The Northern Wall
Selzurius watched as the formation of raiders North of the wall trudged along, stubbornly but wisely holding to their shield wall (as those from the South had done, though he did not witness it). What an excellent target the tightly packed unit would have made for ballistae, or even cavalry. Alas Illia had no such armaments. For a time, what seemed a grueling, long time, the militia along the northern wall simply loaded, and fired, and loaded, and fired, under the steady and relentless reminder of the old mage's orders.
"
LOAD, FIRE!" he would yell, and they would fire, volley after volley. The Lord mayor stood somewhat behind Selzurius, discomfited but knowing of no other safer place to stand than at the sorcerer's side.
The Viking shieldwall was effective, but not perfect. Concentrated volume of fire in timed volleys was the best way to exploit what few gaps existed until the Vikings were much closer, at which point fire-at-will became more relevant.
Perhaps a lightning bolt to repay the Shaman's kindness? Or a fireball? Tempting, but Selzurius was more prepared than that and such an expense of mana was for now unnecessary. He knew the Northman Shaman must have paid dearly for his display of power with the lightning, though he could not see the exact price from such a distance, nor did he know his rival's source of power nor his limits. For now he only assumed.
Instead, as was often his way, Selzurius relied on a well-prepared bit of spellcraft topped with only a dash of immediate energies. As the Vikings closed the distance to the breach, and crossed a half-way point in the field and were beginning the last third of the approach, he sprang the trap.
In his outstretched palm rested a single dark seed. One of four special-bred cultures, a gift from the Ixchel Wilds, made mutant and wicked beyond even the viciousness of its natural cousins through successive generations of patient cultivation and nurturing malice.
Selzurius drew an obsidian blade from his waist, removed his gauntlet, pricked a fingertip, and rubbed blood over the blackened seed. The old mage then pursed his lips and blew on the seed, borrowing the hands of the wind to carry the tiny, harmless object almost invisibly and silently over the edge of the wall, across the field, and into the soil in front of the Viking's march.
At nearly the same moment,
Trask was doing the same at the mouth of the breach, though in his case he merely dropped two seeds into the ground directly in front of the hole & then slipped a knife under the plate segments on the underside of his forearm, dripping a liberal amount of blood into the ground over top the seeds.
In the East, over the great mountains and deep in the shadows of the wild jungles, they had a name for what happened next. A simple enough title for a dark harvest that reaped you instead of you reaping it. This far west, Selzurius had never yet heard of its use, not even in tales or rumors. It was his pleasure to make the introduction to these Northern curs.
He called it *Carnithorn*.
In the rocky and grassy field in front of the Vikings, the seed buried itself into the ground, digging deep almost as if it had claws of its own. The old sorcerer's blood fed it with a mad virulence, and soon enough, within moments of the first Viking's beginning to pass, dark vines began to spread through the grass. At first tiny and thin, quiet, unassuming.
By the time a decent portion of the formation had walked into the area, there were dark-red vines as thick as arms, with thorns the size of fingers - and they moved with HATRED and with HUNGER, possessed with unholy speed and strength totally unnatural to any mundane
plants.
The vines would spread far and entangle many, unless somehow avoided or 'cured'. Fire was often the best option for Carnithorn, but what would the Northmen know of this? And besides, this breed was special.. and infused with the sorcerer's own blood. Such fresh fines fueled by such magick might not even yield to a flame. It was a horror that no man should be asked to face. The vines would coil and lash, wrap, climb and strangle, rip and tear and thrash with enough force to threaten even strong men with heavy armors falling prey.
But the worst was yet to come. Carnithorn had that name for a reason - for it fed, and it grew, sucking blood from its victims with a quickness anywhere it pierced flesh. The more blood spilled upon the growing web of murderous vines, the more vicious and plentiful they would become - a trap that only a logical mind could solve - a problem that a sword could nary fix - the more they struggled and fought through the growing thicket of thorns, the worse it would become, a loop of feeding and feasting and death. The better option would be to retreat.. but would the Vikings have the courage to swallow their pride? Where was logic to be found in the heat of a battle, under withering volleys of arrows? Or perhaps they may yet devise some other solution.
Selzurius watched expectantly as the opera of carnage unfolded, wondering what solution (if any) the raiders might conceive. Either way, there would be a few less to be concerned with, and their march would have likely slowed.. with any luck, the shieldwall itself may even become disrupted and leave them vulnerable to archers.
As this happened, the old mage waited and observed, waiting for the rival Shaman to make a new mistake or some other opening to present itself.
Meanwhile, at the breach, Trask stepped backwards inside the walls again, watching as the breached opening (itself perhaps 10 feet wide, enough for two or three men abreast to enter at a time) filled with Carnithorn. These were somewhat slower, not fed by a sorcerer's blood but merely a man's, yet a great portion of the Carnithorn's magic was already bred into the seed itself. The blood merely acted as a catalyst, to whet the things appetite. The more it drank the more horrifying it would become.
There at the breach, the two seeds of Carnithorn grew vines and weaved and together, throwing deadly whips between portions of the walls still standing and forming a sort of web, a faux-wall, though not as tall nor nearly as thick, it was perhaps even more lethal than the original section. The Carnithorn also spread out in front and behind the breach and into the wooden columns and along the ground, twisting, growing, pulsing, waiting for its first victims.
And if the Northman somehow found their way through that murderous patch, Trask would be waiting on the other side, his visor down, his great-sword drawn, barely moving as if made of stone. He even carried one final black seed.. though his intent for it was not yet clear.
---
The Southern Wall
A number of Illian militia howled with fear and gave ground as a "stranger" came suddenly into their ranks, but after a few crimson moments of fear, they became sturdy in the realization that Kristopher was murdering Vikings and not Militia. The defenders kept a wise distance from the stranger, but folded in behind the wake of death he left behind, punishing the Viking ranks as they went along behind him, taking advantage of any opportunity the creature helped grant against the invaders.
"
HOLD THE WALLS! HOLD THE WALLS IF YOU ARE A MAN!" Sir Bannon roared over the din, wrenching his longsword out of the neck of a Viking who hadn't quite finished dismounting the nearest ladder.
Here and there pockets of melee had broken out atop the walls, and the smell of the burning and the dying and the cleaved filled the nostrils of every man or woman with terror and with horror. The militia culled a heavy tax from the Viking assault, of that there is no doubt, but in a squared up fight none of them had the training or the arms to resist any Northman man to man.
That is except, Stannig, Bannon, and Krelsha. And now perhaps the stranger, Kristopher.
Perhaps that would be enough, after the Viking blood that had already been spilled while they crossed the field and climbed the walls. Man to man, the Vikings could slaughter the Militia - but at the top of these walls, after arrows and rocks and flame and spear had made their mark, the numbers were no longer quite so even.
Only the Gods could decide.
Krelsha had switched to her great-axe, cleaving the Northmen's rounded shields with ease as the blood began to flow and the fury in her veins began to awaken. She perhaps had more in common with these Northerners than any Illian, a raging bloodletter, fed by the battle. But here, she fought against them, and fought well.
Stannig for his part continued to rely on his repeater, giving ground where it was needed when any drew close, and killing Viking after Viking who were otherwise engaged in hand to hand against militia, leaving themselves exposed to what some might describe as "cowardly shots" from the Dwarf. But effective.
Blood would flow. Lives would be laid down, fresh paving for the road to glory or humiliation. The Battle for Illia had now began in truth.
Ivar Kristopher Mortas
