Chapter 35 – the 22nd day of September, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
It was cold, was all Samwell Tarly could think. Too bloody cold.
He had dinner by the fire with Grenn and Edd, his usual companions. They had been practicing archery all afternoon. Sam's fingers were still stiff and Chett, maester Aemon's old steward with his face full of boils and the big wen on his neck, had taunted him when he walked past with the hounds. Sam had ignored him, but secretly he wondered if he was right. The steward's words haunted him. What happens when Mance Rayder's lads come screaming in your face?
It was another pitch-black night, a new moon. There were nights out here, far beyond the Wall, when it seemed a thousand thousand stars twinkled above. Shining comfortingly, keeping the dark just a little at bay, but now the clouds lay so thick no stars were visible. In the time they had camped here the days had grown shorter and the nights ever darker and colder. The weeks that Jon and the others had spent scouting had grown into months. Smallwood and his ranging party had returned three days earlier, warning of the approach of the wildling host. Ever since, a sort of nervous anticipation seemed to fall upon the camp. Even the woods around the Fist seemed to be holding their breath.
Sam finally made his pardons and retired to the snug little windbreak he had made for himself, between a rock and the raven cages. Even with three hundred brothers present, the Fist of the First Men was large enough not to be too crowded. As he wrapped himself under a small mountain of black wool blankets and shaggy furs Sam stopped, noticing again how quiet it was. Even the ravens were squawking less than usual. Around them the Haunted Forest was silent as a tomb. The Lord Commander had set up a ring of torches burning around the hilltop, and hidden far-eyes in several trees around the Fist to give warning of any approach, but beyond their little outpost was a sea of darkness that seemed deeper than ever.
Ten days Samwell thought, as he went to sleep. The wildlings were marching down the Milkwater. In ten more days they will be upon us Smallwood had said. The thought made Sam uneasy, but he was a craven by nature. His gloved hand felt around until his fat fingers touched the device in his pocket, the other little yellow 'distress beacon' Jon had been gifted by the flying men, and then passed onto him. Most of the Black Brothers thought it a useless trinket, but Samwell had kept it close, and felt for its presence every night before he fell asleep. The Lord Commander had told him he could use it, if they came under attack, but to make sure he got the ravens off first. Sam eventually drifted off, still clutching the device.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
Sam sat up, looking around in confusion. He sensed he had slept for some hours. The night was still dark, but around them was a glistening blanket that had not been there earlier. Is this snow? He thought. Even through his furs, it felt colder than ever. He could hardly feel his hands and feet. He tried to sit up.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.
"Gods" Sam whispered. His feet were tangled in his cloak and blankets. He kicked them away and reached for a chain-mail hauberk he'd hung on the rock nearby. As he slipped the garment on he looked around and realized he was not quite alone. Chett was standing ten feet away, just past the raven cage. He was looking back from where the horn had blown.
"Was it two?" Sam asked. "I dreamed I heard two blasts..."
"No dream," said Chett. "Two blasts to call the Watch to arms. Two blasts for foes approaching. There's an axe out there with Piggy writ on it, fat boy. Two blasts means wildlings."
Sam was momentarily too distracted to be bothered by the steward's mean words. The old bear had told him the ravens were his responsibility, and he had written out a number of messages in advance. He searched in his cloak for the parchment pouch where he had hidden them. Chett had turned back to the horn.
"Bugger them all to seven hells. Bloody Harma. Bloody Mance Rayder. Bloody Smallwood, he said they wouldn't be on us for another -"
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
The sound went on and on and on, until it seemed it would never die. The ravens were flapping and screaming, flying about their cages and banging off the bars.
"Three" Sam squeaked to Chett. "That was three, I heard three. They never blow three. Not for hundreds and thousands of years. Three means -"
"-Others." Chett made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. All about the camp the brothers of the Night's Watch were rising, donning their armor, buckling on swordbelts, reaching for battleaxes and bows. Sam heard shouts in the distance, though not yet any signs of battle.
"Help me get the birds off" Sam pleaded, but Chett had already turned and ran, dagger in hand. He has the dogs to care for Sam remembered. Probably the Lord Commander had given him some orders as well.
His fingers were so stiff in the gloves, and he was shaking from fear and cold, but he found the pouch and dug out the messages he'd written. The ravens were shrieking furiously. When he opened the Castle Black cage one of them flew right in his face. Two more escaped before Sam could catch one, and when he did it pecked him through his glove, drawing blood. Yet somehow he held on long enough to attach the little roll of parchment.
"Fly!" Sam called as he tossed the raven into the air. The birds in the Shadow Tower cage were screaming and fluttering about so madly that he was afraid to open the door, but he made himself do it anyway. This time he caught the first raven that tried to escape. A moment later, it was clawing its way up through the falling snow, bearing word of the attack.
His duty done, he finished dressing with clumsy, frightened fingers, donning his cap and surcoat and hooded cloak and buckling on his swordbelt, buckling it real tight so it wouldn't fall down. Then he found his pack and stuffed all his things inside. Spare smallclothes and dry socks, the dragonglass arrowheads and spearhead Jon had given him and the old horn too, his parchments, inks, and quills, the maps he'd been drawing, and a rock-hard garlic sausage he'd been saving since the Wall. He tied it all up and shouldered the pack onto his back. The Lord Commander said I wasn't to rush to the ringwall, he recalled, but he said I shouldn't come running to him either. Sam took a deep breath, turning in a circle wondering what to do next.
Only at this moment did he remember the beacon.
Oh he thought. He fumbled around and extracted the device. Its pale yellow colour standing out in this world of white and grey. Tired and scared, Sam took a few moments to remember the instructions he'd been told. With clumsy, gloved fingers, it took him another minute to extract the key and place it in the lock. He wasn't sure if it made a noise, but the little red light started flashing. He pulled out the 'antenna' and watched the light flash green.
He found himself looking up, as if expecting the clouds to immediately part and flying machines to come soaring through the gap. When nothing happened he was slightly crestfallen, but decided it still a worthwhile thing. If you run into monsters out there they had said. Well the horn had blown thrice now. Three long blasts meant Others. The white walkers of the wood, the cold shadows, the monsters of the tales that made him squeak and tremble as a boy, riding their giant ice-spiders, hungry for blood...
He held the device in his hand awkwardly, wondering where to put it. On high ground they said, facing south. Sam looked around again, wondering where this meant. There were dogs barking and horses trumpeting, though the snow muffled the sounds and made them seem far away. Sam could see nothing beyond three yards, not even the torches burning along the low stone wall that ringed the crown of the hill. Suddenly, all his efforts felt futile. How could the flying men, so distant, possibly hear this little device?
He had more pressing matters to consider, however. Could the torches have gone out? That was too scary to think about. Awkwardly Sam drew his sword in his other hand, and plodded heavily through the snow. A dog ran past barking, and he saw some of the men from the Shadow Tower, big bearded men with longaxes and eight-foot spears. He felt safer for their company, so he followed them to the wall. When he saw the torches still burning atop the ring of stones a shudder of relief went through him.
The black brothers stood with swords and spears in hand, watching the snow fall, waiting. Ser Mallador Locke went by on his horse, wearing a snow-speckled helm. Sam stood well back behind the others, looking for Grenn or Dolorous Edd. If I have to die, let me die beside my friends, he remembered thinking. But all the men around him were strangers, Shadow Tower men under the command of the ranger named Blane.
"Here they come" he heard a brother say. "Notch" said Blane. Twenty black arrows were pulled from as many quivers, and notched to as many bowstrings.
"Gods be good, there's hundreds," a voice said softly.
"Draw" Blane said, and then "hold." Sam could not see and did not want to see. The men of the Night's Watch stood behind their torches, waiting with arrows pulled back to their ears, as something came up the dark, slippery slope through the snow. "Hold" Blane said again. "Hold, hold." And then "Loose."
The arrows whispered as they flew. A ragged cheer went up from the men along the ringwall, but it died quickly. "They're not stopping, m'lord," a man said to Blane. Another shouted, "More! Look there, coming from the trees," and yet another said, "Gods ha' mercy, they's crawling. They's almost here, they's on us!"
Sam could only watch in horror as what seemed like a great dark mass slowly worked its way up the steep slope. Men were standing ready with spears, as behind them ranks of archers drew and loosed.
"Fire arrows!" Sam heard a voice shouting, and suddenly the Lord Commander appeared astride his horse. "Give them flame." It was then he noticed Sam there quaking. "Tarly! Get out of here! Your place is with the ravens."
"I... I... I got the messages away."
"Good." On Mormont's shoulder his own raven echoed, "Good, good."
"And I…I opened the beacon" Sam said, holding the device aloft. The Lord Commander looked huge in fur and mail. Behind his black iron visor, his eyes were fierce. They narrowed when he saw the distress beacon, sitting in Sam's hand liked an overripe lemon.
"Good, aye! Now go back to the ravens, Tarly!" he barked. "If I need to send another message, I don't want to have to find you first. See that the birds are ready." He did not wait for a response, but turned his horse and trotted around the ring, shouting "Fire! Give them fire!"
Sam did not need to be told twice. He went back to the birds, as fast as his fat legs could carry him. The device was still held awkwardly in his hand. A part of him still held hope that it would be of some use. I should put it somewhere high was all he could think. The rock he had slept beside was barely waist height, but there were others. Pillars of the old ringfort that still stood high, even after thousands of years. There were some by the huge fire at the center of the camp.
Sam hurried over. He could see more black brothers gathered, mounted men, pacing about the campfire restlessly. The reserve, he knew, ready to ride down anything that breached the ringwall. They had armed themselves with torches in place of swords, and were lighting them in the flames. Sam stopped twenty feet away, looking around. The tallest pillars might have been twice his height. Some smaller stones stood by one of the biggest. It was hard to find his footing in the dark, but he managed to scramble a short way up. He reached out with the beacon and gently placed it atop the pillar, ten feet clear of any obstructions.
There he thought. That should do it. Sam stumbled off again, retracing his steps back to the raven cages. In the distance, he heard only screams.
######
"The Smith? No, no no. That be the Thief." Ygritte gave a little laugh. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."
Jon chuckled, and immediately felt guilty for it. He thought of Qhorin and Stonesnake, sleeping in their shelter not twenty feet away. Every polite word exchanged with the wildling girl seemed to anger them further. They had said little, but Jon knew it from their faces. He would not dare see them laughing with her. She was the enemy, after all. Her party had hunted them for days, and killed two of his companions. But that was Rattleshirt and his band, he thought, as if trying to reassure himself. Something about Ygritte told him she was no threat.
For four nights they had been camped up in the Frostfangs. It was the strangest congregation Jon had ever been part of. A platoon of flying men from another world, three black brothers, and two wildling raiders. After the first night, Findlay had even permitted them to light a fire. His men had set up little green shelters to sleep under by their machines. During the day, some of them patrolled as much as a few miles from their little camp, but everyone would be back by dusk.
Rattleshirt's band had not gone far. Findlay advised the rest of the wildlings had lit their own fire a mile or so back down the valley, though they couldn't see it from here. A few had ridden off the day after their encounter, no doubt bringing word of their prescene to Mance Rayder, and perhaps even delivering Findlay's message. The others had stayed there, watching no doubt, waiting, though for what Jon couldn't quite say. They still spied the eagle most mornings, but it did not venture close. Stonesnake would still have loosed an arrow at it. Qhorin had even advised Findlay to shoot it down. When the captain had asked why, Qhorin had merely grunted that the wildlings had it 'well trained' but Findlay had frowned and declined the suggestion. Jon too thought of trying to explain wargs and skinchangers, but somehow the words held in his throat. Here, sitting warm and slightly comfortable by a fire, they seemed to have receded to something from Old Nan's stories again. The flying men had spied shadowcats a few times in the night (supposedly they could see even in the darkness) but nothing else had troubled them. A part of him almost wished for something queer to happen. They seem wise and certain of things, but the world is stranger than they know.
Qhorin had insisted that at least one black brother be awake at all times, and a dozen flying men were also. Several kept watch on the pair of wildlings who had joined them. Ygritte and Ryk seemed to feel no such compulsion on their part, sleeping through the night next to the strangers as if without a care in the world. Jon could hear Ryk's snores from under his wool cloak nearby.
"What about the Moonmaid?" Jon asked, tracing the constellartion with his finger.
"Aye, the Moonmaid is there" Ygritte agreed. "When the Thief's in the Moonmaid, that's the best time to steal a girl…it was mighty bright when you stole me" she said furtively, warming her hands by the fire.
"Pardon my lady, I did not steal you" Jon said, for what must have been the third or fourth time. "I never knew you were a girl until my knife was at your throat."
"If you kill a man, and never meant', he's just as dead" Ygritte said stubbornly. "And I ain't no lady. You know nothing."
She was a stubborn girl, he decided. Somehow, he found himself thinking of Arya. He wondered where she way now. Findlay said they had delivered his sisters back to Winterfell last year, were they still there? Safe and warm?
Jon would have said more, but at that point he heard footsteps. The two of them wheeled around. Findlay and two more flying men had emerged from behind one of their machines. A 'Sergeant Caulfield' and 'Private Nguyen' he knew. The latter had an odd appearance, with a roundish face, and squinty eyes. He had been growing intimately familiar with all the commandoes. They walked over to Jon.
"We have a problem, young Snow" Findlay said. "Best wake your companions."
Jon nodded and went to do so, shaking them awake gently. Qhorin rose to a crouch in an instant, fingers on his swordhilt. He looked for the two wildlings, and only relaxed a little when he saw Ygritte, seated by the fire with her arms wrapped around her knobbly knees. The two black brothers came. Findlay looked at the wildling girl too, frowned, and ushered them back over towards the nearest 'Black Hawk'. When they were out of earshot he turned to them.
"Looks like we've found your friends" he said.
"The Lord Commander?" Qhorin asked.
Findlay nodded. He looked at Jon. "Who did you give the other beacon to?"
"Samwell Tarly" Jon replied. "Maester Aemon's steward."
"Well it's just gone off. We picked it up a few minutes ago. They're just under two hundred K's north east of here."
"About twenty-fives leagues" Lieutenant Underwood translated, leaning in towards Jon.
Nguyen had unfolded a map on the helicopter's side. "Here" Findlay pointed, shining a torch. "Right by the river, like you said. I have a drone on the way for a closer look, but it will take a few hours. It must be this Fist of the First Men you spoke of. If they need help, we can head there at dawn, only…" he sounded uncertain for a moment. "The wildlings we've seen aren't anywhere near there yet."
This was true. Finding the three hundred black brothers had proven more difficult, but the wildling host had been spotted more easily. A drone had crossed their line of march two days before (friendly as she may have appeared, Jon had not mentioned this information to Ygritte). Findlay had already showed them pictures of a long snake of men and animals, including giants on their mammoths, stretching for thirty or forty miles as they followed the Milkwater. Even the vanguard was still a good ten leagues from the Fist however. The commandos and the black brothers looked at each other.
"Might be this steward lit this beacon by accident" Stonesnake offered.
"They don't go off by accident" Findlay replied.
For a moment all eyes turned to Jon.
"I have not known Sam to be the bravest of men, 'tis true, but he is no fool. He would not call for help unless needed."
"How old is he?" Findlay asked suddenly.
Despite everything, Jon was almost affronted by the question, but he answered it. "Sixteen, my lord. But he is older then me, and he would not call for you unless the Lord Commander ordered it. He turned to the other rangers. "It is Lord Commander Mormont that is calling for our help."
"It is best we leave at dawn" Findlay said. "Flying at night is uncertain. We don't even know if we have a good place to land. We can return you to your Lord Commander then and decide what to do from there."
"Dawn, my lord?" Jon said, a sudden fear rising within him. He thought back to the night at Castle Black, when he had seen a dead man rise once more. He found himself flexing his burned hand. He was about to object further, but another beat him to it.
"They won't have till dawn, captain."
It was Qhorin who had spoken. All eyes turned to the Halfhand. The commandoes were a great deal older than Jon, but the Halfhand had them beat by many more years. He had taken a step forward. "Captain Findlay…I know we have only just met, and I am not entirely sure if I can trust you. I understand if you don't trust me, but please here me now…You are new to this world, but there are old powers here…and they are rising again."
"You believe this is something else?" the captain asked.
"It would not be wildlings at this hour, captain" Qhorin replied immediately, taking another step forward, until he was at the centre of the group. "They lack the discipline, and the Fist is too steep to scale by night. You would need a large force to assault it. Thousands of men. Mance Rayder has them, but he would need to siege it first. Surround it, then attack in the daylight. It would take days, and your machines see no sign of this, no?"
"No" Findlay replied.
"Then it is not wildlings."
"Then what would it be? Your dead men?" Jon thought his tone would be mocking, but the captain sounded deadly serious. "These monters you spoke of?"
"I confess captain, I cannot say" Qhorin replied cautiously. "But the Lord Commander may not have till dawn. If we are to help him, we best not dawdle."
Findlay considered him for a moment, and then turned to his underlings. "Gentlemen, what do we think?"
Underwood glanced at the black brothers. "I don't know about dead men sir…but there does seem to be something strange happening here. Why would they call for help at this hour? And the wildlings are still miles away. It could be something else, something we haven't seen yet."
They turned to Caulfield. The sergeant was a huge man. Six and a half feet tall, and stoutly built even for his size. Of all the people he had met Jon thought only Hodor, the simpleminded stableboy at Winterfell, looked stronger. In the darkness, Jon could barely make out the smile on the big man's face. "Hell sir, I've always wanted to kill a monster. Let's go."
Findlay turned back to Underwood. "Wake everyone up. I need to make a call."
The camp was soon a hive of activity. A score of sleeping commandos were roused. Jon stood with his brothers, listening as Findlay appeared to confer with a superior on the 'radio'. He heard snatches of the conversation, phrases like "…boots on the ground" and "…your call." After a minute the captain came back.
"What time is it now?"
Underwood glanced at the device on his wrist. "Twenty-four minutes after local midnight."
"Alright, we go at oh-one hundred hours. Pack everything up and warm up the birds."
Underwood started issuing more orders. No one shouted anything. No horns were blown. With practiced competence men simply starting taking down their shelters and gathering their gear. The Halfhand sent Jon and Stonesnake off to gather up their own meagre belongings. As he passed by the fire, Ygritte called out to him. Ryk had awoken and now stood beside her, clutching a maul, but the two of them remained by the fire while the commandos packed up their camp.
"Jon, what are they doing?"
Jon hesitated for half a heartbeat. Stonesnake was just a step ahead of him. "We're leaving."
"Why?" Ygritte asked, rising to her feet as well. "Why are you leaving?"
"Some men need help" was all he said, as he went to help Stonesnake pack up their shelter. She called out to him again, but Jon found the will to ignore her. Their task was done quickly. From somewhere behind him, Jon heard the sound of a flying machines coming to life. Lights came on, giving a queer glow to the scene. Their last three horses were tethered nearby. All of a sudden Stonesnake had pulled out his knife. "We can't take these, here."
He grabbed one horse by the neck.
"We could leave them…" Jon said weakly.
"Leave them for the wildlings, boy?" Stonesnake hissed furiously, rounding on him. "Are you a brother of the Night's Watch, or not?"
"I am" Jon insisted.
"Then do your duty. I won't have no wildling bitch riding our brothers down with our own mounts!"
He slit the throat of the first horse. The others had been lying still, but the smell or the resulting shriek of pain must have roused them. Stonesnake grabbed for another while Jon produced Longclaw. His own mount cantered backwards as he approached, but the beast was tethered to a heavy stone and could go no further. Jon grabbed for his neck, murmuring soothing words, before he brought the sword down with a swift stroke. The Valyrian steel bit deep. The horse's neck half came off. Blood spurted everywhere, but it was silenced quickly. Beside him, Stonesnake had finished the job.
They walked back past the two wildlings. Ygritte had taken a few cautious steps from the fire. "We'll come with you" she proclaimed.
"You will do no such thing" Stonesnake spat, now rounding on her. "Go back to your traitor King. Tell him he will find only death at the Wall."
"There's only death behind us" Ygritte replied.
"Then the Others take you, and all your people" Stonesnake replied, turning away from her.
Ygritte looked at Jon, but he turned away as well. He thought to call out for Ghost. The wolf had been hunting, but the noise must have summoned him back. Suddenly he saw red eyes in the darkness, and the wolf fell in beside him, padding silently over the rocks. He felt a sudden worry that Ghost would have to share the same fate as the horses. They made their way back to Underwood and Qhorin.
"Can Ghost come?" Jon asked, fearful of the answer.
The flying man considered the wolf. "Can you keep him calm?"
"He's always calm."
"Best give him something to eat first. See if you can lead him on board."
All three flying machines were spinning up now. Their rotors moving so fast they became a blur again. The commandoes were gathering, loading gear and soon climbing on themselves. Jon cracked open another can of Spam, which he noticed Ghost had become particularly fond of, and waved it in the wolf's face. He eased himself aboard behind Stonesnake. Ghost leapt up after him. He fed him the oily meat by hand. Other commandoes came on board. In minutes Qhorin and Findlay had joined them and the doors slid shut. Ghost was eating so greedily he hardly seemed to notice when the machine rose aloft.
For Jon it was the queerest sensation, only taking the cage up to the top of the Wall felt at all similar. They were seated facing inwards, shoulder to shoulder. The commandos looked so bulky with all their gear and ugly weapons it was amazing they all fit in the cramped compartment. As they soared into the night Jon looked out the darkened windows. The only spark he saw was the rapidly receding campfire they had left behind. He even spied the two figures standing beside it. For a moment he wondered if he would ever see Ygritte and Ryk again, but in an instant they had disappeared from view. Jon found himself deafened by the noises around him, the whirr of the rotors, the rattle of ropes and chains, the howling wind, the chatter of the pilots in their 'cockpit'. The interior was lit with a dull greenish light, but when he glanced outside again all Jon saw was a sea of darkness, a sea without end.