The Wall was massive, too tall for ladders or siege towers to reach, too thick for battering rams to breach. Ordinary arrows couldn’t reach the top, and even trebuchets couldn’t hurl stones powerful enough to damage it. Fire attacks were pointless, as the melting snow would quickly smother the flames. The Free Folk could scale it, as some raiders had done, but only those who were strong, agile, and fearless. For a large host traveling with families, the only viable path was to assault the gate.

“Throw stones! Loose arrows! Don’t let them get close to the Wall!” The blacksmith who had climbed to the top with Aegor was well-versed in the Wall’s defenses and shouted commands loudly.

Barrels of pitch were quickly loaded into trebuchets and set alight with torches. The wind fanned the flames, which roared to life. With the order to fire, the counterweights dropped, and the throwing arms slammed down with a heavy bang. The burning barrels flew into the night, leaving glowing arcs across the darkness before slamming into the ground and exploding into fireballs. Two mammoths near the impact point panicked, and the giants riding them strained to hold their mounts steady, bellowing in ancient tongues like thunder echoing from another age—clearly audible even atop the Wall.

Nearly a hundred defenders used whatever weapons they had to attack the massing enemy below. Spears and swords were useless from this height. Aegor took up a bow and leaned over carefully to fire. The northeast wind blew fiercely, deflected by the Wall and forming a rapid east-west current along its face. In such dark, windy conditions, aiming was useless. The defenders simply targeted the densest clusters, sending arrows, oil barrels, and stones down at them. Most attacks were swallowed by the darkness as soon as they left the Wall. The heavier barrels and stones at least landed near their intended mark and sometimes ignited on impact. As for the arrows—whether they were blown off course, hit an unlucky target, or stuck harmlessly in the snow—it was up to the gods.

The wildlings kept pouring from the forest, charging toward the Wall. Soon, the narrow cleared zone below resembled a flour cake dusted with toppings, wildlings as black sesame seeds, and the mammoths and giants like assorted nuts.

In the show, the producers had included all sorts of dramatic tactics to make the battle exciting. But the truth was, no wildlings tried to climb the Wall to be picked off. All of them—men, giants, and mammoths—rushed straight toward the outer gate of the Castle Black section with one goal: to break it down and flood south.

The Night’s Watch’s task was simple, repetitive, and hopeless: kill wave after wave of enemies.

“The gate!” Aegor noticed some of the defenders losing focus and shouted as he moved along the line. “Ignore the ones just standing there. They can’t shoot this high! Focus your fire near the gate!”

—

The so-called gate was little more than a narrow tunnel carved through the Wall, barely wide enough for two horses to pass side by side. Compared to the sheer size of the Wall, it was minuscule. The tunnel was fortified with three iron portcullises. Even if the enemy broke the outer gate, the tunnel itself was easy to defend. But the wildlings outnumbered them hundreds to one, and they had giants. If the fight moved into the tunnel and turned into a war of attrition, the Watch would be doomed.

At all costs, the battle had to remain above the Wall.

Shouts and screams echoed from the gate. From time to time, wildlings were struck down, falling where they stood. So far, the casualties were entirely one-sided. Dozens of Free Folk lay dead while not a single one of Aegor’s men had fallen. But there was no joy in that. Tens of thousands remained, and more importantly, some had already reached the gate and were working on it in the dark.

“Stop them! Throw everything we have! Don’t hold back!”

Two horn blasts sounded from Castle Black on the south side. Aegor looked toward the group of enemies charging from the direction of Mole’s Town and gritted his teeth, placing his faith in Jon and Jaime to hold the southern front. He turned his full attention back to the north.

From atop the Wall, it was hard to see what the wildlings were doing at the gate, but it was obvious: if they weren’t stopped soon, Castle Black would fall.

Crossbows were aimed at the gate. Their thick ropes groaned as they launched heavy bolts like spears. Brothers without bows or bolts hurled stones. The precious pitch barrels were thrown down like water, raining fire and destruction. Explosions rang out, flames splashed, and everything flammable ignited on contact.

One mammoth, drenched in burning pitch, ran screaming back toward the woods, a living torch. Free Folk scattered in its path. The flames terrified the animals, but the wildlings and giants were not so easily cowed. When they caught fire, they simply dropped and rolled in the snow, snuffing out the flames in moments.

Corpses littered the gate and blood flowed like a river, but the wildlings didn’t stop. Their resilience and determination were unlike anything before. They pushed aside the dead, doused flames with snow, and kept hacking at the outer gate, ignoring the falling stones and arrows. They worked with single-minded purpose.

The cracking of wooden beams echoed up the Wall. Giants tied thick ropes to the gateposts, secured the other ends to mammoths, then cracked their whips. The ropes pulled taut, and the gate groaned in protest.

…

“Gentle Mother, source of mercy, shield your son in battle. Turn aside the arrows, halt the blades, and let them see Your light…” At this critical moment, the septon Cellador of Castle Black still found time to pray aloud. Whether his voice trembled from the wind or fear of the dual assault, none could say.

“Don’t be daft! Open the pitch barrels and let the wildfire seep in!” Aegor barked, kicking him aside. “Step back, and put out that torch! This stuff will explode!”

Others turned to look. Donal Noye shouted even louder, “What are you staring at? Keep firing! Out of arrows? Grab another bundle! Aegor, what in the Seven Hells are you doing?”

“We need something they can’t handle to break their momentum at the gate!”

“There’s too many. We can’t hold the outer gate!” Noye shook his head. “Keep up the fire. Even if we can’t kill them, we can slow them down.” He glanced around at the firelit faces. “I need two archers and two spearmen to guard the tunnel. If they break through, you hold the line.”

A dozen stepped forward. Noye picked four and walked toward the lift. “Aegor, the Wall is yours until I return.”

The scene was eerily familiar, and Aegor suddenly realized that if he didn’t act quickly, the blacksmith and the four with him would die in that tunnel—just like before, locked in a doomed battle with a giant.

He pried open a barrel and nodded without turning. “Understood. They won’t enter the tunnel. I swear it.”

The pitch and lamp oil mix looked black in the wooden barrels. Aegor scooped out a bowl of the liquid and poured it into an empty barrel. Then he picked up one of the two wildfire casks brought from Queenscrown and carefully added the thick, dark green substance, filling the void left in the barrel. He handed it off to be sealed.

Repeating the process, Aegor blended one cask of wildfire into a dozen barrels of pitch, creating a row of crude, low-grade incendiary bombs.

As the soldiers gasped and murmured around him, the wildlings below managed to tear a corner of the gate from its frame. The whole structure warped, groaning under the strain. Without hesitation, Aegor gave the order. “Light them up and toss them!”

Several brothers without ranged weapons rushed forward, rolling the sealed barrels to a spot a few paces east of the gate and lighting them with torches.

There was no explosion. Aegor, standing nearby, breathed out in relief. “Now throw them, fast!”

“But the pitch isn’t even hot yet—”

“There’s more than pitch in there. If it heats up, we’re all dead. Throw it, now!”

The craftsmen obeyed. One by one, the barrels filled with wildfire were shoved over the edge. Aegor leaned out to observe the result.

The fire flickering from the barrels’ seams had turned green. The barrels tumbled down, trailing emerald light. One struck a protruding chunk of ice and shattered, spraying its contents. In any other case, the oil would have extinguished in the cold wind. But this time, the wildfire mixed within ignited the liquid in midair. Green fire burst outward like a winged demon, raining down upon the wildlings and giants at the gate.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The barrels hit the ground, bursting into sickly green fire. The attackers, used to flames, weren’t fazed. Those caught in the splash dropped and rolled in the snow. Others backed off, waiting for the snow and wind to smother the flames so they could return to work.

But this time, they were wrong.

Some who rolled clear rose again, only for the green flames to relight the moment they hit open air. A few could shovel enough snow to douse it, but those coated in more fuel were doomed. No matter how they rolled, the flames clung to their wet clothes, melting snowflakes and spreading until they became screaming wretches ablaze in emerald fire.

A few deaths wouldn’t stop the horde. But something worse happened next. The green liquid flowed and burned across the ground, undeterred by the cold. It didn’t fade—it grew. The wildfire in the mix was heating the pitch and the icy ground beneath, thawing the permafrost and raising the temperature above the flash point. Nearby barrels of pitch caught fire as well.

The demon of flame surged five or six meters high, burning hotter, deeper, and broader. The gate was fully engulfed. The fire even began creeping toward the mammoths.

(This green fire won’t go out until it’s burned through.) Before the wildlings could realize this and smother it with snow, the emerald flames soared past ten meters tall. The entire cleared area glowed with eerie green light. The air stank of scorched meat and smoke, like burnt bacon. Green sparks drifted through the night like fireflies.

The mammoths screamed in terror. Two broke their bonds, snapping charred ropes and fleeing. The others were swiftly unhitched and led away by the giants.

The green flame demon danced at the gate like a loyal sentinel of the Wall. Until it burned itself out, no one could approach. Though the wildlings hadn’t yet suffered unbearable casualties or fatigue, they had no choice but to retreat into the forest, awaiting the next assault.

(To be continued.)

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep