Chapter 29 - Warding the Walls

“There is one truth taught by history.

Everything ends.”

- Waltheoff Odinsgode, Grand Priest of the Old Way

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Taliesin shivered in the pre-dawn morning as he walked across Buverik. A few sleep-dazed thralls were up and around, hauling firewood mostly, but little stirred otherwise. Aina and Runolf and a half-dozen varingjar led twenty armed villagers - men-at-arms in training, really - who all shivered beneath sturdy wool cloaks and carried long spears. There would be no more games with the Sheriff. Time was far too valuable, and if the enemy had any scouts in the area, they knew this too.

The town’s walls were stone up to waist height, and on top of that were ten to twelve feet of thick wood beams bound tightly together, the tops cut to a rough point. When they arrived at the section of wall to be warded, Taliesin cast a quick [Shape] and got to work. First he had to hollow out one of the larger foundation stones at the base of the wall. In the small space within, he used his copper stylus to draw out the enchantments on the surfaces in the interior. The work was awkward and fiddly, because the space was small out of necessity - it wouldn’t do to weaken the structure of the wall - and it was low to the ground which meant kneeling on the cold ground. Fortunately, he’d learned his lesson from the first ward stone, and now he brought a thick piece of leather and a folded up piece of cloth to kneel on.

Once the intricate enchantment was carved, Taliesin used a few copper coins to fill in the etchings. This filigree lended magical resonance to the enchantment, and lengthened the lifespan of the wards. Once the final rune was engraved and filled in, a small bit of undirected aether primed the enchantment and allowed it to connect back to the key anchor in the manor. An ethereal hum audible only to those who could perceive aether thrummed for a moment, and power laced with a hint of the divine rushed into the new ward stone. The yet-to-be-reborn goddess’ fingerprints were there, signaling once more that she would uphold her promise to bolster the wards.

Once the ward sprang to life, Taliesin placed a lid of stone over the opening to mask the stone against all the others in the wall. It was a little bit art with a dollop of chaos to make the modifications look like natural stone. Just to be sure, he went a dozen feet down the wall and smoothed an unrelated stone to unnatural flatness. He shaped several large, crude runes whose sole purpose was to absorb ambient aether within a few feet of the enchantment, and make themselves glow faintly as a decoy.

The entire time he worked, his varingjar and his new recruits stood around, stomping their feet and blowing on their hands against the cold. Aina watched him intently. She made no effort to disguise her curiosity, although whether the mute girl was watching the enchantment work or she was watching him, Taliesin was uncertain. She gave off the mercurial energy of a cat - she might purr or she might claw him - only the cat knew what would happen next.

By midafternoon, Taliesin was tired. They’d worked their way almost to the edge of the western wall, not far from the gate that led down to the boat yards. He had plenty of aether to use, but the mental strain of intense concentration coupled with the relentless cold that seeped past even his warmth-enchanted clothing was draining. On top of that, his knees and lower back were tired from bending over and working close to the snow-covered ground. His newly rejuvenated body shrugged it off well enough, but even youth wasn’t a perfect panacea either.

Taliesin stretched and felt a pleasant pop in his spine. With a satisfied yawn, he turned to Runolf. The older warrior stood as if carved from weathered wood. Bits of snow stuck to his bushy beard, which was left where it landed, ignored.

“I think a break is in order. I’m feeling a bit cold and hungry.”

“The womenfolk packed us some food. Can get out of the wind over there, should help warm us up a bit,” said Runolf, pointing at an alley near the wall. It was too narrow for refugee villagers to set up in, but for a short rest it would suffice. “‘Fraid it’ll be simple fare, milord.”

“Simple is fine,” said Taliesin indifferently. Once this task was complete, he’d be able to hunker down in his rooms for the winter and truly work on his enchanting and his spellwork. By spring, he’d be in a far stronger position. He just needed to pay for that time now. He accepted a thick pastry stuffed with potatoes and vegetables and chewed on it absently, his mind whirling as he worked through abstract spellforms in his head.

A thrum of structured aether echoed in the distance. Taliesin’s head jerked in the direction of the wall, the half-eaten meal in his hands forgotten. It was coming from the last section of wall that he planned to ward the next morning. Instantly, it clicked.

“Send a runner to the Jarl! We are under attack!”

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Aina accepted the stuffed pastry and ate with relish. The vegetables had been stewed in tallow to offset how they’d become wrinkled and old, and the potatoes had been diced small so they didn’t pierce the crust. A few of them had been mashed into the juices to thicken the mixture and make a pleasant gravy. Her mother had made pastries just like this. The thick crust was edible, but barely. Its real purpose was to be a sturdy container for its filling. Even so, Aina ate swiftly, and the gravy made eating the tough crust enjoyable. The fond memories carried her through her hurried meal.

She stood at the far end of the alley from the wall, near where it opened into a shared garden space between several buildings. Contrary to the alley, several crude tents and a small wagon took up the open space. A small stone fire pit sat in the center, and several women sat around it with cookpots stewing away. Beyond the tents was a wide opening onto the street beyond, where townspeople walked back and forth, going about their business. Aina absently watched, half a mind searching for any of the Sheriff’s militia thugs, or worse, his tax collectors. She washed down the pastry with a swig from a waterskin that was passed around, and settled in to enjoy the feeling of being pleasantly well fed. It had happened all too rarely in her life, although the past few weeks had been a nice change of pace in that part of her life.

A figure caught her eye across the crowd and her eyes flicked back to them on instinct, scanning the crowd. For a few seconds, she thought she’d imagined it, then she saw him.

Unmistakably, the former thrall, Samuel the Celt, was standing at the opening across the courtyard in a decent quality tunic and wool cloak talking to another townsperson. She recognized that cloak. It was her mother’s cloak. Aina had wrapped her mother up in a fine cloak gifted to her by Bors for her funerary rituals, but the one the celtic thief was wearing was the one her mother used on a daily basis. And that bastard had the guts to steal from her dead mother!

Aina had stalked forward without even realizing it, her fists clenched so tightly they’d turned white. She made her way through the crowded garden, sidestepping the bits and clutter of the tiny refugee camp. Several children ran around her and slowed her as they played some game of chase and capture that was as wild as it was nonsensical.

Samuel looked up from his conversation and straight into Aina’s eyes. He froze in place, then paled as he recognized Aina and saw the sheer rage in her eyes. The celt backed away slowly for a moment, ignoring the confused query from the townsperson he’d been talking to. Then he turned and began to walk away briskly.

Aina pushed through the children, just as she heard Taliesin shout that they were under attack. She paused, caught between her newfound loyalty to him, and her mother. But in her heart she knew there was only one choice to make.

She pressed on, her new seaxes in hand. Now people were running around her, and she saw Samuel turn a corner just as she raced forward. Giving up all pretense of blending in, Aina ran after him. She darted around the corner to see him running down the street.

The former thrall had a modest head start and had fear pushing him, but Aina was both faster and fuelled by scorching hot rage. She ran after him, and in the end, it wasn’t even difficult to catch up to the celt. With a silent scream of anger, Aina slashed at him, her blade easily cutting a thin gash in his thigh.

Samuel stumbled, then tripped over his own feet and fell to his hands and knees. He turned over and scrambled backwards in a mad crabwalk, but Aina was standing over top of him.

“Wait! No, please let me explain! I’m sorry, I thought you were dead! I didn’t know!” begged the former thrall. He got back to his feet and limped away, crashing into a pile of crates amid shouts of outrage from nearby refugees.

Samuel grabbed onto the arm of an onlooker, and cried out, “Help me! Please! Help!?”

Aina drank up his desperation as she seethed in her outrage. This was what she’d hoped for, what she dreamed of. She stormed forward, a small boyish figure dressed in proper northmen attire against a poorly dressed outlander. The celt’s pleas fell on deaf ears. The man he’d grabbed onto shoved him away in disgust. Nobody here would bother to help a thrall, freed or not. They never bothered to help her after all.

Then Samuel ducked around a small merchant’s cart, and began throwing wooden odds and ends at her. Aina dodged them with ease, her divinely granted grace and agility making short work of the celt’s poor aim. He tried to keep the wooden vehicle in between him and Aina, even as she juked back and forth to catch up to him. Finally, she lost patience with the game, and leapt over the cart in an acrobatic, twisting flip that placed her right next to the man.

Samuel tripped and a quick kick from Aina to his bleeding thigh prevented him from recovering and sent him to the muddy street. Just as he was about to get his feet back and stand up to flee once more, Aina kicked him in the stomach as hard as she could. The celt’s stomach was soft and the blow caught him unawares. He crumpled back to the ground and held up a pleading hand.

Now it was time to finish her vengeance. The former thrall was every bit as weak and cowardly as she’d expected. But now that he was here at her feet, completely at her mercy, did she really want to kill him? Was this weakling worth the price she’d have to pay?

Then her eyes caught her mother’s cloak on the would-be murderer’s back. Samuel had stolen Aina’s money, dumped her in a ditch to die of fever and cold, and then looted her scant possessions. After a few, long seconds of soul searching, Aina could find no room in her heart for forgiveness.

Aina face hardened.

She slashed at his defending hand, forcing him to recoil at the sudden pain, which simultaneously cleared the way for her other blade. The seax sank into his undefended throat without mercy. In a savage, twisting motion, the razor sharp manasteel blade sliced through the former thrall’s windpipe and one of his carotid arteries. Blood sprayed out even as air escaped the surprisingly clean cut in the dying man’s throat.

He clutched at his throat, blood spurting from the wound and coating his hands in red. His eyes bulged as he stared at her, a mixture of anger, horror, and desperation in them. Aina stood over him and watched him die, her rage finally sated when he went still.

When it was over, she cleaned her blades on the dead man’s tunic. Blood soaked the top of her mother’s cloak. The fabric was threadbare in places and wasn’t nearly as nice as the one the Stormlord had given her. A twist of guilt went through her when she thought of Lord Taliesin. She suppressed it long enough to cut a strip of cloth from the cloak, from a part not covered in blood. Aina reverently folded the cloth and tucked it into her belt.

Only then did she look up to realize she was surrounded by horrified refugees and townspeople.

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Taliesin raced towards the unwarded section of wall, Runolf and his varingjar hot on his heels. The recruits ran awkwardly after them, trying not to drop their spears or accidentally impale themselves on the spears of their compatriots. Once at the wall, Taliesin climbed the nearest ladder to reach the narrow walkway that ran around the top of the wooden palisade.

He could see nothing but swirling snow and mist obscuring the stone foundations of the admittedly flimsy excuse for a town wall. Taliesin frowned as Runolf climbed up beside him. He had definitely felt hostile magic. What were those mangy gnolls up to?

A quick glance saw that everyone… almost everyone had caught up and was at the wall. “Where’s Aina?”

“Ran off. Saw someone, chased after him.”

Taliesin frowned. He knew that she’d been hiding something, harboring some form of grudge. The girl was quiet, of course, but she was hardly difficult to read. There was a buried anger, and he’d found her in a snowbank. She obviously hadn’t made it there on her own, not as weak and sick as she’d been.

But now wasn’t the time to unravel that particular knot. He turned back to the danger that eluded him below. The wind swirled against the frozen beams of the wall, ignoring his need for answers. Taliesin had to know what was happening before the Jarl’s men arrived.

Then he spotted it. The answer was in the wind he’d just been watching. Taliesin scooped up a handful of snow, ignoring the biting cold against his bare hands. The light breeze at the top of the wall blew at his back. Taliesin tossed the snow over the wall, and watched as the wind pushed the snow away. Then instead of drifting away, the snow came to a dead stop, and plummeted straight down to join the fog below.

“Shamans,” growled Runolf.

Taliesin had to agree. The magic was blended into the fog and wind so smoothly and naturally that even with his ability to see aether, he could barely spot it. Without knowing to look for it, he’d have never noticed.

“Let’s see what they’re hiding,” said Taliesin. “[Gale Wind].”

A burst of aether lanced out of Taliesin in a burst of white light. With it came a howl of wind that followed the Stormlord’s will. The powerful wind gusted straight down the wall and curved sharply to blast away the fog, snow and mist that obscured his view. In only a scant second, the weather cleared to reveal two dozen gnolls frantically splashing buckets of a sticky, tar-like substance on the wooden posts of the palisade.

At the back of the gnoll saboteurs stood a gnoll shaman who looked very startled to have his magical working torn away so easily. The shaman yipped at the other gnolls, who almost to a being, dropped their buckets and fled.

[Lightning Strike],” intoned Taliesin, and magical lightning leapt from his fingertips unerringly to the shaman.

The shaman merely waved, however, and the lightning careened off to strike the ground harmlessly a dozen yards away. Then the shaman then cast his own spell, and a dozen bolts of fire came into being and flew at the walls. There they struck the tar-like goop that was splashed on the timbers and ignited with an intensity born of alchemical fury. In an instant, thick black smoke choked the air between Taliesin and the shaman as hot, oily flames burned into the walls with unnatural speed. A screech below showed a gnoll who’d been too slow in dropping his own bucket had inadvertently caught alight. The flames killed far quicker than Taliesin expected, but far too slowly for the doomed gnoll to avoid an agonizing death.

The shaman locked eyes with Taliesin, his jaw slightly agape in what looked to be a wide smirk, before he loped away to follow his fellow saboteurs. From the direction of the gates, Taliesin could see the Jarl’s guards pouring out from the protection of the walls to give chase, but he knew that they were too late. Another group began to rush towards the burning wall.

Taliesin and Runolf climbed down, the heat and flames already licking through the cracks and threatening the platform they were on.

“[Gentle Rain]” said Taliesin, his voice tinged with regret. This was going to be uncomfortable.

Clouds formed above, and a gentle, solid soaking rain began. The large, wet droplets froze swiftly in the winter weather, turning into solid hail pellets that pelted the ground around them with wet, sharp bits of ice. Taliesin pulled his hood up and hunched his shoulders.

Behind him, the icy rain sizzled against the alchemical blaze. It slowed the flames, but could not extinguish them. At most, it helped prevent the fire from spreading to untainted posts, which was the extent Taliesin could help. He wasn’t a fire mage, nor did he work fire spells. The best he could do was rely on mundane physical effects to counter the sabotage. On the other side of the wall, he could hear shouts as chunks of snow were being shoveled and flung against the flames. Taliesin could only hope his [Gentle Rain] would stop the spread of the fire.

The gnolls had struck a deadly blow against the town’s defenses, but oddly it was something of a relief. The tension of waiting was over. The enemy had made it crystal clear.

War was upon them.