David was now fourteen. He’d spent the years living what was probably an average village child’s life, learning, running around, exploring the nearby forests and hills. He’d even made a few friends. Like Fergus, who had a penchant for brawls, and Arren, who kept trying to build treehouses in suboptimal places, and Deagan, who wanted to be a mighty warrior and had declared himself David’s blood-brother.
To celebrate his fourteenth year of life, he would begin training to wield a weapon, to begin to prepare him for his sixteenth birthday, when he’d have to slay a monster. This is why he now stood in a clearing with his aunt Ethel, who would be his instructor. She was apparently a skilled warrior, though you’d not think so having met her. She didn’t look like a warrior.
“Pick any weapon dearie, whichever one calls to you.” She said and gestured to the many wooden weapons now arrayed before them. She was currently dressed in the blue gambeson that was standard for all of the village’s warriors. David, however, was dressed in an aketon, a lighter gambeson made for wearing under heavier metal armor. He selected a hammer and round shield from the array of wooden weapons and entered a stance his instincts told him was correct.
“You’ve been watching the guards training, eh?” his aunt asked, scanning his form for flaws. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better than what most start off with. Let’s begin your instruction.”
The two hours that followed were a very painful pair of hours. Aunt Ethel found every flaw in his form and hammered it with a stick till it disappeared, and then she made him attack. Every time he made a mistake, she’d smack him with the stick, until he could go about attacking without making a single mistake. Then they began to spar.
His dear aunt was far stronger than she should be. Every blow against his shield knocked him back, nearly off his feet. Every blow of his hammer was deflected unerringly, unflinchingly, as if the hammer were as light as a feather. She had him on the back foot and there was no possible way he could win, so he simply tried to endure.
This went on for minutes, him dodging, blocking, and deflecting, ever closer to exhaustion. Ethel jabbing, slashing, hammering away at him, untiring and putting in no real effort. The spar continued until his hands were red and ragged and his shield lie splintered and shattered. It took less time than one would imagine.
Their return to the village, however, would be delayed.
They had been packing away the many wooden weapons they had brought along when it happened, a girl’s screams sounded out, moving rapidly towards their clearing. Foliage rustled as creatures fled the noise, and the sounds of a cart could be heard in the distance.
“Get back here! Don’t let her get away!” Bellowed a woman, a fair distance away, judging by the sound of her voice.
“Stay back and watch.” Aunt Ethel said, drawing a seax from God-knows-where, seeing as she had no visible scabbard for it, and entering a defensive stance.
The girl that burst into the clearing was not what he was expecting, however. He’d expected a human, she had a muzzle, pale fur, and a pair of long pointed ears atop her head. Ergo, she was not a human. She was shorter than him, about sixty inches tall to his own seventy, and dressed in the rags of what had likely been a parka, now ragged and torn. Around her arms were metal shackles, chains still attached.
He gestured for her to stand next to him, a good distance from the tree line, she chose to hide amongst the exposed roots of the massive oak that dominated the clearing. That was fine. Her pursuers burst through the bushes soon thereafter. They were all dressed in gambeson, their heads and faces covered by a hood and mask, their species indeterminate. They wielded daggers, axes, swords, and hammers; simple, nimble, weapons that could be carried anywhere and wouldn’t get in the way.
They stopped before David’s group, arrayed in a linear formation, they numbered seven. “Hand her over.” One of them said, its voice a genderless, rattling, hiss that made it obvious enough that this thing wasn’t human, and considering its evident choice in career, he’d have no qualms about seeing it die.
“No” Aunt Ethel responded, and her blade began to glow.
Three of the beings lunged at Ethel, two stayed back, two bolted from the clearing, likely to flank. David ran to stand before the tree’s roots. He didn’t know what he could do, he had no weapon and was absolutely exhausted, would he be able to use magic? Would it even do anything to his opponents?
He’d tested his elemental affinity, life, fire, and Space, two were rare, only one was common. While he had an inkling that he’d be able to gain more affinities and strengthen them to the extent of his existing ones, that needed time, time he did not have. Nor did he think he had the energy for an extremely complex or powerful spell. He needed something basic, simple, effective.
He didn’t have anything of the sort at the moment, so he’d have to settle for throwing rocks. He’d picked up a pair of fist-sized rocks earlier and he knew damn well how to throw them. He picked out a target from amongst the stalemated melee and launched a rock at its head, the impact rocked his target back, causing it to lose its balance and unbalance another as it stumbled.
Ethel took the opportunity it presented, bringing her seax up to cut one's throat and using another as a body shield to block a spell from the ones who had stayed back. Two dead, five to go. Of course, things were never that simple. Ethel’s remaining attacker hissed and gurgled in whatever tongue it spoke and began to emit red light. An ominous blood red glow that engulfed its whole body. A berserker, evidently.
Its savage attacks would certainly keep Ethel occupied, and it was likely durable enough to ignore some attacks, seeing as a thrown stone impacting its head had no effect at all. A twinge in David’s awareness also made him aware of another threat, the two that had bolted were standing just out of sight of Ethel, preparing to cast a spell. The two who were not hiding were also now preparing to cast a spell, chanting away with arms extended before them.
The sight of the runic circle forming at the tip of their arms triggered something like a memory, a memory of a mage’s education. A struggle. A question. An epiphany. An understanding. Not all spells had to be learned from others.
If it was a collaborative spell, killing one of the casters would disrupt it, this he now knew. So, he surged forwards, ripping an axe from the corpse of a dead foe and narrowly avoiding the loss of his head at the hands of the raging berserker. He didn’t try to close the distance, instead throwing the axe at a mage with all of his strength and managing to embed it in the fool’s chest. The mage slumped back; the chant changed; the runes continued.
They’d spontaneously twisted the spell to compensate for their now missing compatriot.
A gurgling roar signified a change in Ethel’s battle, she’d managed to cut off one of the berserker’s hands, and its attack with its remaining hand had intensified. A flare of light from the casters and David knew the spell was almost complete. What would it do? Magic could do many things, it could flay a person alive, necrotize their skin, ignite their very blood within their body!
Then he had an idea, a last, desperate, trick that would likely fail but could possibly save them from whatever spell was about to be cast, or at least delay it. He extended his hand, two fingers pointed towards the visible mage, and envisioned a spell. A simple beam of fire, imbued with half of his stored energy, which he knew was called ‘mana’. He feared it wouldn’t work.
Then he felt a pressure next to his heart, a sluggish rotating movement, like a turbine beginning to spin, a sharp pain followed, and a rush of energy came after, fleeing down his arm and towards his fingers. A beam of scorching fire lanced out from his fingers, arcing like a thunderbolt, it struck his target dead center. The struck mage let out a hissing shriek as its body became engulfed in fire, rapidly burning away into nothing, and David felt himself suddenly revitalized, yet more tired than ever before.
His instincts told him that his mana had been completely depleted by that spell, though he did not know his capacity, but his stamina had seemingly seen the opposite effect, being almost entirely restored. The fact that no spell had struck out from the forest told him that his own spell had been successful in disrupting the weave of the enemy spell. Unfortunately, he didn’t get an opportunity to celebrate as one of the two remaining mages surged out of the bushes and right towards him, dagger trained on his heart.
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This was fun, or so thought Ethel Ignasdottr, Hammer of Eidrahm. It’d been a while since she’d had a good fight. Oh sure, she wasn’t going all out, that’d be no fun, but it was still a good fight; The Vraskar in front of her was a good fighter. Nowhere near as talented as her, of course, but still very strong. This one had been trained well.
The Vraskar was strong, unpredictable, but not unskilled. Every strike was aimed, directed, intended. If he’d started off with his rage rather than waited for her nephew to help her kill his two comrades, she’d have been in trouble, for the brief second it’d take her to get serious, that is.
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Talking about her nephew, he was doing wonderfully. First, he’d made an opening for her to kill two of the Vraskar by throwing a rock right at one’s head. Then, he grabbed an axe, dodged a lethal blow, somehow, and launched said axe right at a mage with wonderful throwing form. He’d managed to embed it in the mage’s chest, likely a lethal blow. And now he’d really surprised her, having cast a spell, her nephew was apparently a battlemage in the making, without her having been aware of it.
Never mind the fact that he was too young for magic, it wasn’t unheard of for some to unlock theirs early, he had somehow learned or thought up a spell and then used it successfully! The thought of it ignited a fierce pride within her. Her nephew was going places, Jarl places. He may even become a worthy successor for Jarl Belgruf someday, with proper training. The ancestors smiled upon him.
She almost wished he’d been born to her. Alas, she’d lost that ability to an errant spear early on in her life, so she’d settle for being the best aunt she could be. Her brother would be pissed when he found out about the attack on them, as would the elders. They’d have to ask the Jarl to increase patrols in the area.
To think that a Fexxakin slaver caravan would dare to wander so closely to Eidrahm. The audacity, they’d clearly forgotten the results of their last war, if they dared to travel through their lands, enslaving their sworn siblings. And now one of their Vraskar thralls was charging her nephew while he was exhausted. She sighed, punching the berserker away and launching her seax at the charging spellcaster, bisecting its head, then picked up a stone and catapulted it into the remaining spellcaster’s neck, tearing it apart with the force of impact.
She then approached the fallen berserker and kicked his head in with her greaves. No survivors. It was a mercy, really, the Vraskar were likely thralls, forced by magic to live and die doing another’s bidding. Better dead and free than a living slave.
Their master would be along soon enough, she had no doubt of that, the sorceress wouldn’t let the death of her servants go unavenged. Particularly, the sorceress would want to recapture the escaped Lycan no matter the cost, and likely also David, for he would undoubtedly fetch the sorceress a high price. Ethel wouldn’t let that happen, neither would old Father Oak, judging by the creaking of his bark.
Indeed, the flare of mana that signified the beginning of a major spell set Father Oak in motion, his roots wrapped around the clearing, creating a root wall and his branches writhed in his fury. A wizened face manifested upon the wood of his trunk, scowling in wrath, and his once hidden eyes glowed with his fervor. He had never liked it when those he considered kin were attacked. The Sorceress’ cart was dragged into the clearing by gigantic roots and the tree spirit’s eyes narrowed at it.
“LITTLE SORCERESS, TRYING TO HIDE?” The Oak said in his bellowing voice, and a lash of flame batted his face from beyond the clearing “FOOLISH GIRL, ALLOW THIS OLD MAN TO EDUCATE YOU.” Spoke he, and his roots surged tearing out into the canopy of the nearby trees. Beams of blue flame fell upon the oak’s canopy, but they would not be enough. Ethel had watched an army try and fail to fell the wise old tree, breaking themselves upon his bark and boughs. One little sorceress would never be enough.
A tree within the clearing began to shift, creaking and moaning as bark long since fused by growth began to separate. Wood shifted to take a fitter shape for movement and activity, a Treant waking up. The treant said nothing, reacted to little, not even the lances of balefire that struck the wise oak, it simply moved, and the plants parted in its path. A force of nature, unimpeded by the world around them.
The treant’s form became more defined as it neared the center of the clearing, until an aspect of nature incarnate stood there before them all. It lifted its arms, numbering four, thick as a man’s torso. Its feet, each a mighty tree’s trunk, dug into the ground, turning into roots. And roots surged from all around them and from the mighty treant, forming a wooden dome above them all. This was a treant guardian, a mightier protector one could rarely find, no beam of flame would pierce the dome.
The Oak’s battle with the sorceress raged outside, unseen, but well-heard. This sorceress was strong, the strongest Ethel had ever been around, and she gave the oak a mighty fight. Crackling fire met creaking root, piercing stone spear met unbending bark, whooshing wind met unbending branch, and fortune met nature’s unchanging ways. A mighty crack, like the boom of a thunderbolt, and the roots began to fade, as did the sorceress’ mana signature.
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“Holy shit” David whispered. He’d thought Aunt Ethel was strong, yet she wasn’t even the strongest person in this clearing. When he’d felt the overwhelming dread of a major spell being cast, the sheer magnitude of its power, he’d thought to himself “This is it, we’re done for”. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
The giant oak tree in the clearing wasn’t just an oak, it was magical. Maybe he should have expected it from the five-story-tall oak tree, though he didn’t know if he should have expected it to grow a mouth and talk! The Oak and mage had displayed more power in their little exchange than anything he had ever seen. One was subtle, using no flashy spells or overt magic, the other was overwhelming, throwing about dread-inducing magic spells that he knew could have disintegrated him a thousand times over. The mage was overwhelming with her overt power, but the oak was different, the oak was gentle with its power, a force of nature, not inherently dread inducing as the mage’s flames had been.
And the Treant! The treant had been a calming presence, a bastion of sanity in the temporary magical mayhem. When it took the clearing’s center, the overwhelming dread fled, as a shadow flees from light. The root dome had drowned out all but the sound of battle, not even the magical dread piercing through it. He decided to busy himself while the battle raged.
He ripped his new axe, a sleek, well-maintained tomahawk made of a shiny blue metal, from the chest of a mage, where he’d embedded it with his throw. He searched the mage’s body for anything else he’d like to take, finding a pouch full of crystals and a rondel with a wickedly sharp blade made of a silvery metal. He also took the mage’s pendant, which had glowing runes and was likely enchanted. The other mage he’d killed had been thoroughly disintegrated and little remained there but for molten metal and the ashes of clothing. His aunt had been doing the same, taking stock of the spoils of battle.
“What did you earn, laddie?” Ethel asked, she was sitting on a tree’s stump, cleaning her seax with a fallen enemy’s gambeson. David showed her his trophies, she took particular interest in the axe, but said he’d have to get his father to identify it. The crystals she dismissed as useless, the dagger earned her approval, and the pendant had to be identified by one of the elders, who was a druid.
They chatted as she examined their trophies and were eventually interrupted by the giant tree. “APOLOGIES, LITTLE ONES, I WAS CONFIRMING THE SORCERESS’ DEATH,” said the tree. “BOY, YOU DID A GOOD JOB, I SAW THE ENTIRE THING.” The tree praised. “COULD YOU GO AND FETCH THE LITTLE WOLF FROM WHERE SHE HIDES WITHIN MY ROOTS?”
The plants moved as if to point him to his destination, and he followed the path they opened, ambling towards the little nook he knew the Werewolf girl was hiding in. He approached carefully, slowly, not wanting to alarm her. She was curled up into a ball, ears folded back, face against her knees, arms wrapped around them, soft sobs muffled by her fur. He’d not noticed it before, but she had a tail, or had once had one, he could see the stump of it poking through a hole in her ragged shorts. A wary azure eye peered up at him from where she cowered, he kneeled and offered his hand.
“You’re safe, the people who hurt you are dead.” He began, he spoke calmly, softly, trying his best to reassure her, though he knew he wasn’t very good at it. He’d never been in this kind of situation before, and his instincts offered no guidance. “They will- can- not hurt you now. You’re safe.”
The Werewolf did not respond. He sat down and placed a hand on her back, wanting to help but being unsure of how he would go about it. Instead, he waited for Aunt Ethel to appear, for she would surely be able to comfort her. Within minutes, Ethel was there beside them, she looked down and dismissed him with a flick of her hand, taking his place as he departed.
The treant stood outside, now sporting a far more human-like appearance, like a rather tall statue of a hunchback carved from maple, but with branches growing from its back and unstripped bark instead of sanded wood. The treant carried a shield of steel-colored wood and a war-hammer of the same material, some of his branches were adorned with trinkets made of the material. He looked very different from the other treant. Then again, perhaps this was a different treant?
“You did quite well in that battle, manling.” Spoke the treant. He spoke with a deep, age-hardened voice, and there was a creaking in his voice like that of bending bark. “You are not yet of age, and not yet fully trained, but you did well. It is a shame that you did not get to display your prowess in melee combat, I would have like to see how I can advise you.”
“What folly do you speak of, Steelbark?” Queried another treant now emerging from the forest beyond the clearing, staff thumping against the forest floor. “The boy is clearly a spellcaster, not some branch-swinger like you, you saw the magic he cast. The question now is why I cannot Identify his class or level, if I could do that, I would be able to help him refine his spells and affinities to a mighty level.”
This treant was odd. He stood upright, tall, with shorter branches than the other, branches that terminated in a structure that resembled a conifer. He had vines hanging from his jaw and from atop his head, like a beard and a mane of dreadlocks. But that wasn’t what made this treant odd, it was his glow. His vines and conifers emitted a slight flickering glow the colors of a raging fire, flickering with power.
“I’m not old enough for a class. Besides that, I’m aiming for more of a battlemage role, traditional mages, like the ones we just fought, are too easy to kill, and spells are far too useful to not to use.” David stated matter-of-factly.
“Is that right?” Steelbark stated. “Then we will both be able to aid you, for a battlemage wields magic and steel in equal measure... What do you think, Flameroot?”
“A battlemage does not bind himself to any form of magic, does not specialize. By melding the arts, both martial and magical, a battlemage ensures that they will continue to be effective on any battlefield. Whereas a normal spellcaster can be a little situational, depending on the specific battlefield conditions. This is acceptable.” Rumbled Flameroot, and sparks emitted from his mouth as he spoke.
“This is not an easy path, manling.” Said the other. “It speaks well of your bravery and spirit that you have picked it. Ah, it appears the hammer has finally coaxed the little wolf from the Elder’s roots.”
Indeed, Aunt Ethel had emerged from the giant tree’s roots with a calmer werewolf girl in tow, and a thunderous scowl upon her face. “We’re returning to the village, she needs treatment.” She said, pointing to the werewolf. She kicked a corpse as she passed it by, and David could hear her mutter “I’ll kill every last one of the fatherless whores for this.” Beneath her breath as she stared at it.
The treants, surprisingly, travelled with them. They spoke of a coming storm, a terrible event foreseen by a treant woman named ‘Orchid’, who was an Oracle. They had been tasked with guarding the village and watching for any signs of this event. They also spoke of other things, of their hidden realms, of the beautiful sights found in the wild, and of great battles the venerable beings had been involved in. This continued until Eidrahm was in sight, and a calm silence overtook them for what remained of the journey.