敬请所有冰火迷批评指正。
“我们该回去了。”见四周的林地越来越暗，盖里德催促道。“反正野人已经死了。”
“死人吓到你了吗？”魏玛▪洛易斯爵士语带讥刺地问道。
盖里德可不吃这一套。他是个年过五十的老人，人来人往之中，这种货色的公子哥他见得太多了。“死了就是死了，”他说，“我们不需要寻找死人。”
“他们果真死了吗？”洛易斯轻声问道。“我们有何证据？”
“威尔见过他们，”盖里德说，“要是他说他们死了，我觉得那就足以为证了。”
威尔早就料到，他们的争吵迟早会把他扯进去，只是没想到会这么快。“我妈说，死人再怎么着也不会唱歌。”他插嘴道。
“威尔，我奶娘也这么说过。”洛易斯回应道。“千万别相信你还在吃奶时听到的一切。即便从死人身上，也有不少的东西可以学习呢。”他的声音在暮色苍茫的森林里回荡，极其刺耳。
“我们回去还得骑好几天长路呢！”盖里德提醒他说，“八天或许还不止，也许要九天。再说，现在天也黑了。”
魏玛▪洛易斯爵士漫不经心地瞥了一眼天空。“每天到了这当口，天都这么黑啊。盖里德，你该不会是怕黑吧？”
威尔可以看到盖里德嘴角的抽搐，还有在黑色披风厚厚的风帽下，他眼神中强制压抑的怒火。他打小在守夜军团长大，四十年的守夜资历，竟被人如此轻视，他还真适应不了。然而，盖里德不止是愤怒。威尔从这位老者受伤的自尊下面，可以觉察出一些别的东西来。是的，你可以感受到一种酷似于恐惧的焦虑和不安。
威尔也是同样惴惴不安。他在长城已经待了四年，记得初次外派北上时，那些小时候听过的鬼故事，统统涌上心头，吓得他裤子都湿了。事后每每想起，无不觉得好笑。现在，他已经是一个有上百次巡逻经验的老手了。对眼前这片广袤无边的、南方人称之为鬼影丛林的黑暗荒野，他早已无所畏惧。
一直到今天晚上，情况才有些异样。在今晚这种黑暗之中，潜藏着某种让他毛骨悚然的锋芒。九天以来，他们一直在路上，紧紧追踪着一支野人突袭队。先是向北骑行，随后折向西北，继而再转向北方，在长城外渐行渐远。每天环境都比头天糟糕，今天情况尤其不妙。冷风飕飕地从北方刮来，吹得树叶沙沙作响，俨然如活物一般。整整一天，威尔都觉得似乎有什么东西在窥视着他。那种东西冷酷无情，对他怀着不可化解的敌意。盖里德无疑也感觉到了。威尔恨不得直奔长城寻求庇护，然而这个念头你绝不可能告诉你的指挥官。
尤其是像眼前这样的指挥官。
魏玛▪洛易斯爵士来自一个子嗣多不胜数的古老世家，是弟兄年纪最小的那个。他是个十八岁的英俊青年，有一双灰色的眼睛，举止优雅，身材修长得像一把刀。骑在那匹高大的黑色军马上，这位骑士远远高过在小矮马上坐着的威尔和盖里德。他穿着黑皮靴，配黑色羊毛裤，戴着一副黑色鼹鼠皮手套；质地上乘的柔皮大衣，由黑羊毛和加工过的皮革制成；大衣外罩一层乌黑发亮的链甲。魏玛爵士宣誓加入守夜军团不足半年，但没人敢说他没有为他的使命做好准备。起码从他的一身行头来看，他无疑是有备而来的。
那袭披风就是他无上的荣耀：由黑貂皮缝制，无以复加的厚实、黝黑与柔顺。“我敢打赌，那些黑貂一定都是他亲手杀死的，不会错的，”喝酒后的盖里德这样在军营里说，“我们的猛士，把它们的小脑袋一个个拧下来。”军营里顿时哄堂大笑。
威尔抖抖索索地坐在矮马上，不禁寻思：要听命于一个你喝酒时的嘲讽对象，这的确有点困难。盖里德应该也是这么想的。
“摩蒙特叫我们找寻他们，我们找到了，”盖里德说道，“现在他们死了，不会再来骚扰我们了。我们前面还得走好长一段路呢。我不喜欢这种天气。一旦下起雪来，就得花两个星期才能回去。如果单是下雪，那倒不是最糟糕的。我的大人，您可曾见过冰暴？”
那位公子哥好像没听他说话，只顾用他那种半是厌倦、半是散漫的特用方式，研究着暮色渐浓的黄昏。威尔跟着这位骑士游巡的时间不算短，知道当他做出这种表情时，最好不要打扰他。“威尔，把你看见的再跟我说一遍。要所有细节，一点都不能少。”
加入守夜军团之前，威尔一直以打猎为生。跟您这么说吧，他其实是个偷猎者。当年，他正藏身于梅里斯特家的树林里，满手血污地剥着雄鹿皮，而那雄鹿，也是从梅里斯特家偷来的。梅里斯特的自由骑士把他逮个正着，他如果不想断一只手，就只能披上黑衣当守夜人去。论在森林里悄然潜行的功夫，无人比得上威尔；黑衣军的兄弟们，不久便发现了他的这个本领。
“营地在前面两英里以外，在山脊那面，和一条小河紧紧挨着，”威尔说，“我靠得不能再近了。他们总共有八个人，男女都有。没看到有孩子。他们紧挨岩石建了一个单坡屋顶的棚屋。估计现在大雪已经把那棚屋全盖住了，不过我辨认得出来。他们没有生火，但火炕像平日一样显眼。全部人都是一动不动。我已经观察了很久了。一个大活人不可能那么安静地躺着。”
“你看到有血迹吗？”
“嗯……没有。”威尔承认。
“你发现有武器吗？”
“几把长剑，一些弹弓。有个男的还有柄斧头。双刃的斧子，看起来很沉、很猛的一件铁器，摆在那人身边，就在他手边的地上。”
“所有人的位置你都记得吗？”
威尔耸耸肩。“两个人背靠石头坐着，大多数人躺在地上。像是被人放倒的。”
“或者就是在睡觉。”洛易斯提出异议。
“肯定是被人放倒的。”威尔坚持自己的看法。“铁树上还有个女人，半隐蔽在树枝后，应该是侦察兵。”他微笑着。“我动作很小心，不让她发现我。不过当我靠近了一看，发现她也是纹丝不动。”说到这儿，他禁不住哆嗦了一下。
“你着凉了吗？”洛易斯问道。
“有点。”威尔小声地说，“是风的缘故，大人。”
年轻骑士转向头发斑白的老兵。霜打的树叶窸窸窣窣，在周边飘落。洛易斯的战马局促不安地动来动去。“你觉得会是谁杀死了这些人，盖里德？”魏玛爵士随口问道，同时随手整了整黑貂皮披风的褶皱。
“是寒冷！”盖里德斩钉截铁地说。“上个冬天，我看过人被活活冻死。在那之前，我还是半大的小孩的时候，也见过一次。人人都说那雪有四十英尺深，冰风呼啸着从北边吹来。不过真正致命的还是冷空气。它能悄悄地贴近你身旁，比威尔还要来得无声无息。起初，你会发抖，牙齿打战，拼命跺脚，梦见香甜的热葡萄酒、温热的火堆。于是，你便周身滚烫，真的。没什么像冷空气那样让人身上发烫。不过，仅仅过了一会，它便潜入你体内，开始充斥你全身。不久，你便丧失了抵制它的气脉，索性就地而坐或睡去。他们说，在一步步走向生命尽头的过程中，你根本感觉不到任何疼痛。先是变得虚弱，犯困，然后是眼前的一切悉数褪色，最后，就像沉入温暖的奶海之中，对，就是这样。
“口才不错，盖里德，”魏玛爵士观察着他，说：“我从不怀疑你有这特长。”
“我身上还留着当年受冻的烙印，大人！”说着，盖里德拉下风帽，让魏玛大人好好看看他残耳。“不但冻掉了两个耳朵、三根脚趾，还有左手的小手指。我总算是逃过一劫，只是受了点轻伤。我哥哥是冻死在岗位上的。我们找到他时，他脸上还带着笑呢。”
魏玛爵士耸了耸肩。“盖里德，你该穿暖和点。”
盖里德怒视着这个公子哥，耳洞周围的伤疤，就是当年埃蒙学士将他冻坏的耳朵全部切除的地方，因愤怒而涨得通红。“等冬天来了，我倒要看看你能穿得多暖和！”他披上风帽，弓着身子上了马，一脸的怒气，再也没有吭声。
“要是盖里德说是因为冷天气……”威尔开口道。
“威尔，你这几周有没有抽到站岗的签？”
“有。大人。”他哪个礼拜不是抽到一打的签？这人到底是啥意思？
“你留意到长城是怎么个状况？”
“在流泪啊。”威尔说着皱起眉头。这下，他明白魏玛大人话中的意思了。“对了，他们不可能是冻死的。如果长城都在流泪，他们就不至于如此。天气还没有冷到那地步。”
洛易斯点头。“还是你这小子聪明。上个礼拜是落了点轻霜，时不时的还来一阵小雪什么的，但绝对没能冷到让八个成年人冻死的程度。这些人穿着毛衣，穿着皮革，而且，让我提醒你们一下，他们旁边就是屋棚，何况还可以生火。”骑士颇为自负地笑起来。“威尔，带我们去那儿。我要亲眼看看这些死人。”
你还能怎么做呢？命令已下，荣誉感驱使他们去服从。
威尔走到前面带路。他骑着那匹毛发蓬松的小矮马，小心谨慎地在灌木丛中穿行。头天下了点雪，积雪之下，净是些石块、树根和暗沟，稍不留神就会被绊倒。魏玛爵士跟在后面，他座下的黑骏马鼻息粗重，急喘不止。外出巡逻时本就不该骑战马，不过谁也不敢将这层意思试着传达给这位大老爷。盖里德落在最后。这位老兵一路上喃喃自语。
暮色愈沉，晴空变成淤青般的深紫色，不久便没入一片漆黑。群星始现，半轮明月升上天空。威尔为有月色星辉而心怀感激。
“我们应该可以再走快点。”洛易斯说道。这时，月亮已经完全升起来了。
“骑着这种马，我可办不到，”威尔说。心中的恐惧是他变得无礼起来。“我的大人，您大概想要自己带路吧？”
魏玛▪洛易斯爵士显然不屑于回答他这个问题。
密林深处，一只狼在嗷嗷叫唤。
走到一棵满是树瘤的老铁树前，威尔下了马。
“你干嘛停下来？”魏玛爵士问。
“接下来的路程，最好还是走过去，大人。只要翻过那道山脊就到了。”
洛易斯稍停片刻，若有所思地眺望远方。冷风呼啸着穿林而过，他的貂皮大披风不停拍打后背，俨然被赋予了生命。
“这里有点不对劲。”盖里德咕哝道。
年轻骑士鄙夷地对他一笑。“有吗？”
“你感觉不到吗？”盖里德问，“你听听黑暗中的声音。”
威尔感觉到了潜藏的威胁。他已经当了四年守夜人，却从来没有这么害怕过。那究竟是什么东西？
“风声、树叶的响声，还有狼在叫唤，盖里德，是哪种声音把你吓成这样？”见盖里德不接话，洛易斯姿势优美地翻身下马，并把马拴到那根低垂的树枝上，和另外两匹马隔出一段明显的距离。然后，他拔剑出鞘。那是一把由城堡铸剑师打造的长剑，剑柄上镶嵌着宝石，月光沿着明晃晃的剑身倾泻而下。从外观上看，这件华丽的兵器铸成不久。威尔怀疑它还从未在任何实战中使用过。
“大人，这里树长得很密集，”威尔提醒他，“带那把剑会被树枝缠住的，还是用匕首比较好。”
“我需要你来教我的时候，到时会问你的。”这位年轻的贵族说，“盖里德，你呆在这儿，看住这些马匹。”
盖里德下马。“我们需要生个火。这事我来办吧。”
“老头儿，你可真是个大傻瓜。要是这林子里有敌兵，难不成我们要生个火把他们引过来？”
“火可以驱赶走好些敌人，”盖里德说，“比方说熊，冰原狼，还有……还有其他东西。”
魏玛爵士双唇紧闭。“不准生火就是不准生火。”
虽然盖里德的脸掩映在风帽的阴影里，威尔却看得出他望向骑士的眼神中露出凶光。他一度担心这个老头会拔剑而起。虽说他那剑不长，外形也丑陋，剑柄因浸汗过多而褪色，剑刃在多次猛击后满是缺口，不过，万一动起手来，威尔可不愿在这位大少爷的小命上下一毛钱赌注。
最后，盖里德低下头，用比呼吸还轻的声音嘀咕着：“不生火就不生火。”
洛易斯当他已默认这个命令，转过脸去对威尔说：“带路吧。”
威尔便带着他穿过丛林，爬上斜坡，然后来到那道低矮的山脊前。他刚才就是在那里的一棵哨兵树下找到侦察的最佳位置。薄薄的积雪下面，地面潮湿泥泞，极易打滑；此外，被雪掩盖的石块和树根，也容易把你绊倒。威尔爬行时悄无声息。在他背后，他却听到金属环甲滑动，树叶也被弄出窸窸窣窣的声响；当长剑被枝杈缠住、漂亮的貂皮披风被卡住时，那位大人一边用力撕扯，一边低声咒骂。那棵大哨兵树就在山脊顶部，底部枝杈离地仅有一英尺高，威尔知道一定是它。
威尔滑行到它的密叶底下，整个身子平趴在泥泞的雪地上，俯瞰着下面的空地。
他的心脏停止了跳动，有那么一会儿，他甚至不敢呼吸了。月光撒满空地，映照出篝火的灰烬，白雪覆盖的棚屋、大岩石、尚未全部冰封的小河，所有这一切，一如几小时以前。
那些人却不见了。所有尸体全部消失了！
“众神啊。”他听到背后这样叫道。魏玛▪洛易斯爵士挥剑砍断一根树枝，爬到山顶上来。他站在哨兵树旁边，手持长剑，披风在风中起伏，满天星光衬出他高贵的身影。他就站在那里，似乎要让世人都来瞻仰他的英姿。
“趴下！”威尔压低声音，急切地说。“出事了。”
洛易斯并未动弹，他看着下面空无一人的平地，笑了。“威尔，看来你那些死人转移阵地了。”
威尔说不出话来了。他竭力搜寻合适的字眼，却徒劳枉然。这怎么可能呢。他的目光在废弃的营地里来回扫视，最后停在那柄斧头上。这么一把双刃大战斧，竟然还在他上次看到它的位置，未曾有人动过。这可是把价值不菲的兵器啊……
“威尔，站起来！“魏玛▪洛易斯爵士命令道：“这里一个人也没有，你躲在那下面像什么话！”
威尔很不情愿地站了起来。
魏玛爵士周身打量着他，心中的不满溢于言表。“我可不想第一次带队巡逻就空着手回黑城堡交差。我们一定要找到这些人。”他四下环顾。“爬到树上去。快。看附近有没有火光。”
威尔转身，一句话也没说。反正辩解也没用。北风尚未停歇，一直扑面吹来。他来到那棵浓荫如盖、长着灰绿叶子的哨兵树下，开始往上爬。很快，他双手粘满树汁，身影消失在针形的树叶丛中。心中的恐惧就像胃里怎么也消化不了的一顿饭菜。他小声向不知名的森林诸神祷告，并从刀鞘中抽出匕首，用牙齿咬住，方便双手攀爬。冰冷的铁器使他不再恐慌。
突然，下面的贵族大喊一声：“谁在哪里？”威尔从他的盘问中听出某种不可预知的情况。他停止爬动，听着，看着。
树林给他的答案是：风吹树叶，飒飒有声；冰层在溪流中潺潺涌动；一只雪枭在远处呜呜鸣叫。
异鬼悄无声息地来到。
威尔眼角瞄到有个模糊的影子在林中闪过。他扭过头来，瞥见黑暗中有一道白影，倏忽即逝。树枝在风中轻轻摇摆，仿佛在用手指互相抓挠。威尔张了张嘴，想给下面提个醒，话语却好像在喉咙里冻住了一样。他也许看错了。或许那不过是一只鸟，或是雪地的反光，抑或是月光引起的某种幻觉。他究竟看到了什么呢？
“威尔，你在哪儿？”魏玛爵士向上喊道，“你能看到什么吗？”他持剑在手，霎时警觉起来，缓缓地兜着圈子。他肯定和威尔一样，感到了他们的到来。然而，他却什么东西也没见着。“威尔，说话啊！怎么会这么冷的？”
的确很冷。威尔瑟瑟发抖，愈发紧抱树干，让脸死死贴住哨兵树。他感觉到了脸颊上甜黏的树汁。
一个身影从密林暗处走了出来，站到洛易斯跟前。它体型高挑，肌肤呈奶白色；身子虽然瘦削，却和老骨头一般硬朗。它的盔甲似乎会因着身体的移动而变换色彩，时而如初雪一样洁白，时而像暗影般漆黑，整副盔甲渲染成深邃的灰绿色——森林的颜色。
威尔听到魏玛·洛伊斯长长地嘘了一口气。“别过来！”这位贵族发出警告，声音尖细得像孩子一样。他把长长的貂皮披风别到肩后，让双臂可以自由舒展，同时双手执剑，准备投入战斗。朔风过后，寒冷刺骨。
异鬼步履轻盈，继续向前挪行。它手上的长剑，不同于威尔之前见过的任何刀剑。那种剑锋，人世间的金属断不能铸就。半透明的剑体在月光下熠熠生辉，晶体部分如此细薄，以至于当剑平放时，看起来几乎和雪地融为一体。此剑周身闪烁着一种诡异的幽蓝光泽。说不清是什么原因，反正威尔相信它比如何剃刀都要锐利。
魏玛爵士勇敢地迎上前去。“那么，和我跳支剑舞吧。”他把剑高举到顶，一脸的大胆无畏。不知是因为剑身太重，还是因为天气太冷，他的双手在微微抖动。不过，威尔却觉得，就在魏玛爵士主动出击的那个瞬间，他已经不再是一个少年，而是守夜人中的汉子。
异鬼停下脚步。威尔看到了它的眼睛，比任何人眼都要深蓝、似有冰火中烧的眼睛。这对眼睛锁定那把高高扬起的颤抖着的长剑，看着月光在那上面不停晃动。有那么一个瞬间，威尔甚至对魏玛爵士有了信心。
它们从树影中悄然现身。先是两个，接着是三个……四个……五个……魏玛爵士也许已经感觉到了随之而来的寒意，但他还未曾看到它们，也未曾听到它们的到来。威尔本该唤起他的注意，这是他的职责所在。然而他一旦出声，今天就是他的死期。他哆嗦着抱紧哨兵树，努力不弄出一点动静。
苍白的长剑颤巍巍地指向天空。
魏玛爵士手持钢剑迎上去。剑锋与剑锋相遇，却听不到金属碰撞的响声，只有一种位于听力极限的、仿佛动物在痛苦嚎叫的又尖又细的声音。洛易斯挡住第二次进攻、第三次进攻后，被迫退后一步。紧接着又是一阵暴风骤雨般的猛攻，他再次后退。
在他身后，在他的左右侧，围观的异鬼悉数将他围住。它们面无表情地站着，沉默无语，修饰于盔甲上的图案变幻不定，使得它们几乎和树林融为一体。它们始终没有出手干预。
两剑接连碰击，威尔直想捂住耳朵。他们搏击时发出的那种奇特尖锐的声音，让他痛苦不堪。几个回合下来，魏玛爵士不停地喘着粗气，气息在月光下蒸腾。他的剑刃为白霜覆盖，而异鬼的剑上，却跳动着淡蓝之光。
接着挥过来的一剑，洛易斯来不及躲闪。苍白的利剑咬穿了他胳膊下的链甲。年轻贵族痛苦地大叫，血汩汩地从环甲间涌出来，在冷冽的空气中冒着热气。坠入雪地的血滴，看起来鲜红似火。他伸出手去拂拭伤口，手放下时，殷红的鲜血已然将他的鼹鼠皮手套染红、浸湿。
异鬼用一种威尔听不懂的奇怪语言说了些什么。它们的嗓音就像是冬天的湖水上冰层开裂；其言辞含讥带讽。
魏玛·洛易斯爵士怒气终于上来了，他大喊一声：“为了罗伯特！”然后双手握住结满霜花的长剑，咆哮着冲上前去。他使出全身力气，一直从侧翼展开攻击，只顾没命地四下挥舞。异鬼却几乎懒得接招。
两锋相交，钢剑顷刻碎裂。
一声惨叫在夜幕下的森林里回荡。洛易斯的长剑破裂为成百上千块碎片，如针雨一般纷纷落下。洛易斯跪倒在地，不停地尖叫。血从他的指缝间冒了出来。
围观的异鬼一拥而上，似乎接收到了某种信号。在死一般的寂静中，刀剑挥起又落下。这是一场冷酷的残杀，苍白的剑锋一次次划开链甲，仿佛那只是蚕丝。威尔闭上了眼睛。他听着那些锐利似冰锥的说笑声从远处传来。
过了好长一段时间，他才鼓起勇气，再次睁开眼来。下面的山脊上，异鬼已经走空。
月亮缓缓地爬过黑暗的天幕；他呆在树上，还是不敢好好地喘口气。最后，待他爬下树时，肌肉痉挛，手指也冻麻了。
洛易斯的尸体脸朝下趴在雪地上，一只手臂向外伸着。厚实的黑貂皮披风已被砍碎成了十几片。看到他凄惨地陈尸于此，方才发觉他有多么的年轻。说到底不过是个大男孩罢了。
他在几英尺外找到断剑的残骸。那一截剑尖，不单布满裂痕，而且形状扭曲，好像遭到雷击的树干一样。威尔跪在地上，谨慎地环顾四周，随后一把抓起剑尖。这块碎剑可以作为这一切的证明，盖里德会明白这剑是怎么回事，要是他不知道，那“熊老”莫蒙特或者埃蒙学士必定晓得。盖里德这会儿还守着马匹等着他们吧？他得赶紧回去。
威尔站起来。魏玛·洛易斯爵士伫立在他对面。
他那身漂亮的衣服已然支离破碎，脸也被糟蹋掉了。剑片刺穿了他左眼的白色瞳孔。
他右眼睁开，瞳孔燃着蓝光，盯着威尔。
短剑从威尔乏力的手中脱落。他闭上双眼，做起祷告。一双优雅修长的手掠过他的脸颊，紧接着便掐住了他的喉咙。那是一双用最好的鼹鼠皮手套包裹的手，沾满粘稠的血块，通体冰冷。
与原译对比截图摘录
附上原文： PROLOGUE
“We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. “The wildlings are dead.”
“Do the dead frighten you?” Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.
Gared did not rise to the bait. He was an old man, past fifty, and he had seen the lordlings come and go. “Dead is dead,” he said. “We have no business with the dead.”
“Are they dead?” Royce asked softly. “What proof have we?”
“Will saw them,” Gared said. “If he says they are dead, that’s proof enough for me.”
Will had known they would drag him into the quarrel sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. “My mother told me that dead men sing no songs,” he put in.
“My wet nurse said the same thing, Will,” Royce replied. “Never believe anything you hear at a woman’s tit. There are things to be learned even from the dead.” His voice echoed, too loud in the twilit forest.
“We have a long ride before us,” Gared pointed out. “Eight days, maybe nine. And night is falling.”
Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with disinterest. “It does that every day about this time. Are you unmanned by the dark, Gared?”
Will could see the tightness around Gared’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. Gared had spent forty years in the Night’s Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. You could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.
Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no more terrors for him.
Until tonight. Something was different tonight. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise. Nine days they had been riding, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. Each day had been worse than the day that had come before it. Today was the worst of all. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. All day, Will had felt as though something were watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. Gared had felt it too. Will wanted nothing so much as to ride hellbent for the safety of the Wall, but that was not a feeling to share with your commander.
Especially not a commander like this one.
Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned.
His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. “Bet he killed them all himself, he did,” Gared told the barracks over wine, “twisted their little heads off, our mighty warrior.” They had all shared the laugh.
It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.
“Mormont said as we should track them, and we did,” Gared said. “They’re dead. They shan’t trouble us no more. There’s hard riding before us. I don’t like this weather. If it snows, we could be a fortnight getting back, and snow’s the best we can hope for. Ever seen an ice storm, my lord?”
The lordling seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening twilight in that half-bored, half-distracted way he had. Will had ridden with the knight long enough to understand that it was best not to interrupt him when he looked like that. “Tell me again what you saw, Will. All the details. Leave nothing out.”
Will had been a hunter before he joined the Night’s Watch. Well, a poacher in truth. Mallister freeriders had caught him red-handed in the Mallisters’ own woods, skinning one of the Mallisters’ own bucks, and it had been a choice of putting on the black or losing a hand. No one could move through the woods as silent as Will, and it had not taken the black brothers long to discover his talent.
“The camp is two miles farther on, over that ridge, hard beside a stream,” Will said. “I got close as I dared. There’s eight of them, men and women both. No children I could see. They put up a lean-to against the rock. The snow’s pretty well covered it now, but I could still make it out. No fire burning, but the firepit was still plain as day. No one moving. I watched a long time. No living man ever lay so still.”
“Did you see any blood?”
“Well, no,” Will admitted.
“Did you see any weapons?”
“Some swords, a few bows. One man had an axe. Heavy-looking, double-bladed, a cruel piece of iron. It was on the ground beside him, right by his hand.”
“Did you make note of the position of the bodies?”
Will shrugged. “A couple are sitting up against the rock. Most of them on the ground. Fallen, like.”
“Or sleeping,” Royce suggested.
“Fallen,” Will insisted. “There’s one woman up an ironwood, half-hid in the branches. A far-eyes.” He smiled thinly. “I took care she never saw me. When I got closer, I saw that she wasn’t moving neither.” Despite himself, he shivered.
“You have a chill?” Royce asked.
“Some,” Will muttered. “The wind, m’lord.”
The young knight turned back to his grizzled man-at-arms. Frostfallen leaves whispered past them, and Royce’s destrier moved restlessly. “What do you think might have killed these men, Gared?” Ser Waymar asked casually. He adjusted the drape of his long sable cloak.
“It was the cold,” Gared said with iron certainty. “I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don’t have the strength to fight it. It’s easier just to sit down or go to sleep. They say you don’t feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it’s like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like.”
“Such eloquence, Gared,” Ser Waymar observed. “I never suspected you had it in you.”
“I’ve had the cold in me too, lordling.” Gared pulled back his hood, giving Ser Waymar a good long look at the stumps where his ears had been. “Two ears, three toes, and the little finger off my left hand. I got off light. We found my brother frozen at his watch, with a smile on his face.”
Ser Waymar shrugged. “You ought dress more warmly, Gared.”
Gared glared at the lordling, the scars around his ear holes flushed red with anger where Maester Aemon had cut the ears away. “We’ll see how warm you can dress when the winter comes.” He pulled up his hood and hunched over his garron, silent and sullen.
“If Gared said it was the cold . . . ” Will began.
“Have you drawn any watches this past week, Will?”
“Yes, m’lord.” There never was a week when he did not draw a dozen bloody watches. What was the man driving at?
“And how did you find the Wall?”
“Weeping,” Will said, frowning. He saw it clear enough, now that the lordling had pointed it out. “They couldn’t have froze. Not if the Wall was weeping. It wasn’t cold enough.”
Royce nodded. “Bright lad. We’ve had a few light frosts this past week, and a quick flurry of snow now and then, but surely no cold fierce enough to kill eight grown men. Men clad in fur and leather, let me remind you, with shelter near at hand, and the means of making fire.” The knight’s smile was cocksure. “Will, lead us there. I would see these dead men for myself.”
And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honor bound them to obey.
Will went in front, his shaggy little garron picking the way carefully through the undergrowth. A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones and roots and hidden sinks lying just under its crust, waiting for the careless and the unwary. Ser Waymar Royce came next, his great black destrier snorting impatiently. The warhorse was the wrong mount for ranging, but try and tell that to the lordling. Gared brought up the rear. The old man-at-arms muttered to himself as he rode.
Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black. The stars began to come out. A half-moon rose. Will was grateful for the light.
“We can make a better pace than this, surely,” Royce said when the moon was full risen.
“Not with this horse,” Will said. Fear had made him insolent. “Perhaps my lord would care to take the lead?”
Ser Waymar Royce did not deign to reply.
Somewhere off in the wood a wolf howled.
Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.
“Why are you stopping?” Ser Waymar asked.
“Best go the rest of the way on foot, m’lord. It’s just over that ridge.”
Royce paused a moment, staring off into the distance, his face reflective. A cold wind whispered through the trees. His great sable cloak stirred behind like something half-alive.
“There’s something wrong here,” Gared muttered.
The young knight gave him a disdainful smile. “Is there?”
“Can’t you feel it?” Gared asked. “Listen to the darkness.”
Will could feel it. Four years in the Night’s Watch, and he had never been so afraid. What was it?
“Wind. Trees rustling. A wolf. Which sound is it that unmans you so, Gared?” When Gared did not answer, Royce slid gracefully from his saddle. He tied the destrier securely to a low-hanging limb, well away from the other horses, and drew his longsword from its sheath. Jewels glittered in its hilt, and the moonlight ran down the shining steel. It was a splendid weapon, castle-forged, and new-made from the look of it. Will doubted it had ever been swung in anger.
“The trees press close here,” Will warned. “That sword will tangle you up, m’lord. Better a knife.”
“If I need instruction, I will ask for it,” the young lord said. “Gared, stay here. Guard the horses.”
Gared dismounted. “We need a fire. I’ll see to it.”
“How big a fool are you, old man? If there are enemies in this wood, a fire is the last thing we want.”
“There’s some enemies a fire will keep away,” Gared said. “Bears and direwolves and . . . and other things . . . ”
Ser Waymar’s mouth became a hard line. “No fire.”
Gared’s hood shadowed his face, but Will could see the hard glitter in his eyes as he stared at the knight. For a moment he was afraid the older man would go for his sword. It was a short, ugly thing, its grip discolored by sweat, its edge nicked from hard use, but Will would not have given an iron bob for the lordling’s life if Gared pulled it from its scabbard.
Finally Gared looked down. “No fire,” he muttered, low under his breath.
Royce took it for acquiescence and turned away. “Lead on,” he said to Will.
Will threaded their way through a thicket, then started up the slope to the low ridge where he had found his vantage point under a sentinel tree. Under the thin crust of snow, the ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip you up. Will made no sound as he climbed. Behind him, he heard the soft metallic slither of the lordling’s ringmail, the rustle of leaves, and muttered curses as reaching branches grabbed at his longsword and tugged on his splendid sable cloak.
The great sentinel was right there at the top of the ridge, where Will had known it would be, its lowest branches a bare foot off the ground. Will slid in underneath, flat on his belly in the snow and the mud, and looked down on the empty clearing below.
His heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not breathe. Moonlight shone down on the clearing, the ashes of the firepit, the snow-covered lean-to, the great rock, the little half-frozen stream. Everything was just as it had been a few hours ago.
They were gone. All the bodies were gone.
“Gods!” he heard behind him. A sword slashed at a branch as Ser Waymar Royce gained the ridge. He stood there beside the sentinel, longsword in hand, his cloak billowing behind him as the wind came up, outlined nobly against the stars for all to see.
“Get down!” Will whispered urgently. “Something’s wrong.”
Royce did not move. He looked down at the empty clearing and laughed. “Your dead men seem to have moved camp, Will.”
Will’s voice abandoned him. He groped for words that did not come. It was not possible. His eyes swept back and forth over the abandoned campsite, stopped on the axe. A huge double-bladed battle-axe, still lying where he had seen it last, untouched. A valuable weapon . . .
“On your feet, Will,” Ser Waymar commanded. “There’s no one here. I won’t have you hiding under a bush.”
Reluctantly, Will obeyed.
Ser Waymar looked him over with open disapproval. “I am not going back to Castle Black a failure on my first ranging. We will find these men.” He glanced around. “Up the tree. Be quick about it. Look for a fire.”
Will turned away, wordless. There was no use to argue. The wind was moving. It cut right through him. He went to the tree, a vaulting grey-green sentinel, and began to climb. Soon his hands were sticky with sap, and he was lost among the needles. Fear filled his gut like a meal he could not digest. He whispered a prayer to the nameless gods of the wood, and slipped his dirk free of its sheath. He put it between his teeth to keep both hands free for climbing. The taste of cold iron in his mouth gave him comfort.
Down below, the lordling called out suddenly, “Who goes there?” Will heard uncertainty in the challenge. He stopped climbing; he listened; he watched.
The woods gave answer: the rustle of leaves, the icy rush of the stream, a distant hoot of a snow owl.
The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?”
It was cold. Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek.
A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.
Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. “Come no farther,” the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy’s. He threw the long sable cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had stopped. It was very cold.
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.
Ser Waymar met him bravely. “Dance with me then.” He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was a boy no longer, but a man of the Night’s Watch.
The Other halted. Will saw its eyes; blue, deeper and bluer than any human eyes, a blue that burned like ice. They fixed on the longsword trembling on high, watched the moonlight running cold along the metal. For a heartbeat he dared to hope.
They emerged silently from the shadows, twins to the first. Three of them . . . four . . . five . . . Ser Waymar may have felt the cold that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Will had to call out. It was his duty. And his death, if he did. He shivered, and hugged the tree, and kept the silence.
The pale sword came shivering through the air.
Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high, thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.
Behind him, to right, to left, all around him, the watchers stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting patterns of their delicate armor making them all but invisible in the wood. Yet they made no move to interfere.
Again and again the swords met, until Will wanted to cover his ears against the strange anguished keening of their clash. Ser Waymar was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight. His blade was white with frost; the Other’s danced with pale blue light.
Then Royce’s parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The young lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. Ser Waymar’s fingers brushed his side. His moleskin glove came away soaked with red.
The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking.
Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. “For Robert!” he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight behind it. The Other’s parry was almost lazy.
When the blades touched, the steel shattered.
A scream echoed through the forest night, and the longsword shivered into a hundred brittle pieces, the shards scattering like a rain of needles. Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood welled between his fingers.
The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a deathly silence. It was cold butchery. The pale blades sliced through ringmail as if it were silk. Will closed his eyes. Far beneath him, he heard their voices and laughter sharp as icicles.
When he found the courage to look again, a long time had passed, and the ridge below was empty.
He stayed in the tree, scarce daring to breathe, while the moon crept slowly across the black sky. Finally, his muscles cramping and his fingers numb with cold, he climbed down.
Royce’s body lay facedown in the snow, one arm outflung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.
He found what was left of the sword a few feet away, the end splintered and twisted like a tree struck by lightning. Will knelt, looked around warily, and snatched it up. The broken sword would be his proof. Gared would know what to make of it, and if not him, then surely that old bear Mormont or Maester Aemon. Would Gared still be waiting with the horses? He had to hurry.
Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him.
His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye.
The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.
The broken sword fell from nerveless fingers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed his cheek, then tightened around his throat. They were gloved in the finest moleskin and sticky with blood, yet the touch was icy cold.
