Jon waited anxiously for the caravan to return. The two Red Priests leaving the camp had nearly convinced him to send a band of mounted lancers after them, but he knew the appearance of mounted troops would be seen as an open violation of the truce.
At last a lookout signaled their return. Jon stepped out to see Tyrion still alive and well, Tormund and Shagga behind him. It seemed to Jon that none had been lost. He frowned on seeing that after the Dothraki and the strangely subdued Red Priests came a pair of heavily laden carts.
Once in the tent, Tyrion spoke first.
"That went about as well as it could. For the most part he wanted to show us we won't starve him out."
Grey Worm's jaw set grimly.
"And what is in the carts?"
"Meat."
A stunned silence filed the tent, quickly broken as every man present at the feast confirmed it. Tormund manged to speak louder than the others.
"From mammoths. He can go beyond the Wall as he pleases, it seems."
Grey Worm looked disbelievingly at Tyrion.
"He gave you this and you took it?"
"Can you imagine standing in front of him and saying no?"
Tyrion sighed.
"In any case, I asked the priests to make sure it isn't poisoned. But I doubt it, it's in his interest to keep us well-fed here. Enough to keep us going for a while, even with the Golden Company here."
"And how much longer are we going to bow to this barbarian?"
Jon looked at the man who'd spoken, a Crownlander who'd been part of the delegation.
"Until the siege engines are up and we don't need to face him in open battle."
The khal stepped forward at the mention of battle, having observed in silence up until then. One of the bloodriders saluted.
"The message is delivered. He said the traitor will be on the field."
Goro nodded.
"And the madman?"
Tyrion shook his head.
"He has no interest in him, he outright challenged us to kill him."
"Then this at least we will do while you build your machines."
The khal left the tent, leaving the council of war to see how best to deal with their newfound supplies.
Akkarulf opened the door as the Wolf approached, standing aside to let him pass into the room of warpstone chests.
The Wolf opened a chest and pulled out a glowing nugget no bigger than a mouse, putting it in a cloth bag. Akkarulf closed and locked the door after the giant left, but found the Wolf looking at him.
"Come along, Akkarulf. You have yet to see what a sorcerer can do with this- and what it can do to a sorcerer."
"Yes yarrl. But the chests?"
The Wolf snorted.
"He won't be trying to get into it, not when it's coming to him."
Akkarulf followed the giant into the Tower of Dread where the seer had settled himself. Ominous creaking occasionally filled the dark corridors, but the Wolf seemed to pay it no mind, moving swiftly and surely as though in daylight.
They found the sorcerer standing before a table on which stood several herbs and flasks, a large disc of metal and a granite mortar.
The Wolf took the stone in his hand and squeezed his fist above the mortar, the crushed stone falling in an iridescent waterfall. He scraped the last of the dust off his gauntlet into it before handing it to Sven.
Sven took the mortar and added several herbs and powers to it. Then he poured out the mixture onto the metal disc, tracing cabalistic patterns that made Akkarulf's eyes water to look at. He thought he saw them moving, then noticed the disc was a buckler that had been hammered flat.
A thought occurred to him, and he turned to the Wolf.
"Last time it was a potion, yarrl. Isn't he going to drink it?"
"He tells me this way gets better results. It's easier to drink it on the battlefield."
The sorcerer, now finished with his ritual, jammed a reed up his nostril and started inhaling the powder. The noise was nauseating, especially combined with his pained breathing.
Sparks flew from Sven's eyes, gold and blue flames flared up at his fingertips. Slowly he lifted into the air, his shaking body revolving as his head jerked back and forth. Yet most disturbing of all was the ecstatic expression on the old seer's face, made worse by the scars on his cheeks.
Without warning Sven collapsed, whatever invisible force holding him up leaving him. The Wolf grabbed the sorcerer by the collar and hoisted him up.
The seer's eyes were wide open and still blazing with ethereal flame, alternately muttering and screaming syllables Akkarulf could not understand. At last he fell silent, breathing in great ragged gasps.
The Wolf lowered him to the floor and turned around. Akkarulf gave him a last look before following the giant out the door.
"Will he be able to tell us what he saw, yarrl?"
"Don't need to, I heard it."
As they came to a landing, the Wolf turned around.
"Triple the guard on the warpstone today, he's liable to eat the stuff a chest at a time. I need him and all his wits for the ritual."
Akkarulf did not hide his surprise. Sven had hinted that one final spell would be required to fully cement the true gods' grip on the world, but he had not thought it would be so soon.
"Already? When is it for?"
"Tomorrow night."
As night fell the next day, Akkarulf looked over the courtyard one last time to ensure everything was in place.
Once the effects of his warpstone trance had worn off, Sven Swordeater had said his visions had revealed that the gods were at last satisfied with the carnage wrought by either side, and their favor would fall heavily and freely on this night. Akkarulf thought it strange that they should manifest now instead of after a battle, and he suspected the Wolf felt the same, but the seer was obeyed without question.
The Wolf approached heavily, looking at the Iron Throne. He himself had placed one of the trophy skulls at each tower that afternoon, the Silence drifting lazily from one tower to another like a satiated buzzard.
There were no guards on the walls, in the towers or at the gates that night. The Wolf had ordered that none who served the true powers should miss the ceremony. Jaime, Cersei and Qyburn had been escorted from their cells and looked around with apprehension. Even Qyburn's assistants had left their cellars, huddled close to each other and sniffing the air nervously.
The courtyard was packed with Norscans, Dothraki and Wildlings, all standing a ship's length around the dais on which sat the Iron Throne. Before the throne stood Sven Swordeater, now wearing a headdress made of two bird skulls facing opposite directions and a feathered cloak that shimmered in the torchlight. Drummers wearing strange masks sat all about the platform, their heads twisted to look at the sorcerer.
Sven struck the Iron Throne with his staff. The drummers beat their instruments as one, while the sorcerer started chanting in a thin, reedy voice that nevertheless echoed around the courtyard. Akkarulf felt uncomfortable chills as the voice became stronger and more guttural, it sounded as though a great many voices were coming from the same mouth, some gasping in pain.
There were noises of amazement in the crowd as the air above the Throne shimmered and became opalescent, just as it opened for the Wolf's ship at his command. From the hole between worlds thin tendrils snaked out and climbed ever higher, reaching for the towers.
Marauders stepped up to the dais, carrying bound and gagged animals. Sven released his staff, which remained upright, and slit the throat of each one: a snake, a vulture, a raven, and a wolf.
Akkarulf peered at the peak of the Tower of Dread and saw the skull float into the air, surrounded by a glowing fog of iridescent colors. The same happened at the other four towers, each skull lifting and descending towards the throne as if the tendrils of light were a solid path.
There were gasps of shock from the onlookers as the skulls descended low enough for their mundane eyes to see them. Akkarulf stole a glance at the Wolf, who was watching intently.
The seer continued his incantations as tendrils of witch-light continued pouring into the grisly trophies. More ritualists stepped forward into the empty space around the dais.
Six men and women started singing as they danced lasciviously around the platform, but Akkarulf forced his eyes to remain on the throne. Seven Norscans, enormously fat and stinking of excrement, joined in, a buzzing of flies forming a counterpoint to the chanting of the six. Eight men, naked to the waist, formed an octagon and hewed at each other with axes. Nine figures in robes trudged in a circle, and at a signal from Sven, jammed a dagger into the back of the cultist before them.
The glowing skulls now flew in a circle around the altar, the glow surrounding them expanding into spheres of light taller than a man. Two of the balls circled each other like fireflies as they descended, merging into a single orb.
The drummers reached a fever pitch, the sorcerer's chanting loud as thunder, and it seemed to Akkarulf that the air itself was weighing down on him. Several among the Ironborn and even the Wolf's men had fainted, some twitching on the ground.
From the hole in the air came bolts of witch-light that lanced into the crowd, seemingly at random. Where they struck, men stood transformed, staring at the blessings the true gods had given them.
Here a warrior's arm covered itself with bulbous growths weeping pus, there segmented legs sprouted from a marauder's knees, great bull's horns or antlers erupted from brows, sorcerous fire flared up from fingers, fanged maws opened in bare skin.
Others gasped as the witch-light struck their hands and stayed there, a glow that pulsed and grew until it became a weapon no mortal could have forged; serrated axes, enormous maces, spiked lances, now irreversibly a part of their body. One or two men stood up, taller than their fellows by a head, proudly bearing magnificent suits of steel armor decorated with snarling faces.
All those touched by the light fell to their knees in gratitude, horror, and wonder. The favor of the true gods had indeed fallen richly on their believers.
Finally the seer gave a great shout, the drummers pounded one last beat, and silence fell, as deafening as the clamor that had preceded it.
The spheres of light sank to the ground at the base of the dais, and slowly ceased glowing. As their light dimmed, they grew into a shapeless form that bulged and spasmed, as if fed by the tendrils of eldritch matter that connected them to the hole in the air above the throne.
Now the witch-light pulled away and instead hung over the scene, illuminating it.
Akkarulf stared at the first shape to move, which coughed and spat something before rising. Behind it, groaning, two other shapes rose as well. The fourth one, bigger than the first three combined, took longer to stand up.
The flickering torchlight only worsened their monstrous appearance. Each of the creatures was only broadly in the shape of a man, and even then no healthy man.
The first had six arms ending in hands with fingers like knives, and as they watched it dragged a hand over its own bare chest, squealing in delight as blood blossomed underneath. It held a whip in one hand, and a long, singled-edged sword in another.
The second seemed a hybrid of bird and man, long feathers of dazzling colors covering its arms. Daggers floated all around its shoulders, and eyes winked in and out of existence all over its body.
The third seemed less a man and more a reef brought to life, one arm ending in an enormous crab's claw, the other ending in writhing squid tentacles, its hair replaced by urchin spines, and what little skin was not covered in fishscales looked pale and clammy. It held a barnacle-encrusted boarding axe.
The last one stirred, eliciting sounds of horror as it rose clumsily. It stood, or rather squatted on four legs like a monstrous spider, two facing backwards, as though two men had not merely been sewn together but their bodies meshed at the waist.
One torso wore a magnificent suit of armor, dark-red and deep bronze, while the other was so old and rusted it revealed maggots writhing in open wounds. It brandished a burning sword, a bleeding axe, a rusted scythe, and a filth-encrusted mace in its four arms.
Two heads faced opposite directions, one crimson and snarling, with burning coals for eyes, blood endlessly flowing from its temples; the other pale and drooling, one eye gazing dully forward, the other empty socket endlessly dribbling pus and fluids.
Akkarulf could not prevent a stab of fear chilling his heart. Despite their horrid mutations, the monsters that stood before them were clearly recognizable.
Ramsay Bolton, Petyr Baelish, Euron Greyjoy, and Gregor Clegane stood among the living once more.