Nerd In the North: 3-5

(For a Christmas gift, here's the second upload of Nerd In the North for today)


III-5: A Fury Unleashed

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Hobb's breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers slick with sweat as they gripped the shaft of his spear. The forest around him was alive with the sound of boots crashing through undergrowth, the snap of branches, and the hurried, panicked whispers of men too proud to admit their fear aloud.

The others had called him "boy," but he was no younger than many of them.

Fifteen summers had hardened him enough to heft sacks of grain for his father's mill, but this—this was not a mill. "The sorcerer's dead," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. "He's dead."

"Shut it, Hobb," growled one of the older men, a wiry veteran named Colwyn, his voice sharp as the steel blade at his side. "We've got bigger worries than your chatter."

"He's right," another soldier piped up, young as Hobb but with the hardened look of someone who'd seen far more bloodshed. "We're days from Mossbank, and not an ‘orse between a one of us. Split too thin, we are. Any of Frostfall's folk get it in their heads to chase us—"

He glanced at the crossbow slung awkwardly over his shoulder, its weight foreign and unwieldy. It had belonged to old Wat, a man whose toothless grin and gruff voice had seemed unshakable until earlier that morning. Hobb had picked it up from Wat's corpse after the sorcerer had struck him down in Frostfall. The man had been laughing moments before, telling Hobb he had promise. The memory of the old man's vacant eyes, staring skyward shortly after, made Hobb's stomach churn.

"Keep moving, boy!" the lead man hissed, his voice sharp and guttural. His battered helm was crooked on his head, a streak of blood darkening one cheek. "Lag behind, and yer next to die."

Hobb nodded, not one to argue. His fingers tightened around the spear until his knuckles turned white. He didn't have the heart to tell the lead Bolton man-at-arms  that his legs were trembling so badly he could barely keep pace. His chest burned with every step, but he couldn't stop.

Stopping meant death.

Along with him, the group of eleven stumbled through the thick trees, their ranks broken and disorganized. They had started with threescore and six men, but the chaos in Frostfall had shattered them down to little more than a half-hundred, and the stories whispered among the survivors—about what they'd faced—kept them too afraid to regroup.

He glanced over his shoulder, trees blurring as his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. The memory of the sorcerer was still burned into his mind. He had seen the man go down, pierced through his linens with crossbow bolts, one of the two Hobb had loosed himself and was the first to make him fall.

The others had cheered for him as they rode away, calling him a hero.

But that cheer had turned to terror when the sorcerer refused to stay down, alive and furious, as he gripped at the bolts in his chest. "I killed him," Hobb whispered to himself, his voice trembling. "He can't still be—"

"He's dead, boy," Colwyn snapped. "And that village is finished. Burned. They're too busy burying their dead to come after us. Besides..." His tone turned sour. "Half those soft fools likely think we did 'em a favor, ridding the North of some sorcery-wielding bastard."

Hobb stayed quiet after that, the weight of the crossbow pulling at his arms. He glanced around nervously, his eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. The forest felt too still, the only sounds their own labored breathing and the faint whistle of wind through the branches.

“Wyn,” another man hissed, slowing his pace as his eyes darted to the side. “Ye ‘ear that?”

“What?” Colwyn glanced at him.

“Nuttin.” The man’s voice wavered. “That’s th’ probl’m.”

A scream ripped through the trees ahead, making Hobb jump.

His gaze snapped up as a shout rang out ahead, followed by the wet crunch of bone and flesh giving way.

“‘E’s ‘ere!” someone screamed, and chaos erupted. Hobb spun, his heart hammering in his chest as the men around him whirled toward the noise, weapons drawn.

A man crumpled to his knees, gurgling, in front of Hobb’s eyes, jaw hanging loose and blood flowing free as the last river. Seven hells!

Another scream. 

This one was much closer, followed by the sickening crunch of something heavy hitting the forest floor. Hobb turned his head sharply, just in time to see a figure—a man—lifted off the ground and hurled into a tree. His neck bent at an unnatural angle before his body slumped to the roots.

“The sorcerer!” someone shouted. “It’s him!”

Hobb’s blood turned to ice as the blond boy rushed into view—too fast, inhuman, even. His linens were gone, the sorcerer now in a finely embroidered blue tunic, and thick brown gauntlets, no blood—no wounds. 

Only faint golden light radiating faintly around his fists as he moved, no weapon in his hands to be seen.

“Run!” Colwyn roared, but it was too late.

The boy sorcerer appeared in front of him and a glowing fist shot out.

“SMITE!” A burst of golden light ripped through the shouting man and lit the forest like a flare, Colwyn’s body vanishing from sight at the same time as a tree behind the miller’s boy snapped in half.

Hobb didn’t turn to look. Instead, he stumbled as chaos erupted around him. Men scrambled in every direction, swinging swords wildly or trying to flee, but the boy was too fast.

“Form up! Form up!” the Bolton veteran shouted, his voice breaking under the strain,but his voice was drowned out by the clash of steel and the screams of men.

The men scrambled, their panic overriding any sense of discipline. 

Hobb watched in frozen horror, his spear trembling in his hands, as the sorcerer moved through the group like a wolf among sheep. a cone of fire erupted from his outstretched hand, engulfing two men in flames. their screams were high and sharp, ending too quickly. armor glowing red-hot before they collapsed into smoldering heaps. 

“Run!” someone shouted, and the men broke ranks, scattering into the forest like frightened deer.

“He's not human!” another of them screamed, throwing down his sword and running.

Hobb wanted to follow, but his legs wouldn’t move. He watched with unblinking eyes as the sorcerer grabbed another soldier by the throat, lifting him off the ground with impossible strength. The soldier kicked and struggled, his blade falling uselessly to the forest floor, before the sorcerer hurled him into the undergrowth like a rag.

“Vile demon!” The veteran charged and swung a sword at his back, only for the boy to spin, stepping into the swing and catching the blade barehanded, a burst of golden light deflecting the steel. 

“Hit me,” the sorcerer roared. “SEE what happens!”

With a savage grin, the sorcerer drove a knee into the man-at-arms stomach, sending him flying into a tree hard enough to shatter its surface, the hard sound of something cracking unlike that of bark.

Hobb's breath hitched as the sorcerer’s eyes swept the forest, somehow still bright in the dim light. He ducked behind a tree, clutching the spear to his chest as if it would somehow protect him.

“Run!” someone else shouted.

Hobb didn’t need to be told a third time. 

he turned and bolted, his feet pounding the ground as he fled deeper into the woods. The trees blurred past him, his vision narrowing to the path ahead. He didn’t care where he was going—he just needed to get away.

He could hear the others dying behind him—the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground, the crackle of fire, the screams that lingered too long. 

But he couldn’t look back. 

He wouldn’t.

Branches clawed at his face and arms as he stumbled through the undergrowth. The crossbow jostled against his back, the unfamiliar weight slowing him down. His lungs burned, each breath coming in ragged gasps. He could still hear the screams behind him, growing fainter with every step, but they were still there.

“Please,” he whispered to himself, his voice shaking. “Please, gods, get me out of this.”

He tripped over a root, sprawling to the ground. Pain flared in his hands and knees as he landed hard, but he scrambled to his feet and kept running. The forest seemed endless, the trees stretching on forever, their shadows closing in around him.

A low growl stopped him in his tracks.

His heart lurched as he turned, his eyes darting through the darkness. He strained his ears, listening for the sound of footsteps or rustling leaves, but all he heard was his own ragged breathing.

The growl came again, louder this time.

Hobb spun around, his legs trembling. He took a shaky step backward, his back brushing against a tree. “No,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “No, please—”

A pair of glowing red eyes emerged from the shadows, followed by the hulking form of a creature that should not exist. It was a bear—or something like one—but far too small and lithe, its body rippling with muscle beneath its thick fur. Its breath puffed in the cold morning air, glowing faintly like embers, and its teeth gleamed as it opened its jaws.

Hobb stumbled, falling to his knees. He tried to crawl backward, his hands scrabbling at the dirt.

The creature’s growl deepened, vibrating through the ground. It stepped closer, its red eyes fixed on him, unblinking.

“Please,” Hobb whimpered, tears streaming down his face. “Please, no—”

Hobb opened his mouth to scream, but the bear lunged before he could make another sound.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

They had split up.

It didn’t take long for Greg to realize that.

The snow crunched under Greg’s boots as he stalked through the forest, his breath leaving his nostrils in visible puffs. The Bolton soldiers had split up into groups, obviously to make it harder for anyone to catch up.

That was obvious now. There were way more than ten of them running from Frostfall.

His gaze flickered back briefly to the scene of carnage he’d left behind—blood staining the snow, bodies scattered like broken toys. It felt surreal, like he was in some bad movie, but that was the world now, wasn’t it? A fucking mess. 

He didn’t even blink when he caught movement out of the corner of his eyes. Ash was gnawing at it like it was a chew toy, his glowing red eyes reflecting the morning light of the woods. Greg tilted his head to the side, realizing it was the jagged, half-chewed shape of a human arm sticking out of his jaws. 

He watched blankly for a moment, registering the sight, not even disgusted—just unfazed. 

“Yeah, probably doing more good as lunch anyway,” he muttered, barely registering the horror movie-like scene. The words came out automatic, almost detached, like he was commenting on a bad TV dinner. 

Then he paused, his eyes narrowing as his teeth clicked together. 

He stood there for a moment, staring down at the snow in front of him, his boots sinking just slightly into the white. “Okay,” he whispered to himself, barely audible. “That… that was… fucked up.”

Not even the blood and gore, but the fact the idea of mercy was a whole different thing now. It felt… wrong to even consider.

His eyes flicked back toward Ash, who was happily crunching down on the bone now, blood dripping onto his fur in little rivulets that looked oddly vibrant against the bear's dark coat. Greg clenched his fists at his sides, then relaxed them again, forcing himself to focus on the cold bite of the air against his skin instead of the thought gnawing at the back of his mind: it wasn’t normal to be okay with this. Right? 

But then he remembered Frostfall—the bodies in the streets, the screams, the fire. What their boss—fucking monster—had tried to do to Gwenna, the way she’d looked after. 

The way her voice had shaken when she thanked him. 

And suddenly, it was hard to care if he was normal or not. 

“Mercy’s wasted on people like them,” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp and edged this time. He exhaled, the sound more of a growl. He'd actively considered ripping someone's arm off earlier and beating the guy with it, a thought that he really didn’t mind.

Which was exactly why it didn’t sit well with him. That the guy I really wanna be?

Was that the only way to survive in this place? He grimaced, forcing the thoughts aside. He was better than that. 

Or at least, he should be.

True Good. True Good. True Good. 

Ash's low growl pulled Greg out of his spiraling thoughts, the bear padding along silently beside him, nostrils flaring as he took in the scent of the surrounding woods. The sound wasn’t fear or distress—more like irritation. It made Greg’s frustration bubble over again. 

"They’re not keepin’ it," Greg muttered under his breath, a raspy, bitter edge in his voice. The memory of his sword—his damn sword—stolen from him not long ago was fresh in his mind. “I don't care how far they’ve gone or how many there are. They’re not keeping it.” 

Ash let out another growl, moving his head in a firm up and down motion, and Greg froze. 

He glanced down at the bear, his brow furrowing. 

“Did you just…?” he asked, his voice trailing off. 

Ash blinked up at him innocently, the bear’s red eyes wide and unassuming, as if he hadn’t just fully responded to Greg’s words. 

And then, like the little bastard he was, Ash tilted his head slightly to the side, his bloody muzzle somehow managing to look adorable. Greg stared at him, the silence stretching between them like a held breath.

There was no way, right? Ash was smart, but not that smart.

He’d been asleep too long. I’m losing it. That was the only explanation.

He wasn’t sure why a smart bear was harder to deal with than a bear that was also a dragon, but it somehow was.

Ash blinked again, his expression unchanged. 

“You’re not cute,” Greg muttered, pointing an accusing finger at the dracobear as if that would do anything. “You’re covered in blood and you just ate a dude. Stop trying to be cute.”

Ash didn’t respond, just kept staring up at him with that same wide-eyed innocence.

Greg narrowed his eyes, his suspicion warring with the part of him that just really, really didn’t want to deal with another weird thing right now. He shook his head, exhaling hard, and turned his focus back to the path ahead. 

“Let’s pick up the pace. I wanna be back by lunch,” Greg said, his voice dry and casual, like he wasn’t about to cause another bloodbath worthy of a slasher movie.

Ash growled, the sound low and approving, and Greg shot him a sideways look.

 “Seriously, stop doing that. It’s weird.” His voice cracked on the last word, his throat still a little raw. The bear just padded along like he hadn’t heard him or didn’t care, which he probably didn’t. 

Greg exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus.

With a grunt, he surged forward, legs eating up the ground like it was nothing at all. The green of the forest blurred around him, trees whipping past as his boots barely seemed to touch the snow. It was like running downhill with a jetpack strapped to him—fast, exhilarating, and almost terrifying. The cold air sliced at his cheeks, but his focus stayed locked on the trail ahead. Ash kept pace easily, his doberman-sized form bounding alongside Greg, far faster than any other six or seven-month old bear should be able to move.

The Bolton men weren’t hard to track.

A dozen heavily armed soldiers and their horses weren’t exactly good at hiding their tracks in the slightest. Crushed branches, hoofprints, and the occasional discarded bit of gear painted a clear picture of their path through the forest. 

God, these guys suck. Greg felt a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he spotted an entire broken bow on the ground, his laughter puffing out in rapid bursts.

Yeah, not subtle at all, and that was coming from him.

It took him less than half an hour to catch up, his pace relentless. The trail led him to the edge of a clearing, and greg slowed, crouching low in the shadows of the treeline. 

The sight that greeted him was depressingly predictable.

The Bolton men had stopped in a small cluster of ramshackle buildings that barely deserved to be called a village. The kind of place where even the houses looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. The soldiers lounged around, laughing and drinking, their voices carrying easily in the still air. Supplies were being dragged from the homes, while the few remaining villagers cowered near the edges of the camp, their faces pale and hollow.

Greg’s eyes narrowed, scanning the scene. His gaze flicked upward, catching the faint trail of smoke rising in the distance. 

Another camp? So close? He scoffed to himself.These guys really weren’t winning any awards for stealth. 

His fingers flexed instinctively, itching for his sword. Except it wasn’t there. 

His jaw tightened as his eyes swept over the soldiers, but there was no sign of it. Not here. Probably sent it ahead. 

The thought made his teeth grind, a low growl escaping before he could stop it. He could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, begging for release. “I’ll get you back,” he muttered, his voice low and uneven. “No matter where you are.” 

Ash let out a soft growl of his own, his glowing eyes fixed on the soldiers. It wasn’t approval so much as agreement, and Greg felt a grim satisfaction at the sound. 

He didn’t wait long. 

There was no point. 

The second one of the soldiers stood, staggering away from the fire, probably to piss, Greg moved. His body blurred forward, a streak of motion slicing through the cold air. 

The first Bolton soldier didn’t even have time to draw breath before Greg’s fist connected with his cheekbone, an audible crack splitting the frigid air. The impact sent the man spiraling like a broken marionette, neck twisting unnaturally as he hit the ground in a heap. A spurt of blood sprayed across the pristine snow, steam curling faintly where it landed. 

Greg stood still for a moment, shoulders squared, chest rising and falling steadily as Ash padded up to his side, his massive frame casting an almost eerie shadow across the clearing. 

The bear’s glowing eyes caught the firelight, and he let out a low, guttural growl. 

Greg stayed silent, letting the tension hang heavy as the remaining men began to panic. “Gods,” one of them muttered, his voice trembling. “Did ye see that? Like ‘is ‘ead spun clear off—” 

“Shut it!” barked another, older and broader, though the wavering fear in his tone undercut the authority. “Steady now, lads. Magic or no magic, ‘e’s just one boy. We’ll cut ‘im down same as th’ rest.” 

Greg tilted his head, lips quirking upward into something that wasn’t quite a smile. One boy, huh? 

He rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles loudly enough to carry across the clearing. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, the firelight glinting off their poorly polished helmets. One of them finally broke ranks, charging forward with a guttural yell, his sword raised high. His boots crunched against the snow as he lunged, his movement heavy and unbalanced.

Idiot. Greg dropped low, stepping into the man’s guard and slamming his shoulder into his stomach. The impact forced a sharp wheeze from the soldier, but Greg didn’t stop there.

Twisting his body with practiced precision, he drove a spinning kick into the man’s midsection.

The soldier’s body folded around Greg’s leg with a sickening thud, the momentum sending him sprawling into the snow, motionless. Greg stepped over him without looking down. “That’s for the village,” he growled, his voice low but carrying. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth caught his attention, and he turned just in time to see a rider charging toward him, a longsword glinting in the dim light.

Greg tensed, but Ash was faster.

The dracobear surged forward with a roar, claws tearing into the horse’s flank. The animal reared, screaming, and its rider was thrown violently into the snow.

Ash didn’t hesitate.

The bear pounced, his massive paws pinning the man to the ground as his jaws clamped down with terrifying finality. Greg barely even paid attention, already moving toward the next threat.

A young soldier, barely past his teens, stumbled backward, spear trembling in his grip. “S-stay back!” he stammered, his accent thick and unrefined. “Yer just a boy! Just a—”

Greg’s fist slammed into his face mid-sentence, the impact crumpling the metal of his helmet inward. Blood sprayed from the cracks as the soldier collapsed, his weapon falling from his limp fingers.

“Just a boy, huh?” Greg muttered, flexing his fingers as his hands began to burn with familiar heat. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye made him spin, magic flaring instinctively. “Igni!”

His palm ignited, and a cone of fire roared outward, engulfing a soldier who had been trying to flank him. The man’s screams were brief but piercing, cutting off as his charred body collapsed into the snow. “Gods be good!” one of the remaining soldiers yelled, his voice cracking with panic. “He’s a demon! That fire! Sommat from the he—!”

“Shut it!” snapped another, older and wiry, though his hands gripped his spear so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. “We’ll not die cowards! Charge the bastard!”

One of them took the order to heart, rushing forward with a spear raised high. “You’ll die for that!”

Greg sidestepped easily, his movements fluid and precise, and caught the spear’s shaft in both hands. With a sharp twist, he snapped it clean in half, the broken wood splintering audibly. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and Greg’s lips curled into something like a grin.

“Funny,” he said, his tone outright casual as he drove the jagged end of the wood into the man’s chest, the impact sending a spray of crimson across the snow. “I was about to say the same to you.” 

Another soldier stumbled back, feet sliding clumsily in the blood-slick snow, spear trembling in his unsteady grip. His face was pale, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "We had orders!" he cried, voice cracking with panic. "Just orders! T’weren’t our choice, lad!"

Greg’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring. 

The heat in his chest coiled, a sharp pressure that burned hotter with every word spilling out of the man’s mouth. "Then you followed them straight into the ground," he said, his tone cold as it had ever been. He raised his hand, palm open, fingers splayed as the air crackled around them with power. "Aard."

The blast of force hit the soldier like a hammer, folding him in half midair and sending him cartwheeling back. He collided with the crumbling stone wall of a nearby building, his skull bursting like an overripe melon on impact. Blood and brain matter streaked down the jagged stones, painting them a vivid red.

A shout of alarm tore through the clearing as one of the men on horseback wheeled his steed around, panic etched across his face. "Fall back!" he barked, his accent shaking with barely restrained terror. "Get t’ camp! Warn th' others!" 

His voice trailed off as he spurred his horse into the treeline, the animal’s hooves kicking up snow and dirt in its mad dash for escape.

Greg didn’t move to follow. His eyes lingered on the man’s retreating form for a moment before flicking to the chaos around him. Horses need rest, he thought grimly, his breath coming steady and measured despite the carnage. 

Besides, he knew where he was going.

His hand flexed, fingers itching to grip something—his sword, preferably. but not yet. 

Not until they all paid.

The snow was red by the time it was over. a deep, spreading crimson that soaked into the ground beneath. Bodies lay strewn across the village like discarded ragdolls, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in expressions of pain, fear, or shock. Greg stood in the center of it all, the stillness around him broken only by the faint crackle of a dying fire and the muffled sobs from the villagers peeking out of their ruined homes.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his fists to unclench as his gaze swept the carnage.

Their words lingered in his ears—cries of mercy, frantic excuses, desperate justifications. "We had orders,” he mocked the words. His nails bit into his palms as his jaw worked. "They didn’t care about orders when they burned frostfall," he muttered, voice low and bitter. "They didn’t care about orders when they—"

His words cut off sharply as movement drew his attention. 

The villagers were emerging cautiously from the wreckage, their faces pale and wide-eyed, their footsteps hesitant. a woman clutched a child to her chest, her knuckles white against the threadbare fabric of his cloak. an older man hobbled forward, leaning heavily on a twisted stick, his lips moving as though he were praying.

"’E killed ‘em," someone whispered, her voice shaking. "Every last one."

"Stopped ‘em," another said, awe lacing his tone. "Like th’ gods ‘emselves sent ‘im."

Then, to greg’s growing discomfort, one of them dropped to their knees. "m’lord," the old man rasped, his breath visible in the cold air. "Please, m’lord, show mercy on us poor folk. We’ve nothin’ left. Take what ye will, but spare us."

"Aye," a woman added as she did the same, her voice hitching. "We've seen enough death. Don’t—don’t punish us too."

Greg blinked, a wave of irritation flickering across his face. Seriously? he thought, resisting the urge to groan. 

He wasn’t in the mood for this. Not the begging, not the groveling, and definitely not the weird fanaticism that could turn on him the second he stopped being convenient. His shoulders rolled as he turned away from the villagers, boots crunching in the snow.

Ash padded over to his side, his fur stained with streaks of blood that glistened wetly in the faint light. The bear nudged greg’s arm with his head, huffing softly. 

Greg glanced down at him, lips twitching faintly.

"You know what?" he muttered, crouching slightly to meet the bear’s glowing eyes. "Go home, boy. I'll be back soon."

Ash paused for a moment and then nodded. 

An actual, deliberate nod. 

Greg froze, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he stared at the bear, trying to figure out how to respond to this. "Oooookay," he finally said slowly, drawing the word out. "not weird at all."

Before he could dwell on it, ash’s massive wings unfurled with a sharp snap, the leathery membranes catching the light. Gasps rippled through the villagers as the dracobear leapt into the air, powerful beats of his wings stirring the snow around him.

Greg watched him ascend, his expression blank. "Huh," he said finally, the sound flat and unbothered. 

Shaking his head, he turned back toward the treeline, legs already moving as he broke into a run. The forest swallowed him whole, the bloodstained snow behind him quickly fading into the shadows.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

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