The ground, soft and damp beneath his boots, vibrated. It wasn't the wind, but the steady approach of thumping footsteps, the weight of men with metal over flesh. The Northmen had gathered around Alaric, forming a wall of meat, wood, and fear.
An Ironborn, a broad-shouldered giant with a tangled beard whose crude helm could barely contain his hair, raised a dull broadsword, shouting in a voice that sounded scratched by salt and wind.
"Forward! For the Drowned God!"
The leader, that bearded giant with an iron helm, raised a rusted blade as wide as a plank. He lunged forward, not alone, but accompanied by the others who positioned themselves around him, following his lead as the tip of the spear. The Ironborn, accustomed to the chaos of landings and rapid assaults, lacked the discipline of a trained army, but they possessed a ferocity that sensed fear like sharks sensing blood. They advanced like a gray tide, a wall of crude shields and the promise of violence.
Alaric, at the center of the line, did not move. His gray eyes were fixed on the approaching impact, taking in the sight of leather-bound wooden shields and hardened faces.
"Northmen! Hold your shields!" Alaric's voice was a deep roar, forced from his throat. He didn't ask for bravery, but for grit: "Do not falter! Hold the line!"
To his right, a young fisherman trembled so violently that the leather of his shield rubbed against his jerkin, making a constant scraping sound. The boy's eyes were wide, terrified by the sea now brought to land. To the left, an older hunter pressed his thin lips together, the scent of his fresh urine mixing subtly with the smell of pine. They looked at the approaching iron line as if seeing death dressed in gray; the sight of the sea of men, each with an axe and a scream, was the oppressive weight of the inevitable.
Behind Alaric, Jorah Mormont formed the second line, the shadow to Alaric's spear. Jorah was older, sturdier, but nervousness was a disease that did not respect strength. His hand on the pommel of his longsword was pale, and the tip of the blade, which Alaric could see over his shoulder, vibrated slightly, a tremor almost imperceptible, like a spider's thread in the wind. Jorah was the Lord's eldest son, and he felt the weight of Here We Stand upon his shoulders.
In contrast, Alaric kept a grip of stone on his spear. His round shield, wider and made of thick oak with an iron umbo, felt like an extension of his arm. His lips were thin, the only visible mark of tension, but he was immune to panic. It wasn't blind courage, but focus, the cold calm of one who saw the battlefield not as a sea of emotions, but as a diagram of forces.
The sound of the iron leader's shout grew, and the distance between the two lines vanished in one long, crushing step. Alaric saw the exact moment the bearded giant braced for the impact between both sides, and he acted.
"Strike!"
The ash spear sang as it lunged. Not a random blow, but a swift, direct movement toward the center of the Ironborn's shield. The invader barely had time to readjust his own shield to block. Puuft. The dull impact wasn't metal on metal, but the iron tip piercing the leather layer and being deflected by the hard wood.
Around them, the same thud echoed across the length of the palisade. The line of Northmen, joining into a single tense body, received the shock. Shields groaned against shields. The smell of wet earth was instantly replaced by the metallic aroma of hot blood. The screams of the Ironborn mingled with the grunts of pain from the wounded in a scene that repeated itself brutally and identically: the clash of iron and wood, the test of muscle and nerve.
Alaric thrust his spear again, keeping the bearded giant a forearm-and-a-half's distance away. The Ironborn roared and tried to swing his shield to bat Alaric's spear aside so he could bury his axe in him. But Alaric was faster, retracting the spear and thrusting again, forcing the man to stay on the defensive.
The strength of this Ironborn made facing him a terrifying experience, with almost every attack making Alaric shudder. Seeking intelligence on his enemy, Alaric used his skill, GM Eyes, to check the profile and find something he could exploit.
Name: Ondrik (28)
HP: 43 / 45
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Class: Barbarian (Berserker)
Level: 5
Exp: 6.800 / 14,000
------------------------------Ability Score -----------------------------------
Strength: 16
Dexterity: 9
Constitution: 16
Intelligence: 7
Wisdom: 5
Charisma: 12
----------------------------------Skills--------------------------------------
Survival: Grants the ability to identify poisonous plants, track footprints, build fires, predict weather, avoid natural disasters, and hunt animals.
Intimidation: Higher proficiency in intimidating people to gather information or convince them to change their minds.
----------------------------------Feats--------------------------------------
None
----------------------------------Talents--------------------------------------
Spear: 2/4 | Bow: 3/4 | Throwing Knife: 2/4 | Hand Axe: 1/4 | Great Axe: 1/4 | Short Sword: 1/4 | Longsword: 1/4 | Claymore: 1/4 ...
(Author's note: Barbarians have at least 1 talent/proficiency in all simple and martial weapons)
'He's an idiot with muscles who doesn't know how to use his strengths,' Alaric realized while analyzing the profile. 'And I can take advantage of that,' he finished, before returning to the fight and parrying another of Ondrik's attacks.
'I criticize him, but it's not like we're acting much better,' Alaric thought, frustration bubbling at the inefficiency of the struggle. 'We have the reach advantage. A trained, organized infantry would use the spear to thrust, step forward slowly to organize the shield wall, and thrust again in a rhythmic cycle. With every successful strike, the enemy would be pushed a foot back. We would force them against the mess of logs and the palisade behind them, knocking them down, unbalancing them, and in minutes their blood would be mixed with the mud, and the battle would be over.'
But these were not Unsullied or Dornish spearmen. They were fishermen, hunters, farmers. They barely knew how to hold a line, let alone execute a synchronized push-and-thrust tactic. They were merely holding the line, turning the battle into a duel of endurance, something the Ironborn, used to quick raids, could win.
Stagnation was a slow death, and frustration gnawed at Alaric's practical mind. The spear wasn't enough to penetrate the iron leader's heavy shield, and Bear Island had little time to afford a prolonged stalemate. The roar of the Ironborn sea was still loud, and every moment of equality encouraged them.
Decision made, Alaric raised his shield a little higher until it covered his mouth, and spoke to his older brother behind him.
"Get ready," Alaric said, his voice barely a whisper, muffled by the sound of the clashes around them. It was low, but rang with surgical precision. "To our left. Be ready."
Jorah didn't respond with words, but Alaric knew his brother, who always sought to prove himself, wouldn't falter when under command. Hearing his brother's words, Jorah's body stiffened; the blade of his longsword, which had been trembling slightly, now became still. He had swallowed his fear and forged it into iron. Jorah gripped the longsword, the rough leather hilt firm beneath his hand.
Alaric concentrated all his strength into the next attack. He feinted a powerful, quick thrust with his right shoulder, as if delivering the blow of his life. The Ironborn reacted as expected, forcing his own shield out to deflect the spear.
But in the same instant, Alaric, in a move that was the essence of an amateur mistake, an exaggerated torso twist for power, pulled his oak shield back with the rotation of his body, opening almost his entire left side to a counterattack. It was a vast opening, screaming "strike here" to any predator.
The Ironborn saw the opportunity. To him, it wasn't a trap, but the fatal mistake of a green boy. With a cry of premature victory, he lunged forward, driven by the weight of his body and surprise, swinging his axe down, aiming for the neck and unprotected shoulder.
The blade descended with a wet hiss, but Alaric was already in motion. He spun his body even further to the right, like a branch whipped by the wind, giving him time to swing the thick wooden shaft of his spear into the path of the axe.
The impact was terrible. Craacck. The axe met ash before flesh. The blow, meant to sever a shoulder, was cushioned by the wood and the elasticity of Alaric's movement. A numbing sensation hit the bone of his left shoulder, a dull shock that made him gasp, but it didn't penetrate the muscle or break a bone, though it would leave a purple bruise. The spear snapped and broke, but Alaric's body, trained for combat for more than a lifetime, resisted the pain without flinching or falling under the pressure of the giant's weight. He waited for what came next.
The bearded giant roared with satisfaction seeing the spear break, but his joy lasted only a heartbeat.
With Alaric out of the way, Jorah had the perfect target. The Ironborn, focused only on his axe blow and the opening Alaric had given him, didn't see the shadow behind. Jorah, now calm and lethal, transformed his nervousness into pure, instinctive action.
The longsword came down like a lightning bolt. The Ironborn held the axe with a thin leather glove, without metal protection. Jorah didn't aim for the arm or the wrist, but for the fingers.
The blade, sharp as dragonglass, found flesh and bone. The sound was a wet splat. The shock of pure, unexpected pain made the man recoil, screaming in a voice that barely sounded human.
'Apparently, he isn't as used to the pain of battle as I am,' Alaric thought, watching the giant retreat in panic while pressing his hand, now with fewer fingers, against his shoulder.
Four fingers had been severed and fell to the ground, splashing blood on the earth to keep company with the axe they had once held.
The sudden retreat left the invader's guard completely open, and Alaric didn't waste a second. The spear, broken and reduced to two-thirds of its original size, was now slightly longer than a longsword. He shifted to an inverted grip, wielding it like a harpoon.
The Ironborn leader, in total panic, was too distracted by agony to remember to raise his shield.
Alaric thrust. Not at the armor, but at the unprotected flesh of the throat.
The iron tip met no resistance. It tore through skin, ripped cartilage, and plunged deep into the jugular. He yanked it back with force, sending blood spurting to stain the ground, the shield, and Alaric's face. The bearded giant's scream was strangled into a wet, guttural bubbling. He stumbled back, hands crushing his neck in a futile attempt to close the fountain of his life.
The body fell with a heavy thud over one of the fallen logs, and the momentum of the Ironborn charge was broken. The terror of the initial shield clash was replaced by the panic of seeing their leader, the man who had screamed for pillage and for their god, crushed and killed by a broken spear wielded like a harpoon, as if he were a fish to be caught.
The Northmen, seeing their Lord's son strike down the enemy leader, let out a hoarse war cry full of vengeance, and the counter-attack, slow and inexperienced, began.
'Advantage gained,' he thought, wiping some blood from his face with his forearm, feeling his muscles sore but firm.
[System Notification]
Level 5 Enemy Eliminated (Ondrik).
Reward: 240 Exp received.
His gray eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Two hundred and forty points? The System rarely granted such a substantial reward at once unless the target was notably stronger, like the 'bear,' which was small compared to this.
'240 EXP? That's more than forty times what I get for tending animals or training in the yard,' the thought flashed through Alaric's mind with the speed of a mathematical calculation. 'This man was more than just an Ironborn; he was the leader of this squad and Level 5. Perhaps that factors into the System's evaluation for the reward...'
He was momentarily trapped in that thought, in the promise of progress and understanding that the coldness of numbers offered. The real battlefield, the mud, the sound of axes, faded for an instant.
It was a second too long.
An Ironborn engaged in a minor skirmish saw Alaric's head turn, eyes glazed on something that wasn't there. He saw the broken spear lower slightly. The invader, with a short axe and a leather shield, saw the opening and charged with a silent snarl.
"Alaric! Watch out!"
Jorah's voice was an explosion of alarm and urgency. At the instant the Ironborn attacked Alaric's distraction with a sword stroke toward the side of his head, Jorah moved his longsword with the force of habit and training.
CLANNG. The steel of Jorah's longsword met the Ironborn's blade, deflecting it at the last moment, the impact vibrating through Jorah's arm. The enemy's blade passed a finger's width from Alaric's temple, leaving only the sensation of a cold, dirty wind.
Alaric blinked, the glow of the System vanished, and the real world, the smell of sweat, the sound of metal, Jorah's shout, returned with crushing force. The shame of his distraction was a cold iron in his gut. He wasn't a dreamer; he was a Mormont, and negligence cost lives.
With his mind now purged of illusion, Alaric lunged. The Ironborn Jorah had blocked was a priority target.
Alaric didn't waste time with the body. He used the short-shafted spear and thrust with a precise, dirty movement, aiming for the eyes.
The iron tip flew, swift and true. The Ironborn reacted late, turning his head. He escaped blindness, but the tip tore the skin of his cheek and nose. RASP. A thick stream of blood erupted from the wound, trickling into his beard. The man screamed in pain, more from the surprise of the rapid attack than the severity of the wound, and stumbled back, hands instinctively flying to his face.
With two Ironborn disorganized or dead, the opportunity was glaring.
Alaric returned to his position, him in front and Jorah behind. He raised his broken spear, pointing it at the sea of confusion that was the invaders.
"They are afraid!" Alaric's roar was a command, but also a proclamation, a noble lie to inspire courage. "They saw the bastard die! Push them back! Push these bastards back to where they came from, on my signal!"
The line of Northmen, already excited by the glimpse of victory, responded with renewed furor. The Northmen shouted with excitement and cursed the invaders. The sound of their cries and clashing shields drowned out the noise of the fight. They cursed the Ironborn for their drowned gods, their dull blades, and the smell of salt they brought. Rage had become an engine.
Alaric, however, remained calm. His eyes swept the battlefield, looking for the breaking point, the moment fear would turn into a rout.
Analyzing the battlefield, he noticed an anomaly. An Ironborn was marching toward him. Not running in panic, but advancing with grim determination. He was younger, without the full beard of the fallen leader, but his eyes were fixed on Alaric, filled with cold wrath.
'Vengeance,' Alaric thought, watching the man advance methodically. He was ignoring the line, the formation, focused only on the man who had broken his leader. It was an act of pride and stupidity that was beautiful in its fury.
The vengeful Ironborn was almost upon him. With his broken spear and aching shoulder, fighting a head-on duel while commanding the push would be fatal. The action had to be now, turning the Northman's rage into shock force.
"Push!" Alaric roared, giving the signal.
He led the charge, forcing his shield against the vengeful Ironborn who came screaming toward him. The clash was violent, the sound of oak and iron muffled by the effort.
Around Alaric, the command was followed with brutal urgency. The Northern line, unified and heavy, moved forward like a plow. Most of the Ironborn stumbled back, tripping over their own feet.
But battle was never uniform. To Alaric's right, almost touching his flank, the exception materialized. A short Ironborn, but with the body of a wild boar, resisted the advance. He had fought tenaciously, keeping his own shield planted in the damp soil. When the Northman in front of him was pushed, the short Ironborn held firm, securing his position. He was now in the line, but facing inward, into the space the defender should have occupied. It was a dangerous foothold, a spur in the flank of the formation.
Alaric, with the vengeful Ironborn pressing him from the front, locked eyes with the short one. The distance between them was less than an arm's length. The short man raised his axe for a flank blow.
Alaric hesitated for a fraction of a second, ready to abandon his opponent in front and pivot to thrust his broken spear into the short one. It was a suicidal maneuver, but necessary; in such close quarters, whoever struck first won.
But Jorah was faster. He saw the danger Alaric couldn't face.
Jorah was slightly removed from the short Ironborn, in his own combat space, too far for a cut that could sever the enemy. He shifted his grip on the longsword and, crouching, thrust instead of cutting, taking advantage of his sword's superior length. At this distance, any strike wouldn't be fatal, so Jorah used a different tactic; Jorah aimed for the hip.
FZZT. The tip of Jorah's steel blade slipped under the short Ironborn's side protection and pierced the thick fabric of his hip. It wasn't a strike that killed instantly, but it was agonizing pain, designed to break concentration and posture.
The short Ironborn let out a guttural moan, a high, horrible note of pure agony. His face contorted, mouth opening in a silent 'O' of pain, and his shield dropped a few inches, a lapse in concentration.
The opportunity was delivered to the Northman the short one had displaced. The defender, seeing the opening, acted on desperate instinct. He thrust his crude spear, aiming for the Ironborn's unprotected chest.
But the slightly lowered shield and the Ironborn's mouth, open in a silent scream of pain, were in the line of attack.
Squish. The spear tip, made of low-quality iron, didn't find the chest, but rather the Ironborn's mouth. The piercing was horrific; the entire spearhead vanished before the shaft stopped at the lips. The result was macabre, improbable. The Northman intended only to wound the torso, but death came by a more agonizing route.
The Ironborn stumbled back, wanting to, and failing to, expel the unwelcome object from his mouth.
Jorah, watching the man stumble and try to cough while retreating, had a morbid realization:
'He's drowning,' Jorah's thought was clinical and grim, the mind of a warrior who saw the mechanics of death. 'The tip hit the throat, maybe even cut the uvula off. Blood is draining into his lungs faster than he can breathe and expel it.'
The Ironborn would drown in his own blood, an inglorious end brought about by a peasant's opportunistic thrust and Jorah's tactical strike. The horror of the scene was more effective than fury. This was battle: not just heroism, but also brutal chance and the ugliness of death.
The short Ironborn writhed in the mud, the sound of his choking slowly muffled by the roar of battle and the approaching death. Alaric heard the sound, felt the relief Jorah had provided, and with the speed of a whip, his attention returned to his own duel. He couldn't afford to dwell on his brother's actions.
Death, on the battlefield, did not wait for gratitude or reflection.
His new opponent, the Vengeful Ironborn, took advantage of the brief distraction from Jorah's rescue to lunge with a burst of fury. The sword came down in a wide, fast arc. Alaric barely had time to raise his oak shield. THUUD. The impact shook his arm, the sound of blade on wood and iron reverberating in his ear, a physical reminder of the danger.
The situation was significantly harder than before. Previously, Alaric held a reach advantage. Now, the duel had turned into a close-quarters brawl where Alaric's tactical superiority was negated by his shortened weapon. He was trapped in the intimate distance of a shield-and-blade duel, where he was the inferior player. Every blow had to be absorbed by his defense, while the Ironborn could strike with the weight and reach of a proper blade. Alaric was at a clear disadvantage.
He saw pure, unadulterated rage in the man's eyes. The killing of the leader and the subsequent chaos had broken the Ironborn's sense of discipline. It was a blind fury, but dangerous. Alaric decided to turn it into an exploitable weakness.
"Was he yours? Your iron boyfriend?" Alaric taunted, mockery in his voice, the sound of his provocation cutting through the damp mist. He pressed his shield against the Ironborn's, forcing physical contact, forcing the man to hear. "Is that why you're so agitated, pig? Because you won't be able to swallow his sword anymore?"
The provocation, loaded with a sexual and homophobic slur, hit the Ironborn like a physical punch. The man let out a strangled roar of fury. The mask of control he had been maintaining shattered, and his eyes turned bloodshot. The Vengeful Ironborn didn't respond with words; he responded with the most violent of actions.
He took a step back, readjusted his sword, and struck diagonally from Alaric's left to right. This time, it wasn't a probing cut, but an attack that carried all the torque of his body and the fury of his soul, aiming for Alaric's neck exposed above the shield. Alaric saw the muscle in the Ironborn's arm tense, the white of his knuckles standing out against the leather hilt. He felt the weight of the attack before it landed.
Alaric, however, already expected the emotional explosion. Instead of positioning the shield to absorb the blow, he decided to capitalize on the Ironborn's excessive force. He threw his own shield toward the sword, not to block, but to strike the Ironborn's blade laterally.
CRACK.
The impact was sharp and surprising. The edge of Alaric's shield met the side of the descending blade. The sword wasn't absorbed; it was violently deflected, and the force of the deflection traveled back through the Ironborn's arm. The man let out a grunt of pain, his arm recoiling reflexively. The vibration of the blow traveled up his elbow to his shoulder, leaving the limb instantly numb and useless for a quick follow-up. The Ironborn's fury had turned against him.
It was the perfect chance. With a numb arm and an open guard, a warrior with a full spear would have thrust into the Ironborn's chest for a quick and certain death. The reward would likely be close to the previous +240 EXP.
But Alaric was there to win the war, not just a battle. He looked at his broken spear. The risk was high: a failed attack and he would be exposed to a second strike from the Ironborn with his remaining arm. The North needed a victory in the battle, not more experience points. Prudence won over ambition.
Alaric ignored the lethal opening. He had a better tool: the formation.
"Push again!" Alaric shouted, his voice hoarse but filled with authority.
He led the second charge. Alaric stepped forward, throwing his body weight into the Vengeful Ironborn's shield and, at the same time, made an unpretentious jab with the tip of his spear. It was an easy, low-force blow that the Ironborn blocked with his own shield. The goal wasn't to wound, but to force the retreat.
The Northern line followed him with renewed cries of self-motivation. The combined weight of the first line, in unison, was too much for the disorganized Ironborn to bear.
The Ironborn were forced back. The terrain was already unfavorable, and the retreat pushed them onto the fallen logs of the palisade scattered in the mud. They stumbled and lost their balance, their defenses becoming unstable and desperate. The Northmen pressed on, turning the fight into a claustrophobic nightmare.
Alaric felt the Vengeful Ironborn give way, panic replacing the rage in his eyes. He was trapped against his own retreating comrades, forced to fight in disarray.
'They're cornered,' Alaric reflected, panting, feeling the heat and scent of the Ironborn's breath on his face as he pressed him. 'The logs are hindering them. If we keep this up, they'll be crushed or surrender in minutes. The work here will be done, and I can go assist Jeor or Maege.'
A wave of pragmatic satisfaction hit him. He had held the line, turned the tide, and most importantly, he had done it all without needing to reveal his powers. He was one step away from leaving this section of the wall to the patrol and heading toward his father, Lord Mormont, or his aunt.
It was then that fate, always ironic, decided to mock his moment of presumption.
"Alaric! Shit! The Ironborn are jumping the palisade!" Jorah shouted behind him, the alarm in his voice unmistakable.
Alaric, without taking his full focus off the Vengeful Ironborn he kept pinned, tilted his head just enough to cast a quick glance at the top of the palisade to his far left.
He saw three silhouettes on the spiked top of the leftmost section, balancing precariously. They had a plan.
'Bad omen,' Alaric thought, a chill running down his spine more intense than the damp air. 'They want to flank the line. We can't hold against a side attack while we're pressing them in front. They want to create an opening for these cornered bastards to escape and encircle us. It's a smart move.'
There was no time for deliberation. The lateral threat was critical.
"Jorah! Take all the men from the second line and defend the flank! Now!" Alaric shouted, his voice tearing through the din of battle. The second line, usually reserved for pushing and replacing the wounded, was the only reserve available.
Jorah, looking at the situation of the Ironborn jumping over, hesitated, his sword still wet with blood. He saw three Ironborn on top of the palisade and two more gathering at the base, preparing to launch a joint attack on the exposed flank.
"We can't! Alaric, the shield wall won't hold without the support of the second line! They'll break through the front if we take away all the support!" Jorah argued hurriedly, his eyes darting between the invaders on the flank and the wall in front of him. "Split them! Leave half the second line with us, or the first line will break!"
Alaric, pressing the Vengeful Ironborn with all his strength, his shield trembling, responded with urgency and unquestionable authority.
"There's no time! The fucking flank is the priority! Go now! I'll handle this!" Alaric shouted, seeing Jorah's tactical hesitation. He knew he needed Jorah to act without question. "Go! For the love of the Gods, GO!"
The sudden fury in Alaric's voice, the desperate urgency, broke Jorah's resistance. He nodded in compliance, still with a look that said the decision was a tactical error, but the order was final. Jorah turned, his bear-skin cloak swirling.
"Second line! With me! Bury any sea-pig that jumps these walls!" Jorah shouted, and he moved away, leading the men of the second line.
The sound of boots and the creak of armor mingled as the Northmen of the second line followed his order, leaving the members of the first line behind. The sense of abandonment ran through Alaric's line like an electric shock. The relief of victory moments before gave way to a wave of insecurity. The support, the strength for the push, simply evaporated.
Some men in the first line looked back at the empty space behind them. Confidence crumbled. They were only half the force now, and the Vengeful Ironborn, sensing the slight decrease in pressure from Alaric, managed to push back an inch or two, his eyes glowing with vigor once more.
Alaric felt the pushback. The shield wall was strained, about to buckle.
'Damn it,' Alaric thought amidst the clash, resignation weighing on his heart. He looked at the Vengeful Ironborn in front of him, whom he could barely keep at bay, and at the empty space where the second line should have been. 'It seems I'll have to use my powers. The price of not revealing them will be defeat. Heaven knows what Jeor, Jorah, Maege, and the others will think.'
The safety of his secret had become a luxury he could no longer afford.
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