𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪx

𝟛

❆ ❆ ❆

Torsten found Ghost and Jon atop the hill, as he thought he might. The white wolf never howled, yet something drew him to the heights all the same, and he would squat there on his hindquarters, hot breath rising in a white mist as his red eyes drank the stars. 
In the dark, the direwolf's red eyes looked black. He nuzzled at Jon's neck as Torsten approached, silent as ever, his breath a hot mist. The Wildlings called Jon a warg, but if so he was a poor one. He did not know how to put on a wolf skin, the way Orell had with his eagle. "You cannot come with me." Jon said, cupping the wolf's head in his hands and looking deep into those eyes. "You have to go to Castle Black. Do you understand? Castle Black. Can you find it? The way home? Just follow the ice, east and east, into the sun, and you'll find it. They will know you at Castle Black, Torsten will be right behind you, and maybe your coming will warn them." Said Jon. Torsten had thought of writing out a warning for Ghost to carry, but neither boy had any ink, nor parchment, not even a writing quill, and the risk of discovery was too great. "We will meet you again at Castle Black, but you have to get there by yourself. We must each hunt alone for a time. Alone." The direwolf twisted free of Jon's grasp, his ears pricked up. And suddenly he was bounding away. He loped through a tangle of brush, leapt a deadgall, and raced past Torsten down the hillside, a pale streak among the trees. 

"Off to Castle Black?" Torsten wondered aloud. 

"Or off after a hare?" Jon said, they both wished they knew.  Yet, it was time both bastards bid their farewells.

A wind sighed through the trees, rich with the smell of pine needles, tugging at his faded blacks. Torsten could see the Wall looming high and dark to the south, a great shadow blocking out the stars. The rough hilly ground made him think they must be somewhere between the Shadow Tower and Castle Black, and likely closer to the former. For days they had been wending their way south between deep lakes that stretched like long thin fingers along the floors of narrow valleys, while flint ridges and pine-clad hills jostled against one another to either side. Such ground made for slow riding, but offered easy concealment for those wishing to approach the Wall unseen.
For Wildling raiders, he thought. Like us. Like me. 
Beyond that Wall lay the Seven Kingdoms, and everything he had sworn to protect. He had said the words, had pledged his life and honor, and by rights he should be up there standing sentry. He should be raising a horn to his lips to rouse the Night's Watch to arms. He had no horn, though. It would not be hard to steal one from the wildlings, he suspected, but what would that accomplish? Even if he blew it, there was no one to hear. The Wall was a hundred leagues long and the Watch sadly dwindled. All but three of the strongholds had been abandoned, there might not be a brother within forty miles of here, but for Torsten. If he was a brother still...
I should have tried to kill Mance Rayder on the Fist, even if it meant my life, thought Torsten. That was what Qhorin Halfhand would have done. But both Torsten and Jon had hesitated, and the chance had passed for Torsten. The next day, he had ridden off with Tormund, Orell and a hundred picked Wildlings and raiders. He told himself that he was only biding his time, that when the moment came, he would slip away and ride for Castle Black. The moment never came. They rested most nights in empty Wildling villages, they sent a dozen Wildlings to guard the horses. Orell watched him suspiciously. And Tormund was never far, day or night, he was keeping a close eye on Torsten. 
Something was coming up the hill behind Torsten, he realized suddenly. For half a heartbeat he thought it might be Ghost come back, but the direwolf never made so much noise. Torsten drew his longsword in a single smooth motion, but it was only one of the Wildlings, a broad man in a bronze helm. 

"Snow." The intruder said. "Come. Tormund and Orell want you." The Wildlings spoke the Old Tongue, and most had only a few words of the Common. Torsten did not much care what Orell wanted, but there was no use arguing with someone who could scarcely understand him, so he followed the man back down the hill. 
The mouth of the cave was a cleft in the rock barely wide enough for a horse, half concealed behind a soldier pine. It opened to the north, so the glows of the fires within would not be visible from the Wall. Even if by some mischance a patrol should happen to pass atop the Wall tonight, they would see nothing but hills and pines and the icy sheen of starlight on a half-frozen lake. Mance Rayder had planned his thrust well. 
Within the rock, the passage descended twenty feet before it opened out onto a space as large as Winterfell's Great Hall. Cookfires burned amongst the columns, their smoke rising to blacken the stony ceiling. The horses had been hobbled along one wall, beside a shallow pool. A sinkhole in the center of the floor opened on what might have been an even greater cavern below, though the darkness made it hard to tell. Torsten could hear the soft rushing sound of an underground stream somewhere below as well. 
Orell was with Tormund, Mance had given them the joint command. Orell had been raiding for eight years, and had gone over the Wall a dozen times with the likes of Alfyn Crowkiller and the Weeper, and more recently with his own band. Tormund sat amongst them picking roasted chicken from his teeth.