Ch14
Dawn bled pale gold across the treetops when Erik rose. The camp stirred moments later as they moved with the crisp ease of bodies restored and strengthened. Breath misted in the cool morning air as everyone finished their ablutions at the stream, washing the night from their faces and clearing their minds for the day.
Every dawn, Erik repeated a ritual with unwavering discipline.
From his leather satchel he drew a single red-and-white stem cutting, one among many he carried, each taken from the heartwood weirwood tree. In his other hand, a small, brain-dead animal—often a rabbit—lay limp and docile, its spark of thought long gone but its heart still beating strong.
He always chose a place where the first light of the sun fell cleanly. An open patch of soil. A space the tree could claim and grow tall and strong. Kneeling, he dug a narrow pit with his hands, working the earth aside until it was deep enough to cradle the cutting.
Then came the part no one ever grew used to watching.
Erik stabbed the rabbit swiftly, ending what was left of its life in a single motion. Its blood he spilled deliberately in a rough circle around the hole. When the circle was complete, he placed the small corpse into the pit beside the stem cutting.
Then he sliced his own palm letting the stem drink his empowered blood.
Nearly half a pint of his blood darkened the soil as it dripped steadily into the opening. His face tightened, a flicker of fatigue passing over his features before he closed the wound with a burst of healing magic and packed the earth back into place.
Last came the part only he could do. Erik extended his hand over the buried stem, eyes dimming to an unfocused trance. Beneath the soil, roots began to unfurl, weaving outward like pale tendrils seeking purchase. A faint tremor passed through the earth as the first red leaves pushed up, unfurling into the morning light.
Another weirwood, tiny but alive. In time it would become a full-fledged weirwood tree.
When his companions inevitably asked why he performed this ritual every dawn, Erik would smile and reply.
"The Weirwoods are on the most fascinating organism. It's not just a plant, it so much more. This is how weirwoods grow. Blood, sacrifice, sunlight. They do not rise on their own, they must be fed. And I intend to spread as many as I can." Erik said quietly and reverently
When his companions finally pressed him Why? Why the blood? Why every morning? Why so many?
"Weirwoods aren't normal trees," Erik replied. "They carry a divine touch. They're alive in a way other trees can be. They produce magic and release it into the world the same way common trees release oxygen into the air."
The others exchanged looks, unsure if he spoke metaphor or literal truth.
Erik continued anyway, voice steady.
"A land rich in weirwoods breathes magic. It strengthens the body, the mind, the spirit. It nourishes spells. It wakes the old powers sleeping in the soil and in the blood of humans and animals alike. Wherever a weirwood takes root, the world becomes… more. It is the foundation of a magical biome"
He hesitated, then added quietly:
"And I need them. My abilities, my sensing, my living radar even my healing? It grows stronger near weirwoods. Their presence amplifies it. It Lets me feel life with greater range and precision."
A few jaws tightened as the implication sank in: he wasn't planting mere trees. He was cultivating a network—an ancient, magical grid only he could truly tap into.
"So I plant them," he finished simply. "Every dawn, every chance I get. One day these tiny shoots will become giants. And when they do, the land will be all the better from it."
He looked toward the nearest sprout, its first red leaves stirring in the wind.
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After his daily weirwoods planting ritual, Erik would clap his hands, gaining their attention
"Warm-up. Then Eskrima." He said with a hint of command in his voice. They groaned and grumbled good naturedly but complied.
Eskrima wasn't chosen at random.
It was the martial art Erik knew best, not from this life, but from the memories he carried from Major Liam Smith. Liam had been a master of the style, a man who had honed it through real battles, urban combat, jungle operations, and years of disciplined training. His muscle memory had been burned into Erik's soul the way old scars engrave themselves onto skin. Muscle memory that had implanted into their brain to speed up their training
And so, when the rejuvenated warriors demanded to know why they needed to relearn fighting…
"This is the most effective style for your situation." Erik had answered simply "And it's the only one I possess in full detail, form, instinct, rhythm, and reflex. It also better than any brawling styles you have developed yourselves"
He remembered Liam's stance, the triangular footwork, the flowing transitions, the economy of movement. He remembered how the Major could disarm a man with a flick, redirect a blow with a half-inch shift, end a fight with a single precise strike.
Those memories became Erik's anchor.
Those reflexes became his muscle memory.
And now, he passed them on.
Every morning's training—sticks first, then the serrated bone swords—was built from Liam's teachings. The angles of attack, the blocks, the counters, the drills where speed mattered more than strength. The way weapons were merely extensions of the hand. The philosophy that the one who controls distance controls the fight.
The warriors had scoffed at first.
We already know combat, they had said.
Erik had let them attack him.
And without using supernatural strength, he dismantled each one, disarmed, floored, neutralized using nothing but pure Eskrima technique, the same drills Liam had mastered in another lifetime.
After that, they listened and they learned. Some learned eagerly while others learned reluctantly.
Like every morning they formed a wide circle on the flattened forest floor, feet steady in the dew-soft earth. For over a week now ever since the rejuvenation back in the village they had followed this routine at dawn.
Now, their movements were eager rather than resentful. Muscles warmed, joints loosened, breath deepened. Then came the sticks, paired rattan rods worn smooth from hours of practice. The forest filled with the tak-tak-tak and crack-snap of rapid strikes, blocks, counters, footwork drills, and flowing patterns. Hands were faster now, reactions sharper, bodies more explosive. The implanted muscle memories were effectively giving them months of training in a few weeks.
After thirty minutes, Erik called: "Switch."
They sheathed the sticks and drew their unusual short swords, three-foot-long serrated bone blades, reinforced inside and outside with carbon fiber latticework. Light, vicious, almost unbreakable. The edges gleamed like pale ivory; the serrations caught the low morning sun like shark teeth.
Footwork extended. Ranges changed. The rhythm sharpened into something lethal.
The newly rejuvenated warriors radiated joy in simply being alive, muscles singing with vigor they had not felt in decades.
By the end of the hour, sweat shone on brows, chests rose and fell, and grins flashed among the group. The training doubled as a morning workout, and everyone felt it.
"Good," Erik said, sheathing his blade. "That's enough for today. Let's eat and be on our way."
Breakfast was simple: dried venison, crispbread, berries, steaming herbal tea. They ate while discussing the coming day's route, the winds, and any animals Erik had sensed through his warg-bonded companions during the night.
Then came the packing and armor
The ritual of donning armor, layered leather, hardened plates, carbon-fiber-reinforced bone segments, padded joints took nearly an hour. Straps buckled. Greaves tightened. Helmets polished. Runa teasingly tapped Erik's chest plate.
"Try not to get stabbed today," she murmured with a small smirk.
"No promises," he replied.
They hit the trail soon after.
A routine emerged. Like yesterday they travelled with swift elks, hunting efficiently along the way, scouting directed by Erik's ravens and wolves, a midday rest to eat and let their rides drink, graze and rest. Setting up camp an hour before evening. Mounted archery practice. Then dinner with quiet conversations around evening fires then resting in two or three separate yurts for privacy and intimacy.
This went on for Four days. Four days of steady, purposeful movement. Four days of growing cohesion. And almost two weeks of sharpening themselves into a single, deadly unit aided by his powers.
That night, Erik's sleep was pierced by new visions, sharper, darker than before.
A different tribe appeared before him, a small nomadic band shivering beneath tattered hides. Their faces were pale with hunger, their movements weak. Snow still clung to the ground in patches, the bitter memory of a brutal winter.
Then the images sharpened. He saw why they suffered.
Last winter had taken their elders. Not warriors or hunters, but the ones whose knowledge mattered most to nomads: the foragers, the herb-wives, the lore-keepers. Those who knew the shapes and smells of every leaf, root, and berry. Those who could distinguish between a nourishing red winterfruit and its nearly identical cousin that rotted the stomach and shut down the heart.
The young ones had survived the winter… but they were blind now without their teachers.
Erik saw a handful of youths wandering a thawing forest, baskets in hand, guessing at plants by vague memory.
The dream lurched, showing a pot of steaming stew. Into it, the youths dropped handfuls of berries, ones that looked nearly identical to the harmless winterfruit their grandparents once used.
But they weren't harmless. They were the deceptive poisonous berries.
Erik saw the aftermath: bodies curled on the ground, clutching their stomachs. Children vomiting. Adults pale, sweating, twitching. A few lay still, already gone. Panic and confusion spread like wildfire.
Those who were only mildly poisoned staggered as they tried to tend the dying. Too weak to hunt. Too weak to defend the camp. Too weak even to gather clean water.
If nothing changed, the tribe would collapse entirely.
They weren't just starving anymore, they were being erased by their own mistakes, mistakes born from lost knowledge.
And the vision pressed itself into Erik's mind with awful clarity:
If this continued, the tribe would die. Every last one of them.
'Go there first' a voice whispered 'the raiders can wait'
Erik woke with a sharp inhale. His heart hammered against his ribs, not from fear but from urgency. The images clung to him like frost, the poisoned stew, the groans of the sick, the still bodies, the handful of survivors too weak to do anything but watch their people fade.
He turned to his side and saw the space beside him where Runa usually slept was empty. He heard the others moving around and getting ready for their daily morning drill.
For a long moment he sat upright, elbows on his knees, breathing slow and steady until his mind settled. But the weight in his chest did not leave.
If nothing changes, they will all die. He thought .The old gods have shown me this for a reason.
When he stepped outside, dawn had barely touched the sky. His companions sat around the fire waiting for him, some sharpening blades, some helping cook breakfast . They looked up as he approached, feeling the tension radiating from him.
Helga frowned first. She too had experience with prophetic dreams
"You saw something again." She stated with certainty. "Tell us. Please"
Erik nodded as he sat beside them. "A tribe. Not far from here. Smaller than ours. They've lost most of their elders. The young ones gathered poisonous berries by mistake… mixed them into their stew."
A few of his people exchanged uneasy glances.
"Idiots" Sigrun muttered.
He continued, his voice steady but heavy.
"Most of them are sick. A few are already dead. And the ones who survived the poisoning are too weak to hunt or defend themselves. They're collapsing. If nothing changes, their whole tribe will be gone within days."
Korb swallowed. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely," Erik said. "The gods didn't show me this as a warning for them alone. They showed it because it's something we can change. Something I am meant to change."
The fire crackled. No one spoke for several seconds.
Finally, Runa stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "Then we go help them."
"Aye" Eldri said nodding "It is the will of the old gods. We comply"
"We comply" they murmured. The others nodded, some uncertain, some resolute, but all loyal and accepting the mission from the old gods themselves.
Erik exhaled slowly, feeling the decision settle into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.
Erik let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Their willingness mattered more than he ever admitted aloud. These people trusted his visions, trusted him, even when the road led into unknown danger.
He straightened.
"All right people. The raider can wait. We have rescue mission at hand" Erik said authoritatively "We travel light. We ride fast. We don't drill or stop during the day and we travel right until sunset. They don't have days to spare."
"If they're that weak, they won't even have guards posted. Raiders or wild animals could take them out before we even get there" Korb said tightening his saddle straps.
Runa gave Erik a small, encouraging smile. "Show us the direction. We'll handle the rest."
Erik closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the vision, not the suffering, but the angle of sunlight, the curve of the hills, the distant mountain spine behind the tribe's camp. Erik's own memories of patrolling these lands as a Night's watch man provided him clues and he knew where thet
"Northwest." Erik said He lifted his hand and pointed. "Four to five days by foot. Two days of fast riding, one day if we push it hard."
"Then we ride," Korb said." And we ride until we and our mounts are too tired to do so"
And with that, the camp began to move, packs tightened, embers stamped out, elks saddled. As the first true rays of dawn broke across the horizon, Erik mounted up, heart steady, purpose clear.
'The old gods have placed the fate of that small tribe in his hands' He thought 'I will save as many as I can'
Within the hour they had packed up and were moving. They moved with a speed none of them were used to. Morning drills were skipped, sparring cancelled, even archery practice set aside. Every ounce of energy went into the ride. They still hunted along the way swift, efficient kills from elkback—but they preserved nearly all of it, packing the meat tightly and tying it to their saddles. Their own meals were meager; a strip of dried elk here, a shared handful of nuts there. The rest was for the tribe that lay ahead.
Their elks sensed the urgency as well, covering ground with relentless pace. Dawn bled into dusk, the world rolling by in a blur of pine, stone, and wind. They continued until it was almost dark, then they setup camp. Erik used his powers extensively on the tired elks ensuring they wouldn't die on him. Under his healing touch their aches were soothed and they rested until dawn
On the morning of the second day, the air grew heavy with the stench of sickness.
They crested a low ridge and finally saw it: a cluster of hide tents sagging in the cold wind, fires burned down to embers, figures slumped near the entrances or lying motionless in the dirt. No guards. little movement. No voices. Just quiet suffering.
Erik halted his elk, gaze hardening.
They had reached the dying tribe's encampment.
"Come on" He urged everyone
As they descended toward the encampment, a lone figure staggered into their path.
A young man, little more than a boy, leaning heavily on a spear stumbled forward. His face was pale, lips cracked, eyes dull with fever. His breath came in short, trembling bursts, and his legs shook as though they might give way at any moment.
Still, he tried to stand firm.
"H-Halt…" he rasped, lifting the spear a few inches before the effort made his arm tremble violently. "No… no strangers… leave…"
Erik dismounted slowly, raising both hands in peace.
"Peace young warrior. We're not here to harm you,". Erik said soothingly "We saw what happened to your people. We came to help."
The youth blinked, confused. "Help…? You…saw?.... you know? How? No ….not important. Not a…fool " The youth struggled to tighten his grip. "Must protect… Don't… come closer…"
"I'm Erik and I'm a healer and the champion of the old gods. They have heard your prayers and sent me" Erik sighed softly, then held up one hand where the boy could see it. "I'll show you."
Before anyone could react, Erik drew a knife from his belt and slashed his own palm,deep enough that blood immediately poured down his wrist.
The young man gasped in shock, taking an unsteady step backward.
But then, before his eyes, the wound closed. Skin knit together. Blood halted. Within a breath, there wasn't even a scar.
Erik held up the healed hand.
"I dreamed of your plight in my dreams. We have come to help. We came because your people are dying. Let us through."
The youth stared, mouth slightly open, his fever-hazed mind trying to process what he had just seen. Finally the spear dipped, hitting the snow with a soft thud as he used it to keep himself upright.
"You… you're a healer," he whispered hoarsely. "A real one…"
"Let us in. We'll save who we can." Erik stepped closer and gently steadied him, used his powers to purge his body of poison and give it a boost.
The young man nodded weakly, tears of relief welling in his eyes.
"Please Champion! This way.… Hurry…" he said already feeling better
And with that, he led them into the heart of the suffering camp.
The young man guided them between the sagging hide tents, where the stench of sickness thickened. Weak groans drifted through the air. A few bodies lay still beneath rough blankets. The tribe was on the edge of collapse.
Erik didn't waste a breath.
"Yrsa! Runa! Set up a clean area. Helga, Eldri seek out with the most critical, help them and lead me to them. Orvar, Ketil, Korb find me more living animals. We'll need many more then we have. Everyone else start unloading the yurts. Sigrun start cooking something nourishing but light. Ainar help her. We'll need them as infirmaries up immediately."
They quickly went about doing their assigned task.
Erik knelt beside the first critical patient, a woman curled on her side, lips blue, breath shallow. He placed a hand against her forehead, feeling the poison burning through her blood. Too late for normal healing. Too deep.
He exhaled once. Then reached into the satchel tied to his elk's saddle.
Inside were the brain-dead animals he kept alive for this purpose, rabbits, a small fox, plump marmots, a few birds. Bodies alive but empty of mind, preserved for magic.
He pulled one out, placed it beside the woman, and pressed his hand to its flank. The animal shuddered and shriveled as its life-force drained. Warmth surged into Erik's arm, through his chest, and out through his other hand into the dying woman.
Her breathing eased. Her color returned slightly.
"Next," he said out loud
Helga led him, and together they moved from tent to tent, stabilizing the worst cases, pulling the dying back from the brink. Again and again, Erik used the brain-dead creatures as magical batteries, burning through their life-force to save humans on the edge of death.
By midday, he had saved over two dozen people. His hands shook from fatigue yet he pushed on, but still pushed on.
'I'll stabilize the rest' he thought as his fatigued mind and body protested 'and heal them properly later'
Meanwhile, his companions worked like a well-trained unit:
"All right! I'm making my healing heart soup" Sigrun clapped her hands sharply. "The kind that kept my brothers alive during the winter. I'll need meat, herbs, bones, and lots of water!"
"I'll help," Ainar said, rolling up his sleeves.
Hunters scattered into the trees to gather firewood. Others hauled water from a half-frozen stream. Cauldrons were set up. Fires were coaxed to life. Thick, hearty broth soon simmered, filling the camp with the first comforting smell in days.
Once all the five yurts in their supplies were set up, the line of clean, warm shelters served as makeshift infirmaries. Runa directed patients inside, assigning blankets, keeping the fires steady, making sure none were left unattended and started giving them little bots of food as their stomachs couldn't handle it.
Gonir, silent but determined, took several young warriors of this tribe who had recovered enough to move.
They gathered the bodies of the dead with solemn care and built funeral pyres just outside the camp. The tribe's few remaining healthy members watched with hollow eyes, gratitude and grief mixing on their faces. The close ones cried and sobbed. The sky was filled with the wails and cries of the mourners.
Two days passed in a blur of exhaustion and effort.
Erik stabilized dozens more, using the last of his preserved animals and draining himself nearly to collapse each night. His people kept the soup boiling, the fires hot, the sick fed and washed and comforted.
Erik's beasts stood their own vigil. Wolves circled the perimeter. The great elk stomped threatening shadows. The owl perched above the campfires, watching for anything that moved wrong in the night. Not a single predator got close as their masters slept exhausted.
The tribe's only surviving elder Jakob the Bear, an old but once muscular Warg who'd been reduced to skin and bone and shivering body, watched it all in speechless awe. More than once he whispered to anyone who would listen:
"No mortals do this. The gods have sent us his Champion and his chosen elites. The gods… they have remembered us." elder Jakob the bear would say as he petted his own warg beast, a hawk
On the morning of the third day, Erik proudly declared that their mission was a success
Life was returning. The tribe was weak but no longer dying.
And the people who had once faced extinction now looked to Erik and his companions with hope, awe and eternal gratitude.
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