Tormund only spoke up for Jon because Mance had told him to. Now that Mance wanted the kid, Tormund stepped aside without a word.
Ygritte helped Jon to his feet, then started complaining.
"He's bleeding like a stuck pig! Look what Orell did to that pretty face!"
Do birds hold grudges? Jon wondered. He'd killed the wildling Orell, but part of the man still lived inside the eagle. Those golden eyes stared down at him now, cold and full of hate.
"I'm coming," Jon said, but his gaze flicked toward Halfhand.
The Fist of the First Men lay just ahead. He'd been counting on the Old Bear to hit the wildling army with three hundred picked rangers—half of them mounted on strong warhorses, all of them well armed. They could have ended Mance, maybe even taken down Lynn Morningstar and his dragon while they were at it.
But the dragon kept circling overhead, and the wildling host no longer looked like the usual rabble of old men, women, children, and ox carts. They moved like a real army now.
A straight charge wouldn't break them. Jon felt despair settle in his gut.
Do something, Halfhand.
He screamed it inside his head.
Say something. Anything.
But Qhorin sat motionless on that ridiculous shaggy donkey, watching everything with flat, cold eyes.
Blood kept running into Jon's eye. His cheek burned. He wiped it with a gray glove and left a red smear.
He didn't know what had happened to Qhorin, but he was certain the man would never bend the knee. That was enough.
"Bring me my horse," Jon muttered to Ygritte. What he really wanted was Ghost, but the direwolf was probably miles away hunting elk.
When he stepped close, the horse shied at the blood on his face. Jon spoke softly, stroked its neck until it calmed, then swung into the saddle. The sudden movement made his head spin.
He flexed the burned fingers of his right hand a few times, gripped Longclaw, and turned the horse toward the Bone Lord and his crew.
He saw Rattleshirt leaning in close, whispering something to Lynn Morningstar. Halfhand rode behind Lynn now, the closest the two captives had been since they were taken.
Ygritte mounted up too, her face hard.
"I'm coming with him."
"Fuck off!" the Bone Lord snarled. His bone armor rattled with every breath.
"Free Folk go where they please," Ygritte shot back.
The cold wind drove snow into Jon's eyes. Blood froze on his cheeks.
"We talking or riding?" he rasped.
The Bone Lord glanced at Lynn. When Lynn gave a small nod, Rattleshirt spat.
"Then move your ass."
They rode hard through the blowing snow, the mood dark and silent.
The column followed the supply train's tracks for two miles, past abandoned tents and broken sleds, then splashed across the Milkwater where the river bent east into a shallow ford covered in thin ice.
On the eastern bank the snow fell heavier, the drifts deeper, the wind sharper. Night was coming on fast.
Through the flakes Lynn could see the huge white hill rising above the trees.
The Fist of the First Men.
It really did look like a clenched fist thrusting up from the forest floor, its slopes littered with boulders.
An eagle screamed overhead and dove away, keeping clear of the dragon's wings. The riders circled silently to the south slope—the easiest way up.
At the base of the hill Lynn saw the first dead horse half-buried in snow, guts spilled out like frozen snakes. One leg was missing. No animal had done that. Beasts went for the soft belly first, then the meat.
More horse corpses dotted the slope—legs twisted, eyes staring blankly. Clansmen worked in small groups, stripping saddles, bridles, and armor. Every scrap of steel, leather, and horseshoe was saved. They butchered the edible parts with knives and axes while others laid out horse hides to dry and rifled through saddlebags for weapons and food.
The riders dismounted outside the low stone ringwall and squeezed through the crooked gap between the boulders.
Qhorin limped along behind them on a wooden crutch, face grim. Blood had started seeping from his stump again.
A shaggy brown warhorse was impaled on a sharpened stake—it had tried to charge out, not in.
Inside the ring more dead horses and worse sights waited. Blood and snow had frozen into pink ice. No riders anywhere.
A few tents still stood at the far end of the camp. That was where they found Mance Rayder.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall wore black ringmail under his red-and-black cloak, rough fur breeches, and an iron helm decorated with raven wings. Jarl and Harma Dogshead stood with him. Varamyr Sixskins was there too, his wolves and shadowcat circling close. The snow bear was nowhere in sight.
Mance gave Qhorin a cold, flat stare, then looked at Jon.
"What happened to your face?"
Ygritte answered for him. "Orell tried to take his eye."
"I asked him. Did he lose his tongue along with his cloak? Maybe he should—stop him telling us any more lies."
Jarl drew a long dagger with a nasty grin. "He doesn't need both eyes. One might make him more cooperative."
"Want to keep that eye, Jon?" Mance asked.
"If you do, start talking. How many men did they send? And this time try telling the truth, you Winterfell bastard."
Jon's throat was dry. "My lord… how—"
"I'm not a lord," Mance cut in. "And the 'how' is obvious. Your brothers are dead. I want the number. How many?"
Pain throbbed in Jon's face. It was hard to think.
He didn't dare look at Halfhand.
You've done enough, he told himself. You even died for this. I can't ask any more of you. This time it's on me.
Whatever they tell you to do, do it. No arguments.
That had been Halfhand's order, but the words stuck in his throat.
Jon forced them out.
"Three hundred."
Mance's eyes narrowed. "We?"
"They… they had three hundred."
Whatever they tell you to do, do it.
Halfhand's command, yet Jon felt like the worst kind of coward.
"Two hundred from Castle Black, a hundred from Shadow Tower."
"That's not the story you told back in the Guardian Hall," Mance said. He glanced at Harma. "How many horses did you find?"
"Over a hundred," Harma answered. "Close to two hundred. There are more dead ones on the east slope under the snow—I didn't count those."
Her brother Hark stood behind her holding the dog-head standard. Fresh blood still dripped from it.
"You shouldn't have lied to me, Jon Snow," Mance said quietly.
"I… I know."
What else could he say?