The blistering snow broke and gave way beneath his boots as he ran, each desperate stride sinking deeper into the frozen crust before tearing free again.
His breath came in ragged, burning gasps, clouds of steam whipping behind him like a banner of panic.
Blood oozed steadily from the deep gashes across his back, soaking through what remained of his ragged furs.
Five long, savage claw marks ran from his left shoulder down across his spine, the wounds already beginning to freeze at the edges while the deeper parts still wept hot and wet.
He did not stop. Pain was a distant thing now, secondary to the primal terror clawing at his mind.
His eyes darted wildly, searching the jagged rocks and skeletal trees for any sign of escape.
Thin, pale shafts of daylight pierced the dense canopy ahead, a promise of open ground, of safety, of the light that these abominations supposedly feared.
One of them reached him first.
A massive weight slammed into his side, spinning him violently.
His feet slashed out from under him, and he crashed face-first into the snow.
A scream tore from his throat as he felt something wet and wrong where his left foot should have been. He twisted in the dirt, eyes wide with horror.
Two enormous beasts stood upright on powerful hind legs not ten yards away.
Their bodies were covered in thick, matted white fur that blended seamlessly with the snow.
Red eyes glowed like hot coals in the shadows of their elongated snouts.
Long, black claws dripped with fresh crimson, his blood.
Their breath steamed in heavy plumes, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within their chests, vibrating through the ground.
Elwas tried to crawl backward, but his ruined foot refused to obey.
Just a few more feet.
The light was right there. He could almost taste the open sky.
A heavy spear whistled through the air and buried itself deep into the snow between him and the beasts.
The creatures snarled and recoiled, their glowing eyes narrowing in fury.
A pair of strong hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him backward with brutal efficiency.
"They've grown more tolerable to the light," Tormund growled, already cocking back another spear. "Bastards are learning."
The two beasts clicked their massive teeth together, a sound like breaking bones, before turning and vanishing back into the deeper shadows of the wood with unnatural speed.
Tormund dragged the wounded man the rest of the way into the pale daylight, cursing under his breath the entire time. "Stay with me, you stupid crow-lover. We're not losing another one to these fucking things."
---
Elwas woke to the stench of smoke, piss, and boiling herbs.
He lay on a pile of furs inside a large, smoky tent. His leg throbbed with a deep, sickening heat.
When he forced his eyes open and looked down, he saw the truth immediately.
The flesh around the savage bite on his foot and ankle had turned a foul, angry green. The infection was spreading fast. He knew what that meant. He had seen it before. He did not have much time.
A shadow fell over him. Mance crouched beside the furs, his weathered face grim, red hair streaked with premature grey.
The King looked more tired than Elwas had ever seen him.
"What happened?" Mance asked without preamble. "And where is Sixskins? Did you find anything?"
Elwas swallowed, his throat raw. "We reached the caverns… the storm was harsh that eve, it drove us by the hill sides, we saw the beast."
Mance's eyes sharpened. "You saw them?"
"They were being led by a man." Elwas nodded weakly. "He was there, the man wearing the head of a direwolf. He was… firekissed, the beasts obey him. But they aren't truly beasts at all."
Mance leaned closer. "What do you mean?"
"Sixskins had seen it first, the beasts were dragging away men, alive." He answered. "He called to them, the man was able to unmake their being, he stripped them of their soul, Sixskins said, gave them a new form, a Lycan, Sixskins called him, the old man said."
"They are men." Mance grimaced.
"They're men," Elwas rasped. "Stitched into the minds of beasts. Half-man, half-beast given terrible form. Sixskins called them abominations. He said the old powers had been twisted… corrupted."
Mance's jaw tightened. He stared into the fire burning in the center of the tent for a long moment.
"Entire tribes have vanished," he said finally, voice low. "Men found strung up in trees with their intestines pulled out like ropes. At first we blamed the cannibal clans — the Thenns, the Ice River clans, the worst of them. But even they swear it wasn't their doing. The men near the Fist of the First Men speak of the Others returning. But this… this isn't their work."
Mance rubbed his face with both hands, looking suddenly older than his years.
"I've tried, Elwas. I've tried to unite them all. But when monsters prowl at dusk and dawn, men forget their oaths. They remember their old blood feuds instead. I am no king by blood or conquest. I am king by strength and cunning alone. If I fail to protect them from this… whatever this is… they will turn on me. And everything I've built will burn."
"Find Sixskins," Elwas rasped, his voice cracking and growing garbled, thick with fluid.
A trickle of black, viscous liquid seeped from the corner of his mouth, staining his cracked lips and dripping onto the furs beneath him.
It smelled of rot and something sharper, like spoiled blood left too long in the cold. His eyes, once sharp with a ranger's cunning, were now glassy and unfocused, the whites shot through with angry red veins. "He knows about them… he is the only one who might help us."
The words came out wet and broken, each syllable costing him visible effort. His chest heaved irregularly, the green infection from his mangled foot now crawling visibly up his leg in dark, pulsing lines beneath the skin. The air in the tent felt heavier, tainted by the stench of impending death.
Mance knelt beside the dying man, one large, callused hand gently cradling the back of Elwas's head.
His face was a mask of grim resolve, but his touch was surprisingly tender, the same hands that had united fractious tribes now offering what little comfort he could to a man who had served him faithfully.
"I'll find him," Mance said quietly, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a promise he intended to keep. "You've done enough, Elwas. Rest now. The free folk won't forget what you've given."
Elwas tried to speak again, but only a wet cough escaped him, spraying more of the black ichor across his chin. His fingers twitched weakly, grasping at Mance's sleeve as if trying to pull him closer, to make him understand the horror he had witnessed in those cursed caverns.
"They're not… beasts," he wheezed one final time, eyes wide with terror. "They're worse. Much worse…"
His body convulsed once, then went still. The life faded from his eyes, leaving them staring blankly at the smoke-blackened roof of the tent.
Mance remained kneeling for a long moment, his hand still supporting the dead man's head.
The fire crackled softly in the center of the tent, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. Outside, the wind howled through the haunted forest like a mourning widow.
Finally, Mance lowered Elwas's head gently onto the furs and rose to his feet.
His face hardened into something cold, the face of a king who had just lost another loyal subject to an enemy he barely understood.
"Sixskins," he muttered to himself, clenching his fist. "Wherever you are, old friend… I hope you're still breathing."
He stepped out of the tent into the biting cold, the howling wind whipping at his furs.
The free folk camp stretched before him, hundreds of tents, fires, and wary faces turning toward their king.
Mance looked toward the shadowed woods, his jaw set, the long war was no longer coming.
It had begun, even if their enemies didn't know it yet.