Nerd In The North: 3-16

III-16: The Siege of Shadows

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Fuck!” The side of Greg’s face twitched as another man fell, an arrow lodged deep in his throat. All around him, the battlefield was pure chaos – mud and blood and shit and screaming. The plan was simple enough; march through the night and hit the castle right before dawn, a long time before they probably expected them to reach the Dreadfort.

Then he was going to break down the gate, as best he could. How?

He wasn’t exactly sure, but he figured a full-powered Smite would probably get him a good portion of the way there.

One thing, though.

They were ready.

And waiting.

With traps… and such.

Now, the Dreadfort’s walls stretched up like teeth against the grey sky, Bolton men lining the battlements with bows drawn. At least one arrow from each volley found flesh with practiced precision, years of flaying people alive apparently great practice for killing them too.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Greg’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, golden light flickering around his fingers as he fought the urge to just start blasting. The copper stench of blood filled his nostrils, mixing with smoke and fear-sweat and making his stomach do backflips. Not that he had time to be queasy. Another scream pierced the air as an arrow found its mark, the sound cutting off with a wet gurgle that made his jaw clench so hard it hurt.

A familiar roar split the air like thunder. Ash burst through a cluster of Bolton men, the dragon-bear’s wings spread wide as hellfire poured from his jaws. Men scattered like leaves, their screams cut brutally short as claws and fangs went to work. Those who didn’t run fast enough learned exactly why mixing dragon and bear DNA was probably a war crime somewhere in some universe. Smoke rose from freshly-cooked corpses as Ash bounded forward, scales glinting red in the firelight.

Right behind the dracoursa, Guts was painting his own masterpiece in blood and steel. 

The Dragonslayer sang through the air, each swing leaving devastation in its wake that would make Lung jealous. Shields splintered like glass, chainmail burst apart like paper, and bodies… well, Greg tried not to look too hard at what happened to the bodies. The dark-armored massive-bodied warrior moved like a force of nature, each movement precise despite the sheer brutality of his strikes.

“Jesus fucking-” Greg’s hand shot up in a claw, the teenager swiping it to the right as he spotted another wave of arrows, a familiar rune shifting in his mind and reworking itself before he could even finish cursing. “Aard Shield!“

The air crystallized into a wall of pure force as he altered the nigh-instictive Sign into a fully-formed spell in it’s own right, arrows bouncing off like rubber balls. His men charged through without hesitation – morale at their peak as some of them seemed to glow with a subtle light, like a faint copy of his own healing spells. Their spears leveled at the now-backpedaling Bolton forces as Greg poured more power into the shield. More than a few defenders dropped their weapons at the sight of seemingly divine protection, while others broke into a run. Yeah, that’s right. Run from the teenage wizard, you medieval fucks.

“Don’t let up!” Greg’s voice cracked slightly as he darted forward, another shield spell already forming. His hands moved in practiced motions as he wove protection around his advancing forces. “Push them back! Push!“

But despite everything – despite Ash’s flames and Guts’ blade and Greg’s magic – those fucking gates still stood. Thick oak banded with iron refused to yield, threatening to turn this siege into the world’s bloodiest staring contest. 

Greg’s teeth ground together as he watched another volley launch from the walls, his magic barely deflecting the arrows in time. The gates were the key. Everything else was just… just fucking around.

We need those gates down or this is just gonna be a really elaborate way to get a thousand people killed.

Blue eyes darted across the battlefield, searching for anything useful. They landed on an abandoned supply cart, its contents scattered across the blood-soaked mud like the world’s most depressing yard sale. The frame was solid oak, reinforced with iron bands meant to keep it from falling apart on rough roads. Metal-rimmed wheels had carved deep ruts in the earth where it sat.

Greg’s lips curled into a slight smile as the idea hit him. Sometimes the best solution was also the dumbest. “Clear a path!” 

The command cracked across the battlefield like a whip. His men scrambled back without question, leaving a wide lane to the gates. Greg strode forward, each step deliberate as he approached the cart. His fingers sank into the dampened wood as he gripped the sides, muscles tensing as he pulled the entire thing in one movement.

The cart rose into the air like it was made of styrofoam, Greg’s enhanced strength making the feat look almost casual. Around him, the fighting seemed to pause as both sides stared – his own men with a mix of awe and grim satisfaction, the Bolton forces with dawning horror as they realized what was coming.

“Step back,” Greg called out, adjusting his grip on his improvised siege weapon. His voice carried an edge of anticipation as he lined up with the gates, already imagining the satisfying crunch of wood meeting wood at speeds wood really wasn’t meant for. “Batter up!”

The cart spun through the air like death itself, wood and metal blurring into one as Greg’s throw sent it hurtling toward the gates. The impact was thunder given form, gates buckling inward as wood splintered and iron screamed. For a heartbeat, the entire battlefield went dead silent.

The gates shuddered, creaked… and held.

“No…” Greg’s eyes widened as his heart plummeted into his stomach. “No, no, no.”

Above, the Bolton men found their voices again. Arrows rained down with renewed fury as crude laughter echoed from the walls. Clay pots arced through the air, flames bursting to life as it shattered near a group of his men. Their screams cut through him as fire caught their clothes, bodies thrashing in the mud as their comrades tried to help.

Blood roared in Greg’s ears as his nails bit deep into his palms. Every death, every scream, every single person who fell charging these walls – it all pressed down on his chest like a mountain of ice. His breath came in sharp bursts that had nothing to do with exertion. The Dreadfort loomed above him, dark walls unchanged and unyielding despite everything they’d thrown at it.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Fall back!” The words tore from his throat raw and ragged. His men obeyed without question, dragging wounded comrades as they retreated from the kill zone. Greg’s eyes burned as he watched them withdraw. “Get the fuck back! Now!“

Another volley of arrows peppered the ground, driving his men further back. Greg scanned the battlefield, desperate for something, anything that could turn this around. Guts was still going strong, that monster sword of his cleaving through Bolton men like they were made of paper. The black-clad warrior barely seemed to breathe as he moved, each swing ending a life with mechanical precision.

Ash wasn’t far behind, the dracobear’s flames painting the night in shades of orange and red. Men scrambled back from the hybrid beast in blind terror, many dropping weapons as they fled. But none of it mattered. Not while those gates still stood, mocking every attempt to breach them.

Sweat made Greg’s palms slick despite the northern chill biting at his skin. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as he stared up at the Dreadfort’s walls. Rough stone stretched upward, jagged surfaces offering precarious handholds in the darkness. Guards paced the battlements above, eyes sharp and arrows ready. It wasn’t an easy climb.

But the gates aren’t falling. Not fast enough. Not without losing everyone.

A plan started forming in his head – the kind of plan that got people killed. Usually the person who came up with it. Greg sucked in a breath, forcing his voice steady. “Hold the line! Keep pressure on those gates!” His eyes darted to his dracobear companion. “Ash – make noise. Keep their eyes on you.”

He turned toward the black swordsman, watching arterial spray arc from that massive blade. “Guts…”

The warrior’s head tilted slightly, sword still raised and dripping red. Greg winced. “Try not to kill all of them?”

“Don’t die, whelp.” Guts’ voice was gravel and steel, cutting through the chaos with raw force, probably a benefit of lungs just as fuck-huge as the rest of him. “Seriously, don’t.”

Greg managed a weak grin that didn’t touch his eyes. “Not planning on it.”

The sound hit first – Ash’s roar shaking the very ground, a bestial sound that made Greg’s teeth rattle in his skull. Orange-red light flooded the battlefield as dragon-fire spilled from the bear’s maw, throwing wild shadows across blood-soaked mud and broken bodies. The heat was enough to make his skin prickle even from this distance, air wavering like water as flames turned night to day. Greg stumbled back a step, letting battle-chaos swallow any trace of his movement as he slipped toward the darker edges of hell itself.

Magic. Need magic. The thought came desperate as his hands trembled, fingers flexing as he reached for that familiar darkness inside. His stomach lurched – it always did, using magic still felt wrong somehow – but shadow-stuff answered like it always did, coiling around his arms and legs like living smoke. The weight of his own body seemed to fade as shadows pulled him deeper into their embrace, that wrongness fading into something almost comfortable. His palm met cold stone, rough under his fingers. Fuck, that’s high.

One foot. Then hand. Then foot. Greg forced each movement to be slow, deliberate, even as his heart tried to pound out of his chest. The walls were treacherous – slick with ice here, crumbling there, and the wind kept trying to tear him away like nature itself knew he shouldn’t be doing this. A chunk of stone broke away under his fingers, nearly sending him plummeting before shadow-tendrils caught him. His breath came in sharp gasps that fogged in the cold air. Below him, steel rang against steel, screams and shouts blending into white noise as he climbed higher. Magic thrummed under his skin, shadow-tendrils gripping stone while his fingers found another hold.

Somewhere below, a man’s death-scream pierced the night. Greg’s grip tightened as he fought not to look down. Focus. Just focus. Don’t think about it.

A shout from above made his blood freeze. “There! On the wall!“

The whistle of arrows filled his ears. Greg slammed himself against stone on pure instinct, but not fast enough – burning pain exploded through his shoulder as steel bit flesh. He bit back a scream, pressing his forehead against icy rock as blood trickled down his back. The wound throbbed in time with his racing heart. Not deep. Just a graze. Fuck fuck fuck that hurts.

His arms shook as he forced himself to keep moving. The cold was seeping into his bones now, fingers going numb even with magic warming his blood. But he couldn’t stop. Can’t stop can’t stop can’t fucking stop. More arrows clattered against stone around him, chips of rock stinging his face. Flickering torchlight spilled from windows above, getting closer with each painful pull upward.

Greg’s lungs burned by the time he found a ledge, barely wide enough for his boots. He flattened himself against the wall, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Wind howled around him, drowning out the battle below. Every instinct screamed at him to move – sitting target, you’re a sitting fucking target – but he forced himself still. Had to think. Had to plan. The arrow wound pulsed angrily, warm blood still trickling down his back.

His fingers clenched as shadows writhed around his arms, magic sensing his intent. It felt almost eager now, hungry for whatever came next. Almost. Almost there. Greg pulled hard on that well of power inside him, and sent shadow tentacles surging outwards to latch on to the wall above. Muscle and magic worked together as held tight and then pulled, launching himself up even higher.

The shutters exploded inward as he crashed through, wood splintering around him like a storm of daggers. He hit stone floor rolling, boots skidding as he came up ready to fight. The impact sent fresh waves of pain through his shoulder. Only a single lantern lit the room, flame dancing low on a massive oak desk that probably cost more than Greg had ever seen in his life. 

Shadows played across stone walls, but he barely noticed them.

His whole world narrowed to the man standing at the far end of the room.

Roose Bolton didn’t even twitch. Those eyes – Jesus, they look like ice – flicked up from whatever papers he was looking at — oh wow, trying to look cool and unbothered like there’s not a fucking war outside — and landed on him, studying Greg with all the emotion of someone examining an insect they were pulling apart. Thin lips pressed together before curving up into something that might have been a smile on anyone else’s face.

“So,” Bolton’s voice filled the room even though the man didn’t even bother raising his voice, each word precise and measured. “The sorcerer boy graces us with his presence at last.”

Greg stumbled upright, jaw clenched so tight it hurt as black smoke-stuff twisted around his hands like it had a mind of its own. His shoulder burned like hell where the arrow had caught him but he barely noticed, too busy staring at what hung on the wall to the left of him.

No fucking way. Blue eyes widened.

The sword.

My sword.

Just… hanging there. 

Like a hunting trophy or something, mounted above all Bolton’s fancy papers like it wasn’t worth shit. Greg’s chest went so tight he could barely breathe, relief and rage slamming into him at once. The shadows around his hands writhed faster, darker, hungrier.

“I must say, you’ve been quite industrious.” Bolton’s voice was still quiet, the man barely speaking above a murmur. “Setting fire to everything in your path. Making rather a spectacle of yourself.” He tilted his head like one of those creepy porcelain dolls his mom liked. “Do tell – does all this theatrical destruction make you feel important?”

Greg’s fingers curled into fists without him meaning to. The shadows pulsed and twisted as anger burned up his throat. “Oh my god, shut up,” he choked out, voice cracking embarrassingly. “Do you practice being this much of an asshole?”

That creepy-ass smile got wider on Bolton’s face. His eyes stayed dead though – like, actually dead-looking. “And you never think before you speak, do you?” he said, voice cold and precise as a scalpel. “Tell me something, boy – do you have the slightest comprehension of what you’re doing? Or are you simply breaking things because you can?”

Greg took a jerky step forward before he could stop himself. His heart was going so fast he felt dizzy. Everything in the room felt wound up too tight, about to snap. “Like you don’t know why I’m here.” His eyes jumped to the sword on his left again – couldn’t help it – then back to Bolton’s face. Blood pounded in his ears. “You fucking stole it.”

The smile dropped. 

Something changed in those dead eyes – like he was doing math in his head or some shit. Then suddenly he was moving, way faster than Greg thought he could, knife appearing in his hand like a magic trick.

The shadows moved before Greg’s brain could catch up. Black tendrils shot out from his raised hand, smacking the blade away mid-stab. Metal clattered on stone as Bolton stepped back, face blank but body all tensed up.

“God, you’re so fucking obvious.” Greg couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice. Another step forward, hand reaching past Bolton for the wall. 

His fingers were shaking — anger flooding him the longer he stared at this evil lord — and he hated it. Hated being angry.

Bolton just… watched as he went for the sword. 

Didn’t move or anything, with the only exception being his eyes as they darted for the open door to Greg’s side.. 

Just stared with those dead-fish eyes while Greg’s hand closed around the sword grip. The second he touched it – fuck. His body relaxed and something inside him rung like a bell as his fingers closed around the hilt.

Like finding a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing. 

The weight felt perfect in his hand, right and real and his.

Greg lifted the blade, watching light run along the white steel. When he looked at Bolton again, his own eyes felt as cold as the lord’s. 

“You took my fucking sword,” he said, steadier than he thought he could manage with all the anger churning in his gut. “I’m taking it back.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Wall Walker (50 GP)

Spell Innovator (100 GP)

ROLL: Where is Jumper? (200) [Ultimate Marvel] {Illusion} – You are hidden from most mystical detection methods. Sufficiently powerful beings, such as Dormammu, can still find you given enough time. Regardless, it is a very useful skill when facing magical threats from this world and beyond.

ROLL: Shield of Faith (100) [The Gods Are Bastards] {Benevolence} – The followers of Avei are, in the end, warriors, and each are clad as appropriate for their craft. You gain a set of light or heavy armor, along with a shield and an enchanted sword.

Grimoire Points: 400