Chap 17 review responses are in my forums as normal. As for this...this is a transitory chapter, and I'm not entirely happy with it, but it gets the story to where it needs to go however clumsily. Telos was never going to be bound exclusively to one region of the world.
Chapter Eighteen: The Spear of No Man Spare His Brother
"Machine spirit…"
"There is always a price to pay when reaching beyond the walls of death."
"Ave Telos, may her light illuminate this darkened world."
"I must obey my king!"
She turned her bifrost eyes to the Wall. With the roots of the weirwoods, she could see all across the continent in her visions. But with her bifrost eyes alone, she still could not see beyond the powerful magic that formed the wall. But even so, she saw the gates at Castle Black open wide, and an army come marching out.
She let go of the smooth, welcoming bark of the White Tree weirwood. Nearby, Doji and his wife's cousin Birs, the headman of the town, stood waiting.
"What did you see?" Doki asked.
"I see it still. The army marches, over five thousand men. Five hundred horse in heavy armor, the rest are infantry. They're a week out."
Doji nodded, then turned and whispered orders to his son Njord, himself a man grown with children. "We'll meet them on the road in ambush. Will you help with the weather?"
"Of course," Taylor said.
The warriors of Wolfs Wood did not brandish heavy metal armor. Even with the Hardhome mines and smithies, they did not have that much steel available, not if they wanted weapons. Instead, Taylor delved into her memories and showed them how to make leather lamellar armor. It wasn't as strong as solid plate, but could still turn a slash and provide some protection. For the archers, they made leather hauberks.
Taylor went with them, Flurry by her side, as they chose the perfect spot for their ambush. The trail from the Wall went between two slight hills, giving the archers the advantage. Even with all of the villagers gathered together to fight, though, they could still only field three thousand able, fighting-age men and women.
Those three thousand, though, had trained every winter for years. They all carried longbows, patterned off Taylor's own wierwood bow. They all carried swords or axes they'd learned to use at the hands of Taylor and Orban Two-Toes. And everyone was fighting for their families.
Taylor walked among them, her own sword at her waist and her weirwood bow in hand, as she took a position in overwatch. When the army was roughly an hour away, she called the rain. The spirits did not enjoy being confined to such a narrow corridor, but within that space she allowed them to express their rage with more power than normal. From outside, it looked like a strange locomotive of cloud and rain. The Free Folk could see the miserable souls within, but those within were being hit so hard by the unnatural storm they were all but blind.
Taylor saw among the army the banners of the Umbers, the Boltons and the Cerwyns. There were many others, but the Umbers were what caught her bifrost eyes. None of the escaped Umber miners were among the fighters–their own duties were too important, and she sank the enemy fleet three days prior regardless. But she remembered the old mother left to starve to death in the cold of Last Hearth and selected the eldest of the Umbers as her first target.
Doji gave the signal. Yellow flags flashed up and down either side of the road.
Taylor let her arrow fly. It struck the head of House Umber and pierced his helm where any other arrow might deflect. He fell from his saddle so quietly that his sons didn't know he'd fallen in the heavy rain.
She fired again and again, letting the familiar motion remind her of happier times when her mother taught her the art. She did not pause until House Umber was extinct. She moved on to House Bolton.
Shouts rose from the army as they finally realized they were under attack; by then it was too late. She watched as the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch cajoled some men into forming a shield wall, but he couldn't know that Doji and his commanders were waiting for that very tactic. They wanted to maximize the ballista Taylor helped them build from a book she'd copied from Maester Aemon years before.
Taylor called out for Flurry to charge, and sent a call to any other beasts of the forest that might help as well.
Everything went right; even so she saw down the line as some of the army units broke out of the rain corridor. Five thousand men did not just disappear in the blink of an eye. The small cavalry unit that acted as the fast-reaction force charged down the escaping soldiers, who had already broken into the archers ranks and were causing terrible damage.
When she started toward the fight, she felt a small hand on her arm.
Morag had more gray in her hair than black, and wrinkles had taken their toll on her face. But she looked just as determined as the day they first met and had a bow in hand just like Taylor. The older women of the forest acted as reserve archers, at least those that could shoot. "They've got to fight their own battles," Morag said.
"I can help them."
"You have, Telos," Morag said firmly. "This rain you called will be the balance of the war. But we have to take our licks for this to mean anything."
It hurt, a little, to have her former student hold her back. "I could save them all."
"Telos…my beautiful Telos. You already have. We're here because of you. You'll always be our god."
The battle raged. The enemy army was cut by more than half by the rain and the arrows. Ballista did a frighteningly effective job at breaking shield formations. But the hard part of the battle still had to be fought. The archers stowed their arrows, pulled their swords, and engaged the surviving southern army directly.
Demoralized by the rain and the arrows, the Southerners did not last long. But neither did they just give up without a fight. Taylor winced and bit back a curse with each soul, more than half of which she'd helped bring into the world, that passed back into the trees. But the losses didn't make the other Free Folk grieve or hesitate. It made them fight stronger, and more fiercely, until every southerner was either dead, or captured.
The battle was won.
But the price…
As Taylor walked through the blood-soaked mud of the main road after the fighting was done, and saw the men of the many villages of the forest cheering and celebrating their victory, she realized Morag was right. But it hurt. She knew every soul who died, and it hurt to see them lost.
Doji made camp three days north of the Wall where the army began to gather the bodies of the fallen. All were stripped bare of any valuables that the Free Folk might need, even their own. Taylor walked among the fallen. She knelt down at the foot of Morag's cousin Tathem, killed during the final, brutal battle.
Four hundred and twelve men and women of the Free Folk were dead, laid out side by side as Taylor quietly blessed them on their way to join their ancestors in the weirwoods. One by one, she touched their muddy feet and spoke their name. Around her, those Bespoke who came to tend the wounded bowed their heads in silent prayer. Mothers, fathers, siblings and children watched silently as their loved ones were sent to their sleep.
After the pyres were lit, Taylor made her way to the prisoner palisade. The walls were low enough that the prisoners within could see Flurry resting next to the hastily built palisade. Taylor's dearest companion had summoned his new pack–his mate Flora, and their two near-adult cubs.
The sight of the four direwolves worked in combination with the Free Folk guards to keep the men relatively docile. The captives numbered 322 men in all–the sole survivors of a Northern Army that began with fifty-five hundred.
The men scrambled away in alarm when Taylor entered the palisade. She no longer bothered with her blindfold–not there among her chosen people. She scanned the captives for injuries that might have slipped by the Bespoke.
With some surprise, she spotted a young northern Highborn. Balding, with a great black beard and cold gray eyes, she saw within his soul strength and determination that spread to at least a handful of the men around him.
"Joer Mormont," she said with a nod, having read his name from his soul.
The nobleborn stood–he was actually taller than she was, with broad and powerful shoulders. Like the other men, he wore mail over wool, with a torn tabard that still hung from his shoulders even if the embroidered symbol was torn and muddy. This wasn't a case of a man hiding his identity to escape–she had no doubt he wore exactly that when he rode into battle.
"Ask whatever you want, you'll not get any ransom but a sword," the man declared with a wad of spit. "Bear Island does not deal with wildlings."
Ignoring the declaration, she looked around at the other men before nodding. "I see. You led the first forces to escape the storm. You almost got these men back to the Wall."
"Wasn't good enough, now, was I?"
"You're alive. These men are alive. That's better than most of your fellows."
Those men closest to Mormont were genuine soldiers–men from Mormont's home that he'd brought with him. Fifteen or so, and she could see in their souls that they were absolutely loyal.
The rest of the surviving men were simple levies who surrendered. Farmers or laborers. A few skilled workers, but not many. Most were poor, and wore their own homespun clothing under the low-quality mail hauberks they'd been given. They went into battle with knives and spears given them by whatever nobleborn they happened to live under, and their lives meant nothing to their masters.
Joer Mormont was the exception. While he stood in their midst, the men would not cooperate. His personality was that strong.
"Walk with me, Joer," she said.
The man stiffened, on the verge of reminding her of his title. He changed his mind and stepped forward through the sitting crowd. Taylor stepped out of the corral and Joer followed. Keen eyes quickly took in the direwolves, but also the canvas tents where Bespoke tended the remaining injured. He saw the pyres for the Free Folk dead, and the rows of still burning pyres for northern army.
"Lord Stark?"
"Rickard died," Taylor said. She didn't bother hiding her sadness. "He never drew his blade. The king held his son hostage against his leading this army. He died hoping his death would free his son."
"He told you this? You spoke to him?"
Taylor smiled at the man's surprise–he obviously wasn't at the Godswood with Stark. "When he was eight years old, his father Edwyle asked me to cure him of grayscale. He was a quiet, kind boy who liked reading. I cured him, and the others at Winterfell who were sick. I swear to you, Joer Mormont, that the Free Folk had no designs on the south. Those raiding your island are tribes outside the Free Folk of the Forest who've accepted my teachings. No other raiders are active because my people have stopped them. We weren't a threat, we just wished to live better lives."
"The king saw otherwise," Mormont said.
Taylor nodded; it was a true enough statement. "With these eyes of mine I can see the truth of a man. I see that you will never cooperate; you will never stop fighting. Your soul is strong and true. You're beautiful, Joer Mormont, because you are precisely where your gods meant you to be. I don't want to kill you."
They turned a corner and Mormont saw the five heart trees of the Castle Black godswood. He spun, and through the edge of the forest he could see the Wall.
"What is this?"
"An opportunity, Joer. I will accept your oath, made on your family name and your gods, to return to Bear Island with those men you brought and to never take up arms against the Free Folk North of the Wall. If ever the Free Folk come south of the wall to do you or yours ill, you may defend your people with righteousness. But if you come North of the wall again your gods will strike you down as an oathbreaker. Swear, and I will let you and those men you brought with you return in peace. With your family sword."
The old warrior glared. "No ransom?"
"Like you said, your family wouldn't pay it. They're as strong and loyal as you. The only reason any of your people died was because you attacked us, Joer Mormont."
"What of the other men?"
"They'll be taken to Hardhome to work the mines. They'll be fed square meals and housed with the other workers. If they find a woman there, they'll be allowed to marry. After five years, they will be given the choice of remaining and being free, or returning to the Seven Kingdoms. We have no prisons, Joer. We do not torture. They will work to repay the debt of our dead, nothing more."
The old warrior looked at the trees as he considered her words. "Tell me this, Telos of the Trees. What are you?"
"I'm part of a broken whole, Joer. But for these people? I am their guardian. They took me in and gave me shelter, and so I will love and cherish them." She walked to the nearest tree, sang the Earthsinger spell and reached inside to retrieve the enchanted sword the man lost in the battle. It felt similar to Stark's. The enchantment was not stronger than her staff, but was rather woven into the steel itself.
Joer took a step back when she pulled the sword from the tree and then stabbed it into the ground. "Make your oath before the gods, Joer Mormont, and return to your wife and son."
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
"There is talk of a charter among the villages."
The village elders ate around the fire in the amphitheater before Taylor's home. The captives from the battle were already marching to Hardhome under guard. The dead were burned and the armor and weapons were gathered and stored for the future.
Doji spoke the words, but the other village leaders looked up in interest.
"A charter?" Holfang looked a little confused. The former Frozen Shore man still did not have a good grasp on reading yet, though his woman and children were literate. His woman of the past decade was Morag's youngest sister, Aliss. She leaned up and explained it quietly in the man's ear.
"Who is talking?" That was Hask, another of the longtime men of the village.
"Birs in White Tree," Doji sid. "Odag at Creek Bend. Nars at Two Trees. Long Foot at…"
"Everybody," Morag interrupted. "Since the Great Victory, everybody's talking. We've got people coming down from the north to join us, because we have food and warm homes. Glass windows let in light, keep out the wind. Ruddy Hall sent a hundred fighters to help, remember. We hardly lost anyone last winter. Our boy Noben founded a new village to the north and it already had ten families living there, and more coming. The Free Folk are changing. A few fights are breaking out, too."
"Having a charter could maybe help keep the peace."
"You are all one people."
The conversation went quiet as Taylor spoke. "You live in tribes and clans, but you are all descended from the First Men. The Bespoke know this. You are all brothers and sisters, whether you live on the Frozen Shore or the Ice Caves. Any charter you make must be for all the free peoples of the land."
"You support the idea?" Doji asked.
"I taught you reading and writing because words have power," Taylor told them. "Written words can carry ideas down the generations in a way not even the best stories can. The land of my birth had a charter. A declaration that all men were created equal under the law, and that they were born with gods-given rights that no lord or king could take away. It helped unify the people for many generations."
Taylor looked around the circle of villages. Not everyone came, of course, but even so a hundred or more people gathered for the evening meal. In the shadows beyond the fire, she could see children playing in the safety of the glade, and younger families having their own more intimate meals.
"From the moment dearest Morag found me and brought me to her home for food and shelter, you have been my people. I have guided you, and have watched you grow, but Morag was right when she told me you must fight your own battles. You must be your own leaders, and you must craft your society as you need. Starting that with a charter is a good idea, Doji. Draw up your charter, and have it read out loud to every village. And let every person who accounts themselves a Free Folk, man or woman over sixteen, vote. If the people accept the charter, it will have even more power. It will have ideas that are worth fighting for, and defending."
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
Even from the early days of her time in the forest, Taylor did not sleep often; at least not sleep like her people slept. For the first ten years or so, she spent her nights writing manuscripts for their slightly improved block press. She found that with concentration she could recall many of the books she'd read in her childhood, which made her wish she'd read more popular mechanics and engineering books than Nancy Drew and Brontes.
But in the latter ten years, she often found herself drifting out of her house into the godswood, and resting next to the tree as she cast her mind out across the roots. Sometimes the Raven joined her, showing her things he'd found. Sometimes she went alone, since her reach was greater than his. She was looking for answers; for the machine spirit that was somehow involved in bringing her to this world.
She moved through her home in a daze. The newly fashioned iron stove in the hearth blazed cheerily, warming the hall even better than an open fire could. All the furniture she had was gifted to her by her various students. The rugs that warmed her floors; the cabinets that filled her cold attic and helped secure the village against starvation–all if it was given by those grateful for her healing, or her books, or her lessons.
Sitting as far from the fire as the hall would allow, Leaf watched her with large golden eyes. "Your shoulders sing of sadness," the ancient, diminutive creature trilled.
"My children have grown up," Taylor said. "It doesn't feel like they need me."
The Earthsinger's laughter rang like arpeggios through the room. "Oh, Telos-God. You are still so young. Your people will always need you. But humans grow quickly, and they must be free to fail if they are ever to thrive."
Taylor placed a heavy woolen blanket across her dining room table. "I think Aemon may be in danger. He stopped at Winterfell and spoke to me through the trees. He is going to King's Landing to answer to the king for Stark's death. And I worry for poor Rickard's son."
The Maester of the Night's Watch was not just a common visitor. He had, over the last twenty years, become a friend. He and Taylor could talk for hours. He might not have knowledge of the sciences beyond his people, but he was wise and well read on history.
"You think these southern men will hurt him?"
"The king will need someone to blame," Taylor said. She took her weirwood bow that she'd lovingly crafted and enchanted, wrapped it within its leather case, and placed it lengthwise in the blanket. Linens came next, with her favorite skirt and her favorite pair of culottes. "But it's more than that. Stark's son is there, held hostage. And the king himself. He ordered our deaths because he didn't want my people to thrive. He'll send more, Stark told me."
"And then? When you have ensured your people's safety, what will you do?"
Taylor realized she'd been waiting for the question. Before she could answer, the door opened and Morag walked in.
"Thought so," the aging woman said. "You think the old man is in danger?"
Taylor nodded. Aemon was friends to more than just Taylor. "He spoke to the godswood at Winterfell a few weeks ago. He's on his way to the southern king."
Morag turned and shared a long look with Leaf. Though of different species, the two were united in their love of Taylor. Whatever she saw in the ancient creature's face made her shoulders drop. "Are you coming back?"
"Of course I am!"
"When?"
Taylor opened her mouth to explain that she was absolutely going to return as soon as she secured Aemon's safety, and that of Rickard Stark's son. The words, though, did not come out. Even after all these years, she could still fool herself.
"I was dead, Morag," Taylor said softly. "It was a good death. I sacrificed myself to save my birth world. But somehow a monster pulled me into this world. I need to understand what he was, and how he did it."
Morag frowned. "What does it matter? You're here, now."
"There are other people in the heavens, Morag. What good will my magic be protecting the people of the North if the world itself cracks in half under our feet? I need to understand. For all of us. Besides, you've grown up. You don't need me like you used to."
Morag frowned. "But you haven't. I swear, you sound like Tayla. You think a child doesn't need her mum just because she becomes a mum herself? We'll always need you, you foolish god! Just not to tie our sandals or wipe our arses."
Taylor bit back a laugh. "I've never even offered to wipe your arse."
"You've wiped each one of my babes."
"Not the same."
"No, because now they can wipe their own. And Doji can lead on his own. They can write up their charter on their own. And I can teach the kids their numbers and letters. You've given us the tools, Telos. We want you here with us because you make our lives better. Your blessings make things better. But if we're to stand up against the world, we need to be strong. And we can't be strong with you mothering us."
To Taylor's surprise, the very un-touchy woman stepped forward and hugged her. "You go. You find your answers and you save that old man who is not as much a sheep-fucker as the rest." Morag's eyes were watering when she stepped back. "After you find what you're looking for, you come home. You come home to us, because you're still ours. And we'll always need you."
She turned and walked stiffly from the room.
Not for the first time, Taylor wished her crystalline eyes let her cry. "Well, there you have it."
She finished packing her travel roll, tied it with leather straps and put it across her back. She took a leather purse that had coins she'd collected over the years and slipped it into a hidden pocket of her skirt, and looked around her home for the past twenty years.
"It feels so odd to leave," she admitted.
"Is that why you take so long to do so?" There was a humorous trill in the song, but also understanding and compassion.
"You're right. You always are. Will you watch out for them?"
"Of course, Telos God."
Outside, she found Flurry waiting. He couldn't fit through the door any more. "Will you protect them?"
He whined his answer as he gently licked her face. She hugged his neck and chest, barely even reaching his shoulders any more. "Don't father too many pups, I'm not sure there are enough beasts in the forest to feed you."
After two decades, she understood the direwolf as clearly as he did her. His assent came in the form of a low yip and a curl of his muzzle; sound and body worked as one to share his meaning. She stepped through the wide double doors–expanded so that Flurry could shimmy through to be with her until she left. The dawn was growing pink with the vanguard of the sun's approach. She could feel a few spirits of the dawn beginning their never-ending battle with the shadows.
Flurry walked with her up the stony hill beside her house until they reached the godswood. The other Earthsingers waited for her there, barely visible as they floated in and out of the bark of their new home. That first tree she planted twenty years ago was even now only twenty-feet tall and still thin. Even so, it was large enough for her to walk the roots, as the Earthsingers called it.
Taylor closed her eyes and placed both hands against the bark, keeping her staff in one. She sang in the Earthsinger's tongue the spell they taught her, and in seconds fell into the tree itself. Images from the world's future and past flitted before her mind as she followed the great paths of the tree roots through the world until she reached the last gathering of gods left in the land.
With a surge of will, Taylor stepped from the bark of a different tree. She emerged into a soft, loam ground run through with white roots. All around an island nearly as large as Manhattan, she saw thousands of heart trees–weirwoods with carved faces. The air itself shimmered with the eternal, patient power of the elemental gods.
From the trees, a handful of figures arrived as if expecting her. They wore simple bark fiber habits, identical to the fiber she used in her skirt, only dyed green. Hoods adorned with elk horns made them seem taller than they were. Underneath the hoods were bearded faces. They moved in absolute silence until they formed a loose ring of ten men around her; they sank to their knees and prostrated themselves.
Taylor sank down into a cross-legged position as she studied them. In all her years, she'd never seen human souls so absolutely at peace with themselves and the world around them. "You've done so well," she said. The words were drawn from her lips by their very souls. "You've taken the patience of the trees into your hearts. I am so glad to meet you."
"Telos God." The speaker rose from his prostrate position; the others did not. "For twenty years, the trees have sung to us about you. Your steps cause waves through the world. You are most welcome here."
The bowed heads of the other nine men were close enough that Taylor could easily reach across and touch them. "I bless you," she said. She let the blessing flow from her fingers, washing away the fatigue and any lingering doubt the men may have had. Most were older men, but one was just a boy of thirteen, and still struggled to find the peace his elders shared.
That boy looked up, his eyes wide and wondering through the hood.
"I wish I could stay. But a path has opened for me, and I must pursue it."
"It is enough to see you; to receive your blessings." The leader stood, as did the others. "Come, Telos God; we will walk with you."
They walked south and east; their steps were as silent as Taylor's. She found herself reaching out to touch the various trees as she passed; she felt their welcome and heard their songs in the wind whispering through red leaves.
They came after an hour of walking to the shore of a vast lake. If not for her bifrost eyes she wouldn't have seen the far shore even with the advancing dawn. Gentle mists began to rise from the water as the chill of the evening sapped at the previous day's warmth still caught in the water.
Taylor felt the spirits in the lake–ancient and calm.
"We have a boat, if you require," the Green Man said, his name lost in his obeisance to the trees.
"The water will support me," Taylor told him. "Thank you for your greetings."
He bowed deeply from the waist. "And for your blessings, Telos God."
Taylor stepped onto the water of the Gods Eye. The spirits within responded eagerly to her call until the surface of the water hardened sufficient to support her weight. Ancient magic, untouched since before the Andals came to the shores, surged joyously at her call and carried her forward.
The release of magic caused the mist to rise and billow into a rich fog that hid her passage across the water. In the distance, she saw a town roughly the size of the new White Tree, with a small stone fortification in the center, a stone tower on a nearby hill, and several white plaster huts. On the far side she spotted a seven-sided building with a wooden roof, and closer, what looked like a large, sprawling inn that extended on piles out over the water, with a pier that held several docking spaces filled with modest fishing ships.
With dawn rising but fog over the water, the village fisherman had gathered at the inn; she could see them inside speaking, drinking a local tea or eating. The spirits and magic of the lake took her to the pier, crossing a body of water as large as the American Great Lakes in minutes. She sent her silent thanks and blessing back to the spirits before stepping onto the solid, well-made pier.
She could see easily enough through the fog–while the fisherman gathered at the inn, further away she saw men trudging out into long, narrow fields with draft horses and primitive stone plows. Women were bringing out baskets of soiled linens to wash at the edge of the lake, talking to each other or singing songs. The village was waking to the day, still ignorant of the wildling goddess walking in their midsts.
She paused only long enough to remove a necklace from under her vest. The chain was gold, but the medallion was actually a square of shaped weirwood that held a red stone made from transfigured weirwood sap. She ran her finger around the edge of the wooden pendant and activated the magic inside.
When she slipped it back into her dress and walked into the village, she did so as a tall but ordinarily looking woman. In fact, she looked exactly like Taylor Hebert of Brockton Bay would have, at eighteen.
The inn had a Dutch-style door to keep out the geese, ducks and dogs that were running lose all over the village. The top was open, revealing a newly built fire in a small hearth opposite the door. Wood floors held low benches and long tables.
The noise of conversation from within felt familiar—Taylor couldn't help but imagine she was walking into a restaurant or coffee shop back in Brockton Bay. The smells that she'd almost become accustomed to, though, kept the thought at bay. Unwashed, sweat-stained bodies and the smell of fresh manure was not something she ever encountered in a coffee shop.
Her arrival garnered a few looks. Her clothing appeared to be of a slightly better make than that of the natives. But with her eyes and tattoos hidden away, few remarked on it as she made herself comfortable at a table.
"Morning, lass," the woman said. "We got bread, butter and beer for a copper."
"That sounds perfect, thank you."
The bread was made with white flour–a treat they still didn't have at Wolf hall. She pulled it apart, luxuriating in the warmth of the freshly baked loaf, and lathered the new butter over it.
The beer tasted rich and thick–more calories than alcohol. As she ate, she listened to the conversation until she heard what she needed.
She finished eating, left one of her coppers, and then stepped to the merchants she'd overhead. "Excuse me, good man," she said.
The merchant was a fat, red-faced man in a stained doublet and linen hose. His companion was a stick-thin woman with straw-like hair. "Yes, child?"
"I couldn't help but hear you were heading to King's Landing. I was wondering if I could purchase a place in your cart?"
A few minutes of haggling later, Taylor sat beside the merchant's wife in the second of their two laden carts bringing food to the ever-hungry streets of King's Landing.
When she looked behind with her bifrost eyes, she saw that by traveling the roots from North of the Wall to the Godswood, she was a day ahead of the contingent of Night's Watch brothers who had been traveling for weeks already.