Amid the neighing of horses, the barking of hounds, and the chaotic din of the encampment, the rangers responsible for tracking and luring the wights rode past the gathered men in pairs and small groups. The rest of the Night’s Watch, who had been waiting in anticipation, hurriedly mounted their steeds, leaving behind various belongings in their rush. There was no time to retrieve them. At the urging of the chief ranger, they spurred their horses forward, following the hounds along the predetermined route through the snow.

Woo—woo—woo… Woo!

The horn sounded again, three long blasts followed by a short one, just like before. This meant that the sentinels had once more confirmed the presence of wights but had seen no White Walkers, signaling that the plan could proceed. However, the ranger who blew the horn had lingered too long. He should have mounted his horse and ridden to safety before sending the signal a second time. But fear and duty warred within him, clouding his judgment. His powerful, resonant blast inevitably drew the attention of the wights. The rock he had been standing on was soon besieged by the undead.

Will watched the scene unfold from his perch in the tree. The young man, realizing his mistake too late, dropped the horn and leapt from the boulder, sprinting toward the horses. But before he could reach them, wights emerged from the forest ahead, cutting off his escape. He tore the short spear from his belt, its tip made of dragonglass and drove it into the chest of the nearest wight. When he wrenched it free, the spearhead snapped from the sheer force of the strike. Weaponless, he threw the broken shaft aside and ran a few more steps before an undead direwolf, its belly torn open with its intestines spilling out, lunged from the side and dragged him to the ground.

A strangled scream rang out then was abruptly cut short.

…

Will clung to the tree trunk high above, trembling. He gripped his dragonglass dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white, barely daring to breathe. He admitted to himself that he was a coward. That night, when Ser Waymar Royce fought the White Walkers, Will had hidden in the trees, watching the young knight perish. But at least he had been following orders, his superiors had commanded him to remain in the tree and await further instructions. By sheer luck, he had survived, bringing back Ser Waymar’s shattered sword and the grim news of the White Walkers’ return to Castle Black. His merit had outweighed his failure. If someone accused him of desertion and tried to take his head for it, he would have been the first to protest.

But what about the last time, when he led the search for Benjen Stark? His party had encountered a foe more terrifying than any wildling—a man who commanded hundreds of wights. Armed with weapons crafted specifically to fight the White Walkers, Will had still been too terrified to stand his ground. Instead, he had seized his horse and fled. He had clutched the dragonglass dagger given to him by Aegor all the way but rather than wielding it in battle, he had prayed for it to grant him safe passage.

The first weapon to slay a White Walker in a thousand years. In Aegor’s hands, it had been the nemesis of mankind’s ancient enemy. In Will’s hands, it had been nothing but a lucky charm. If the dagger had a mind of its own, it would probably weep at its own uselessness—or perhaps, out of sheer shame, it would shatter itself.

And his cowardice hadn’t ended there. After stumbling back to Castle Black, he had lied. He told Lord Commander Mormont that he had remained in the trees to keep watch, that he had waited until his brothers were slain and turned into wights before coming down to search for a horse. A deserter and a liar—his crimes were indefensible, even to himself.

Benjen Stark and his men never returned. In time, the world simply assumed they were all dead. And so, no one was left alive to expose Will for what he truly was. To his brothers in black, he became the man who had “escaped from the White Walkers twice.” Though he was never promoted, men were reassured by his presence whenever he rode beyond the Wall. When no senior officer was present, they would even look to him for leadership. The whole thing was laughable.

—

Below the tree, the forest was crawling with wights. Ser Jeremy had claimed, “There are too many of them.” But that was an understatement. It wasn’t just many, it was a horde. Hundreds of wights streamed past Will’s hiding place, all moving at different speeds, chasing after the Night’s Watch rangers who had just retreated. Among them were wight direwolves, wight bears, even wight giants.

The undead giant was slower than the rest of the pack but its strides were long, covering great distances with deceptive speed. Its pursuit was relentless. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four. The ground trembled beneath its weight as it drew closer to Will’s tree. It was twice the height of a man. If it still had the same agility it had possessed in life, it could easily leap up and pluck him from the branches.

Will shut his eyes and began to mutter a frantic prayer to the gods.

But in his heart, he knew: if the gods truly watched over men, they would bless heroes like Benjen Stark. Not cravens like him.

Boom—

The giant’s body slammed into the tree, making it sway violently. Snow tumbled from the branches, dusting Will’s face as he clung desperately to the trunk. His skin scraped against the bark, but he held on with all his strength.

If he was going to die, at least let it be when the tree fell.

Gradually, the shaking subsided. Silence returned. Will risked a glance downward and saw that the undead were slowly moving away. The giant still staggered as it walked, occasionally colliding with nearby trees. Then he noticed—this particular wight was lame. It had only struck his tree by sheer misfortune.

The danger passed, and the world fell still once more. But Will did not dare climb down. The horn-blower lay motionless in the snow, his body slick with blood. It was only a matter of time before he would rise again—this time as something other.

Will decided to wait. If the others succeeded in their mission, they would return with the horses and retrieve him.

This place was too far from the Wall. He had no desire to make the journey back on foot, relying only on his meager survival skills.

—

The Night’s Watch had split into three groups, each retreating in a different direction. As a result, the pursuing wights had divided as well. Without the White Walkers’ command, they were mindless, more so than the dumbest beasts. They chased anything that moved, their endurance and speed unnatural.

The only blessing was that most wights were still slower than a galloping horse. That gave the Night’s Watch time to maneuver to lead the undead into their trap.

A single scout, mounted on the fastest horse, darted between the three fleeing groups, relaying messages and coordinating their retreat. Through careful planning, he helped the rangers evade most of the slower wights. They fled, stopped, lured the dead forward until at last, they reached their ambush point.

“We’re here for corpses, not beasts!” Ser Jeremy Lake shouted. “Wolves, bears, they’re too dangerous. Kill them all! Keep your distance!”

“A giant!” a ranger called out. “What do we do?”

“Shoot it! Unless you plan to drag that thing all the way to King’s Landing as a gift for King Robert!”

“Dragonglass arrows don’t work on it! I’ve shot it twice already,it’s still moving!”

“Then burn it! A beast that big should catch fire easily!” The new chief ranger barked his orders. “Get to it—now! The trap is just ahead!”

Setting something ablaze while riding at full speed wasn’t easy. Fortunately, one of the rangers had been carrying a lit torch. He rode alongside an archer, lighting the man’s fire arrow before veering away. The archer waited until the flame had heated the arrowhead red-hot, then turned in his saddle, drew back his bow, and let the fiery missile fly straight at the wight giant.

The target was massive, and even the worst archer could hardly miss. The flame on the arrowhead flickered out as it cut through the frigid air, but the red-hot tip soon reignited the oilcloth wrapped around it. Under the watchful eyes of several Night’s Watch rangers, the tattered animal pelts draped over the wight giant suddenly caught fire.

…

The trap was just ahead. The rangers urged their horses forward, quickly skirting the pit and leading the pursuing wights straight into it.

The ground gave way. The fastest of the undead lost their footing and plunged into the deep pit below with a thunderous crash, like a collapsing house. Those that followed had no sense to avoid the trap and tumbled in one after another, falling into the pit like dumplings dropped into a pot.

A cheer rose from the men as they reined in their horses.

The pit was three meters deep, its walls steep and sheer. The wights that had fallen in would have a hard time climbing out. The plan had worked. Now, the Night’s Watch could stand at the edge of the pit and inspect their captives as if selecting livestock at a market—choosing the best ones to bring back to Castle Black.

The idea was sound. Reality, however, had other plans.

The wight giant that had been chasing them, its body now fully engulfed in flames, was still moving. Normally, corpses burned quickly, collapsing into lifeless husks within moments. But this one was different. Perhaps because of its sheer size, or perhaps because of the lingering ice magic within its corpse, it remained standing—its “vitality” unnaturally strong. Staggering forward, it charged straight toward the pit.

“Stop it!” Jeremy roared. “It’ll burn our catch!”

The last of their dragonglass arrows flew at the wight giant in rapid succession though at this point, “fire giant” seemed a more fitting name. But the creature’s momentum was too great. Even as the arrows struck, it toppled forward, plunging into the pit, crushing the tightly packed wights beneath it and spreading the flames to the rest of the undead.

“Get the nets—now!” The chief ranger’s voice was sharp with urgency. Their scouts had reported that a wildling vanguard was more than ten miles to the northwest, while the army of the dead led by the White Walkers was directly north. Finding another group of wights without White Walkers controlling them would not be easy. If they failed to capture specimens now, the Night’s Watch would not get another chance. “Save our prey!”

The men sprang into action. Moments ago, they had been shooting at the wights now they were trying to rescue them. Some rangers remained on guard, weapons drawn, scanning the darkness for threats. Others rushed to the large net bags prepared beside the pit and threw them down into the flames.

Soon, a wight was caught in the net. With a shouted command, several men heaved it up, pulling the struggling, half-burning creature from the pit. Two rangers rushed forward, smothering the flames with their gloved hands. Another two joined in, forcing the thrashing wight into a sack and pinning it to the ground.

Below, the last of the wight giant’s strength burned away. It finally ceased moving, its massive form crumbling into the inferno. Whether it was the evaporation of bodily fluids or the presence of corpse oil in its decayed flesh, the fire burned hotter and brighter, turning the pit into a seething cauldron of flame. It was no longer just a trap, it looked like the very entrance to hell.

“Stay clear of the pit! Secure the captives and head back to Castle Black!” Jeremy exhaled, relieved. “Teams One and Two, you’re on escort duty, don’t stop for anything. Team Three, with me we’re circling back to check for any brothers who need rescue!”

(To be continued.)

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep