WiSh - Chapter 43
Chapter 43: Oath Above Life
The Woodshield clan members surged forward, their movements as swift and silent as shadowcats slipping through the darkness. Their course was set to the northeast, where the forest began to thin out. The Wolfswood mountains towered to the northwest, while the King's Road, which cut through the heart of the Wolfswood, stretched northward.
Their direction remained northeast.
Before long, the first group to withdraw had put considerable distance between themselves and the King's Road. The dense clusters of black thorns, oaks, sentinels, and ironwood trees began to dwindle, leaving wider spaces between them. The terrain grew flatter, the paths more navigable, allowing their pace to quicken naturally.
The second group, led by Woodshield and Conall, moved with a calculated urgency. They had with them Will's reliable steed and ten of the clan's strongest members. Their task was a grave one: they bore the responsibility of transporting the five gravely injured men whom Will had tended to, their wounds now carefully bandaged.
Deprived of modern anesthetics, Will had resorted to using the hilt of his sword to render the five men unconscious—a crude but effective method that mimicked the effects of anesthesia. Lacking even a proper scalpel, Will nonetheless worked with astonishing precision, as though the darkness and his makeshift tools were no hindrance at all. In place of alcohol and antiseptics, Will employed wine and fire in his surgical rituals.
Under the reverent gazes of Woodshield, Conall, and the others, who were nearly driven to their knees in awe, Will adeptly applied strips of cloth, soaked in blue flames, as bandages for the wounded clan members.
He had doused the cloth strips in strong wine, ignited them, and then, as the blue flames flickered to life, used them to dress the wounds. The flames, sustained by the wine, did not fully ignite the cloth; they merely danced on the surface, effectively sterilizing it.
Once the cloth had been wrapped around the wounds twice, the flames would extinguish on their own. The blue flames were not overly intense, allowing Will to work quickly and without burning his hands.
The Woodshield clan, unaccustomed to such advanced medical practices, could only watch with wide eyes and open mouths. Their respect and admiration for Will grew beyond what words could express. It seemed almost predestined that the Woodshield clan should cross paths with a man like Will—perhaps the gods themselves had orchestrated this encounter.
The most severe injuries were all deep cuts from swords. With measured precision, Will tore strips from his black cloak, pulled out fine threads, and used the long, sharp thorns that Conall had gathered as makeshift needles to crudely, yet effectively, suture the worst of the wounds. Of course, Will also made sure to disinfect the threads using the same wine and fire technique.
Thanks to Will's tireless efforts, if the Woodshield clan's natural resilience held true and the five men's will to survive remained strong, there was every chance they might pull through, provided they regained consciousness.
Ideally, blood transfusions would have further increased their odds, but such luxuries were out of reach. Time was a rare commodity, and Will lacked the tools necessary for transfusion.
He recalled ancient Chinese medical texts he had once studied, which described the use of chicken or duck intestines as makeshift blood vessels and hollow thorns as rudimentary needles.
Will resolved to explore these methods further when time allowed, for in this strange world, the level of craftsmanship in glassmaking, iron forging, embroidery, and shipbuilding was highly advanced. Yet, the precision required for creating transfusion tubes and hollow needles was beyond what the maesters of this world could comprehend. Such tools were not something one could find readily in the North. They would have to be custom-made, perhaps by a skilled artisan who specialized in embroidery needles or fine ironwork.
Embroidery needles and sewing needles were already common among the nobility, so perhaps with some effort, he could commission something similar.
Fortunately, the five men's injuries were limited to flesh wounds, with no bones shattered or broken. They were incapacitated mainly due to the significant blood loss and the sheer size of the wounds. Will had done everything in his power; now, the rest was up to the gods.
"Conall, did Lord Will truly grant you his surname?" Woodshield asked as he led the way.
In the deepening darkness, Woodshield guided Will's warhorse, which bore the weight of three wounded men. Two other injured clansmen were supported by two of the strongest warriors, while nine more vigilant and battle-ready members flanked them on both sides, ever watchful for potential threats, be they from wild beasts or rival tribes lurking in the shadows.
"Yes, I am now known as Conall Cao!" Conall replied, his voice brimming with pride and a newfound sense of identity.
"I, too, wish for Lord Will to grant me a surname," Woodshield said, his tone contemplative. "But it must be done under the heart tree, with the gods of the First Men as our witnesses. Only then will it truly have meaning."
"We all desire surnames, and not just any names. They must be names of valor and heroism," added a large man who carried a massive mace, his voice deep and gravelly, as if his nose had been broken and healed many times over. His name was Mace, and he was as powerful and unyielding as the weapon he wielded.
"Have you ever encountered a knight more formidable than Lord Will?" Woodshield continued, his voice filled with admiration. "His martial prowess, his mastery of horsemanship, his compassion, and his unparalleled medical skills… and to receive a surname bestowed by the gods of the First Men—there is no greater honor."
None of the Woodshield clan members responded immediately. They were a people accustomed to silence, save for Conall, whose bloodline carried the fiery temperament of the plainsmen, making him more inclined to speak and laugh—a trait that the more reserved members of the clan often teased him for.
Their silence, however, did not signify disagreement. All ten warriors deeply respected and agreed with their young leader's words.
Mace, the captain of these ten warriors and the most formidable fighter in the Woodshield tribe, finally spoke. "Chief Woodshield, if we find a heart tree, I hope Lord will grant me the privilege of using his surname. I pray this will not dishonor him. What do you say, brothers?"
"Agreed!" Mace's fellow warriors chorused, their voices united in purpose.
"We're leaving this forest to join the Night's Watch. Without surnames, those arrogant plainsmen and self-important southerners will look down on us," Conall said, his voice carrying a note of defiance.
Woodshield nodded, though his mind was still occupied with other thoughts. "Brothers, what weighs most heavily on my heart is Lord Will's safety. He's covering our retreat all by himself. You know I would gladly lay down my life for his."
"Lord Will carries the blessing of the old gods. The very fact that they've bestowed a surname upon him is proof enough. We need not worry—he will find his way to us. For now, we must catch up with the others. Once we reach Long Lake, we'll be beyond the reach of Deepwood Motte's territory."
"By heading northeast, we avoid the scouts of the howling stone people," Woodshield explained. "Those who paint shadowcats on their bodies would surely covet our fine weapons. If we were already wearing the black cloaks of the Night's Watch, they might think twice before engaging us."
"Chief, why didn't Lord Will come with us? If we hurried, we could reach our destination before Deepwood Motte's cavalry catches up," Mace said, his voice tinged with concern.
"Lord Will has his reasons!" Woodshield replied firmly, though a sliver of doubt gnawed at him.
"Alone? Can he really fend off the returning cavalry by himself? If they return, they'll surely bring archers. Lord Will's magic sword is lethal up close, but it's no match against archers hidden in the trees," Mace said, his worry evident.
"Lord will manage," Woodshield insisted, though he couldn't shake his unease. "We just need to wait for him north of Long Lake."
Yet, despite his outward confidence, Woodshield couldn't help but worry. Will had given him strict orders, and the first lesson in swearing loyalty to him was to obey those orders without question.
Military orders above life! — This was the first iron rule that Will had drilled into Woodshield.
But deep down, Woodshield wasn't entirely convinced by this philosophy. To him, only oaths stood above life. — So, he preferred to think of Will's orders as an integral part of the sacred oaths he was bound to uphold.