Chapter 70: Fierce Battle Against the Wights
Saelen flexed his stiff, half-frozen limbs. Frost had crusted over everyone's armor and hair; even the white breath from their mouths crystallized in the air before vanishing.
"Raaah—!"
A savage howl rose from within the wight ranks.
The horde began shifting, spreading outward and closing in from the rear. In moments, Saelen and his warriors were forced back against the blazing wall of fire, fighting with their backs to the flames.
Saelen scanned the chaotic formation of the free folk and moved quickly to Tormund's side.
"This won't work."
"You need to organize them."
Tormund nodded sharply. "How?"
"You tell me what to do—I'll make it happen."
Saelen stepped forward to the very front of the line and shouted:
"Dragonglass spearmen—forward!"
The warriors hesitated, glancing at one another uncertainly.
Tormund strode ahead with a dozen of his own people. Seeing someone take the lead, another forty men followed.
Saelen felt a flicker of helplessness. He hadn't brought many dragonglass weapons to begin with—Mance Rayder had taken most of the supply. What remained here was only a fraction, meant for emergencies.
"Ordinary spearmen—form up!"
Over two hundred stepped forward. Their weapons were a mismatched collection—iron, bronze, bone, stone—whatever they had managed to forge or scavenge.
Still, something was better than nothing.
Saelen began issuing rapid commands.
The dragonglass spearmen were interwoven among the regular ones, forming the first line. Behind them stood the rest, ready to fill gaps and reinforce. Forty archers took position at the rear, each carrying only twenty dragonglass arrows.
The five giants were stationed on the flanks.
There were no shield-bearers.
Not even wooden shields.
Men would have to serve as shields.
They had barely finished forming up when the wights charged.
Blue, crystalline eyes blazed with mindless fury. Their skeletal faces twisted in silent hunger. Together they surged forward like a tide of death made flesh.
Saelen stood at the front and roared commands:
"Spears up!"
"Thrust!"
Shhk! Shhk! Shhk!
Spears punched forward in unison.
Wights fell like torn sacks of rotting flesh, collapsing onto the frozen ground. The initial charge faltered—only to be immediately reinforced by more undead surging from behind.
The lines slammed together.
The battlefield erupted into chaos—metal striking bone, spears splintering, men shouting, giants roaring, and the shrill, inhuman screeches of the dead.
The firelight flickered across a sea of death.
And the night devoured the sound.
Saelen moved among the spearmen, swinging the Ice in wide arcs, cutting down any wights that slipped through the gaps.
The front line worked mechanically—withdraw spear, thrust spear, withdraw, thrust. Any wight pierced by dragonglass collapsed instantly.
The ordinary spears, however, had little killing effect. They could only slow the undead, pinning or tripping them long enough for the dragonglass wielders to finish the job.
Behind them, the archers loosed volley after volley. But each man carried only twenty dragonglass arrows—at this rate, they would be spent in minutes.
There were simply too many wights.
With no shields to form a solid barrier, gaps began to open. A wight lunged through, knocking a spearman to the ground. Its weapon rose and fell in a frenzy, hacking into flesh. Within moments the man lay mutilated and still.
Scenes like this unfolded everywhere.
As more wights reached the line, casualties mounted. The formation wavered. The front was on the verge of collapse.
Then the giants on either flank erupted in fury.
"ROOOAAAR!"
The sound was deep and thunderous, rolling across the battlefield.
Mag charged toward the failing line, massive club in hand. Any wight in his path was either kicked aside like a ragdoll or crushed underfoot.
His great wooden club swept left and right, smashing through ranks of undead. Wights flew through the air like broken dolls. In seconds, a wide clearing opened before the line.
Though few were truly destroyed, the pressure eased enough for the defenders to steady themselves.
Tormund arrived with a band of axe-wielding free folk.
"Tormund!" Saelen called. "Reform the line!"
"Leave it to me!"
Tormund roared as he and his warriors hacked at the fallen wights. They lacked dragonglass, but with heavy axes they smashed skulls and severed limbs, rendering the wights immobile.
Seeing the line stabilize, Saelen nodded to Mag and raised the Ice.
Then he charged straight into the wight horde.
Mag followed close behind. Sword and club carved through the undead, each sweeping strike taking down two or three at a time. Within moments, they had cut a path clean through the mass.
Behind the wights stood two White Walker commanders.
One raised its crystalline sword—then hurled it.
The blade arced through the air and plunged into the ranks of the free folk, impaling two spearmen through the chest like skewered fruit, pinning them to the frozen earth. Their screams were brief; frost spread across their bodies, and they fell silent.
The second White Walker lifted its own ice blade, preparing to throw.
"HEY!" Saelen roared, drawing their attention.
He spun twice, building momentum, then hurled the Ice with all his strength.
The great sword struck one White Walker squarely.
"RAAAH—!"
With a piercing shriek, its body shattered into fragments of ice, scattering across the ground.
Instantly, a swath of wights collapsed lifelessly.
Saelen's spirits surged. Drawing a dragonglass dagger, he prepared to charge the remaining Walker—
But Mag reached it first.
The giant's club crashed down. The White Walker met it with its ice sword, cleaving the club in two. Yet their strength was uneven; the impact sent the Walker stumbling back more than a dozen steps.
Mag pressed the assault relentlessly, swinging the broken haft with crushing force. Each swing howled through the air.
The White Walker regained balance, moving with eerie agility, weaving and dodging. Giant and Walker exchanged more than a dozen blows in rapid succession.
Seizing the moment, Saelen retrieved the Ice and circled to the side. He hurled his dragonglass dagger at the Walker's head.
The creature reacted instantly, knocking the dagger aside with a flick of its blade.
But that split second was enough.
Mag's massive strike connected, sending the Walker flying.
It struggled to rise—
Saelen leapt forward.
Driving the Ice downward, he aimed straight for its chest.
The White Walker caught the blade between its palms, halting its descent.
Ssssss—
The enchanted Ice hissed as magic burned against ice. White vapor rose from the Walker's hands; its skeletal face twisted in pain.
Saelen dropped to one knee atop it, putting his full weight behind the blade.
With a final surge of strength—
Shhk!
The sword pierced its chest.
Vapor burst from the wound.
"RAAAH—!"
The White Walker shattered into icy fragments.
Across the battlefield, another mass of wights collapsed at once. The encirclement split open, leaving a wide gap in the undead ranks.
Saelen didn't hesitate.
"MOVE! Break through here!" he shouted to Tormund.
The survivors' morale surged. They sprinted through the opening.
Saelen counted quickly.
Of nearly a thousand who had stayed behind to fight, barely five or six hundred remained.
The rest lay dead on the frozen ground.
Tormund approached, face grim.
"What about the wounded? The old ones?"
Saelen looked toward Craster's Keep, where the injured and elderly had taken shelter.
His expression hardened.
"What can we do? If we carry them, none of us will make it far."
He turned away.
"Pray they have courage."
"ROOOOAAAR—!"
From the darkness came a piercing cry, sharp as cracking ice. An unbearable cold swept over them.
Saelen and Tormund exchanged grim looks—
Then, steeling their hearts, they turned and ran.
Behind them, within the walls of Craster's Keep, despair spread across the faces of those left behind.