Chapter 416

The howling wind echoed like a child's wail, piercing and mournful, as it swept along the great canyon. Aside from the chilling gusts, the only sounds were the occasional murmurs of sentries stationed on the defensive path nearby and the faint crackle of firewood burning in front of the tents behind them.

It was an unusual and welcome silence.

For weeks, the wights had harassed the canyon’s defenses night after night. But two days ago, the attacks suddenly ceased—not due to inefficacy, but because the terrain itself had fundamentally changed. As the destruction of the weirwood forest progressed—some of it felled by the wights and the rest set ablaze with wildfire by the defenders—the once-dense forest covering the canyon had been almost entirely cleared. The northern slopes and much of the southern side near the canyon floor had been stripped bare. Only a few sparse weirwood trees remained, clinging to the slopes near the Night’s Watch defenses.

These last weirwoods, weakened by the diminishing influence of the Cold God's power, no longer offered much resistance to its creeping influence. Positioned so close to the defenders, they provided no real cover for an attacking force under the shroud of night. To cut them down now would require the wights to charge directly under the watchful eyes of a prepared garrison, costing hundreds—if not thousands—of undead in the process.

Controlling the dead was a straightforward task but still required magical energy. And no matter how terrifying necromancy appeared to the living, it had one insurmountable flaw: no matter how sophisticated the magic, it couldn’t conjure soldiers from thin air. The army of the dead couldn’t replenish itself unless it claimed victories in battle, unlike the living, who could reproduce and rally reinforcements from afar.

To waste troops felling the last of the weirwoods under such unfavorable conditions would be a pointless squandering of resources.
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Each breath Slim exhaled turned to white mist that quickly frosted his eyebrows and beard, forming a brittle layer that broke off in shards with a brush of his gloved hand. He pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and flexed all nineteen of his fingers and toes to stave off the numbing cold.

The soldiers guarding the canyon were paid one and a half times the garrison wages of those stationed at the Wall’s castles, and their meals were hearty, with plenty of meat and ale. When Slim had first been selected to join the canyon defense, he had been thrilled. But the enthusiasm faded quickly. Guarding this desolate expanse was an exhausting, soul-crushing duty.

Despite recent improvements to the Night’s Watch supply chain, which ensured all soldiers were well-equipped for warmth, the bitter cold still seeped through every layer. Without walls to block the wind, the icy gusts cut straight through the canyon like knives. The soldiers constantly moved their limbs, desperate to keep frostbite at bay.

"Just a little longer," Slim murmured to himself, willing his body to endure. In less than an hour, his shift would end, and he could retreat to the wind-sheltered tent carved into a rocky recess. There, he could shed his armor, crawl into his blankets, and sleep like the dead.

Just as he was dreaming of his impending rest, a fellow soldier a few meters away let out a startled cry. Slim turned, puzzled, and noticed a faint glow in the western sky. For a moment, he thought the sun was rising from the wrong direction. It took him two seconds to realize the truth: it wasn’t dawn—it was the signal fire from Icebay Port.

The port, located to the southwest at the mouth of the Milkwater River, hadn’t yet frozen over. Could the army of the dead have bypassed the canyon defenses and attacked by sea? Slim’s mind raced, but a more immediate question pressed on him: what should they do now?

The canyon’s defensive protocols had been drilled into every soldier, and multiple drills had made the rules second nature. If any segment of the canyon defense was attacked, the watchmen were to confirm it wasn’t a feint and then light the signal fire to alert the central command. Reinforcements would then be dispatched from the Shadow Tower or Canyon Watch if deemed necessary.

But there were no instructions for what to do when the signal fire came from Icebay Port.
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A ripple of mild panic spread eastward along the canyon defenses, waking off-duty soldiers from their rest. Despite the confusion, most soldiers remained at their posts, adhering to their training. The commander of Canyon Watch sent runners along the line, reiterating the standard orders: "Stick to the protocol. Icebay Port has the resources to handle its own situation. If they can’t, no amount of reinforcements pulled from the canyon will leave our defenses intact."

The runner’s reassurance calmed Slim. He turned his attention back to the canyon below, where darkness swallowed everything. A sudden gust of wind carried a faint chill over his face, and a small, icy flake landed on his nose. He looked up to find snow falling once more.

The snow was a mixed blessing. It brightened the surroundings slightly, aiding visibility for sentries, but come morning, it would need to be cleared from the defensive paths. And snow clearing, as Slim well knew, was the responsibility of the soldiers stationed there.

With a resigned sigh, he muttered, "More work tomorrow," his breath blooming in a misty cloud before him.

But before the thought had fully formed, the sound of a horn shattered the air.
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The deep, resonant blast echoed through the canyon, bouncing off the stone walls and fading into the distance. It was no mistake. Unlike the Wall’s castles, where a single horn blast could signify many things, along the canyon line, a horn always meant one thing:

Enemy attack.

Slim spun toward the east and west, his eyes scanning for the source of the alarm. It didn’t take long to find it. Several miles away, a signal fire erupted, its flames licking hungrily at the night sky. Relief washed over him—it wasn’t in the neighboring section.
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Behind him, hurried footsteps sounded as the soldiers in his unit scrambled out of their tents, half-dressed and clutching their weapons. The squad leader’s voice barked above the chaos. "What’s the situation?"

"Three miles to the east—not in the neighboring section!" Slim called back.

The squad leader’s face darkened. "I didn’t ask where the attack is. I asked what’s happening! If it’s not our section, why haven’t you checked our own defenses yet?"

Slim’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but he bit back a retort. "Yes, sir!" Grabbing a torch from the nearby brazier, he hurled it into the canyon below.

The firelight briefly illuminated the gorge, revealing what no one had expected: a black tide of wights surging across the frozen Milkwater, flowing like a river toward the southern slopes and the defenders’ position. The sound of the horn had drowned out the faint noises of their approach, and their sheer numbers turned the canyon floor into a seething mass of shadow.

The torch vanished as quickly as it had fallen, snuffed out by the crush of the dead. Slim’s breath caught in his throat. Even the squad leader, a grizzled veteran, stood frozen for a moment before muttering, "By the Light of the Seven…"

The leader quickly recovered. "Slim, light the signal fire! Nahart, get the wildfire barrels! Gwen, wake everyone up and arm them with dragonglass weapons. Move it, people—this isn’t a drill!"

The canyon defense burst into action. Soldiers hauled out boxes of wildfire and dragonglass arrows, while others took up positions along the cliff edge. Green flames erupted among the advancing wights, and volleys of arrows rained down upon the tide.

The signal fire was lit, but it quickly became clear that reinforcements wouldn’t be coming. One by one, other signal fires flared to life along the canyon line. Of the ninety defensive segments, more than eighty were under simultaneous attack.

The worst-case scenario had come to pass: the army of the dead wasn’t targeting a single point.

They were coming for the entire line.