The scattered, undulating blue lights, like countless sapphires sunk deep in a dark abyss, shimmered brilliantly, rippling faintly like water. They were hauntingly beautiful, almost dreamlike, like stars arranged across the night sky, flickering and floating upon a sea of black silk.
If one could ignore the fact that this was a dense horde of wights rushing forward with eyes glowing blue, the scene might even be called mesmerizing. If one were optimistic enough to see beauty in horror, the wights' glowing eyes at least revealed their positions. Even without torches or the occasional moonlight breaking through the clouds, the defenders could clearly mark where the wights were approaching the defense line and where they were still far away, allowing them to adjust their defense by the pressure of the battlefield.
However, the truth was simple: this scene was enough to terrify anyone. The defenders along the mountain paths of the Great Gorge had no interest in admiring the view. Their hair stood on end as they fought with every ounce of strength, using every possible method to prevent this magnificent blue ocean from swallowing their line.
The Great Gorge formed a broad U-shape. It was easy for the wights to descend the northern slope and cross the frozen Milkwater River below, but climbing the southern slope into the Gift meant scaling near-vertical cliffs. That was why the Night's Watch rarely worried about Wildlings bypassing the Wall here. Though terrain as sheer as the Wall itself was rare, steep slopes dropping dozens of meters at sixty or seventy degrees were everywhere. These slopes, made of crumbling soil and rock, were in many ways less solid than ice, yet they were the defenders' greatest advantage.
The Black Brothers stood in a scattered line, weapons in hand. The narrow path prevented them from standing shoulder to shoulder, forcing them to fight ten meters apart, each nearly on his own. The wind and snow thickened, dusting their armor white, but each shake and movement cast it off again. Everyone was firing arrows desperately. Aim hardly mattered now. The slope below was filled with pairs of glowing blue eyes. All they needed to do was shoot at the light.
The soldiers drew and loosed their bows again and again, the draw time so short it could barely be called aiming. Each silently thought, Die, monster, and released another dragonglass arrow into the swarm.
If they were unlucky, the arrow did nothing. If they were lucky, one less pair of glowing eyes stared back. Muscles burned, breathing quickened, and heartbeats thundered. They had to keep firing while also keeping control of their own trembling bodies, desperate not to lose control completely.
At their feet were bundles of dragonglass arrows and boxes of wildfire jars. Lit torches flickered along the railing as arrows whistled through the dark Gorge. Though wildfire was limited, dragonglass weapons were abundant. The problem now was not supply, but manpower. There were not enough men or bows to unleash the rain of arrows they needed to hold the tide at bay.
After a dozen arrows, one soldier finally broke, snatching up a wildfire jar and hurling it down the slope. A burst of emerald fire erupted among the leading wights, flames and shockwave tearing through the mass and knocking many down. Seeing that wildfire could kill the enemy, confidence briefly surged. But when the blast faded, that confidence dimmed again.
...
Even without counting the reserves in the fortresses, the preparations along the Great Gorge should have been enough to destroy the entire wight army, provided the White Walkers did not intervene. But that assumed the enemy stood still and undefended. Reality was far different. The White Walkers had learned from human defenses. Now, under their guidance, the wights advanced in an organized honeycomb formation, keeping a steady distance from each other as they surged forward.
From above, they seemed to be charging chaotically, relying on sheer numbers and weight. But when the defenders, full of grim determination, unleashed their volleys, they discovered that only two or three out of ten arrows found a mark. Wildfire jars burst upon impact, but the cold air and snow weakened the flames. The fire spread little, only igniting a few unlucky wights. Those knocked down rolled down the slope, then rose again, while the burning ones stayed still, smoldering in place so as not to obstruct the others.
Those still unburned circled wide around the flames, even the wights behind instinctively moving to avoid them. It was impossible to form the hoped-for wall of fire to block their advance.
Where wildfire burned, the advance stalled. Elsewhere, the wights pressed on like a breaking flood, climbing slowly but relentlessly, trampling over the fallen, bypassing flames, and surging up toward the defense path.
The defenders were killing many, but not enough, and not fast enough.
Faced with the oncoming tide, the soldiers' first instinct was to throw more wildfire, but the Commander forbade it. The jars were limited, each man had only a few. If they used them all now, the line would collapse even faster.
The wights continued their climb. No one had yet fallen among the living, but fear was spreading nonetheless. It rode the wind, filled the air, slipped into their lungs. It was in the Commander's voice, in the sound of comrades breathing beside them, whispering faintly in their minds:
(Oh gods… what do we do?)
(This can't be held.)
(Will we even survive the night?)
When someone finally gave voice to these thoughts, the fear erupted aloud.
"There's too many!"
"When will reinforcements get here?"
"I hit one and it didn't die!"
"They haven't stopped, Lord!" shouted a trembling young soldier. The wights had climbed halfway up, now only thirty yards away. "There's more coming! Gods have mercy, they know how to roll to put out the fire! If we don't throw wildfire now, we'll never have a chance!"
If they threw all the wildfire and reinforcements still hadn't come, they could retreat. That was the plan. They wouldn't be deserters, just following orders to preserve strength.
They all thought the same thing.
...
"All of you shut up! I've killed White Walkers! You think I'll be scared off by a few dead men?"
Gared's roar silenced them. He was a coward, but he couldn't stand others being more cowardly than him.
This veteran, once Aegor's guide when he joined the Night's Watch and a survivor of that fatal patrol against the White Walkers, had served forty-four years. Nearly fifty now, he had earned promotion under Aegor's command, more through loyalty and age than skill.
He was respected, if not for his talent, then for his survival. Aegor had wanted him retired in Crown Town, but when the Gorge needed officers, Gared volunteered. Commanding a few dozen recruits from the Mountains and New Gift felt better than guarding a gate in the South.
A White Walker's sword had once pierced his shoulder, crippling his left arm, but he was still fit enough to lead and teach. Now, the so-called "Hero Officer" could not let that name be stained.
"Don't just use dragonglass arrows! Light the arrowheads with wildfire!" he shouted after thinking hard for several minutes. "Kill and burn a line of them, make a wall of fire! Force them to bunch up. When they get closer, smash them with wildfire jars. Conserve what we have, hold until reinforcements arrive!"
Dragonglass could kill wights but left only corpses. Wildfire could burn them, but the wights did not thrash about or spread the flames like the living would. Instead, they stayed still under the Walkers' control, minimizing damage. But combining dragonglass with fire could fix that.
The fire magic of dragonglass would kill instantly, leaving the wights burning in place, forming obstacles. If shot precisely, the line of corpses could create an unbroken barrier. Even weakened by snow, the fire would disrupt the wights' formation and force them into clusters, perfect for another round of wildfire.
Under the command of the veteran who had once slain a White Walker and saved the current Commander's life, the soldiers pushed their fear aside and obeyed. Each opened a jar of wildfire, dipped arrowheads into it, and lit them from torches. Ordinary arrows turned into eerie, green-glowing wildfire dragonglass arrows. Wildfire ignited so easily that they didn't need to wait for heat or fear the flame going out mid-flight. They only had to be careful not to set themselves ablaze when releasing the string. These arrows were far deadlier than simple oil-soaked flames.
The wights crept closer, crawling up as the slope steepened. The distance was close enough for torchlight to reveal their ghastly forms. Few looked human anymore. Most were shriveled and dry, like ancient corpses clawed from tombs. Torn flesh exposed glistening corpse oil beneath. The few who still looked human were somehow worse—their clothes, faces, and wounds clear reminders of the lives they had lost. Were they Night's Watch brothers? Wildlings? Did they once have families? Would the living here soon look the same?
Even drenched in sweat, the soldiers trembled anew at the thought.
"What are you cowards scared of? I've killed White Walkers! You think I'll run from a few corpses?"
Under their officer's bellowing, courage flickered back to life. The flaming arrows streaked through the darkness like green meteors, and before long, a jagged wall of fire took shape just ten meters from the path. The burning wights fell where they stood, forming an oily, blazing blanket that melted the snow and ice, feeding the fire.
The heat was suffocating. Even from ten meters away, they could feel it, as if standing before a great forge. Gray smoke billowed upward, swirling through the falling snow.
The soldiers cheered hoarsely, but the fire needed constant feeding. Wildfire and oil had to be thrown down steadily, and though they rationed carefully, the supply was dwindling fast. In ten minutes, it would be gone. By the plan, reinforcements from Ice Canyon Port should have arrived long ago. But when Gared looked west and saw the port itself burning, he knew no help would come. The only choice left was retreat.
"Don't drop your bows when we fall back! Take a quiver each and form a line. We might need to fight again!"
Gared whistled and began organizing the retreat. He wasn't afraid. He had escaped White Walkers before and led many successful captures of wights. No one was better at running from the dead than him. But as he raised his head to give the order, he froze. A mass of blue lights surged toward them from the western path.
"Damn it! The west has fallen! Change of plan, retreat east! You there, stop shooting, are you addicted to it? Move, move!"
Throwing down their last jars of wildfire, the squad of thirty men, still unscathed and high-spirited, followed their captain into retreat. But what Gared hadn't realized was this: the reason the enemy had attacked on all fronts was that every stronghold had its weakest point. His clever tactics had kept their section holding longer than expected, allowing them to kill nearly a thousand wights without support. It would be remembered as a great feat in Night's Watch history, but it also doomed them.
The mountain paths to both east and west had fallen. Their allies had fled or died. They stood alone, an island of fire amid an ocean of death.
Four years ago, Gared had tried to lead Aegor south past the Gorge to escape. Now, facing the encroaching blue tide, could he still run from death itself?
(To be continued.)