The brazier in the tent burned steadily. The firelight paused for a faint instant, and Gendry waved his hand, causing the Firebinder's Ring to draw in the fire element with greater force.
"The Rune Shield consumed some of the ring's stored fire."
Gendry carefully studied the rune's effect. The miniature "Bronze Shield" formed from the runes could help him withstand the most dangerous close-range attacks.
However, since Gendry had only just begun to grasp it, the runes had many limitations.
First, its current range was only the size of his palm. Second, the "Bronze Shield" it triggered was unstable and could not be sustained or used repeatedly for long. Its magical consumption was also considerable.
For now, the "Bronze Shield" could only be treated as a single life-saving Skill.
If Gendry's research into fire magic advanced further, the "Bronze Shield" would grow larger in range and become easier to summon and control.
Even so, Gendry was already quite satisfied.
"Runes carved into stone or armor can be preserved for thousands, even tens of thousands of years." Gendry set down the battered orange-red bronze armor, excitement rising in his heart.
Pyromancers were the hidden trump cards of certain Dragonlords, while runes were the knowledge reserve needed for a mage to advance further.
After the flames drew away the ancient power, the runes on this suit of armor completely dimmed, truly drained dry.
"New bronze armor may not work. Older pieces might be better?" Gendry guessed.
Gendry knew that at least two groups had once created runes: the First Men and the ancient Valyrians.
The First Men arranged Old Tongue script into runes, while the Valyrians used their own High Valyrian.
These runes were usually carved into stone or other objects, and were rarely written in books. Valyrian runes sometimes appeared on scrolls, while the runes of the First Men were more primitive and natural.
"Magic is the driving force of runes, while stones and objects are their vessels. Even people can be vessels," Gendry concluded. "The maker pours magic into the runes, and the caster must possess flame to activate the runes within the vessel."
If the human body was treated as a kind of flame, then that flame created motion, which in turn drove the runes to reveal their power.
With the "Blood of the Storm" and the "Blood of the True Dragon," the powerful traits of a Pyromancer, Gendry had directly turned himself into a vessel. He could use runes better this way, though this path was destined to be long and complex.
Runes were rare, but they did appear from time to time.
The armor of the Bronze King, the crown of the King of Winter, the Dragonbinder horn, the King-Beyond-the-Wall's "false" Winter Horn, and the golden ornaments of chieftains Beyond The Wall all bore runes.
Even if people today no longer knew how to use runes, they still carved them as symbols of meaning.
House Royce's silver-plated armor was still marked with First Men runes, and the golden bracelet fat Illyrio gave Daenerys bore Valyrian runes. It simply did not seem to have any use.
"Dragonstone has ancient Valyrian scrolls. And those First Men armors and stone statues are also worth exploring." Gendry decided he would search for them when the time came.
Content, Gendry returned to bed and sank into a deep, sweet sleep. Runes were truly intricate and profound.
...
Beyond The Wall, the Fist of the First Men.
The sky was gray, and the cold was terrifying. Even the dogs could catch no scent.
The Fist of the First Men was a hill that rose abruptly from the Haunted Forest.
A small stream flowed past the foot of the hill. Its stony banks were frozen, while the milky-white waters of the Milkwater flowed endlessly down from The Frostfangs year round.
The west and north sides of the Fist of the First Men were steep slopes, and the east side was only slightly gentler, giving anyone commanding from the summit an excellent view.
"A large number of wildlings are moving south from The Frostfangs."
The news brought back by the scouts spread through the ranks of the rangers.
The men of the Night's Watch grew uneasy. Some of the more cautious ones suggested leaving, while others proposed fighting at once, using the Fist of the First Men as a fortress.
But the Old Bear prepared more sharpened stakes, pits, and caltrops, which meant the old man still intended to fight a great battle.
Chett, who was preparing to plot a mutiny, drove the pack of dogs back to the Fist of the First Men in a foul mood. The dogs had not dared chase the wild bears.
Returning empty-handed meant he might be cursed out again. Chett had long since had enough of this life.
"Damn the Old Bear. Damn that pighead," Chett cursed.
Chett hated everything. If he had not killed that ugly woman, he would not have been sentenced to death by the Freys.
Chett still wanted to remain at The Wall, caring for the ravens and Ser Aemon. At least it would not be this cold there.
But the Old Bear had decided on this expedition, and even Chett had been dragged along as manpower. The Night's Watch was always short of men.
And then there was that fat pighead. Because his father was a great man, and because he had saved the Old Bear's life, the Old Bear had been cultivating him all along. He had even let the fat boy study all kinds of knowledge under Maester Aemon, effectively stealing part of Chett's own work.
Lark the Sisterman hugged his arms around himself. Even wrapped in thick black wool, he still felt cold and complained that his hands were about to fall off.
"Damn it, it's cold enough to kill a man. How are we supposed to hunt?" Lark said. "Fuck the bear. It's not worth freezing ourselves half to death."
"I can't go back empty-handed, Lark," growled Small Paul, his face covered in a brown beard. "The Lord Commander won't be pleased."
Though Small Paul was simple-minded, he was enormously strong, a big man with huge hands. He had once crushed a wildling's spine alive in his arms.
"Fuck the Old Bear too," Lark the Sisterman cursed. "If he dies tonight, who cares whether he lives or dies, or whether he's pleased?"
"But why are we killing the Old Bear?" Small Paul was confused. His forgetfulness was as great as his size.
But for such extraordinary deeds, they could not do without a huge killer like him.
Lark the Sisterman and Chett had no choice but to explain it to him again.
Chett kept an eye on his group. There were murderers, rapists, fools, deer hunters, rogues, and all sorts among them.
"A crew of bad men." Chett grinned. Only such wicked men would deal a fatal blow to the Old Bear and his pigheaded favorite.
Chett even had a detailed list of those who would have to be silenced. They had to act quickly, before the wildlings came south.
The Night's Watch conspirators had planned carefully. As they returned, they settled on doing something big that very night and fleeing the Night's Watch.
The steep, boulder-strewn summit of the Fist of the First Men was surrounded by a chest-high wall built of gray stone.
The sky had been dark for days. The Old Bear ordered torches lit and planted along the ringwall around the steep, rocky hilltop, forming a great ring of fire.
Samwell Tarly walked through the dark weather toward the black wool blanket and messy furs where he slept.
Sam touched his own flesh. Though he was still a weak fat man, he had trained harder and had changed somewhat.
A fat man had to summon courage. He was stronger than most ordinary men, just not very nimble yet. Sam practiced in secret.
Sam forced himself to be brave. Perhaps the Red Comet had worked some change in him, for on the night he killed the wight, he had actually found courage.
"The situation is getting worse and worse," Samwell thought.
The conflicts within the Night's Watch were growing sharper. The class tensions were too severe, and the quality of the men was falling lower and lower. Criminals were mixed among them, and those men were the most unruly of all.
"Should I mention it to the Old Bear?" Sam asked himself, but he knew he could not say too much. The men of the Night's Watch were brothers. If he accused someone without proof, it would damage the brotherhood.
"I hope I'm wrong." Sam thought again of Chett's angry, ugly face. An unpopular fat man naturally knew how to watch people's expressions.
Sam also helped tend the ravens because Chett was too poor at it, and because Sam could read. The Old Bear believed Maester Aemon's knowledge was priceless. Besides, now that the True Dragon had returned, Maester Aemon was very important to them.
Before Dickon was born, Lord Randyll had devoted great effort to cultivating his eldest son. Sam's life at Horn Hill had largely been sweet, except for his father's face, which grew uglier and colder by the day.
Sam opened his treasure, the bundle he had found beneath the Fist of the First Men.
"Who buried this here?" Sam wondered.
Sam had been secretly training in Swordsmanship and archery. The Night's Watch did not lack skilled fighters, but their character was truly poor.
Sam also liked all kinds of ancient things.
The Fist of the First Men was an ancient place. While fetching water for the Lord Commander, he had unexpectedly discovered these things in a mound of earth.
The bundle was made of fine black wool, the cloth of a black cloak belonging to a black brother. It was thick, double-woven, and though damp, it had not rotted.
Inside the bundle were a dozen obsidian knives, a large number of leaf-shaped spearheads, and countless arrowheads. There was also an ancient horn made of cattle horn, its rim inlaid with Bronze.
"Though it can't be played anymore, it is still an old thing." Sam carefully put it away.
"Time for the meeting. The Old Bear is calling for you," Dolorous Edd said when he found him. The two of them had a good relationship.
Sam nodded. He had decided not to question the Old Bear's decision again.
"Have any scouts returned?" Sam asked.
"Qhorin Halfhand's party. He's the only one who came back. They didn't accomplish much. An eagle kept following them. The Halfhand barely escaped, but most of his men died. He said the wildlings were digging holes, but he didn't know what they were searching for."
Sam nodded. Qhorin Halfhand was one of the Night's Watch's best men, and his return had helped the Old Bear make up his mind.
"Assemble!"
The horn sounded.
A dozen voices shouted at once, carrying to every corner of the hilltop camp.
"Men of the Night's Watch! Assemble by the central fire!"
Sam knew the Old Bear had made up his mind. As a steward, Sam had been fortunate enough to hear many arguments among the higher officers, all circling around whether to retreat or fight.
Old Bear Mormont stood straight before the fire. Behind him, Qhorin Halfhand, the only man of his group to return, stood in a line with Smallwood, Locke, Wythers, and Blane. Sam stood off to one side.
Sam had advised the Old Bear not to take such a risk, but old men were often stubborn.
The Old Bear's plan made the men below whisper among themselves. The Old Bear intended the Night's Watch to take the initiative, first north, then west, sweeping past the wildling vanguard to ambush their baggage train in the valley of The Frostfangs.
The men of the Night's Watch argued noisily. A grand plan meant they might die.
"Die, die," the raven cried.
"Remember your vows, brothers. We are the swords in the darkness, the watchers on the Wall..." the Old Bear said solemnly.
"The fire that burns against the cold." Qhorin Halfhand drew his sword.
"The light that brings the dawn," the others answered, and several more swords came out of their sheaths.
Soon afterward, everyone had drawn their swords and begun shouting the oath of the Night's Watch.
"Mother, I am no coward. I am a man of the Night's Watch, Sam the Slayer," Samwell thought.
It began to snow. Heavy snow fell like feathers, burying everything.
"Tooooooot."
"Tooooooot."
"Gods above." Sam woke from a black dream, picked up his mail, and found Chett beside him for some reason.
"Tooooooot."
The third blast sounded.
The horn went on and on, as if it would never end.
"Two blasts?" Sam asked in confusion.
"It's three... three means..." Chett's face was twisted with bitterness, and he had pissed himself in terror.
Three horn blasts were too frightening. Two blasts meant wildlings were attacking, and men should take up arms.
But three. Three blasts meant the Others.
From atop the ringwall, they could see things crawling up the dark, wet slope.
Men, giants, animals. Only their blue eyes shone with terrible clarity.
The corpses were pale, and only their eyes were blue.
Standing on the ringwall, Sam saw the wights of the wasteland.
"There are hundreds of them!"
"Draw your bows!"
The men of the Night's Watch hastily drew their bowstrings, loosing a dense rain of arrows.
But their cheers did not last long. More wights emerged.
***
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