Nerd In the North IX
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Seven days. Seven freezing, bone-numbing days—and now screaming. Metal on metal. Shit, so much screaming.
And here Greg was, whining about being bored just hours ago. Careful what you wish for, idiot, he thought bitterly as he dodged another wild swing.
Greg's shining white sword cut through the air, gleaming like freshly fallen snow in the faint light that broke through the thick canopy of trees. The teenage boy spun to the side, his messy blonde hair whipping across his face as he narrowly dodged a bandit's thrown axe. It whistled past his head, embedding itself in a nearby tree with a dull thunk.
Holy crap, that was close, Greg's mind raced, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His movements were instinctive, precise—far beyond what someone with only a month of practice should be able to do. But that didn't mean he felt ready for this.
Not by a long shot.
He barely had time to get his bearings before another bandit rushed him from the side, swinging wildly with a crude iron blade. The bandit swung. Greg’s gut screamed—MOVE! His body snapped sideways—a flash of steel, a scream of grinding metal—CRACK! The impact rattled up his arm, bone-deep and sickening. His grip almost slipped, his fingers numb and buzzing like he’d grabbed a live wire. Ow. Ow ow ow.
"Shit!" he hissed, stumbling back, desperately trying to keep his footing on the treacherous ground. It's like that first day with the wildlings again. Everything's trying to kill me!
The bandit grinned, yellowed teeth bared in a feral smile as he sensed weakness. He swung again, aiming for Greg's midsection. A flash of intuition hit the boy—move!—and Greg ducked just in time, the blade slicing through the air where his torso had been moments before. The whistle of steel cutting air sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
Greg struck—felt the hit, but it was wrong—blunt, like hitting a wall with a bat almost. The blade caught on leather, not flesh. The bandit grunted, barely wounded, and Greg froze for a split second as his heart dropped. What the hell—? The sword felt... heavier. Sluggish.
Where's the magic? He was out of breath, his chest heaving as he took in careful breaths. Even using his sword beams felt like a non-starter. Is it... His eyes widened as he darted back from a return blow. A stamina-based magic system? Oh, that sucks ass.
Still, it wasn't like he was defenseless.
His body was still adjusting to this new level of skill, far more advanced than someone with just a month of training should have. But it wasn't perfect—it was raw, unrefined. He'd learned fast, but there were gaps in his form, weaknesses in his stance that a more experienced fighter would exploit in a heartbeat.
Come on, Greg, remember what the guards taught you, he coached himself, trying to recall the endless drills and sparring sessions. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, grip firm but not too tight...
Another bandit charged at him, this one smaller but quicker, with two daggers flashing in the dim light. Greg raised his sword to block the first swipe, the clash of metal on metal ringing in his ears. But the second dagger came in low, grazing his thigh. The pain was sharp and sudden, like being stabbed with an icicle.
"Frick!" Greg hissed, biting down the urge to yell something much worse. Mom would be so proud, he thought sarcastically, even as he stumbled back.
The bandit pressed the attack, slashing again with frightening speed. Greg barely managed to step back, his foot catching on a rock hidden beneath the snow. He stumbled, arms windmilling as he fought for balance. No no no no— His efforts were in vain as he fell to one knee, the impact sending a jolt through his entire body.
The bandit grinned, a predatory look in his eyes that made Greg's blood run cold.
But just as the bandit lunged forward, aiming to finish him off, Greg's intuition flared again. It was weak, like a whisper in a crowded room, but clear: Roll!
Greg's body moved almost on its own, clumsily but just fast enough to avoid the strike. He rolled to the side, snow and leaves clinging to his clothes, his world a dizzying blur of white and green. As he rose, he swung his sword wildly, more out of desperation than skill.
To his surprise, the blade caught the bandit in the side. It wasn't deep—Greg doubted he could manage a truly devastating blow in his current state—but it was enough to slow the man down.
Greg scrambled to his feet, his legs unsteady, his grip on the sword so tight his knuckles were white. His breath came in ragged gasps, visible in the cold air. His arms ached, muscles burning from the effort of swinging the sword. Man, they make this look so easy in the movies, he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat.
The bandit, though wounded, snarled and came at him again. The man's eyes were wild, filled with a mix of pain and rage that sent a shiver down Greg's spine. Oh crap oh crap oh crap—
Greg raised his sword, more out of desperation than skill, and blocked another swipe of the daggers. The impact sent shockwaves up his arms, nearly making him drop his weapon. But somehow, whether through dumb luck or that strange intuition, he managed to get in close.
Before he could think, before he could hesitate, his sword drove into the bandit's chest. The man's eyes widened in shock, a look of disbelief that Greg was sure mirrored his own. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, the bandit crumpled to the ground.
Greg staggered back, panting heavily. These guys were more skilled than the rabid Wildlings he'd faced a month ago and he didn’t like that for his odds. Too big for the tutorial, you said.
His movements were sloppy, his strikes unrefined, but he was surviving. Somehow. Is this what being a hero feels like? he wondered, the thought tasting bitter in his mind. Because it sucks.
He turned quickly, scanning the battlefield. The forest around him was chaos, a blur of motion and violence that made his head spin. Eight bandits had ambushed them, coming out of the woods like wolves smelling blood. One already down by Greg's hand, but that left seven more, each of them as vicious and desperate as the last.
Yet another bandit was coming toward him now, this one with a long spear. Greg’s grip tightened on his sword, but his hands were trembling. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.
The bandit jabbed with the spear, the weapon's reach giving him a clear advantage. Greg moved just a second too late, his reactions dulled by exhaustion. The spearhead nicked his arm, a sharp pain that made him yelp. He clutched the wound with one hand, warm blood seeping between his fingers.
Focus, Greg! he berated himself, swinging his sword clumsily with his other hand. The strike missed completely, cutting through empty air. "Dang it!" he cursed under his breath, frustration mounting.
The bandit laughed, a harsh sound that grated on Greg's nerves. The man twirled his spear with practiced ease, clearly toying with his younger opponent. Greg's mind raced, trying to figure out a way to close the distance. He couldn't fight at range—he didn't have the skill for that. He needed to get in close, where he could do some damage.
But every time he tried to approach, the spear kept him at bay. "Fuck me running," he muttered, readying himself for another attempt.
His intuition buzzed again—dodge left. Greg jerked to the side, his feet slipping slightly on the blood-slicked snow. The spear's tip whistled past, so close he felt the rush of air on his cheek. Too close, he thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Way too freaking close.
He gritted his teeth, frustration and fear warring inside him. He wasn't good enough for this, wasn't trained enough. A month of practice, no matter how intense, couldn't prepare him for a real fight to the death. But he couldn't stop.
He had to keep going.
If I die here, Mom will kill me, he thought hysterically, a bubble of laughter threatening to escape his throat.
Greg dodged, slipped—damn spear—and in sheer, blind desperation, he kicked snow right at the guy’s eyes. The bandit cursed, flinching. Greg was on him, screaming something half a word, half a noise, and drove his blade—deep.
The warmth on his hands hit first. Then the scream. His.
The man gasped, stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock and pain as it tore right through his side. Greg took his chance, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop, to run away. He stepped forward and, with a grunt that was half effort and half terror, drove his sword through the bandit's chest.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. Greg stared into the man's eyes, watching as the light faded from them. Then, abruptly, it was over and the man slumped to the ground.
Greg pulled his sword free with a wet sound that made him wince. He was breathing hard, his lungs burning with each intake of frigid air. He knew he could go for much longer—some strange quirk of his new abilities—but the blood from his wounds was starting to freeze in the cold air, and he was already feeling winded. I really need to work on my cardio, he thought absurdly. If I survive this, I'm gonna start jogging or something.
He looked around, scanning the chaos of the battlefield. The forest, which had seemed so peaceful just minutes ago, was now a hellscape of violence and blood. Snow flew up in great plumes as men fought and fell, the white quickly stained red.
Dael was a few paces away, locked in combat with one of the bandits. His sword moved defensively as he tried to hold his ground, his usual joking manner replaced by grim determination. Brynn, with his massive warhammer, had already taken down one attacker. The man's body lay crumpled in the snow, skull crushed like an overripe melon. The sight made Greg's stomach lurch.
Greg's breath came out in quick bursts, visible in the cold air. His muscles burned with effort, a deep ache settling into his bones. It didn't make sense—how his body moved, how easily the sword seemed to obey him. He felt like he'd been training for at least a year, not just a month, every strike more controlled, every movement sharper than the last.
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But there was no time to question it now.
All that mattered was survival.
He glanced over at the wagons, worry clenching his gut. Merek was holding his own, fending off an attacker with a short sword. His usual smooth demeanor was gone, replaced by a fierce intensity that Greg had never seen before. One of the younger assistants, Brunn, had taken a nasty hit and was on his knees, trying to push a bandit away with shaking hands.
Greg didn't think—he just acted. He sprinted toward Brunn, lifting his sword high. The bandit didn't see him coming until it was too late. Greg's blade came down with a sickening thud, slicing into the back of the man's neck. The bandit crumpled to the ground, motionless.
"Brunn, get back!" Greg barked, jerking his head toward the wagons. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, too high and tight. Brunn nodded, eyes wide with fear, and scrambled back, leaving the fighting to the others.
Four down, Greg thought, trying to calm his racing heart. Four left. We can do this. We have to do this.
His eyes flicked toward the rest of the group, assessing the situation like he was analyzing a raid boss in World of Warcraft. Merek had disarmed his opponent, driving a knee into the man's gut and throwing him to the ground with a practiced move that spoke of experience Greg hadn't suspected. Brynn swung his warhammer like a battering ram, keeping two more bandits at bay. His grunts of exertion echoed through the forest, primal and terrifying.
A flash of steel caught Greg's attention. He turned just in time to see Threnn ducking low to avoid a blow, his twin daggers flashing in the dim light as he slashed upward, catching a bandit in the thigh. The bandit screamed, staggering back, and Threnn followed up with a quick, precise stab to the throat. It was brutal, efficient, and utterly terrifying.
It's almost over, Greg told himself, trying to summon up the last dregs of his courage. Just one more. You can do this.
He squared off against the last bandit, a grizzled man with a thick beard and a scar running down the side of his face. The man grinned, showing broken teeth, and raised his axe. With a roar that seemed to shake the very trees, he charged at Greg.
Oh crap oh crap oh crap— Greg's mind raced, his body tensing. He planted his feet, gripping his sword with both hands. The bandit swung his axe down with all his strength, aiming to cleave Greg in two. But Greg was faster, his body moving almost on its own. He sidestepped the blow, the axe burying itself in the snow where he had stood moments before.
Greg swung—and felt the difference immediately. The blade bit... then stopped. The edge dulled—grinding, not cutting. The bandit twisted with a snarl—Greg had to push, teeth gritted, until the blade sank through like forcing a key into a frozen lock. The man's scream cut short, but Greg barely heard it over his own ragged gasps. The bandit dropped face-first into the snow, his blood pooling around him, staining the white a deep crimson.
The forest fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of the caravan men and the occasional groan of the dying bandits. Greg stood there for a moment, his sword dripping with blood, heart still racing.
He’d just taken down four men.
Dael limped over, wiping blood off his blade with the edge of his cloak. He gave Greg a half-smile, but there was a hint of something else behind his eyes.
Respect, maybe. Or caution.
"Ye fight like a bloody whirlwind, Greg," Dael said, his usual jovial tone subdued.
Greg shrugged, trying to play it off even as his body hummed with the residual energy from the fight. "Just lucky, I guess," he mumbled, not meeting Dael's eyes.
Dael let out a low laugh, slowly shaking his head as he wiped dirty sweat from his brow. "Aye, luck."
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The cold Northern night wrapped itself around the camp, the fire crackling low in the center of the small circle of men, casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. Greg shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The caravan had stopped for the night, the horses huddled together near the wagons, their warm breath visible in the frigid air. The smell of burning wood mixed with sweat and the lingering metallic scent of blood, a grim reminder of the day's battle.
Greg sat with his back to a tree, Ash curled up at his feet, snoring softly. The bear cub's warmth was a small comfort in the biting cold, something he’d been used to over the nightly camps of the last week. The rest of the men—Dael, Brynn, Threnn, and Jory—sat around the fire, each at varying distances, some closer than others. The orange glow flickered across their tired faces, shadows dancing across the snow and their bloodstained clothes.
It had been a long day, the memory of the bandit attack still fresh in their minds. They had buried the bodies—or what was left of them—not far from the campsite earlier. Greg's hands still felt grimy, like no amount of snow could wash away the blood and dirt.
Dael leaned back against a log, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to Greg, who was sitting quietly, staring into the fire. Ash let out a soft grunt in his sleep, drawing a small smile from Greg despite the tension in the air.
"That was some fine work ye did today, Greg," Dael said, breaking the silence. He poked at the embers with a stick, his voice carrying that sing-song Vale accent that still caught Greg off guard sometimes. "Quick, too. Cut a man's arm clean off, ye did."
Greg didn't look up, just shrugged lightly, though his mind raced. He knew this was coming. The men had been eyeing him all day since the fight, their gazes a mix of curiosity and wariness. Here we go, he thought. Time for Twenty Questions: Medieval Edition.
"Thanks," he mumbled, holding back a grimace. "Guess I got lucky again."
Dael’s chuckle was soft. “Aye. Luck.” He said it slow, like tasting the word, as if it felt different on his tongue compared to earlier in the day. “Funny thing, though—luck don’t swing a blade like that. Luck don’t get clean through bone.” His eyes, sharp and bright despite his lazy smile, pinned Greg like a nail. “So… which lord’s hall taught ye to dance?”
Greg glanced up at Dael, the flicker of suspicion in the man's words catching his attention. Noble's get? What am I, a stray dog? Before he could respond, Brynn grunted from across the fire, his warhammer resting against the log beside him.
Brynn grunted, voice low and heavy as a landslide. “Aye, lad. Yer raw but that swing says otherwise. Seen plenty o’ castle pups in my time. You fight like one. Too clean. Too fast.” His eyes, flat and dark, slid to the sword. “Blades like that ain't seen in smallfolk hands. If ye ain't a bastard, whose were ye servin’?”
Greg blinked, unsure how to answer. "Serving?"
Before he could ask for clarification, Jory spoke up for the first time all evening, his voice low but clear, each word measured as if it cost him something to speak. "Aye. Might be the boy of some Essosi master-at-arms, if no noble bastard."
Oh great, more fantasy terms I don't understand, Greg thought, frustration bubbling up. "No... I don't remember any knights," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. Unless you count the chess piece, I guess.
The silence stretched a little longer this time, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Threnn, sitting furthest from the fire, tossed a small rock into the flames, watching as the embers flared up. When he spoke, his voice was quick and low, almost conspiratorial.
Threnn flicked a small rock into the fire. “No one swings steel like that without bleedin’ for it, life's blood or maiden's,” he said, his voice quick and sharp. His eyes stayed on Greg, dark and thin-lipped. “So whose blood paid for yours?”
"Aye," Brynn agreed, his gaze fixed on Greg's sword. "And that sword of yours—it's no common blade."
Greg shrugged, forcing a small laugh as he ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair. "Nothing to tell, really," he said, trying to sound casual but knowing he was failing miserably.
There was a beat of silence, the crackle of the fire filling the air between them. Then Brynn’s gaze dropped to Greg’s hand—and stopped. His brow creased, and his voice dropped lower, colder. “That ring,” he said, like he knew something Greg didn’t. “No Northern make,” he said slowly, each word deliberate. "A piece like that, and ye say ye're smallfolk?"
Greg tensed, instinctively glancing at the golden ring on his right hand. The V carved from sapphire on top of it caught the firelight, glinting with a faint blue shimmer. It was a strange thing, not just in appearance but in the way it felt—like it was more than just jewelry. It made him hardier, more resilient, maybe outright slightly more durable than he'd been before. It had already saved his life many times, keeping him on his feet during the worst of the fight earlier that day.
Crap, I forgot about the ring, Greg thought, his mind racing. How do I explain this without sounding like I stole it or something?
"It's just a ring," he said quickly, trying to downplay it. Even to his own ears, the lie sounded weak.
Dael leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly, but his tone remained light, almost teasing. "Just a ring, eh? Looks more like a nobleman's crest to me."
Greg shrugged, trying to seem casual but feeling like he was failing miserably. "I don't know where it came from," he said, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. "It was on me when I woke up, same as the sword."
"Veder, ye say yer name was?" Brynn leaned forward slightly, his massive frame casting a longer shadow over the fire. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Greg with an intensity that made the boy want to squirm. "I never heard of no Veders in the Kingdoms."
That's because I'm not from your stupid kingdoms, Greg wanted to shout. Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. "Probably because there aren't any," he said, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. "I told you, I don't remember much."
The silence held for a while, heavy and uncomfortable. Greg could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up. He knew they were curious, and he couldn't blame them. A strange sword, a noble's ring, and a boy with no past? It sounded suspicious even to him. If this was an RPG, I'd definitely think I was the secret prince or something, he thought wryly.
Finally, Dael broke the tension with a smile, though there was something sharper behind it. "Ah, no need to hide yer noble roots out here in the cold North," he said, his tone light but his eyes keen. "Ain't no shame in it. We're all friends here."
Yeah, right, Greg thought, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. Friends. Because friends totally interrogate each other around campfires.
Greg felt the weight of their eyes on him, the intensity of their gazes almost palpable in the flickering firelight. He shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward to pick at a loose thread on his jacket, unsure how much to say. The truth was, he didn't know how to explain any of it, least of all his fighting skills. How do I tell them I'm basically living in a real-life RPG without sounding totally insane?
"Honestly," Greg started, his voice wavering slightly, "I don't know where any of it comes from. I woke up... and it just kinda..." He paused, searching for the right words, his mind racing. "It feels natural, I guess." As natural as swinging a magic sword can be, anyway.
Dael raised an eyebrow, his interest visibly piqued. His Vale accent lilted through the crisp night air as he spoke. "Natural? Now that's somethin'. Most lads I know struggle with a sword for years 'fore they get as good as you." His eyes drifted to the blade again, a mix of curiosity and suspicion in his gaze.
Brynn grunted, his gravelly voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Aye, trainin' like that don't just come to a man overnight." He leaned forward, his massive frame casting long shadows in the firelight.
Greg shrugged again, feeling increasingly cornered. "Maybe I trained before, I dunno," he mumbled, trying to sound casual. "Like I said, I don't remember much of anything from before I woke up near Frostfall. Bits and pieces, nothing useful."
Dael exchanged a glance with Brynn, his expression softening slightly.
Dael exchanged a glance with Brynn, his expression softening slightly. "Bits an' pieces, eh?" Dael's voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story. He leaned forward slightly, poking the fire with a stick again, sending sparks swirling into the night air. "Funny how things come back to ye, though. Don't forget a good swing like that. A blade always remembers."
Greg didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to explain that his sword seemed to have a life of its own, that it wasn't just his skill but something deeper, something tied to the weapon itself. But another part of him felt like that would only make things worse. He already avoided shooting energy beams from the thing since he showed up in Frostfall, to avoid suspicion after the way the townspeople already looked at him crazy.
There was a pause, the fire crackling between them, filling the silence. Dael looked like he wanted to press further, but Brynn let out a loud grunt, breaking the tension.
"Well, whoever ye are," Brynn rumbled, his words clipped and blunt, "ye swing a damn fine sword. That's enough for me."
Threnn, who had been quiet until now, chimed in with his quick, sharp tone. "Aye, that's enough. No use pokin' at what's past."
The others murmured their agreement, though Greg could still feel Dael's eyes on him, lingering a bit too long. Okay, that's over with, Greg thought, relief washing over him. For now, anyway.
Dael broke into a grin as he laid back against the log. "Ah, no need to hide yer noble roots out here in the cold North," he said, his tone light as he laughed off the tension. "Ain't no shame in it. We're all friends here. Ain't we, lad?"