "It's thinner. Is it a display piece?"
"No" Erik said quietly. "It's Carburized."
"No one else here has it," Erik continued. "They don't even recognize it for what it is. They think it's a mistake. Or a trick."
"Or a woman's work," Runa said flatly.
Erik nodded once.
Runa snorted. "Braavos prides itself on freedom, but gods forbid a woman makes something better than men."
"And you want to recruit her" Ivar stated.
Erik merely nodded.
Runa studied the empty street, the dust, the neglected door.
"She's established here," she said. "Such as it is. People with skill don't leave easily, even when they're ignored."
Erik's lips curved faintly.
"I don't intend to ask her to leave like I did the others."
Both of them looked at him.
Ivar's grin widened. "I like where this is going."
Erik turned and walked to a nearby stall, lifting a battered chestplate from a pile of rejects. The metal was cracked near the collarbone, warped where a blade had bitten deep.
He paid without haggling.
Runa arched an eyebrow.
"You're buying broken armor."
"Yes," Erik replied calmly. "And I'm going to take it to her."
"To be fixed?" Runa asked.
"Yes and no," Erik said, turning the ruined plate in his hands. "Observe"
Ivar let out a low laugh.
"Oh, you're wicked."
Erik stepped toward the dusty shop.
"She won't come for coin," he said quietly. "Or flattery. She's had enough of both, in the wrong form."
He pushed the door open.
"She'll come," Erik finished, "because someone finally noticed what she did… and knows why it matters."
Behind him, Runa exhaled slowly, a small smile forming despite herself.
"Fine," she said. "Let's see if your faith in quiet genius survives first contact."
Ivar tapped his cane against the stone, eyes gleaming.
"If it does," he said, "Braavos just lost another secret."
The door creaked shut behind Erik, and the forge fire within flickered brighter.
The forge was quiet except for the steady breath of the bellows and the dull red glow of iron resting in ash.
Erik set his battered scale cuirass on the anvil with a careful hand.
"I was told I was daft for even bringing this to you," he said, almost apologetically.
The woman across the forge didn't look up at first. She was packing powdered charcoal into a clay-lined trough, her hands blackened, precise.
"Oh?" she said at last. "Who told you that?"
"The other armorers," Erik replied.
That made her snort. She straightened, wiping her hands on a rag, dark eyes sharp.
"And let me guess," she said. "They said I couldn't do it because I'm a woman."
Erik shook his head.
"No. Not once."
She paused, surprised despite herself.
"They said," Erik continued evenly, "that you're excellent with horseshoes and nails. That your plough edges last longer than anyone's. That you're clever with fire."
He hesitated, then added,
"But that you're shite with armor."
For a heartbeat, the forge was silent.
Then she laughed, short, humorless.
"Of course," she said. "They'd say that."
She gestured toward the trough. Inside, iron plates were buried beneath charcoal dust and sealed with clay caps.
"They don't like that I cook the metal," she said. "They like to beat it. Fold it. Quench it. Makes them feel strong. Everyone thinks my armor's thinners so it must be for show"
"Why not make what other's make?" Erik asked "The thick bulky ones"
"I tried" she replied "No one bought one. So I made the thinner and stronger one but one wants to give it a chance"
Erik leaned closer, studying the setup. "You're feeding it carbon. Ash"
Her eyes flicked to him, assessing.
"Careful. Spilling secrets makes people uncomfortable."
"Because they don't understand it," Erik replied calmly. "Or maybe some do, and it means they've been doing it wrong."
"If you leave iron in carbon long enough," she said, lowering her voice, "it stops being just iron. It remembers the fire. It hardens without becoming brittle. Takes an edge without shattering."
She tapped the sealed trough.
"They call it cheating."
Erik rested a hand on his armour.
"Can you mend it?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "And when I'm done, it'll turn blades that would have split it before."
He nodded. "Then do it."
She raised an eyebrow. "You don't care what they say?"
Erik met her gaze, unblinking.
"I'm not like the others. I make my own opinions based on logical facts"
That seemed to please her more than praise ever could.
"Come back tomorrow," she said, already turning back to the forge. "And don't tell anyone about the ash."
"I won't," Erik replied.
As he stepped away, she added quietly, almost to herself
"They'll adopt it eventually. After some man 'rediscovers' it and puts his name on the fire."
Erik paused at the doorway
"Probably" He replied "I'll be back tomorrow for the chest plate"
------
Erik returned the next day.
The shop looked the same dusty quiet place with the low steady hiss of a forge that never quite went cold but something had changed. The broken chestplate he had brought lay on the central bench, no longer a ruin.
It had been reborn.
The crack was gone, not crudely filled, but drawn together and reforged as if the metal itself had decided to heal. The surface bore faint, deliberate ripples where heat had been guided, not forced. It was thinner, lighter in the hand and yet when Erik lifted it, the balance was perfect.
The smith watched him from across the bench, arms folded, unreadable.
Erik turned the plate slowly, studying every line, every rivet.
"You didn't just fix it," he said quietly. "You corrected its mistakes. Here is your payment" Erik took out a pouch full in coins and placed it in front of her
"You see it," she said cautiously as he took her payment jiggling the pouch and feeling its weight before nodding in satisfaction.
"I do." Erik replies
She studied him again, more carefully this time.
"…Most don't."
"They don't want to," Erik replied. "Because if they admit what you've done with that chestplate on the wall" he gestured toward her carburized work "and this one here they'd have to admit they're wrong. And they'd have to admit you are right."
Her jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't speak of things you don't understand," she said.
Erik leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but certain.
"You controlled the carbon uptake. Low oxygen environment. Charcoal sealed tight. Long soak, slow quench. You didn't make it harder—you made it smarter."
The file slipped from her fingers and clattered softly onto the bench.
For a heartbeat, the shop was utterly silent.
"…Who taught you that?" she asked.
"No one here," Erik said gently. "I simply see what others do not and I see that you a very talented blacksmith being forced to do apprentice work to make a living because you are a woman trying to excel in a male dominated field"
She looked away, swallowing. When she spoke again, her voice was sharper—defensive.
"And yet," she said, "it changes nothing. They come for horseshoes. Nails. Pots. They say armor is men's work. That weapons forged by a woman are cursed."
"They are wrong," Erik said simply. "They will believe the men who survive wearing it. Only problem is they won't give it and you a chance. I will"
For the first time, she smiled, not wide, not triumphant, but real.
"You don't praise lightly," she said.
"No," Erik agreed. "That's why this matters."
He inclined his head toward the chest plate once more.
"This isn't just repaired," Erik said. "It's proof. And proof deserves a future."
"This city will never admit it," Erik continued. "Not while your brilliance can be quietly buried under dust and tradition."
Her hands clenched.
"I know," she snapped. "I have known for years."
Erik straightened.
"Then stop wasting the coming years."
She stared at him.
"I'm offering you a place where your work will be seen and appreciated" he said. "Where armor is not made to satisfy guild pride, but to keep people alive. Where your methods will be taught, expanded, improved and named after you"
She shook her head. "You don't even know my name."
"I don't need to," Erik replied. "Not yet. But I know what you are."
That struck deeper than anger.
"And what is that?" she demanded.
"A woman who solved a problem men refused to admit existed," Erik said evenly. "A smith whose mind outruns her city. A genius told to be grateful for crumbs because her gender doesn't match her passion"
Her eyes burned.
"I have a shop," she said hesitatingly "A life."
"You have a cage," Erik corrected softly. "Painted to look like stability. Here you may survive but you'll never thrive"
Silence stretched.
Outside, hammers rang. Men shouted. Business went on without her.
Erik pressed once more
"Come with me to my growing settlement, Weirstad in Westros" he said. "You'll have your own forge. Your own apprentices. Authority over armor, weapons and metallurgy in general. Your name will be attached to your work."
"And if I fail?" She asked uncertainly
"You won't," Erik said. "But if you do, you'll fail because the idea was wrong not because you were ignored. And then you'll try again and succeed"
She looked at the carburized chest plate on the wall. At the dust. At the empty doorway.
"…They'll say I ran away," she whispered. "That I gave up"
Erik smiled, just a little.
"Let them. History is written by the victor and you will win. I'll make sure of it"
Her breath shook.
Finally, she met his eyes.
"If I come," she said slowly, "I will not make horseshoes."
Erik inclined his head.
"I would be offended if you did personally. You will have apprentices to do all the menial jobs"
She closed her eyes for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"Give me three days," she said. "I'll bring what matters."
Erik stepped back, giving her space.
"We sail in four."
As he turned to leave, she stopped him.
"Kate Brynhild" she asked quietly. "My name's Kate Brynhild"
Erik paused at the door.
"Well met Kate Brynhild" he said. "I'll see you in three days"
When the door closed behind him, the forge fire flared higher, fed not with coal, but with something long denied its due.
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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The newly built harbor of Weirstad thrummed with life.
Waves rolled slow and steady, washing against the piles of the new docks. Men hauled crates. Women passed bundles. Children stood in clusters, whispering in awe at the massive black-hulled dromond waiting like a predator at anchor.
The Obsidian Leaf.
Black as tar. Green sails furled tight. And in the deeper water beyond the pier, a pale shape turned lazily beneath the surface, gigantic, patient, obedient.
Levi, the leviathan
Stigr leaned over the rail, eyes bright, grin ridiculously wide.
"Levi's excited! I can feel it! He wants to explore."
Hjalti snorted.
"Hjalti thinks boy should not get eaten by his fish."
"It's not a fish," Stigr said proudly. "It's a sea monster."
"Mm." Hjalti grunted. "Sea food."
Runa stood nearby, cloak fluttering, violet eyes taking in everything calmly and sharply
"You've turned the sea itself into a road," she murmured to Erik. "And chained that monster of a leviathan to your wagon."
"Try not to make a habit of it." She teased
Erik exhaled quietly.
"I can't make any promised." Erik replied "who knows what magnificent beast I encounter out there"
Beside them, Ivar Volmark leaned on his cane, staring at the ship like a king admiring a throne.
"The crew is ready," he said softly. "Supplies loaded. Salt, pelts, leather… your miracle bows… that lovely armor… and enough pearls to make half of Essos drool."
He grinned crookedly.
"Braavos will either love us, or plan to rob us."
Gonir wandered past, muttering happily to himself.
"Ohhh, yes, yes! ships and sea monsters and pearls and secrets. The world is showing its hidden mysteries to us. Like an oyster. Or a flower. So Exciting!"
Korb stood apart from the bustle, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.
He looked at Erik.
"You're leaving me the mess."
"I'm leaving you the responsibility," Erik corrected gently. "Keep order. No unnecessary cruelty. No stupid bravery."
Korb grunted.
"I'll try not to burn everything down."
"That's all I ask."
Bloom small in stature yet her large luminous eyes were old and wise as she stepped closer.
"The roots watch. The spores listen. If darkness grows while you are gone… we will whisper."
Erik nodded to her with respect.
"Thank you." Erik replied honestly "honestly if I wasn't connected to hybrid tree's mind and be able to communicate to people here through it, I might not have left Weirstad at all"
He turned then, addressing his council.
"While I'm gone, continue construction. Expand the farms. Keep training the guards. And remember, no raiding. Trade only. We will not attack, only defend what is ours"
Helga bowed her head.
"We will preach peace."
"Good," Erik said.
He faced Ainar briefly, squeezing the boy's shoulder.
"Study. Teach the younger ones. I'll test you when I return."
Ainar grinned.
"I'll be ready."
Runa lifted her chin.
"We should go."
On the deck, Ivar barked commands.
"Lines loose! Bring the gangplank! Oars ready but lightly. Our big friend does most of the work today."
Stigr beamed, eyes turned white as he reached out with his mind.
"Levi hears. Levi is happy. Levi pulls."
Water surged.
The dromond shuddered.
A great, pale shadow rose beneath the bow like a living mountain, then surged forward, towing them smooth and powerful, twice as fast as any ship had a right to move.
Gasps echoed across the dock.
Korb lifted a hand in silent farewell.
Gonir cackled.
"Off to tempt fate again!"
Runa's voice cut through the wind.
"Stay sharp. Speak little. Watch everything."
Hjalti cracked his knuckles.
"Hjalti will kill anyone who needs killing."
Ivar laughed, wild and delighted.
"And I shall make sure we don't drown before he gets the chance!"
Erik looked back one last time, at the docks, at the walls, at the towering weirwood-heart tree watching silently over it all.
He breathed in.
Then turned forward.
"Set sail," he said.
The green wings unfurled.
The Obsidian Leaf flew.
And the world ahead opened.
-------------------
For two weeks, the sea became their world.
Waves. Wind. The slow rhythm of oars. And beneath them, every so often, the massive, pale shadow of Levi sliding silently through the blue depths.
When Levi pulled, the Obsidian Leaf surged like an arrow slicing through the water with startling speed.
When Levi rested, the green lateen sails bellied with wind, and the crew worked with quiet precision.
Ivar loved every second.
He stood near the prow most days, leaning on the rail, grinning like a wolf.
"This," he said, as spray misted his face, "is what captains dream of. Power without oars. Speed without fear. I think I am in love."
Runa rolled her eyes faintly.
"You're in love with control," she said. "And with being the cleverest man on deck."
Ivar smirked.
"Both true. But look at her. She flies."
Stigr dashed past them barefoot, laughing, hair wild in the wind.
"Levi wants to race the birds! Ha Ha! Go, Levi, go!"
The ship lurched forward as if yanked.
Several sailors swore.
Ivar braced himself.
"Tell your giant pet not to drown us, boy!"
Stigr leaned over the rail, eyes shining.
"He just wants to be play! He's happy!"
Runa murmured under her breath:
"Happy monsters sounds quite unpredictable."
Erik stood nearby, watching sea and sky like a man counting odds.
"Let him pull," he said calmly. "Then we give him rest."
And so the rhythm formed.
Half a day, Levi pulled.
Half a day, sails carried them while the leviathan slipped away to hunt and sink back into darkness.
They refilled water from streams along rough, lonely shores where no villages stood. They harvested berries, greens, and mussels where they could. Fish were plentiful. Levi's heloed drive schools of fish toward the surface and their nets.
But they stayed wary.
After several days they reached Skagos. The jagged island rose like broken teeth from the horizon.
Rugged. Wild. Silent.
They anchored in a quiet cove, filling barrels from a cold stream.
Ivar's eyes narrowed.
"I don't like this place. It's worse than the north."
Hjalti rested a hand on his axe.
"Hjalti agrees. Rocks watch us."
Stigr happily stacked driftwood.
"I like it! Feels like an adventure!"
Runa's gaze sharpened.
"No. It feels like ambush."
Movement flickered in the treeline.
Shapes.
Watching.
Erik's voice came flat and immediate.
"Everyone aboard. Now."
They pushed off within minutes, not waiting to see what gathered in the shadows of Skagos.
As they drifted away, Ivar muttered:
"Good instinct. Men there don't parley. They collect skulls."
They hugged the shoreline , south past the Bay of Seals, then further still.
Twice they landed briefly filling barrels, gathering fruit, cutting fresh wood.
Each time, they stayed only as long as they had to.
Once, they spotted riders watching from distant cliffs.
Another time, smoke columns rose behind them after they left.
Each time they came ashore, the sails were trimmed. Torches kept low. Campfires small.
They moved like shadows. As quiet and as quick as they could.
Runa smiled faintly one evening, cloak wrapped tight.
"No storms. No pirates. No angry gods. Almost disappointing."
Ivar laughed softly.
"Never say that at sea. The moment you get bored, she reminds you that you are small."
Stigr sat cross-legged, dangling bread over the water.
"Levi's bringing fish! Lots of them!"
A massive shape surfaced.
Dozens of fish exploded upward.
Stigr whooped.
The crew cheered.
Even Ivar shook his head, half-amused.
"You are either blessed… or profoundly stupid."
-----
A month later they arrived at their destination
The fog came first. Soft, grey and seemingly endless.
Then they heard faint bells and distant voices.
And finally… the shape.
The Titan of Braavos rose from the sea like a giant carved from granite and bronze.
Ivar's voice dropped to reverent awe.
"Braavos."
Runa's eyes gleamed.
"Finally."
Stigr gasped.
"He's HUGE! Can Levi come up to see him?"
"No," everyone said at once.
Erik exhaled, tension he hadn't named now loosening in his shoulders.
"An entire month at sea and we faced no storms, no raids and no accidents. That was anticlimactic."
Ivar chuckled darkly.
"Enjoy the blessing, Lord of Trees. Misfortune is merely waiting its turn."
The sea lanes widened.
Ships everywhere.
Painted sails. Merchant galleys. Slender pleasure craft. Heavy grain barges. Fat and squat Ibenese whalers and slim swan ships.
The Obsidian Leaf glided forward like a dark whisper, toward the greatest free port in the world and with so many different kinds and types of ships, it and its crew didn't stand out
Erik exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Drop Levi back. Keep him deep. No one must see him unless we choose."
Stigr nodded, brow furrowed, eyes distant.
"He'll sleep. He'll wait. He trusts."
Ivar adjusted his cloak, wicked grin forming.
"Good. Let us meet Braavos like regular sailors and merchants… and see what the world thinks of us."
Mist rolled low across the water as the Obsidian Leaf slipped beneath the Titan's shadow and into the maze of Braavos' harbors.
Bell towers chimed somewhere unseen.
Voices echoed across the canals, sharp, musical, layered with accents from half the world.
Painted ships lined the quays. Bright pennants. Perfumed cargo. Soldiers with polished helms stood like statues near the piers.
And waiting at the inspection dock was a sleek harbor galley.
Bronze-faced helms.
Oars dipping in perfect rhythm.
A horn sounded, short and commanding.
Ivar lifted a hand.
"Slow us," he called. "Easy now. Don't scrape their docks or they'll fine us twice."
The Obsidian Leaf drifted gently into place.
Hooks tossed.
Ropes tied.
A gangplank clattered into place.
Three Braavosi officials came aboard. Their cloaks trimmed in purple and gray, badges glinting with embossed keys.
The leader was slender, sharp-eyed, his beard neatly trimmed and oiled. His voice carried the musical lilt of the city.
"Welcome to Braavos," he said in the Common Tongue speaking slowly and carefully. "You dock under the Titan's blessing. State your name, ship, captain, cargo, and intent."
Ivar stepped forward, bowing just enough.
He switched languages smoothly.
Braavosi flowed from his mouth like water.
"Ivar Volmark, honored sirs. Captain of the Obsidian Leaf. We come as traders, not raiders with peace, coin, and goods to sell."
The official arched one brow.
"A Volmark? Iron Islander. A reaver," he repeated mildly. "And now you come as a gentleman merchant?"
Ivar smiled thinly.
"Life changes men. The sea more than most."
The Braavosi studied him a heartbeat longer… then nodded.
"Very well. Captain, list your cargo."
Ivar gestured to the deck crates.
"Salt. Pelts of snow cat, winter fox, and snow bear. Fine leather. A small number of unusual armor pieces and bows. Not many, meant for demonstration, not sale in bulk. And pearls."
The word pearls drew immediate interest.
"Pearls?"
"Large," Ivar said lightly. "Clean. Natural."
Erik stood just behind him, hands folded, expression calm and unreadable.
He listened.
Every rhythm. Every word.
Every accent.
And quietly, beneath the calm, his mind pulled at patterns, the way memory joined sound, the way grammar twisted. Braavosi settled against his thoughts like a puzzle fitting together.
The official snapped his fingers.
Two assistants moved forward to inspect.
They lifted lids.
Examined pelts. Smelled leather. Ran fingers along bow limbs and armor scales.
One examined a pearl, rolling it across his teeth, checking for grit, then nodding slowly.
"These are… impressive," the inspector admitted.
"Nothing stolen?" he added lightly.
Ivar spread his hands.
"You have my word they weren't stolen. If they were cursed, I would not be alive to sell them."
A faint smile appeared on the inspector's lips.
"Fair point."
Then the inspector's gaze sharpened.
"Braavos sees many strange ships. And many stranger captains and goods. If there is nothing to report, there is nothing to investigate."
His gaze shifted.
To Erik.
"And you?"
Erik inclined his head politely.
He spoke — first carefully, then smoother — in Braavosi.
"Erik Weaver. Merchant. Craftsman. Teacher. We come to trade honestly, to learn, and to leave with both friendship and coin."
The inspector blinked, faintly surprised.
"You speak our tongue well."
"I am still learning," Erik replied. "I listen quickly."
Runa's eyes glinted with quiet amusement.
Hjalti stood behind them like a mountain, arms crossed, saying nothing, breathing slow.
The inspector wrote in a ledger.
"You will pay harbor tax. Inspection tax. And market permission fee. You will sell only in approved districts , the Ragman's Harbor first. If business is clean, paperwork extends. If not…"
He tapped the tablet.
"You leave. Or the Sealord's soldiers decides what happens next."
Ivar bowed again.
"Understood."
He pressed a seal into wax.
"Welcome to Braavos, Crew of Obsidian Leaf from places unknown. You may trade here."
He turned.
His men followed.
They left as quietly as they had come.
Only when the harbor galley pulled away did the crew finally breathe again.
Ivar let out a low whistle.
"That," he muttered, "went better than I'd expected."
Runa smiled faintly.
"They know we have secrets and decided not to pry. That's always more dangerous than suspicion."
Erik looked toward the sprawling city of canals and bridges ahead , lanterns glowing gold over dark water.
"Then we move carefully," he said. "We watch. We learn. We sell , but not everything."
Stigr leaned over the rail, grinning, whispering toward the water.
"Stay quiet, Levi. Good boy."
Far below, a massive shape rolled once — silent, unseen — then slipped into darkness.
And Braavos opened before them.
-----
The Obsidian Leaf rested against the stone quay like a coiled beast, black hull drinking in the lanternlight while her green sails were furled tight. Braavos breathed around them, voices echoing over water, bells chiming softly, the city alive and listening.
Stigr leaned so far over the railing that one of the deckhands grabbed his belt.
"Whoa! look at that canal!" Stigr laughed, eyes shining. "It's like the sea got lost and decided to live in a city! Hey…"
He twisted around suddenly, pointing at Ivar.
"Why was he talking to the Bravoosi?"
Ivar didn't even look at him. "Because I have a mouth."
"No, no," Stigr said, waving his hands wildly. "I mean, you're a pirate! A bad one! And Erik did talk like them. He knows their language. Shouldn't the smart, calm, tree-magic guy do the talking instead of the scary untrustworthy one?"
Runa arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, her expression cool and cutting.
"He does have a point," she said. "You're many things, Ivar Volmark. Diplomat is not the first that comes to mind."
Ivar finally turned, eyes bright, sharp, amused, dangerously so. A slow grin spread across his face, the kind that promised both humor and violence.
"That," he said softly, "is exactly why it had to be me."
Erik met Ivar's gaze and gave a small, permissive nod.
Ivar shifted his weight, leaning on the rail like a king slouching on a throne.
"Braavos was built by slaves who ran," he said. "Slaves who broke chains. They built a city that they kept hidden from the dragon lords despite all odds."
He tapped the wood with one finger, rhythmically.
"They didn't build this city by asking where goods came from. They built it by not asking."
Stigr blinked. "So… they're like really rich criminals?"
Ivar laughed—sharp, delighted. "Yes. Exactly like that."
Runa crossed her arms. "You're saying the city tolerates stolen goods."
"Oh, they don't mind stolen goods," Ivar replied. "As long as the stealing happened somewhere else."
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming with that familiar, unsettling intensity.
"If Erik had spoken, they would have seen a mysterious and powerful person. Someone new with riches worth stealing. Something to study and take advantage of."
He bared his teeth in a grin.
"When I speak, they see something old. Familiar. Safe."
Stigr tilted his head. "Safe?"
"A known danger," Ivar corrected. "They know how men like me work. They are used to dealing with us. They think they understand us."
Runa's gaze sharpened. "Then why not let them think the goods are legitimately ours?"
Ivar's smile faded just a little.
"Because then they'd ask where we got our goods," he said quietly. "And once they know there's a growing settlement with strange power and rare goods…"
He spread his hands.
"Some would indeed come to trade honestly but some of them won't come for trade. They'd circle us like predators."
Stigr's grin vanished. "Oh. Like wolves."
Ivar pointed at him approvingly. "Exactly like wolves."
Runa exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the dark water beyond the ship.
"So we let them believe the wealth is stolen," she said. "That way, they look for a victim somewhere else."
"Until Weirstad is strong enough that we don't have to lie," Erik added calmly.
Stigr pumped a fist. "Then we won't hide anymore! We'll just sail in and go 'BOOM! we're awesome!'"
Ivar barked a laugh. "Gods, I like him. I don't know why but I like him"
Runa smirked faintly. "You would."
Ivar glanced down, then back toward the lights of Braavos, eyes burning with anticipation.
"Let them think we're thieves," he murmured. "It keeps them from realizing we're builders that aren't ready to defend ourselves yet."
----
For a week the Obsidian Leaf remained moored among merchant galleys and sleek Braavosi cutters, her black hull drawing curious glances but no trouble. Word spread quickly and quietly about a northern ship with rarities to sell with an iron born captain
Ivar thrived in it.
He moved through the city like he had been born in canals instead of iron isles. Old contacts resurfaced, dock factors, middlemen, men who claimed to be merchants and merchants who claimed to be honest. They greeted him with wary respect and hungry eyes.
"Volmark," one had laughed, clasping his arm. "I heard you died."
"Rumors exaggerate," Ivar replied pleasantly. "I simply became …. Occupied"
Erik stayed close, silent at first, listening. Braavosi flowed around him, fast, musical, sharp and he absorbed it greedily. Every word Ivar spoke anchored the language deeper in his mind. By the second day, he no longer needed to translate.
When it came time to bargain, Erik stepped forward.
Merchants learned very quickly that Erik could tell if anyone was misleading or lying and that tricking him was impossible.
He remembered prices after hearing them once. He noticed hesitation, breathing changes, micro-expressions of greed or fear. When a trader tried to inflate the worth of dyed silk, Erik gently mentioned a warehouse three streets over that had flooded the market. When another attempted to undervalue pelts, Erik casually named three buyers who had already offered more.
Ivar watched, amused.
"You haggle like a man who can see the future," he murmured one afternoon.
Erik didn't look up from the scales. "Only the present. People are very predictable when money is involved."
By the end of the week, the ship's hold had transformed.
Salt, pelts, leather, carbon-fiber armor and bows were gone—sold carefully, never in bulk large enough to draw attention. The pearls caused a quiet stir; Erik let that happen, then withdrew them from sale before questions could form.
With the coin, he began buying.
Iron tools first.
Every type he could find. Axes, adzes, saws, hammers, tongs, chisels. Cheap ones. Expensive ones. Crude and elegant. He bought them not for use, but for study. He also bought other machines like a more advanced loom and crossbows.
"These aren't for us?" Stigr asked, lifting a heavy plane and nearly dropping it on his foot.
"They're for copying," Erik replied. "Understanding design saves years of trial and error."
Erik went to bookstores but didn't buy anything. He browsed and his photographic memory captured every detail. Most were useless but there were some useful bits and pieces here and there.
Next came raw materials.
Bars of iron were hauled aboard in careful stacks. Gold and silver followed, less volume, more weight, wrapped in oilcloth and secrecy. Erik ran his fingers over the metal once, already imagining molds, alloys, coinage. He also got small amounts of every other metal or chemical he could find. He also got bundles of cloth, seed of new plants and crops
Runa watched the transactions with narrowed eyes.
"You're not just buying tools," she said. "You're buying independence."
Erik nodded. "Yes. But nots just independence. It will take years but there will come a time when we will be the one selling to them"
The last purchases were the quietest and the most important.
Ivar found them in back alleys and guild halls: craftsmen whose luck had turned, artisans trapped by debt, apprentices beaten down by masters who had wrung every drop of talent from them and still demanded more.
Erik listened to their stories.
A tailor whose hands shook too much to keep up with fashion but not enough to lose skill.
A smith with a ruined knee who could no longer stand at the forge all day.
A carpenter whose master had died, leaving him buried under obligations he never agreed to.
A jeweler too old to compete, too proud to beg.
An old shipwright with a missing arm
A crippled engraver.
A sick leatherworker.
A severely injured cobbler.
A crossbow maker in trouble for gambling
An alchemist blinded in an chemical accident.
Two brilliant apprentices drowning in debt.
Erik paid their debts without haggling and subtly helped their ailments a little bit.
That alone convinced half of them.
The rest took more.
"We're building something new," he told them, again and again. "No guild chains. No inherited cruelty. You work. You teach. You live safely. That is the contract."
Some stared at him like he was lying.
Others looked at him like he was insane.
A few looked at him like he was telling the truth.
Ivar watched one such group board the Obsidian Leaf under cover of dusk, bundles in their arms, fear and hope warring on their faces.
"You're stealing people now," he said lightly.
Erik glanced at him. "Rescuing potential."
Runa's smile was sharp but genuine. "Braavos will miss them."
"No," Ivar said coolly, watching the city lights ripple on the water. "Braavos will replace them. Cities always do."
By the end of the week, the ship sat lower in the water, heavy with iron, coin, tools, chemicals, bundles of cloth, seed of new plants and crops and people who had nowhere else to go.
And for the first time since leaving Weirstad, Erik felt it clearly:
They were investing.
=======
The armorers' district lay under a haze of coal smoke and habit.
Hammers rang from open forges, men shouted prices, apprentices ran with buckets and tongs. Rows of breastplates and shields hung like dull mirrors, thick, heavy, overworked iron that all looked much the same.
At the far end of the street stood a shop most people walked past.
Its sign was faded. Its door half open. Dust lay thick on the threshold.
Ivar stopped, resting his weight on his cane, eyes narrowing.
"Ah," he said softly peekig inside. "What's so special about this place? Other than a female blacksmith running it?"
Runa folded her arms, skeptical.
"Yes. If it's so good," she said coolly, "why does no one go in?"
Erik didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer to the open doorway.
Inside, among the dull iron, one piece stood out.
A chestplate hung on a wooden stand, subtly different. Thinner. Cleaner lines. The surface caught the light not with the crude shine of over-polishing, but with a deeper, darker gleam. It looked flimsy compared to others.
Erik pointed.
"That one."
Ivar followed his finger, brows lifting slightly.
"…Interesting."
Runa tilted her head. "It's thinner. Is it a display piece?"
"No" Erik said quietly. "It's Carburized."
"No one else here has it," Erik continued. "They don't even recognize it for what it is. They think it's a mistake. Or a trick."
"Or a woman's work," Runa said flatly.
Erik nodded once.
Runa snorted. "Braavos prides itself on freedom, but gods forbid a woman makes something better than men."
"And you want to recruit her" Ivar stated.
Erik merely nodded.
Runa studied the empty street, the dust, the neglected door.
"She's established here," she said. "Such as it is. People with skill don't leave easily, even when they're ignored."
Erik's lips curved faintly.
"I don't intend to ask her to leave like I did the others."
Both of them looked at him.
Ivar's grin widened. "I like where this is going."
Erik turned and walked to a nearby stall, lifting a battered chestplate from a pile of rejects. The metal was cracked near the collarbone, warped where a blade had bitten deep.
He paid without haggling.
Runa arched an eyebrow.
"You're buying broken armor."
"Yes," Erik replied calmly. "And I'm going to take it to her."
"To be fixed?" Runa asked.
"Yes and no," Erik said, turning the ruined plate in his hands. "Observe"
Ivar let out a low laugh.
"Oh, you're wicked."
Erik stepped toward the dusty shop.
"She won't come for coin," he said quietly. "Or flattery. She's had enough of both, in the wrong form."
He pushed the door open.
"She'll come," Erik finished, "because someone finally noticed what she did… and knows why it matters."
Behind him, Runa exhaled slowly, a small smile forming despite herself.
"Fine," she said. "Let's see if your faith in quiet genius survives first contact."
Ivar tapped his cane against the stone, eyes gleaming.
"If it does," he said, "Braavos just lost another secret."
The door creaked shut behind Erik, and the forge fire within flickered brighter.
The forge was quiet except for the steady breath of the bellows and the dull red glow of iron resting in ash.
Erik set his battered scale cuirass on the anvil with a careful hand.
"I was told I was daft for even bringing this to you," he said, almost apologetically.
The woman across the forge didn't look up at first. She was packing powdered charcoal into a clay-lined trough, her hands blackened, precise.
"Oh?" she said at last. "Who told you that?"
"The other armorers," Erik replied.
That made her snort. She straightened, wiping her hands on a rag, dark eyes sharp.
"And let me guess," she said. "They said I couldn't do it because I'm a woman."
Erik shook his head.
"No. Not once."
She paused, surprised despite herself.
"They said," Erik continued evenly, "that you're excellent with horseshoes and nails. That your plough edges last longer than anyone's. That you're clever with fire."
He hesitated, then added,
"But that you're shite with armor."
For a heartbeat, the forge was silent.
Then she laughed, short, humorless.
"Of course," she said. "They'd say that."
She gestured toward the trough. Inside, iron plates were buried beneath charcoal dust and sealed with clay caps.
"They don't like that I cook the metal," she said. "They like to beat it. Fold it. Quench it. Makes them feel strong. Everyone thinks my armor's thinners so it must be for show"
"Why not make what other's make?" Erik asked "The thick bulky ones"
"I tried" she replied "No one bought one. So I made the thinner and stronger one but one wants to give it a chance"
Erik leaned closer, studying the setup. "You're feeding it carbon. Ash"
Her eyes flicked to him, assessing.
"Careful. Spilling secrets makes people uncomfortable."
"Because they don't understand it," Erik replied calmly. "Or maybe some do, and it means they've been doing it wrong."
"If you leave iron in carbon long enough," she said, lowering her voice, "it stops being just iron. It remembers the fire. It hardens without becoming brittle. Takes an edge without shattering."
She tapped the sealed trough.
"They call it cheating."
Erik rested a hand on his armour.
"Can you mend it?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "And when I'm done, it'll turn blades that would have split it before."
He nodded. "Then do it."
She raised an eyebrow. "You don't care what they say?"
Erik met her gaze, unblinking.
"I'm not like the others. I make my own opinions based on logical facts"
That seemed to please her more than praise ever could.
"Come back tomorrow," she said, already turning back to the forge. "And don't tell anyone about the ash."
"I won't," Erik replied.
As he stepped away, she added quietly, almost to herself
"They'll adopt it eventually. After some man 'rediscovers' it and puts his name on the fire."
Erik paused at the doorway
"Probably" He replied "I'll be back tomorrow for the chest plate"
------
Erik returned the next day.
The shop looked the same dusty quiet place with the low steady hiss of a forge that never quite went cold but something had changed. The broken chestplate he had brought lay on the central bench, no longer a ruin.
It had been reborn.
The crack was gone, not crudely filled, but drawn together and reforged as if the metal itself had decided to heal. The surface bore faint, deliberate ripples where heat had been guided, not forced. It was thinner, lighter in the hand and yet when Erik lifted it, the balance was perfect.
The smith watched him from across the bench, arms folded, unreadable.
Erik turned the plate slowly, studying every line, every rivet.
"You didn't just fix it," he said quietly. "You corrected its mistakes. Here is your payment" Erik took out a pouch full in coins and placed it in front of her
"You see it," she said cautiously as he took her payment jiggling the pouch and feeling its weight before nodding in satisfaction.
"I do." Erik replies
She studied him again, more carefully this time.
"…Most don't."
"They don't want to," Erik replied. "Because if they admit what you've done with that chestplate on the wall" he gestured toward her carburized work "and this one here they'd have to admit they're wrong. And they'd have to admit you are right."
Her jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't speak of things you don't understand," she said.
Erik leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but certain.
"You controlled the carbon uptake. Low oxygen environment. Charcoal sealed tight. Long soak, slow quench. You didn't make it harder—you made it smarter."
The file slipped from her fingers and clattered softly onto the bench.
For a heartbeat, the shop was utterly silent.
"…Who taught you that?" she asked.
"No one here," Erik said gently. "I simply see what others do not and I see that you a very talented blacksmith being forced to do apprentice work to make a living because you are a woman trying to excel in a male dominated field"
She looked away, swallowing. When she spoke again, her voice was sharper—defensive.
"And yet," she said, "it changes nothing. They come for horseshoes. Nails. Pots. They say armor is men's work. That weapons forged by a woman are cursed."
"They are wrong," Erik said simply. "They will believe the men who survive wearing it. Only problem is they won't give it and you a chance. I will"
For the first time, she smiled, not wide, not triumphant, but real.
"You don't praise lightly," she said.
"No," Erik agreed. "That's why this matters."
He inclined his head toward the chest plate once more.
"This isn't just repaired," Erik said. "It's proof. And proof deserves a future."
"This city will never admit it," Erik continued. "Not while your brilliance can be quietly buried under dust and tradition."
Her hands clenched.
"I know," she snapped. "I have known for years."
Erik straightened.
"Then stop wasting the coming years."
She stared at him.
"I'm offering you a place where your work will be seen and appreciated" he said. "Where armor is not made to satisfy guild pride, but to keep people alive. Where your methods will be taught, expanded, improved and named after you"
She shook her head. "You don't even know my name."
"I don't need to," Erik replied. "Not yet. But I know what you are."
That struck deeper than anger.
"And what is that?" she demanded.
"A woman who solved a problem men refused to admit existed," Erik said evenly. "A smith whose mind outruns her city. A genius told to be grateful for crumbs because her gender doesn't match her passion"
Her eyes burned.
"I have a shop," she said hesitatingly "A life."
"You have a cage," Erik corrected softly. "Painted to look like stability. Here you may survive but you'll never thrive"
Silence stretched.
Outside, hammers rang. Men shouted. Business went on without her.
Erik pressed once more
"Come with me to my growing settlement, Weirstad in Westros" he said. "You'll have your own forge. Your own apprentices. Authority over armor, weapons and metallurgy in general. Your name will be attached to your work."
"And if I fail?" She asked uncertainly
"You won't," Erik said. "But if you do, you'll fail because the idea was wrong not because you were ignored. And then you'll try again and succeed"
She looked at the carburized chest plate on the wall. At the dust. At the empty doorway.
"…They'll say I ran away," she whispered. "That I gave up"
Erik smiled, just a little.
"Let them. History is written by the victor and you will win. I'll make sure of it"
Her breath shook.
Finally, she met his eyes.
"If I come," she said slowly, "I will not make horseshoes."
Erik inclined his head.
"I would be offended if you did personally. You will have apprentices to do all the menial jobs"
She closed her eyes for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"Give me three days," she said. "I'll bring what matters."
Erik stepped back, giving her space.
"We sail in four."
As he turned to leave, she stopped him.
"Kate Brynhild" she asked quietly. "My name's Kate Brynhild"
Erik paused at the door.
"Well met Kate Brynhild" he said. "I'll see you in three days"
When the door closed behind him, the forge fire flared higher, fed not with coal, but with something long denied its due.
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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