𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɴᴇ

𝟛

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Torsten found Tormund standing beneath the rain, standing out in the thick mud that squished beneath his boots. His captive knelt before him, encircled by wooden spears and bronze swords. He watched Torsten approach, but did not speak. The rain was running down the walls of the windmill and pattering against the last few leaves that still clung to the trees, while smoke swirled thick from the fire. "He must die." Orell told Tormund. Tormund's captive pulled a knife, and the big Wildling knelt.

"That won't help you, grandpa. Where you riding?" The old man said no word. He only looked at Torsten, standing amongst the Wildlings. Amidst the rain and smoke, lit only by the fire, he could not have seen that Torsten was one of them, but for his sheepskin cloak.

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" The old man finally spoke.

"No, it doesn't matter now." Tormund agreed, holding out his hand for the dagger, the old man reluctantly handed it over.

"Cut his throat or he'll tell the crows we're here." Orell said. Tormund threw the dagger to the mud, standing tall above the old man.

"You understand." Tormund chuckled.

"Let me stand at least. Let me go with a bit of dignity." The old man pleaded, and Tormund pulled him to stand.

"Make the crow kill him. You're one of us now. Prove it." Orell insisted. Torsten drew his longsword from its sheath. Rain washed the steel, lit only by the firelight traced a sullen orange line along the edge.

"It looks sharp." The old man smiled sadly .

"Why do you hesitate?" Orell said. "Kill him, and be done." Even then the captive did not speak. He might have said a thousand things, or wept, or called upon his gods. No words would save him now, though. Perhaps he knew that. So he held his tongue, and looked at Torsten in accusation and appeal. You must not balk, whatever is asked of you. Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them...
But this old man had offered no resistance. He had been unlucky, that was all. Who he was, where he came from, where he meant to go on his sorry sway-backed horse. None of it mattered.
He is an old man, Torsten told himself. Fifty, maybe even sixty. He lived a longer life than most. The Wildlings will kill him anyway, nothing he can say or do will save him anyway, nothing he can say or do will save him. Torsten's longsword seemed heavier than lead in his hand, too heavy to lift. The man kept staring at him, with eyes as big and black as wells. He will fall into those eyes and drown. Tormund was looking at him too, and he could almost taste the mistrust. The man is dead. What matter if it was by his hand that slays him? One cut would do it, quick and clean. Torsten remembered another killing, the deserter on his knees, his head rolling, the brightness of blood on snow... the Lord Commander's words, his face.

"Do it. Do it. I told yer' he's still one of them." Orell urged. Torsten turned his back on the man.

"Go on, boy. Go on!" Tormund yelled against the rain.

"No." Tormund moved closer, tall, cold, and dangerous.

"He's a crow. He'll always be a crow. He'll stab us in the back first chance he gets." Tormund snatched his knife from its sheath. Three quick strides, and he yanked the old man's head back by the hair and opened his throat from ear to ear. Even in death, the man did not cry out.

"Kill him." Tormund shouted at him, and flung the bloody blade at him. Lightening crashed down from the sky, a searing blue-white bolt that touched the top of the tower in the lake. They could smell the fury of it, and when the thunder came it seemed to shake the night. And death leapt down amongst them.
Torsten glimpsed the hurtling shadow half a heartbeat before he heard the shriek. Then the light was gone and the shape was spinning away, snarling, and another man went down in the dark. There were curses, shouts, howls of pain. Torsten saw Orell stumble backward and knock down three men behind him. Ghost, he thought for one mad instant. Ghost leapt the Wall. Then the lightening turned the night to day, and he saw the wolf standing on Del's chest, blood running black form his jaws. Grey. He's grey.
Darkness descended with the thunderclap. The Wildings were jabbing with their spears as the wolf darted between them. Orell was back on Torsten, they struggled, and the Wildling died as the old man had, blood gushing from his torn throat.

"You were right the whole time." Torsten told Orell as his limp lifeless bloodied body fell upon the mud. The old man's mare reared, maddened by the smell of slaughter, and lashed out with her hooves. His longsword was still in his hand. All at once Torsten Snow knew he would never get a better chance.
He cut down the first man as he turned toward the wolf, shoved past a second, slashed at a third. Through the madness he heard someone call his name, but whether it was Tormund or a Wildling he could not say. The Wildlings fighting to control the horse never saw him. His longsword was featherlight. He swung at the back of the man's calf and felt the steel bite down to the bone. When the Wildling fell the mare bolted, but somehow Torsten managed to grab her mane with his off hand and vault himself onto her back. A hand closed round his ankle, and he hacked down and saw a Wildlings face dissolve in a welter of blood. The horse reared, lashing out. One hoof caught another Wilding in the temple, with a crunch.
And then they were running. Torsten made no effort to guide the horse. It was all he could do to stay on her as they plunged through mud and rain and thunder. Wet grass whipped at his face and a spear flew past his ear. But the old god's were with him and the horse did not stumble. Lightening shivered through the black dome of sky, and thunder rolled across the plains. The shouts dwindled and died behind him.

Long hours later, the rain stopped. Torsten found himself alone in a sea of tall black grass. There was a deep throbbing ache in his right thigh. When he looked down, he was surprised to see an arrow jutting out the back of it. When did that happen? He grabbed hold of the shaft and gave it a tug, but the arrowhead was sunk deep in the meat of his leg, and the pain when he pulled on it was excruciating. He tried to think back on the madness at the farm, but all he could remember was the beast, gaunt and grey and terrible. It was too large to be a common wolf. A direwolf, then. It had to be. He had never seen an animal move so fast. Like a grey wind.
Torsten shook his head. He had no answers. It was too hard to think... about the wolf, the old man, any of it. Clumsily, he slid down off the mare's back. He rested for a while to let the horse graze. She did not wander far. That was good. Hobbled with a bad leg, he could never have caught her. It was all he could do to force himself back to his feet and climb onto her back. How did he ever mount her before, without saddle or stirrups, and a sword in one hand? That was another question he could not answer.
Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, but above him the clouds were breaking up. Torsten searched the sky until he found the Ice Dragon, then turned the mare north of the Wall and Castle Black. The throb of pain in his thigh muscle made him wince as he put his heels into the old man's horse. I am going home, he told himself. But if that was true, why did he feel so hollow? He rode till dawn, while the stars stared down like eyes.

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