Akkarulf snorted and blinked as he felt himself shaken awake.
"Zzwha?"
"Get up!"
Blinking the sleep away from his eyes, Akkarulf recognized one of the Ironborn under Gorion's command.
"Yorenn? What is it?"
"Wolf wants you and your bow at the Seafang. He looks mighty pissed."
Akkarulf scrambled up, pulling on his boots and grabbing his bow.
"Did he say why?"
Yorenn shrugged.
"Swordeater was with him. He didn't look much happier."
Akkarulf hurried down the tower stairs to the courtyard where the Seafang was still under construction, its exposed keel and ribs giving the impression of a long-dead beached whale.
The Wolf was easily recognizable even in the dim light of dawn, his sorcerer standing next to him with a studiously neutral expression. The giant grunted as Akkarulf ran to them.
"About time. Are you fit to perform the will of the gods, or will you need a few more hours of beauty sleep? I'm sure they won't mind waiting."
"No yarrl! I am at-"
"Shut up. Let's go."
The Wolf turned on his heel and headed for the battlements facing the warcamp. Akkarulf shot Sven a glance, but the seer took off after the Wolf without a word. The sun had risen enough that he could see the steps without needing to hold the wall.
When they reached the battlements, the Wolf took a parchment from a belt pouch.
"The gods have sent me a vision. Sven agrees with its meaning, much as I dislike it. Now we must relay the message to the Southerlings."
He gave the parchment to Akkarulf, but scanned the ground below.
"Still no sign of the horselovers?"
Akkarulf looked down as he tied the parchment to the shaft.
"Only one or two, yarrl. They must have sent them off somewhere."
The Wolf's fist struck the wallstone so hard it cracked.
"Blood of Karnath, what is so hard to understand about bringing every fighting man they have against this castle!? They were there the first day, do they think to mock me?!"
Down below, the warcamp was starting to stir, sentries changing and cooks restarting fires. The Wolf sighed heavily, then glanced up at the rising sun.
He seemed to have taken a decision. The giant shook his head and gave Akkarulf the parchment.
"It'll be a close thing, but there's little else I can do. Send it."
Akkarulf drew his bow and sighted down the shaft. He aimed at the pole holding up the doorflap of the command tent open, then dipped the bow lower. Best not to let them know he could strike them dead at his leisure.
He loosed the arrow and watched the target, an empty oxcart at the edge of the camp, near which a sentry was rubbing his hands against the morning chill. He nearly laughed on seeing the soldier jump when the arrow struck the cartwheel, but restrained himself. The Wolf did not seem in a mood to appreciate it.
"It's don-"
"I have eyes, Akkarulf, I can see what's happening."
Akkarulf did not debate the point. He noted that the Wolf was looking down, and only looked up after the sentry had prized the arrow from the cart and gone into the command tent.
"Right. I'm taking the Silence out, should be back in two or three days. You're in charge while I'm gone."
"Yes yarrl. Am I to attack or keep our for-"
But the Wolf was already going down the steps. On the ground, he furiously barking orders. Several marauders, evidently responding too slowly for his liking, received a punch to the face and carried out their duties with bleeding noses. Sven looked to the sky, then the camp.
"What did the gods ask of him?"
Sven looked at Akkarulf and shook his head.
"Jarl Strong Wolf tell you, not me. Or him say nothing. Him obey gods, but hope it not work anyway."
The seer turned and headed for one of the wall turrets. Akkarulf went back down, following the giant's progress.
The Wolf went straight to the tents in the courtyard that housed the Deathbound and emerged with Brilbo in tow. A marauder ran to the pigsty and returned with a large sow on a rope, hauling her up the Silence's gangplank.
Akkarulf frowned. Keeping livestock on a ship was only needed for long voyages, why would he need the sow for a three-day trip? He reached the bottom of the stairs without finding a satisfactory answer.
"Well, well. Seems you aren't needed for this expedition, no more than you were needed for the first battle."
Gorion sidled up, his expression smug.
"How'd you fuck up this time?"
Akkarulf sighed inwardly. Of course Gorion would have have learned from Yorenn that the Wolf had sent for him, then assumed a promotion was in the air on seeing the giant leave without him.
"He'll let you know. In the meantime he's left me in charge."
Gorion's expression of disbelief was worth an open insult. Akkarulf's hand drifted almost naturally to his sword.
"Do you challenge me, or his decision? I seem to recall you weren't so eager to do so when he was present, do you think it'll be easier now?"
Gorion looked furious for an instant, his tentacle thrashing. Akkarulf pressed his advantage.
"Come to the walltop with me. You're going to make yourself useful."
"You think I'm going to-"
"Do exactly what I tell you to do? Yes I do. Would you rather greet him in person when he returns to complain about it, or will your head on a pike be enough?"
Gorion swallowed his resentment and followed Akkarulf up the stairs. As they climbed back up, they heard the Wolf roar and the Silence make the leap into the daemon sea.
Arya sighed as the village' silhouette came into view on a misty morning. Another night of the forest dreams, leading into another uneventful dawnbreak ride and what was likely another wild goose chase.
Of the villages they had investigated so far, only four had had any contact with the Wolf's marauders. And even then, they had only been targeted for their stores of food, no worse than the usual fate of a village caught in a feud between two local lords. Wolf attacks on flocks had been a greater problem, the beasts present in such numbers that swineherds could not lead their charges under the oak trees without losing a pig or two every day.
Another five settlements had been found burned to the ground with no trace of the original inhabitants, yet no sign of the desecration Beric told them accompanied the raids of the Wolf's barbaric gods. They might well have been destroyed months earlier by perfectly ordinary sellswords and bandits, of which the Riverlands had no shortage.
She was starting to think Jon had only come up with the idea of investigating the outlying villages to ensure she wouldn't try sneaking into the castle. What supplies and reinforcements could the barbarian hope to obtain from this backwater, halfway between Harrenhal and High Heart?
The Khal rode stoically beside her. If he too thought he was being kept out of the way, he did not show it, though several of the bloodriders seemed less than happy at their fruitless expedition. Their mood had not improved after Sandor had joined them a few days earlier, telling them of the battle they had missed.
Only Beric seemed worried, but then, he was better informed as to what the Wolf was capable of. He had spent hours with the Red Priests before setting out, yet shared little of what they had discussed.
As they approached, the village emerged from the morning fog, huddled at the edge of the forest like a crouching beast. A stout palisade surrounded the village, though much of it had burned down, and even at this distance they could see figures moving atop the intact sections. Several poles like shorn trees stood at random intervals before the gates, as though to mark the outline of a second defensive ring.
"They seem well prepared in any case."
The figures on the wall were in some state of agitation as they drew closer. A horn sounded three times, but there was no further movement. At last the gate opened.
A young man carrying a pitchfork like a spear walked up to them, looking completely unafraid. The fork's tines were crusted with gore, and he leaned nonchalantly against it as he eyed the convoy in silence. Behind them, the guards on the wall stood still.
Beric spurred his horse until he stood before the man, then dismounted.
"I am Beric Dondarrion, sent by King Bran the First. You are?"
The young man looked Beric up and down before nodding.
"Walder the forester's son, of Murton's Fork."
Arya looked at him. With such a name, he might be one of the late and unlamented Walder Frey's innumerable bastards. There was something of him in the nose.
Beric went on.
"Have you heard tell of masterless men in these parts attacking villages?"
"Them from Harrenhal, aye?"
Beric's head jerked up.
"You've seen them?!"
The young man smirked as the rest of the group approached.
"Seen them off more like. Four times now they've attacked, we've driven them off every time."
"How?!"
Arya looked around. That the stockade had been under attack by the Wolf's men would explain the gaps, but not that the village had remained standing.
"Thanks to the Warrior."
Sandor snorted.
"Praying let you see off those bastards?"
Walder looked coolly at Sandor, then gestured up at the poles with his pitchfork.
The last of the fog had burned away. As they looked up they saw the poles were not so much defensive as decorative. Heads, skulls and helmets adorned each one, recognizable as having belonged to Wildlings, Ironborn and even the Wolf's extravagantly armored warriors.
"Prayer? Maybe, but a lot of blood and sweat behind it. And not to the Seven either."
He spat on the ground.
"I'll take you to him."
He turned about and headed inside the palisade, followed by Beric. Arya tossed the reins of her horse to the bloodrider next to her and went off after them.
Sandor moved his horse next to the Khal's.
"All in?"
Goro shook his head and spoke to his men. Half of them led their horses into the village, the Khal and Sandor among them, the others moving into the roadside grass to let their horses graze.
As she entered the village, Arya was struck by the curious atmosphere. There were at least a hundred people that she could see, but none in the usual occupation of villagers. There were no children playing or housewives working or gossiping.
The village seemed in the middle of preparations for a siege, men and women running to and from the walls. Others were gathered in a circle, shouting encouragement at two half-naked men brawling. Whip marks crisscrossed their backs.
Other men and women were relentlessly drilling with shield and spear or other long-handled farming implements. Here and there a window creaked open, as though whoever was inside did not want to be seen too closely.
"They've been here four times, you said?"
"Aye. They've been raiding other villages, the survivors washed up here. The first time the bastards came we were all for leaving the village and coming back once they'd taken what they wanted. Then the Warrior came. "Don't have to hold a sword to die by one", he told us, and he fair whipped us into shape."
Arya reflected that this might have been entirely literal, given the state of the wrestlers' backs.
Walder gestured at the burned palisade.
"First time, we didn't have the wall, lost twoscore men. We built it, and after that they had to burn it to get through. They still do, but it costs them dearly. More than it does us to rebuild it."
Beric tried not to sound impatient.
"Who is this... Warrior?"
Walder shrugged.
"We don't know who he is or where he's from. But without him we wouldn't be where we are today."
The young man pointed at the largest building in the village before heading back to the palisade.
"He's in there."
The building was a large hall flanked by the burned-out husk of a barn. Arya started for the hall when she felt Beric's hand on her shoulder.
"What is it?"
Beric looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them, being more focused on the horsemen inside the stockade or their own duties. He walked over to the building and looked to the sides. There was a narrow alley between the hall and the ruined barn. He went down the alley, followed by a confused but wary Arya.
The hall itself had fared little better than the barn, judging by the scorch marks and disjointed planks all about the walls. Beric stood on the remains of a wheelbarrow and pried a board loose at eye level.
"Anyone coming?"
From her position at the mouth of the alley, Arya could miss nothing.
The Dothraki looked bored but held still on the central commons, while the villagers either stared at them from behind improvised polearms or ignored them entirely. One of the brawlers had triumphed over his opponent, another man stripping off his shirt to take the loser's place while the unconscious man was dragged away. He too was covered with whip scars. Had they all been slaves who had managed to escape the Wolf during the attack on the villages, or had this Warrior encouraged their flagellation?
"No."
Beric looked inside.
The interior of the hall was crowded and lit by smoking braseros. Men and women alike stood half-naked and holding many-tailed whips, all staring at the back of the hall, where a tall figure was making sweeping motions, flanked by dog-headed statues. The statues seemed to move in the flickering torchlight.
He focused on the orator's voice, raspy as a slavedriver's.
"Blood flows without end, from within and without, to quench the unending thirst."
The crowd spoke in near-unison.
"Our blood is his."
"There is no fear but that which we allow ourselves to feel. There is no pain, only glory! Strike yourselves and remove your weakness!"
The congregation struck themselves over the shoulder as one. Blood flowed freely down their backs, but not one cried out in pain.
"We are purified."
"Blood! For the Blood God!"
Beric pushed back from the spyhole. Arya started.
"What-"
"Out. Now!"
Beric pulled away just as someone entered the hall through the main door.