Jorah Mormont had taken the second line, where the men were meant to offer support and reinforcement to the front, to stem the flow of Ironborn who were rallying after scaling the walls with ladders. The maneuver had saved the flank, but it had left the shield wall dangerously thin.
Now, there was only one line.
The Northerners still standing were men from Bear Island, accustomed to hardship, but the space between them seemed to widen with every enemy assault, an invisible gap of despair and fatigue.
Moments earlier, they had felt invincible. Alaric's tactical advance, pushing the Ironborn against the palisade and over fallen logs, had worked, filling them with electrifying confidence. But seeing their companions march away, leaving them alone against the relentless pressure, had drained that certainty. Confidence was a candle lit in a storm, and the absence of the second line was a cold wind. They stared at the backs of their retreating comrades, and fear began to seep into their stomachs.
In contrast, the morale of the Iron Islands invaders rose like a high tide. They were, after all, men who thrived on chaos and audacity, and the fact they had forced the Northerners to thin their defenses was like a draught of strong mead. They saw the reduced numbers before them, no longer a deep mass, but a thin, lonely line, and their previous hesitation was replaced by a renewed thirst for plunder and glory.
The excitement was palpable, a rising roar that broke through the monotonous din of battle.
"Look at them!" shouted a tall invader, his face scarred by pockmarks and a tangled beard. "The meat is ready for the slaughter!"
"They are few! Rip out their guts!" another screamed, followed by a harsh laugh that was lost in the imminent clash of blades.
The shouts were guttural, celebrations of death before death had even occurred, echoing in the throats of their brothers-in-arms. Fire rose within the Ironborn. It wasn't the fire of a dragon, but the foul, desperate fire of greed, and it burned in their eyes as they charged with renewed fervor, their axes and swords coming down with savage fury, as if they were pillaging an unprotected merchant ship.
The pressure on the shield wall became almost unbearable. The Northerners were being forced back.
Alaric Mormont, the youngest son, standing right in the middle of the line, felt the pressure of the shield of the man beside him. He was calm, reserved, but inside, he felt the tide of battle turning.
"Do not bend! Raise your spears, you fools! Do not take a step back!" Alaric shouted, his voice hoarse with effort, trying to imitate the thundering fury that his father, Jeor, or even Maege, could evoke.
His cry, however, yielded no motivated response like the enemy's. Instead of war roars, he heard only the grinding of teeth, the dull thud of wood against metal, and the heavy breathing of men in panic. The Ironborn laughed, a cruel chorus of derision.
'Nine Charisma, damn it,' he thought, a cold frustration rising in his throat. It wasn't just a statistic; it was a character flaw, an inability to inspire men when they needed it most. He had always known, since his previous life, that he wasn't a charismatic person, but having numbers confirm it was extremely frustrating. His Strength and Constitution points could save himself, but not them.
Defeat was looming over the thin line. The shield wall trembled, ready to break. Alaric knew that logic and tactics were over. He needed something that wasn't logic. He needed chaos. He needed magic.
"By the Old Gods!" he cried, but this time, it wasn't a command. It was a prelude.
His right hand, gripping the spear shaft, glowed for an instant with a pale green light, so subtle it blended into the afternoon twilight. There were no words, no elaborate gestures, only deep concentration and a silent command to his druidic magic. The first-circle spell, Barkskin, was activated.
The Barkskin spell was one of his recently acquired spells, one he had never tested but held high hopes for its defensive capabilities. In terms of his system, it was a Transmutation spell that, when successfully cast, caused his skin to take on the toughness and texture of oak. It didn't add layers of skin; it transformed the existing exterior of the body. The spell wasn't instantaneous, but it took less than a second for the subtle magic to bind to him. For an hour, as long as Alaric maintained concentration, his skin would become natural armor, making him extraordinarily difficult to seriously wound.
The transformation was silent and strange. Starting from his fingertips and moving up his neck, Alaric's skin hardened. It didn't look like smooth, polished wood, but rather the thick, irregular bark of an old storm-oak, grey and brown, segmented by deep fissures. His face, though still recognizable, looked harder, almost as if he were wearing a carved wooden mask, his eyes being the only soft, fully human parts. Under the faint light of battle, he looked less like a man and more like a forest elemental that had stumbled onto the front line.
The emotional Ironborn from before noticed the change first. He stopped mid-strike, his sword hovering over his head, his mouth hanging open in an "O" of astonishment. Doubt filled his eyes; it wasn't the pale skin of disease, but something harder, more alive, and entirely unnatural.
Still, he attacked. Fear was replaced by instinctive fury, the urge to destroy what was strange. The sword came down with full force against Alaric's shield.
Thud!
Alaric defended with his shield, feeling the kinetic energy spread through his arm. Thanks to his wooden skin, the shock was far less excruciating. The tension in his arm and shoulder was reduced by half of what it should have been. He didn't feel the bone vibrate painfully, only a strong, blunt pressure.
Instead of counter-attacking, however, Alaric kept moving forward. He pressed his shield against the Ironborn, shoving him aside with the force of a battering ram. The giant stumbled, his balance broken, his sudden fury rendered useless. Alaric dove deeper into the enemy line, invading it with the same eagerness the Ironborn had used to invade the village.
Chaos erupted.
Alaric's action was an affront to all rules of shield-wall warfare. Where a man should defend, he attacked. Where he should seek safety, he advanced into isolation. He had pierced the barrier and now stood there, a block of dark color, in the rear of the Ironborn's front line.
"Stop him! Stop him!" the Ironborn shouted, their voices laced with confusion.
Panic soon set in.
"Does he have greyscale?" one Ironborn asked, his voice thin with terror.
"Is it a rare form? The Drowned God has cursed him! Get back!"
The irregular appearance of the oak bark, the fissures, and the grayish-brown color sparked the deepest fear in the hearts of men accustomed to traveling and seeing all manner of things, especially dangerous ones. Greyscale. The terrible disease that turned flesh to stone was feared above all else, and Alaric's oak bark was strange enough that, in the heat of battle and the panic of confusion, it looked like the manifestation of something terrible and contagious. The Ironborn recoiled in fear, trying to give space to the "stone leper," which instantly formed a small bubble of hesitation in the middle of their line.
The Northerners, on the other hand, were struck by a shock of an entirely different nature.
They saw their Lord's son, the calm, reserved boy they thought too soft for a Mormont, who preferred playing with animals over exerting his body blessed by the Old Gods like his brother, thrust himself alone among the enemies, defying death with strange skin. The sight broke their panic, and suddenly, they were no longer frightened men in a defensive line. They were the men of Bear Island, and they saw one of their own in trouble, in danger, and a wild sort of hollow fury filled their chests.
Fear gave way to motivation.
"Advance! For Bear Island!"
"For House Mormont!"
The Northerners, like the Ironborn, began to shout cries of motivation, but theirs were different; amidst the tide of rage and excitement, there was concern for the young lord risking himself.
"We have to go after him! Don't let them take him! Rescue the young master!" Shouts of concern bit through the cold air.
The tide of battle turned again. From one second to the next, both sides found themselves motivated, but with opposing purposes and at each other's throats. The Northern shield wall, reinforced by the surge to rescue, advanced with blind fury, colliding with the Ironborn front line, which was now torn between pushing the line and fleeing from the man with greyscale.
Alaric pushed deeper, spear in his right hand, shield in his left. He was surrounded on all sides.
He tried to defend every attack with his shield and spear, parrying some while others slipped through his guard. Swords, axes, and knives bypassed his defense, piercing the thin leather brigandine he wore.
The blades struck his oak skin with a dry thud, a hollow noise not of flesh being cut, but of wood being chipped. They failed to stop him. The spell held. The blades, sharp as they were, caused only superficial cuts in the bark. Blood seeped out slowly, as if it were sap, but the pain was surprisingly bearable.
'It's like accidentally cutting yourself with a kitchen knife,' Alaric thought, his calm mind maintaining the focus on the Barkskin spell. He remembered when he had first tested a spell requiring constant concentration, expecting some kind of pressure to hinder him, but finding only annoyance. The cuts were a pain he could ignore, a sharp itch.
By now, he had moved far enough away from the Northerners. He was surrounded by confused Ironborn, and it was time to initiate the second part of his plan.
He turned to the man directly behind him, the most terrified one: the tall Ironborn who had warned about greyscale. The man was paralyzed, staring at Alaric's skin with superstitious terror, his sword drawn but lacking the courage to strike.
Alaric lunged at him without hesitation. The panicked Ironborn tried to push him away, hitting Alaric's chest with the tip of his sword. The metal point pierced the brigandine and touched Alaric's oak bark, scratching it but failing to penetrate enough to stop him, which only deepened the invader's terror.
In a swift, brutal move, Alaric thrust the spear in his right hand into the Ironborn's neck. The strike was precise and fatal, tearing through the jugular and trachea with a nauseating sound of ripping flesh. The Ironborn let out a gurgle, his hands dropping his sword as he struggled to breathe through a hole now filled with his own blood.
Before the man could fall, Alaric acted.
He released the spear from his right hand and tossed it aside, where it landed in the mud.
With his right hand free, he grabbed the dying man's right arm. Using the momentum of the man's fall and his own strength, Alaric hoisted him over his shoulder, forcing the body to hang across his back like a grotesque, heavy cloak.
The body, still warm, became an improvised shield, a buffer of flesh and bone for his rear.
His flank was now completely covered, and he used the shield in his left hand, the simple round shield of Bear Island, to defend the front. The Ironborn, now a corpse, was dead weight, but it was weight that could save him from a blade to the back.
Alaric was alone, deep in the enemy line, with oak skin and a corpse on his back. His heart beat calm and reserved, but the chaos around him was exactly what he had planned. The spine of the Ironborn attack had been broken by a spectacle of magic and a demonstration of cold audacity. Rescue was coming, but for a brief moment, he was the sole master of that confusion. The carnage that would follow his plan would be bloody, but now, thanks to his actions, it would be a carnage that favored the Northerners.
The weight of the Ironborn on Alaric's back was a constant, visceral reminder of the reality of that war. The corpse, or near-corpse, was an awkward burden, a mass of muscle, leather, and metal pulling at his shoulders. The blood gushing from the gaping wound in the invader's neck wasn't just a stain; it was a warm, viscous, rhythmic fluid that flowed over Alaric's shoulder, finding its way through the gap between his linen tunic and brigandine. He felt the heat of the liquid staining his body.
Beneath the sound of clashing metal and war cries, Alaric could hear something much more intimate and disturbing: the bubbling moans of the man he was carrying. The Ironborn had not yet departed for the halls of his Drowned God; he struggled, lungs trying to suck air through a trachea flooded with blood, making a sound like a boot sinking into mud.
Any other youth his age would be in a panic, vomiting or paralyzed by the horror of carrying a dying man as a shield. But Alaric was different. He was calm, reserved, his mind processing the situation not just as desperate combat, but as a series of variables within a System only he understood. He endured the weight, the iron smell of blood, and the noises of agony without a single muscle in his face twitching. It was a tactical necessity. It was temporary.
He waited.
Around him, the circle of enemies closed in. The Ironborn, seeing the "leper" or "cursed one" apparently burdened by the weight of their companion, regained some of their courage. They approached cautiously, like wolves circling wounded prey. Among them was the emotional Ironborn, the leader of that small assault group, his face twisted in a mixture of hatred and triumph. To them, Alaric was an aberration that needed to be eliminated.
When Alaric judged there were enough Ironborn around him, he acted. With a sharp shrug of his shoulders, he let go of the near-dead body. The corpse thudded heavily into the mud, and Alaric straightened up, feeling the sudden lightness like a surge of adrenaline.
As the Ironborn's body hit the ground, a translucent green panel appeared instantly in the periphery of Alaric's vision:
[System Notification]
Level 2 Enemy Eliminated.
Reward: 80 Exp received.
He ignored the message, focusing on the Ironborn surrounding him.
The invaders wasted no time. Seeing the boy now unprotected, they launched their final attack. Battleaxes were raised, short swords readied for thrusting, and the emotional Ironborn charged with a satisfied grin, certain the next second would bring the end of this Northern anomaly.
Alaric, however, was already a step ahead.
With a calm that bordered on the supernatural, Alaric, reciting words incomprehensible to normal human ears, raised his right arm above his head. His hand was closed in a firm fist, except for his index and middle fingers, which pointed toward the gray sky as if signaling someone.
"By the Old Gods!" he roared, his voice carrying an authority his Charisma wouldn't normally allow.
At the peak of the movement, he brought his hand down violently, swinging it in a semi-circular arc around him as if whipping the air itself. This was the somatic component, the gesture required to perform the Cantrip he intended to use.
The name of the Cantrip, the level 0 spell, was: Thunderclap.
The instant his hand completed the motion, the world seemed to hold its breath. From within Alaric's body, an invisible shockwave, interlaced with bluish sparks of static electricity, exploded in all directions. The wave spread in a short radius, covering exactly 1.5 meters (5 feet) around him. It was a violent expansion of pressure and elemental energy.
Immediately after the shockwave came the sound. It wasn't just a noise; it was a deafening crack, the sound of a centuries-old oak being split in half by lightning. The boom of thunder propagated up to 30 meters (100 feet) in all directions, echoing against the palisade and making the earth vibrate beneath the combatants' feet.
Thunderclap was a level-zero magic, a trick in the hierarchy of druids, but its effectiveness in close combat was undeniable. The damage dealt by the spell was determined by a "D6", a virtual six-sided die the System rolled at the moment of impact, plus his Wisdom Modifier, which, in his case, was two. The result of this invisible die decided the damage the target would receive, ranging from 1 to 6, not counting the adverse effects being electrocuted might cause. Another effect of the Cantrip was to push enemies back.
Furthermore, the spell had a dangerous trait: it did not discriminate between friend and foe. Anyone within the 1.5-meter range would feel the fury of the thunder. That was why Alaric had to isolate himself, moving away from the Northern shield wall; he couldn't risk stunning his own men.
The wave of energy hit the Ironborn like an invisible hammer. Those in the front line were hurled backward, their bodies crashing violently into the comrades coming up behind them or those fighting the Northerners. The sound of bodies hitting bodies mixed with cries of agony.
But what shocked the invaders most wasn't the push, but the sensation. No one in that world, except perhaps the victims of rare lightning strikes, knew what electricity was. The concept of being "electrocuted" didn't exist in their vocabulary. To them, it felt as if a thousand needles of fire were stitching through their muscles from the inside all at once.
Some Ironborn fell to their knees, others let out cries of pure surprise, a high-pitched sound that showed more incomprehensible shock than physical pain itself. However, the most devastating tactical effect was on those in contact with metal. Electricity traveled through metal with hungry greed. Those holding axes or swords without a wooden or leather-wrapped grip, as well as shields without wearing gloves, felt their hands burn.
Several weapons and shields were dropped almost simultaneously, clattering to the ground and leaving the Ironborn vulnerable.
For those wearing metal helms, the fate was worse. Those wearing full metal helmets without adequate lining suffered what the System called "Critical Damage." The electrical discharge was channeled directly into their heads, the metal acting like a torture cage. The damage far exceeded the maximum a D6 could offer.
The emotional Ironborn was one of those unlucky ones. The iron helm he wore with such pride became his ruin. When the wave hit him, his eyes rolled back, tiny sparks jumped from the joints of his armor, and he collapsed like a sack of stones. On the ground, his body began to convulse in violent, rhythmic spasms, foam beginning to sprout from his lips as he lost consciousness.
A sudden, heavy silence fell over the battlefield. It was as if the war itself had paused to process what had happened. Both the Northerners and the Ironborn, who moments before were in a blood frenzy, stopped with weapons raised. Everyone looked toward where the thunderclap had come from.
At the center of that circle of fallen men and discarded weapons, Alaric Mormont remained standing. He was unperturbed, his breathing calm, his eyes cold and observant. Despite never having used Thunderclap against so many targets at once, having only tested the trick against the "bear" that used to attack him before it disappeared, he didn't allow the success of the spell to distract him.
Without wasting a second of the enemy's stupor, Alaric acted. He no longer had his spear, so he reached down and picked up a steel sword that had belonged to the Ironborn he had used as a shield. The balance of the weapon was different, but it would do. With sword in hand and shield still firm on his left arm, he began to retreat strategically toward the gap in the palisade, the point where the invaders had breached the original defense.
An Ironborn, finding his voice, screamed in terror:
"The Storm God! He attacks us again, but through this boy!"
Religious dread spread like wildfire through dry straw. For followers of the Drowned God, the Storm God was the eternal enemy, and seeing a boy invoke thunder was conclusive proof that they were facing something divine, or demonic… again.
Alaric ignored the screams. On his way to the palisade, an Ironborn tried to stand, still dizzy from the shock. Without hesitation, Alaric passed him and buried the sword in the back of his neck, hitting the vertebra and severing his spine. It was a clean, efficient move, devoid of unnecessary cruelty but endowed with lethal practicality.
Another translucent green panel appeared in Alaric's peripheral vision:
[You received 130 EXP for defeating a Level 3 opponent.]
He didn't stop to read the details. His eyes were already scanning the field for the next threat.
"It's him..." murmured another Ironborn, his voice failing as he watched Alaric moving with frightening fluidity toward another invader blocking his way to the gap in the palisade. "He is..."
Alaric advanced almost nonchalantly, trusting in the protection of his Barkskin which was still active. Before him, a veteran Ironborn attempted a desperate defense, raising his shield and readying his sword.
Alaric collided with him, but not with the sword; he used his own shield to strike the enemy's. The impact made the Ironborn raise his guard to protect himself, blocking his own vision for a brief second. It was exactly what Alaric wanted. At the moment of impact, he crouched, slipping past the opponent's notice, and delivered a low, powerful thrust with his sword.
The blade entered the Ironborn's thigh, cutting deep and moving up toward the pelvis. Alaric sought the femoral artery with the precision of one who knew anatomy not just from books, but from experience.
"...The sorcerer," completed the Ironborn watching the scene, his voice trembling with fear.
Alaric stood up as the struck man fell, letting out a piercing scream. Before the enemy could hit the ground, Alaric swung his sword in a short arc, cutting his throat and silencing the cry.
There was an irony there that Alaric didn't fail to notice. He had only dared to use that crouching maneuver, which left him temporarily vulnerable to a downward strike, because he knew the Barkskin would handle any counter-attack. However, he executed the move with such perfection that the enemy didn't even have a chance to touch him. Confidence in his magical armor had made him a more efficient fighter.
Another panel appeared:
[You received 80 EXP for defeating a Level 2 opponent.]
Again, he ignored it.
With the path clear, Alaric stepped through the hole in the palisade. He positioned himself at the opening, assuming a defensive stance against the Ironborn already inside the perimeter who were beginning to reorganize. Before fully committing to the internal fight, he snapped his head around to check the outside of the wall, analyzing the surroundings. He had to be sure there were no immediate reinforcements or archers ready to hit him from behind.
Seeing that the rear was clear for now, he turned his attention back to the invaders in front of him. They had emerged from the stupor caused by the Thunderclap and were now advancing toward him. There were no more shouts of bravado; only a cautious, apprehensive silence. They looked at him as if looking at a monster from ancient legends.
Alaric gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling the texture of the oak bark on his hand. He was tired, but his mind continued to calculate the odds.
'I need to hold for just thirty seconds,' he thought, watching the cooldown timer glowing discreetly in his internal menu. 'Thirty seconds until my Thunderclap can be used again and I can clear this hole once and for all.'
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