𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴇᴇɴ

𝟚

❆ ❆ ❆

The hunters approached warily, perhaps fearing the arrows. Fourteen, with eight dogs. Their large round shields were made of skins stretched over woven wicker and painted with skulls. About half of them hid their faces behind crude helms of wood and boiled leather. On either wing, archers notched shafts to the strings of small wood and horn bows, but did not loose. The rest seemed to be armed with spears and mauls. One had a chipped stone axe. They wore only what bits of armour they had looted from dead rangers or stolen during raids. Wildlings did not mine nor smelt, and there were few smiths and fewer forges north of the Wall.
Jon's eyes stilled on Torsten's unconscious body that swayed from one side to the other from the back of a horse.
Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with the big ranger and pulled Longclaw from its sheath. Despite the chill in the air, sweat stung his eyes.
Qhorin drew his longsword. The tale of how he had taught himself to fight with his left hand after losing half of his right was part of his legend, it was said that he handled a blade better now than he ever had before.
Ten yards below the cave mouth the hunters halted. Their leader came on alone, riding a beast that seemed more goat than horse, from the surefooted way it climbed the uneven slope. As man and mount grew nearer Jon could hear them clattering, both were armoured in bones. Cow bones, sheep bones, the bones of goats and aurochs and elk, the great bones of the hair mammoths, and human bones as well. "Rattleshirt." Qhorin called down, icy polite.

"To crows I be the Lord o' Bones." The rider's helm was made from the broken skull of a giant, and all up and down his arms bear claws had been sewn to his boiled leather. Qhorin snorted.

"I see no lord. Only a dog dressed in chickenbones, who rattles when he rides." The Wildling hissed in anger, and his mount reared. Torsten woke to the sound of the Wildling's bones rattling. He could hear it, the bones were strung together loosely, so they clacked and clattered when he moved.

"It's your bones I'll be rattling soon, Halfhand. I'll boil the flesh off you and make a byrnie from your ribs. I'll carve your teeth to cast me runes, and eat me oaten porridge from your skull."

"If you want my bones, come get them." That, Rattleshirt seemed reluctant to do. His numbers meant little in the close confines of the rocks where the black brothers had taken their stand. To winkle them out of the cave the Wildlings would need to come up two at a time. But another of his company edged a horse up beside him, one of the fighting women called spearwives.

"Look who decided to join us." The women had bright red hair, brighter than Torsten had ever seen. "You awake, crow?" She asked Torsten, who still had no grasp on what was currently happening. The women reached into a blood stained sack and drew out a trophy. Ebben had been bald as an egg, so she dangled the head by an ear. "He died brave." She said. Torsten's stomach turned at the sight, his legs felt light as he forced himself to look away.

"Torsten!" He could hear Jon's calls but his head only rang.

"But he died." Said Rattleshirt. "Same like you." He freed his battleaxe, brandishing it above his head. Good steel it was, with a wicked gleam to both blades, Ebben was never a man to neglect his weapons. The other Wildlings crowded forward beside him, yelling taunts. A few chose Torsten for their mockery, he was an easy target, wrapped in rope he couldn't fight back.

"Is that your wolf, boy?" A skinny youth called towards Jon, unlimbering a stone flail. "He'll be my cloak before the sun is down." On the other side of the line, another spearwife opened her ragged furs to show Jon heavy white breasts, Torsten was thankful her back was to him, Jon wasn't so lucky.

"Does the baby want his momma? Come, have a suck o' this, boy." The dogs were barking too.

"Belike we need to flush the crows." Rattleshirt bellowed over the calmor. "Feather them!"