"You're going to kill them?" It wasn't much of a shock or a great loss, but it still kind of rubbed me the wrong way – old prejudices and all that. After all, back in my world, Earth, killing prisoners of war was a war crime, which was bad. However, in the interest of self defense, one could argue that the Wildlings should be killed, for two reasons: they weren't willing to be rehabilitated and welcomed back into civilized society, and the second reason was that I wasn't entirely convinced that these fuckers had actually surrendered – cowed into submission, maybe, but I was pretty sure they'd try to break out and cause as much chaos as they could when they could.
Either way, I only asked out of formalities. I honestly didn't care about the Wildlings or what happened to them. Hell, the villagers could decide to burn them all alive and, yes, I'd cringe at the sight of it and probably hurl, but that'd be it. I kind of ran out of fucks to give, honestly.
Around twenty Wildings survived – most of them injured, though none of them were mortally so. Killing them with my own hands didn't seem quite right. So, I turned them over to the villagers who, frankly, were just as afraid of me as the Wildlings were. But, at least, none of them were as stupid as that brat who aimed a spear at my face. They rightfully feared me; already, I heard whispers of demons and curses and nightmares come to life. None of it felt particularly pleasing or flattering, but I suppose there were no other titles that could be suitably used to describe a Necromancer, like myself – and not just any Necromancer, I was a freaking Archmage.
Whatever the case, the Wildlings were dragged to the center of the village, their weapons confiscated and their hands and legs bound with thick bundles of rope. Many of the barbarians had soiled themselves and many more would fall unconscious whenever I got a little too close. Still, I kept myself around as the only deterrent, until all of them were bound and trapped within a large pen that I figured had likely been designed to keep animals inside, like goat and sheep.
Suitable, I suppose. There were very few cultures in Planetos that were arguably worse than the Wildlings, but these guys were just disgusting rapists, raiders, and murderers – like the Ironborn or the Dothraki.
"We have no choice." The old man answered. It was the same man who led the archers. He survived, but had lost an ear and earned himself a bunch of scars, courtesy of the Wildlings. A few dozen or so villagers died in the attack; there were simply too many Wildlings that it was physically impossible to save everyone. Still, as raids went, this was pretty good, because the alternative was total annihilation. Without my presence, this village would no longer exist and it was nice to think that the people around me, at least, acknowledged that little fact. "Either they die by our hand or the hand of our lord; it makes no difference. Bear Island cannot afford to feed or hold prisoners."
Oh well, killing them seemed like the best course of action now. And, seeing as I was in Bear Island, a fiefdom in the North that did not particularly have plenty of resources, I couldn't quite argue against the old man's ruling. In fact, the villagers unanimously decided that burying the Wildlings beneath their farmland would be good for the soil, which was efficient and pragmatic, given their overall situation. These ones, the survivors, I figured, would likely meet a very similar end once they were dead.
The one thing, I suppose, that really annoyed the shit out of me was the fact that they'd surrendered to me and no one else, which meant the burden of deciding their fate technically fell over my shoulders. I was the one who had to decide what became of these barbarians; it wasn't a duty I could just pass onto someone else. After all, if it hadn't been my decision to make, then the villagers would've already killed the Wildlings. They didn't, because they were waiting for me to make the call. And I fucking hated it.
Why did I have to be the one to decide who gets to live and die?
I wasn't even qualified to be a lawyer just yet and now I had to be a fucking judge?
Still, keeping with the need for pragmatism and efficiency, there had to be a way for these barbarians to still be useful. And so, an idea struck me, one that I would balked at before arriving to this world, but necessity always came first. At the very least, by taking control of the situation, ultimate authority fell on me and I could make sure that none of them suffered in their final moments – not much of a reprieve, honestly, but the land was harsh and unforgiving and, more than anyone else, the Wildlings knew and acknowledged that. So, I took the [Great Boner] and clutched it to my chest. "I will kill them myself."
The idea here was that I'd raise them all into Wights and then, for a time, use them to help the villagers rebuild the damage that'd been done to their homes, dig the graves for the corpses for the crops and potatoes to grow over, and maybe even salvage anything that could be salvaged from the wreckage of ships by the bay.
The old man nodded in approval and so did a lot of the others around us, actually. "He who renders judgment swings the blade. Go ahead, sorcerer; we will bear witness to their ends, though I doubt these animals understand the importance of such a thing."
"Oh, they do." I said, breathing in as I strode towards the bound Wildlings, turning my back to the villagers as I did. My undead bear and two zombies stood by the pen, acting as guards to make sure the Wildlings were sufficiently cowed. After all, not a single one of them would try to escape if they knew my bear was going to rip them apart to shit. Just its massive stature, claws the length of long daggers, was enough to put fear into the heart of anyone who saw it. Shit, even I found myself somewhat unnerved by it.
I stopped in front of the Wildlings, many of whom shuddered at my very presence, huddling closer to each other – a primal fear of the unknown, I wagered. They weren't afraid of me because I could kill them; death was a part of their existence as the "Free Folk" and all of them, unlike a lot of the southerners, I figured, already accepted the fact that they would die eventually. No, they were afraid of me, because they weren't entirely certain of what I'd do to them. But none of them, I figured, wanted to be the next zombie; because wasn't that the reason why they had a culture of burning the dead, instead of burying them? It was to prevent the Others from raising them up as wights. Well, they were unlucky as shit as they were about to become my unpaid interns.
"I'm going to kill you all." I said and I heard gasps and screams immediately – fair enough. A lot of curses and panicked prayers were sent my way, but I ignored them all. Though, I had to admit, the prospect of killing the youngest of them disturbed me, because the fact of the matter was that some among them were early teens, probably fourteen or even thirteen, and I was going to kill them. But, I swallowed hard, even as every instinct and every fiber of morality in my body warred against my decision. It was wrong. It was sick. It was inhumane. It was against everything I learned in Law School about the fair and equal treatment of all men. But this was not a court. There were no laws followed, no Geneva Convention telling them what they could and could not do. This was a wasteland, essentially, where might makes right and it just so happened that I had all the might in this case. No mercy and no quarter. Surely, that was more merciful than leaving them to the villagers, who'd probably be more than happy to just burn them all alive – a gruesome and painful way to die. The alternative was the [Great Boner], which I'd used to crack open their heads and splatter their brains till they stopped moving; brutal and disgusting, yes, but relatively painless in the grand scheme of things. It was the lesser evil, I decided. "And then, your corpses will become my Wights. And I will have you work to repair the damage that you've done to this village and its people. Your bodies will dig graves, till the fields, repair the damaged hovels; I don't care what menial tasks the people of this village will have you perform. Your corpses can't argue, anyway. You will not be wasted. And, I swear, your deaths will be quick. Does anyone have anything they'd like to say before I start killing?"
"Wait!" One of the Wildlings called out, a pale, black-haired woman with a busted lip and a bruised eye. "I'll serve you! I'll do anything you ask me to; I don't care what it is. I'll even work for these people till my bones break, but please don't kill me and raise my corpse!"
Others agreed with her, pleading with me to spare them.
I raised a brow. A cold gust of winter air blew over me. And, in the deepest part of my heart, I felt nothing – no sympathy. What I did do, however briefly, was consider her offer. Enslaving her to the villagers sounded like a good alternative, until I considered the fact that Bear Island was not rich in resources and she – alongside whoever else among the Wildlings felt like destroying whatever shred of pride and dignity they had left for the sake of staying alive – would just mean more mouths to feed. One could argue that more hands working the fields meant more food, but that was only true in the long term and I had to consider, first and foremost, the short term efficiency. And, really, not a single one of the villagers would be willing to starve a little in the coming months while the Wildlings drank up a few of their resources, just to have more food in the future. No, not even I would tolerate such a thing. And the people of this land were hardy and strong, resilient to their bones; they had no need for slaves. And, ultimately, the decision was mine to make. When I spoke, everything quieted. It was so silent, in fact, that I could almost hear the individual flecks of snow as they reached the ground. "Your offer has been duly noted. Now, does anyone else have any last words?"
"I have one, Whitewalker." One of the Wildlings spoke up. And, to my astonishment, it was one of the younger ones, a boy who was likely no older than sixteen at most. I walked up to him and stared him right in the eyes, though I figured he wouldn't even be able to see my face with the enchantment and shit.
"What is it?"
"Fuck you!" He roared and spat at me.
I smiled. He was going to die first – not because I was angry or offended by him or anything, but because he earned it. A quick death. No pain or, at least, as little of it as I could offer. God fucking damn it, when did I become judge, jury, and executioner? Oh, right, an hour or so ago. When I raised my staff, the boy looked afraid – horrified, even, but he stood his ground and kept his chin up. Something tugged at my heart, though I wasn't quite sure what it was I felt as I looked at him in that moment. "You've got guts, kid. Don't worry, I'm not mad. This will be quick."
And so, aiming for his temple, I swung the [Great Boner] as hard as I could. I felt something warm and wet spraying onto my face. And everything just sort of blurred after that.