The ghouls came suddenly, and the wildlings didn't have time to set up a ring of fire to hold them back.
Each of the five thousand-man commanders led two hundred battle-ready spear-women and raiders, forming a defensive line southeast of the pyre. Meanwhile, the White Walkers avoided the smoldering remains of the pyre and gathered thousands on the eastern front.
Until today, the wildlings had never encountered a large-scale, army-like attack from the White Walkers.
Usually, they faced no more than one or two hundred ghouls, mixed with two or three White Walkers, and the wildlings would outnumber them by more than ten times.
A few wildlings carrying torches would surround a single ghoul and burn it—that was their tactic.
Because ghouls weren't zombies; being bitten or scratched wouldn't spread any infection.
What made them truly dangerous was their enhanced physique combined with the weapons they wielded.
If someone could block a ghoul's attack, his companions could safely ignite it with torches.
But now, the number of ghouls far exceeded that of the wildling defense line—several times more than the wildlings themselves. The moment both forces clashed, the situation immediately began collapsing in favor of the ghouls.
From the watchmen atop the wall, the thousand wildling warriors holding torches appeared like a small island in a dark, vast sea—their torchlight forming a narrow stretch of fiery land.
Visibly, the endless, icy tide of ghouls was slowly devouring the crimson land.
One side roared with battle cries, only to be gradually drowned out. The torches dwindled one by one; the other side advanced silently, like still water from an abyss—cold, merciless, pounding the fiery shoreline.
New Camp.
The wildling women and children hiding behind the thin, makeshift fences watched with growing dread. Their hope, like the torches of the wildlings ahead, was being extinguished bit by bit; their fear and despair, like the tide of ghouls, was creeping in step by step.
"Fuck!" cursed the warrior priestess with a grim face. She raised her spear made of fish-l梁wood and stabbed forward like a meteor, aiming directly at the ghoul's glowing blue eye.
"Shhk!"With no resistance, it struck true—straight into the left eye of the old father Yorgen, the spear driving a foot deep into his eye socket, its white tip poking out the back of his skull.
"Shhk!"As if it wasn't even his own eye being pierced, Old Father Yorgen advanced regardless, swinging his blade at Morona.
At the same time, a sharp whoosh sounded from Morona's right—a cold, pale slash curved like a crescent moon came sweeping toward her shoulder.
"Clang!"Luckily, Morona wasn't fighting alone. A bearded wildling behind her swung his axe upward, perfectly intercepting the longsword aimed to kill Old Father Yorgen.
It was a plain longsword—two and a half feet long, two fingers wide, with a dozen nicks on both edges ranging from grain-sized to bean-sized. But it was well-maintained, the blade rubbed white with fur and still smelling faintly of butter.
"'Knight' Harmon?"Upon seeing who wielded the blade, the bearded man groaned and swore, "You died still owing me three sheep, and now you've killed Old Father? Damn you! Let the White Walkers take this bastard already!"
"Shhh—"Dodging the dead father's slash with a step back, Morona lunged forward, pulled out her own spear, and cursed, "He's already been taken by the White Walkers. If you don't want to join him, chop off that mutt's head now!"
The "Knight" Harmon, like Morona, was a leader of a small tribe. He once ambushed and killed a Black Cloak knight, taking his iron sword and panther-skin cloak. Because he often mimicked the rangers, wearing a black cloak and hanging a longsword at his waist, he earned the nickname "Knight."
In the battle against ghoul-Harmon, Old Father Yorgen made only one mistake—he was poor.
Because he was poor, his gear was inferior. Facing a fine steel longsword with a bronze scimitar, and the wielder being an enhanced ghoul, his death was far from unjust.
Thud, thud, thud, thud—Four giant beasts dragged tree trunks as they stepped out of the darkness. They bypassed the remaining half of the defense force and marched straight toward the wildling camp.
"Damn it, the giants are heading for the camp!"Val cursed as she threw away her extinguished torch and gripped her sword with both hands. Seeing that the wildlings around her were gasping for breath and nearly all torches were out, she shouted in despair, "We retreat! Back to the camp! The ghouls are moving on it—the defensive line is lost!"
"No!"Morona screamed in a twisted voice as she used her spear to force Old Father Yorgen into the pyre. "The rest of you, retreat into the forest! There's no hope! There are White Walkers among the ghouls—each of us who dies becomes one of them. We've been fighting all this time, but they only grow in number. Run! Save whoever you can!"
Solon, the bearded man who had saved Morona's life, roared, "No! My son—"
"My son is also in the new camp," Morona said bitterly as she watched Old Father struggle and burn in the charcoal. "But we can't hold out. The camp fence is flimsy and covers too wide an area—if the ghouls break through from any one direction, it's over."
"What about the Night's Watch?" Solon asked stubbornly.
"They've never seen ghouls before. Most likely they're pissing themselves on top of the Wall right now."
As they spoke, they drew closer to one another, forming an offensive-defensive formation.
For example, the bearded man blocked a ghoul's strike with his axe, while Morona either kicked or stabbed with her spear to knock the ghoul into the dying embers of the pyre.
The line that had been holding the ghouls back from the camp completely collapsed. The remaining wildlings, like their leaders, tossed aside their dead torches and stood beside the pyre—or simply threw a shield into the coals and stepped on it themselves.
"The Night's Watch are blowing their horns. I can even smell the piss in the sound—that's the smell of fear," said "Wood-Ear" Kellek, leaning against Val's back.
"We can't run. As soon as the Dragon Queen hears the horn, she'll come back," Val said solemnly.
Morona shook her head in despair. "I'm afraid she won't hear it! And even if she does—what if she's not willing to risk her life to save—"
"Screeeeech—"
A thunderous dragon roar suddenly exploded across the sky. The wildlings looked up in surprise and delight, only to see a bright red dragon flame, like a divine sword of fire, slash across the sky from the edge of the funeral pyre all the way to the eastern gate of the new camp.
In just two breaths, the dragon soared once more into the sky, disappearing into the darkness above. On the ground scorched by dragonfire, dozens of corpse wights burned like wax candles.
Morona froze for a moment, then suddenly burst into tears, raised her spear high, and cried out with passion, "Long live the Dragon Queen!"
"Long live the Dragon Queen! Long live the Dragon Queen!"
"Long live Queen Daenerys!"
"Long live Her Majesty Daenerys!"
Cheers spread like wildfire through the mountains and forests. In mere moments, cries of "Long live the Queen" echoed from the wildling camp below the Wall to the Night's Watch stationed at its summit, all watching in awe.
"Screee!" Drogon roared in response to the crowd's cheers.
Then, the black dragon drew a graceful arc in the sky and landed atop the Wall.
As the Night's Watch stared in confusion, Daenerys shouted from Drogon's back, "This is a battle for all of humanity—you, me, and the wildlings below the Wall.
Now, all Night's Watch, open the gates, take your shields and swords, and face the White Walkers!"
"Screee—" Before the Night's Watch could respond, Drogon dove sharply and descended toward the wildling camp.
"Ahhh! The dragon is coming! The Dragon Queen is here!" Wildlings scattered in panic, making room for the landing beast.
"Dragon Queen, why aren't you using your dragon to burn the White Walkers? Why are you here?" a scrawny-faced wildling cautiously approached, asking anxiously.
Daenerys ignored him and instead called out loudly, "Where is the Centurion?"
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"I'm the Centurion—Hunter Harel," the scrawny-faced man answered.
"Centurion, lead your men and follow me into battle." Daenerys leapt from the dragon's back, pulled down her faceguard, and drew the sword at her waist. The wildlings around her stared in stunned silence.
"Uh, aren't you going to ride the dragon and breathe fire?" Harel asked, utterly confused.
Daenerys ran her left hand along the sword's blade. With a whoosh, three feet of bright red flame burst from it.
Raising her flaming sword high, she called out, "The Dragon Queen is here! Centurions and captains, take your shields and come to me immediately!"
"Screee!" Drogon let out a low growl, then raised his head. Wisps of flame, like floating willow fuzz, appeared out of thin air, swirling into a blazing red fireball the size of a washbasin between his jaws.
The wildlings were bewildered but scrambled toward the Dragon Queen, muttering to themselves: Is the Queen insane? We're still in the middle of the camp! Why is she having the dragon breathe fire here? Shouldn't it be aimed at the White Walkers?
Then, the black dragon dipped its head again. With a slight "gulp," the fireball rolled from his mouth—heading straight for the Dragon Queen.
"Watch out! The demon dragon's turned on its master!" Harel's scrawny face twisted in panic, but in the next moment, his eyes went wide with shock, bulging as if they might burst.
Just before the fireball struck the Dragon Queen, it veered mid-air and dropped to her left side—where she calmly caught it with her hand.
It was as effortless as an ordinary person holding a ball in their palm.
Daenerys stood with the blazing fireball in her left hand and the flaming sword in her right. Behind her, Drogon was already forming a second fireball in his jaws. The sight was awe-inspiring and commanding.
She looked around at the wildlings and shouted, "What are you waiting for? The White Walkers have broken through the camp gates! Didn't you hear the Free Folk crying out?"
"W-w-we're coming!" Harel's bulging eyes shrank back into place as he led a dozen shield-bearing women toward her at a trot. "What should we do?"
"We're short on numbers," Daenerys frowned.
"The main force went out with Big Daddy and Val. Most of the rest are holding the perimeter fences against the White Walkers," Harel quickly explained.
Daenerys nodded and ordered loudly, "The rest of you, raise your shields and form up on either side of Drogon. Harel, you're now my squire. Protect me."
With that, she ran toward the northeastern corner, where the battle cries were most intense.
Drogon, holding the fireball in his mouth, lowered himself to the ground, crawling forward like a lizard, wings and hind legs braced to the ground.
It looked awkward and undignified, but he moved swiftly, keeping pace with the Dragon Queen.
More importantly, his low, flat posture meant his body was shielded on both sides by the wildlings carrying spears and shields.
Daenerys no longer feared a sudden ice spear killing her dragon.
"Make way! Make way!" Harel, seemingly transformed into her true knight-squire, raised his oak shield and shouted, "The Dragon Queen is here! Centurions, captains—shield-bearers to the front, guard the dragon!"
At his call, more and more wildlings rushed over. They held bronze shields, round oak shields, and curved wooden shields wrapped in animal hides, surrounding Drogon in a tight defensive circle.
At the camp's edge, fire and frost clashed violently. The sounds of battle, screaming, and weeping became a chaotic symphony.
The palisades—hastily built from freshly chopped logs—were already ablaze, pouring out thick, choking smoke.
Combined with the freezing mist brought by the White Walkers, Daenerys could barely make out the battlefield ahead. Through the haze and firelight, she saw wildlings retreating in waves, people falling constantly, while corpse wights were also being set aflame like living torches.
Boom—
Ahhh—
A giant wight, wielding a ten-meter log as thick as a man's thigh, swept through the wildling ranks like a scythe. Screams followed as dozens were cleared out in a single blow. Two mangled corpses landed with a thud right at Daenerys's feet.
She frowned, stepped over one of the bodies, and shouted toward the front lines, "Everyone fall back—let your Queen clear the field!"
(End of chapter)
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