We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. “The
wildlings are dead.”
“Do the dead frighten you?” Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.
Gared did not rise to the bait. He was an old man, past fifty, and he had seen the
lordlings come and go. “Dead is dead,” he said. “We have no business with the dead.”
“Are they dead?” Royce asked softly. “What proof have we?”
“Will saw them,” Gared said. “If he says they are dead, that’s proof enough for me.”
Will had known they would drag him into the quarrel sooner or later. He wished it had
been later rather than sooner. “My mother told me that dead men sing no songs,” he put
in.
“My wet nurse said the same thing, Will,” Royce replied. “Never believe anything you
hear at a woman’s tit. There are things to be learned even from the dead.” His voice
echoed, too loud in the twilit forest.
“We have a long ride before us,” Gared pointed out. “Eight days, maybe nine. And night
is falling.”
Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with disinterest. “It does that every day about this
time. Are you unmanned by the dark, Gared?”
Will could see the tightness around Gared’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his
eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. Gared had spent forty years in the Night’s
Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more
than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man.
You could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.
Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been
sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to
water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by
now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no
more terrors for him.
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g2 is crazy for this...
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