Part 16

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***

The sword sliced the skull in half, and Jon kicked the wyht off the Wall, but three more were coming at him, clutching corroded weapons in half-decayed limbs. John took the first blow with his sword, dodged the second, and, without waiting for the third, shouted:

- Feim!

The impact of the rusty sword passed through his body, and the whirlwind was swept behind Jon's back, where it was met by the blast of a flaming blade that Beric Dondarrion wielded with fearsome skill. Thoros of Myr, whose sword flamed just as brightly, was there to watch his friend's back - the priest reeked of cheap rum, but it had no effect on his skills. The dog, who was swearing incessantly, was nearby, but he kept away from Beric and Thoros, squinting nervously at the fire.

Soon enough, this strange trio began to follow John around and cover him in battle, even though they were formally enlisted in Lord Rodrik Forrester's troop. Beric and Toros explained their actions quite simply - they were obliged to be at the side of the revived Azor Ahaiya, Rglor's chosen one. The Hound did not wish to explain anything at all.

- Fucking bastard, die already! - Clegane wheezed, thrusting his glass dagger under the jaw of the wyht who was trying to strangle him.

- They're already dead, Dog! - Beric shouted back, slicing in half a dead man whose flesh was almost all decayed.

- Fuck it! - came the reply.

- How much longer can we hold out?! - Thoros asked, cracking the skull of another Wycht.

- If Tormund doesn't come up in the next couple of days, it won't be long,' Jon replied.

Unfortunately, Stark was right. The Wychs were coming at the Wall in droves, so the defenders were fighting with little rest, and Jon noticed with longing that the children were taking the place of the fallen warriors. The scaleless youths, trembling with fear, pelted the Wychts with stones in the hope of knocking them off the icy surface, rained flaming arrows, and fought back as best they could with dragon-glass-tipped spears, which were rapidly running out. Some flew into the void with the arrows, some got stuck in the bodies of the Wychs and broke off.

More and more often John's thoughts turned to the last two tools he had left. They were effective, even terrifying methods, the only problem was that one method had a good chance of failing, and the second would kill anyone unlucky enough to be near it. It could be used only when the situation became critical and death was inevitable.

Down there, thousands and thousands of wychs were waiting for their turn, dead giants were not fighting, lute wolves and bears were patiently waiting for their turn. The White Walkers were much more cautious in their use of birds, for during the last raid they had been met by Firebreath, which had turned most of the flock to ash. John himself had thought it would be nice to wrap himself in the Fire Cloak and break into the ranks of the dead, but that was impossible for several reasons.

One of them was that John himself had never been a mage. Yes, he had the faintest crumbs of magic, but only enough to briefly shift his consciousness into the Ghost, but nothing more. It was impossible to draw magic from the outside world, and there was a second reason for that.

Magic in this world had all but disappeared. Yes, Jon felt its faint whiffs, but what was their source and why they were so weak, Stark did not know. But he knew for sure that these crumbs were not even enough to light a candle, and even the use of magic in battle was out of the question. Enchanting, to which Dovakin had once paid much attention, was also out of reach, because there were no analogues of soulstones in this world, and even if there were, there was no time to search for and study them.

And the third reason was that the part of Jon's soul that he inherited from Dovakin didn't trust magic at all, preferring the axe and shield more than anything else. Not that he didn't pay attention to it, but Dovakin remembered all too well the destruction around Winterhold that had been wrought by the mages of the local Collegium. The mages of the local Collegium had not been very good at it, especially with that strange story of magic clots, crazy weather, and god knows what else.

Dovakin wasn't even close, he had been searching for Auriel's bow, but he'd heard that the situation had been rectified thanks to a certain Dunmer girl who had later become the head of the Collegium. How much of the story was lies and how much was truth, Dovakin did not know.

Even though he had escaped from Apocrypha thanks to magic, Dovakin didn't like it. At times it seemed to him that if not for the help and desire of Hermeus Mora himself, he would have stayed in the Prince of the Unknowable's plan forever. Why should he help a fugitive? He was the strangest and most mysterious of all Daedra Princes, if he had one at all.

Anyway, if he managed to survive the current troubles, he might wonder about the local magic and its use. Right now, he just doesn't have the time for that.

***

The wind howled like a hungry wolf, and the snowfall intensified to the point where it was impossible to see ten paces ahead, and John could only stare blankly at it all. He knew what was about to happen, but his strength had run out. His muscles burned with fire, his hands struggled to hold his sword, and his eyes drooped with fatigue.

But worst of all was the distinct taste of blood in his mouth, and his throat felt like a sea urchin had been shoved down it. Today, using almost every Scream he knew, he had exceeded his own resource, and now his body was howling for rest and his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen. John was panting as if he'd been thrown into the abyss of the sea with a rock tied to his feet. And now, when he needed all his strength, the White Walkers had decided to join the battle themselves, which meant that the magical defences of the Wall, built into the ice blocks thousands of years ago, had all but collapsed.

The wind suddenly died down and the dead let out an ear-splitting shriek, and in the same instant the Wall shook from the bottom to the top. Huge chunks of ice fell from its surface on either side, burying the dead and the living alike. And then the Viht were swept away like a great wave, many of them simply jumping down from the edge of the Wall, for the dead had no fear. It seemed like an opportunity for respite, but even the last fool could see that the White Walkers were not going to make it easy for them.

And so it proved to be.

A group of riders rode through the ranks of the dead, clutching long ice spears, and at the head of them rode a warrior whose head was crowned with a crown of ice. Jon saw him as clearly as if the Night King were standing right in front of him, Stark could literally see the blue fire that blazed in the ancient creature's eyes.

The monster from the oldest legends stopped his dead horse, and the other riders followed suit, silently awaiting orders. The Night King looked round the Wall with a gaze that every one of the defenders felt, and then dismounted from his horse. His gaze roamed the Wall as if searching for someone, and then he raised his hand, clutching his spear.

The throw was incredibly strong and almost invisible to the human eye, but it was very tangible - the Wall shook with such force that many people could not stand on their feet. There were screams of panic, and Jon realised with a deathly longing that the last weeks of fighting had meant nothing to the Night King. He could have simply waited until the time was right, then come in person and started breaking. Instead, he had practically swarmed the Northmen with undead, draining them of their strength so that he could come in and finish off those who had survived. Jon did not yet know what exactly the Night King was up to, but he felt that the outcome would be the same, and so he could not drag it out any longer.

Stark had no idea if he would be able to realise what he had planned and what the price would be. And he could only guess how his people would react if he succeeded and the dragon answered his call. John's only hope was that if he had managed to escape the Apocrypha by some miracle, then this world had some connection to Oblivion, of which Cairn of Souls was a part.

The second spear struck the Wall, and the first cracks appeared under the men's feet, and Jon threw his head back, shouting:

- Dur! Neh! Viir!

It was as if the minutes of waiting had been an eternity, John gazed into the frowning sky, and the other northerners followed his example, not knowing what they hoped to see. It was as if the world had frozen, and even the dead seemed to stand still, so as not to disturb the King of the North and his warriors as they waited for a miracle. But there was no fierce dragon's roar to strike fear into the staunchest of hearts, no fire to turn the Wych hordes to ashes. Only the snow continued to blanket everything in white.

- I don't know what you wanted to do,' said Mournful Edd, panting with exhaustion, 'I'm sorry it didn't work out. And it's the end of us.

Down below, at the foot of the Wall, something unthinkable was happening. The spears stuck in the ice were growing thicker and longer, like trees that had taken root. It was as if the Wall itself was feeding them, giving them strength, and the ice cracked louder and louder, the cracks widening and spreading.

The Night King thrust his third spear just below where Jon and his companions stood. Well, there was no more choice, and Stark was forced to give the order:

- Everyone off the Wall.

- What?' Edd asked, and it seemed that every warrior was looking at Jon. Perhaps they were.

- Everyone off the Wall! - John shouted, feeling the blood fill his mouth. The last Scream had not been in vain for him. - Begin the retreat! Now!

- But John...

- That's an order!

No one dared to argue. Perhaps because they saw the thin trickle of blood that began to trickle from the corner of his lips. Or perhaps because they saw the deadly determination on Jon's face. Lords, knights, and common warriors rushed to the ladders and the lift, and only Stark remained standing, watching as the Wall crumbled and more and more blocks broke away and fell down, fortunately only on the dead.

- Edd,' John grabbed his friend's arm at the last moment. - Get everyone out of Castle Black, and get them to the Last Hearth as quickly as possible, and then to Winterfell. No-one must stay here.

- Jon, what about you?! - screamed Mournful Edd.

- I'll give those things enough fire to choke on,' Stark promised. - Send someone to meet Tormund, and have him fall back with the rest of them. Now go, Edd, that's my command. Go.

- John.

- Now!

Edd left, and Jon was left alone on the Wall. He watched as the dead giants wrapped the huge chains they had inexplicably dragged from wherever they had come, then tied them to their long-dead mammoths. The dead beasts made the first tug, and the ice let out a long groan, as if someone had tried to tear a huge chunk of flesh out of a wounded beast. A second tug, and the Wall sagged slightly at this point. There was no doubt that soon enough, the breach in the Wall would be not only magical, but also very real, and through it hordes of Viht would pour into the land of the living, needing neither rest nor food, and on their way they would kill all who stood in their way.

Time dragged on, and Jon did not know who had already left the Wall and Castle Black. Some of them would not make it, and those unfortunates would remain in the land forever, but John could promise them that the Night King would not make them part of his army. After all, fire leaves nothing behind.

A loud crack and subsequent rumble heralded that the mammoth effort had almost succeeded, a little more and the road south would be open. Jon had given his warriors as much time as he could, but if he delayed just a little longer, all further efforts would be wasted.

Stark raised his eyes to the sky and took a deep breath. What he was about to do now, only Alduin had dared before him, and no one else. Not Parturnax, not Odawing, not Dovakin himself.

- Well, you fucking draugr,' Jon hissed, 'let's see how you like this.

As if sensing the threat, the Night King raised his head sharply, as if he had heard his words. As if by magic, an ice spear appeared in his hand, and the ancient beast glared at the one who was clearly threatening him.

- Kest! Doh! Kirl!

The scream tore the heavens apart, and a rain of fire rained down on the long-suffering earth, leaving only scorched craters in its wake. Flaming rocks slammed into the Vihtas, tearing them apart and setting fire to everything that could burn. Huge cobblestones rained down with monstrous force on the Black Castle, literally levelling the ancient structure to the ground, killing those who did not manage to escape.

Hearing the monstrous rumble behind them, the retreating army stopped, and now the northerners watched in horror at the monstrous destruction their king had wrought. From the monstrous heat, which could be felt even at a distance, the snow was instantly vaporised, and the earth was caked, in some places resembling black glass.

The faces of the people, contorted with horror and bitterness of loss, reflected the flashes of fire from more and more flaming blocks, and the monstrous rumble they made as they collided with the Wall and the earth was heard for miles around, deafening the people. Some fell to their knees in disbelief and prayed fervently, remembering all the gods they knew. No one could realise that all this madness had been caused by one single man.

- Lord of Light, protect us,' whispered Thoros, 'give us warmth in the midst of winter and autumn us with your light in the hour of the Long Night. Protect the souls of the living and the departed from the descending Darkness, for the night is dark and full of terrors.

- I have not heard that prayer before,' Beric reproached his friend.

- Because we used to have hope,' replied the priest. - With the death of the reborn Azor Ahaiya, it is gone.