Wall of the North

A shaft of light penetrates the musty wet air of a small cramped room, flecks of dust shining and flickering as they float down from the timbers above. The light paints a streak of brightness across a small table set in the very middle, illuminating a crudely drawn map of a hill with several tiers of wooden palisades sheltering a final small hexagonal keep that resembles more a tower than anything else. Six men have gathered around the table, filling the room and talking in quiet voices as they craft a plan of battle.

Suddenly the structure shudders and a loud crash muffles the conversation. Dust is kicked off the roof and it floats down in a sudden billowing cloud directly above the table. As soon as the building settles and the sound of chaos dissipates into the wind the men all start laughing.

“That one nearly hit us,” one of them speaks up.

“Bah, no. They are still at least a hundred yards off,” another retorts. “That one smacked into the motte!”

“Were these mainlanders not supposed to be masters of warfare?” a third one asks. “One of us needs to walk out there and teach them how to use their own siege weapons!”

A fist slams against the table, silencing the boisterous banter instantly. The man slouched over the table raises his eyes to his fellows, grunting as he suddenly pushes off and walks to the window. His bright blonde hair is loosely gathered behind his back, swishing back and forth as he walks. With one hand placed on the edge he leans out and peers towards the besieging army, grunting again at the sight of tents as a belt against the horizon.

In front of the large war camp is a row or trebuchets competing on just how fast they can bob up and down, desperately keeping up the pace at which they bombard the castle. One after another a boulder arcs through the air before finally coming down against the ground the motte, occasionally even the heavy stone structure that stands atop the artificial hill.

The man by the narrow window turns back to look to the table and the men gathered around him, his hand reaching up to tug at the full blonde beard on his chin, scratching some errant hairs into place to reveal a still slight tint of red mixed in from generations past. Only a few centuries ago the great Dragon from the Dawning Sea arrives on the coasts of Selonia and brought the colours of fire to the men of the family, but that bright crimson has been declining for generations.

Much like the fear that had been felt towards the Jarls of Sterling. Now they were the bulwark, the last line of defence before a new invader could reach the mountains of the Ballagain.

“We have been suffering this insolence for a full week,” the man growls and moves his hands up to tear the maille coif from around his neck. “Every morning I don my maille, waiting as we whimper behind walls when we should have stopped the mainlanders at the bridge east of Thatchburh.”

“We could not anticipate their armoured cavalry being quite as effective as it has -”

“Stop! No further excuses from you, any of you. We have food to last until the winter, but after that it will be a matter of time until our people will have to eat the livestock, the hounds, birds that land on our roof; anything, everything.”

“What is our alternative course? To sortie and attempt to break the siege? We are the only ones who may stop them from reaching as far as Druiloch and we are too few to break them.”

A loud bang, yet another, interrupts the conversation. This time it is the sound of the door swinging open with such force that the ring-shaped metal doorhandle slams against the wall. At the door stands a short woman, her icy blue gaze falling on the man who has removed his coif in his exasperation. The woman is dressed in full maille that has been crudely made to fit her thin and fairly short stature.

A fire burns in the woman's eyes as she marches in, tossing a short sword without a significant crossguard on it onto the table, the metal ringing in the cramped space. The golden pommel has been engraved with a dragon and a wolf entwining together while smothering a stag, symbolizing the arrival of two powerful nobles of the wild Varian tribes onto these lands many generations past, founding a house of strong rulers on the very border between the Ballagain and Wallic peoples. Neither could ever defeat Sterling, despite many an attempt.

“Belief in your fire god has made you all weak and cowardly,” she states calmly as the ringing of the shining blade finally fades away. “Greater armies have tried to defeat our family and failed. You know as well as I, dear uncle, that the fierceness of our warriors has always been the reason for our survival. Let us unleash them once more.”

“And lose what men we have in a futile attack that will leave us defenceless? This is real life, not one of those sagas that your mother has been telling you about. We are outnumbered,” the man by the table says and places a hand on the hilt of the old sword. “Not even this old steel will help us now.”

“You dismiss traditions of our family so easily, Uncle Eadric. All that gazing into the flames must have cooked something in you that ought not be,” the woman says and walks towards the table confidently, the maille on her rattling.

“I beg you, spare me the words of defiance. Had you seen more than fourteen summers, I might give you some ground in this argument, but now you are merely making yourself seem foolish and far more innocent than you ought to be,” Eadric says and squints at the youth striding his way.

“My namesake was no older when she landed on these shores.”

“Your namesake had seen battle. Elswyth – the Wolf who stood beside the Dragon of our house – was already an experienced shieldmaiden in her day. You on the other hand have now seen a mere few days of battle. Even now only from afar.”

The young woman grumbles under her breath as she reaches the table, her bright blue eyes focusing on the golden pommel of the sword, trailing the carefully detailed outline of the wolf for a moment. Her uncle takes it as acceptance of the situation and leans down to her level, forcing her to look him in the eyes by shoving his face in between the sword and her.

Before he could speak again the young woman has already reached out and grasped the sword, the edge singing as it gets dragged along all the way to the edge where it finally falls off, coming to rest beside the lithe spirited woman's side. Her face exudes the confidence of a shieldmaiden, prompting the adult man to sigh and hang his head, drained already by this fight that he very clearly will not win.

“If you will not lead a sortie, I will,” she says and turns to one of the other men, specifically the one that had removed his coif in exasperation earlier. “I expect you all to be there and fight with me.”

The cheer of the men is heard resounding through the little castle perched atop it's hill, dulling any objection that the aspiring shieldmaiden's uncle still possessed towards any such action. While the bombardment of stones continues against their defences, Elswyth rushes to inspire a larger force to follow her out through the gates. It would be dangerous, it would be desperate, but it would also be unexpected.

That element of surprise is what the leaders of these defenders were trusting on when assembling at the dead of night behind their new shieldmaiden.

As quietly as could be the doors are swung open and the the defenders sally forth into the darkness, the rattling of their maille armours muffled by the thick padded coats worn beneath them and a thin cloth garment tied around over top the layer of metal rings. This column of the courageous defenders moves quickly and quietly across the bridge before assembling into a more cohesive line of battle. The darkness hides them well enough throughout their journey and gives them time to organize at the end of the bridge before they make the rush forward. As a roar echoes across the field and the sortie launches against their enemies, someone raises up a long pole and unfurls a long white banner bearing the green dragon of Sterling crawling upward upon it.

The besieging army is taken by surprise. The men that had been loading new boulders in the massive trebuchets flee at the sight of these fierce warriors running towards them with shields at the ready and with swords, axes, and spears pointed at the sizeable camp tucked away behind the siege weapons. A few defenders break away to seize the trebuchets, climbing up the sides and hacking away with axes to cut or weaken the support beams. The main force meanwhile continues along past them towards the camp. Those who are standing guard or awakened by the commotion rush to form a shield wall. For a moment the leaders of this army are hopeful of their chances. After all the enemy has been overconfident enough to waive the building of palisades to defend their camp. The earthworks that are there work only to exhaust a sortie before it strikes at the heart of the sleeping army.

A whizzing suddenly crackles in the air as a rain of arrows hails down from the dark sky, falling against the wooden shields and solid ground in waves. The archers themselves are nowhere to be seen, probably using the trebuchets themselves as tall marker posts for their aim as they try desperately to stop these brave warriors of Sterling, or at least stall their fierce advance by having them raise their shields. If they stop for even a minute to weather the arrows and group up into a tighter formation, then that is a minute more that the Valmagne invaders to Selonia have for a full mobilization of their army.

Once a break in the hail of arrows comes as long enough the warriors once more rush ahead, assaulting a small earthwork mound still standing between them and the main camp. They crest the hill only to become face-to-face with a hurriedly organized shield wall. It is the most powerful nobles and fiercest warriors that arrive first, crashing against the shield wall like powerful waves against the very rocks that the first hold of Sterling stands still overlooking.

Were it only a battle from a grand saga, a fairytale, an epic to last the ages. If only it were such, for then a sword from ages past and the sheer strength of will of these warriors might prove the hammer that might smash the Valmagne lines. Yet it is not. The white banner of Sterling flutters in the air as it falls and is toppled over behind the Valmagne shieldwall. One after another the sortieing warriors fall to the ground. Those who were first to follow their fierce and determined young shieldmaiden were no doubt the very first to fall in this fight.

Now their shieldmaiden is forced to lead an ignoble and hurried retreat back past the trebuchets and to the bridge, chased all the way by the firm shield wall of the Valmagne. Until they all hear the last thing they would want to hear at this point. The heavy stomping of hooves against the ground and a single toot of a silver horn accompanies the arrival of the Valmagne cavalry, dressed in heavy maille and carrying long shield that cover their entire sides. The heavy cavalry, bane of all the Wallic tribes that have so far stood before this unbeatable army, has mounted and ridden to black the way to the bridge. Just as the first of the retreating warriors of Sterling reaches the bridge, the spearhead of the mounted Valmagne reaches the main force. They strike from either side, their spears decimating the sortie in a single fell swoop.

A light flickers in the narrow arroslit window of the keep as the few defenders left behind watch their fellows cut down by the powerful cavalry that had already dealt them a major blow near Thatchburh, forcing Sterling as a whole into this position of a single keep holding back the horde of southern invaders.

Eadric leans against the thick wall beside the slit and shakes his head, then turns away as the slaughter truly starts. Those retreating towards the gates of the castle are chased by arrows more than riders who are careful not to endanger their precious horses on the wooden bridge if they can avoid it. A small group of warriors gets to the gate, huddled close together around a small figure between them. Their calls for the gates to be opened go on deaf ears, their voices also drowned out partly by the sounds of slaughter from across the narrow bridge.

The group huddled in safety bang against the gate, shout louder, plead, prey, even attempt to take a hatchet to the gates in an effort to open them before the final defenders at the end of the bridge are cut down, opening the way to the final few of them. The warriors at the back hold up their shields, covering themselves from the arrows whizzing by, mostly either falling short or landing randomly around the gate without any significant impact, but a few do thwack against the upheld large round shields. Just as the few survivors at the end of the bridge finally perish and the path now lies open for a charge against the gates, the large wooden doorway opens and the metal grate is pulled up.

Through the now open gate walks Eadric and three others, all of them waving clean white flags to indicate a willingness to parley with the besieging army. The safely hidden away shieldmaiden emerges from behind the wall of brave warriors huddled around her, rushing to the gates and her uncle with that old steel sword still in hand, the blade now bloodied.

“Eadric! What are you doing? Why did you not open the gates sooner?”

“I am caring for our family, and our land. We must parley with the enemy.”

“No! Never!”

“Yes, now more than ever we must. You took our bravest, our fiercest, and now they lie upon the field past this very bridge. Our enemy does not realize this, but we both know that your reckless and foolish innocence in matters of war have doomed us.”

“I did exactly what has always been expected of our family. You should know this better than anyone, Uncle.”

“Oh, I know what is expected of our family, dear Elswyth,” he says and heaves a deep sigh. “For all of us the greatest effort in our lives must be the continuation of our family – the success of Sterling as our rightful home. I know the sacrifices that must be made.”

Eadric reaches out and grabs the steel sword, pulling it quickly from his niece's hand, pulling her along with it. She stumbles, but quickly regains her footing, retreating away from her uncle now that he has armed himself with the family heirloom sword. He glances at the blood dripping down it, pooling at the handguard before dribbling down to his knuckles. His eyes turn back to the still fierce and undefeated looking niece, her fire indeed burning as strong as it had ever burned in this family of theirs. They had been forged in war, exile, and adversity. Blood had always been spilled to make this house stronger, both in the old lands of Varia as well as now in Selonia.

With a sigh his hand quickly shoves up, his cold blue eyes following the tip of the wave-patterned sword as it sinks into Elswyth's throat. The men all around him shout and move to protect their shieldmaiden but the men carrying white banners swiftly move to push them back. The Valmagne wait at the far end, watching the scene quietly and assembling their army for a battle just in case.

Elswyth meanwhile looks up with shock, horror, sadness, fear. Her Uncle offers only an apologetic look and hugs her, then twists the sword to point up, shoving it quickly as deep as it may go. A bloody gurgle mixes in with his own sob as he leans in and whispers.

“I am sorry, my dearest, bravest Elswyth, but like you I would do all in my power to aid our family,” he sobs quietly. “Even become a kinslayer and traitor to Sterling.”

Droplets of dark blood spray into the air when the heirloom blade of Sterling clatters against slabs of stone that have been arranged as the floor of a newly erected church. The blade visibly flexes as it bounces off the stone and back into the air twice before finally settling down despite the ringing of the metal still echoing in the empty hall. Light flickers and waves along the edge of the old sword, mirroring the movement of the powerful flame that has been contained inside a large bronze brazier in the very middle of this chamber. High above a round tower rises up into the air, ending in ventilation gaps that suck out the thick column of smoke rising from the brazier.

Despite all that had happened mere hours' ride north and past the bridge at Thatchburh, the two men standing on either side of the discarded sword stand tall and proud. A creaky door opens and closes, out walking a n elderly man in a dark uncomfortable looking cassock with a simple ropes acting as a very loose-fitting belt. He offers a quick flash of a smile to both men as he walks up and then stands quietly a few paces away to the side of the sword, clapping his hands together. The sound echoes in the chamber, as does the sound of the monk clearing his throat. His eyes focus on the man closest to the entrance into this church, observing his figure still clad in maille and a cloth bearing a green dragon draped over that. Then he looks at the man standing opposite to the Druiloch, smiling as he sees the golden circlet on this young warrior's brow and the expensive clothes marked with small ornate bee-shaped jewellery.

The two men consider each other for a few moments more before turning to the cheerful monk who has been summoned to translate this encounter and perhaps later write it down into records. It is the man with the circlet upon his head that begins this discussion, speaking in a fluid and flowery language that still bears the echoes of ancient Splician, the language of a great Empire that once dominated the mainland.

“Eadric of Sterling,” the monk quickly works to translate. “You have offered me the loyalty of Sterling and bring me the blade that has taken the life of your very niece, a claimant to the leadership of your realm. I am not certain if I should have you dismembered as a kinslayer or celebrated as a saint for slaying out heathen enemies.”

“I have done as I saw I must to ensure that this bloodshed ceases. For the sake of my family, my faith, and my realm. Were I to follow my kin into battle I would simply doom us all into many more battles and force your hand in destroying Sterling as a reminder of your might.”

“Well well well, quite a claim.”

“King Charles, we were conquerors once and razed many a peoples in our way to establishing Sterling as you see it before you now. Conquerors do not tolerate the possibility of being challenged.”

“What you say is not untrue, Eadric of Sterling. Were I to defeat you – which I would were I to simply push hard enough – then your people would pay the price of being conquered. However, I feel as if you have a solution to our impasse.”

“I do,” Eadric says and kneels before the young King of a united North Wallia, a kingdom titled Norwall. “Here, under the gaze of Our One True God, I offer you the surrender of Sterling. I offer you the pick of Sterling's wealth as continued tribute to the victor, and pledge ourselves to stand as a mighty wall between Norwall and the tribes of the Ballagain.”

“Tribute? You offer me tribute and security from the northerner rabble?”

“Yes, my King. Sterling will stand a sentinel to your north and will survive but for the grace of the great King Charles.”

The offer as it stands is already a coup for the reputation of the newfangled King and a mark of prestige for Norwall itself. A lengthy war in the north is hardly valuable to either side, especially with the Norwallian holdouts on the mainland still constantly under threat by the King's Valmagne rivals. Once the Valmagne and the people of the Selonian isles had been same peoples which slowly grew apart. Now the mainlanders had finally found a Lord strong enough to invade the Selonian Isles and unite the northern Wallic tribes into a single Kingdom. Unfortunately for Charles this newfound claim to great power left his former mainland possessions vulnerable and demanding for his attention. Sterling standing as a vanguard in the north would secure that border for the time being.

Eadric had arrived to this meeting confident. While perhaps his family had never seen him as one of their own due to his careful nature, he knew the reality of Sterling's position. He had tried to speak with the with his family of giving the King an offer such as this even before his brother, the Jarl, had rushed to defend the bridge near Thatchburh. Of course his brother had not returned from that battle. Very few had.

Then the same thing happened with his niece, the brave soul who wished for nothing more but to continue the heritage of the great shieldmaidens, except that with her it had not been the enemy that had slain her. That blood was on his hands, the hands of Eadric of Sterling, and upon the family sword.

The King reaches down and picks up the heirloom sword, studying the way the almost dried blood has shaped itself against the metal and how the wave-like patterns still shine through the layer of crimson. He lets out a quiet chuckle before reaching out with the blade, setting the flat of it against Eadric's shoulder, pressing down to leave a mark of blood on his clothes while he studies the Sterling man's soul through the look in his eyes and the reaction of his body.

“There will be a gruesome death waiting for you, Eadric of Sterling. Until then you shall guard the north, for you understand what shall happen to your people if I were to be stabbed in the back.”