Chapter 427: A Duel of Wit and Strength
Perception is a two-way street.
When the Others consume magic, human sorcerers can pinpoint their location by sensing the energy fluctuations. It is only fair—just as Moqorro had been casting spells throughout his journey, the Priests of the Cold God had likewise sensed his presence and approach.
(A small squad of humans is crossing the war zone toward us, and among them is a powerful mage.)
The two Priests of the Cold God—more accurately, the Commander and Vice-Commander of the Eastern Wight Column—had grasped the situation minutes ago. Yet, they neither hid nor retreated, for a variety of reasons.
This pair of Others had just expended a massive amount of magic to help their army cross the sea of fire and breach the fortress. Now, they were exerting every ounce of will to control the thousands of wights inside Eastwatch, micro-managing their assault toward the stairs leading to the Wall. The deficit in their magical reserves made the connection unstable; they were forced to advance closer to the fortress to ensure precise control over the undead host.
That was the objective reason. The subjective consideration was simpler: as servants of gods, the priests of the Cold God and the Red God shared a duty and a visceral instinct to destroy one another.
A high-ranking Red Priest—in a place like the Wall where fire magic was not suppressed—posed a gargantuan threat to the wights, much like an Other would to an unarmed human peasant. His existence was the single greatest instability factor affecting the battle's outcome. The dead puppets could not handle a prepared sorcerer; should he join the street fighting or retreat to the stairs to aid the defense, the wights wouldn't gain another inch until his magic was dry. The strategic goal of seizing the Wall's summit would never be realized.
Now, this lapdog of R'hllor was neither guarding the stairs nor fleeing up the Wall, but running straight toward them to die? To the Others, this was a gift from the heavens.
Since he had come, the matter would be settled here once and for all.
Though the total magic within their bodies was dozens of times that of the most gifted human wizard, the Others could only utilize a fraction of it for active use; the rest was required simply to maintain their physical existence. Most of that active pool had been spent on the main battlefield, and with the Wall's magical shielding still intact, it was recovering at a glacial pace.
However, even if their remaining magic could no longer support spellcasting, the Others possessed another gift from the Cold God: a formidable body. In terms of strength, speed, endurance, and spirit, they were many times superior to any human—a powerful shell nearly immune to magic.
Unlike the lapdogs of R'hllor, the Priests of the Cold God were the world's most powerful warriors even when they weren't playing with magic.
...
The heat generated by dozens of soldiers huddled together was far too intense to hide. Although Moqorro had masked his aura and ceased casting once they were close, the two Others had used the rising steam of the humans' breath to determine the squad's location. The moment someone peeked over the edge, they launched a volley of throwing stones.
A direct hit!
Unfortunately, it wasn't the Red Priest they sought; Moqorro remained crouched beneath the merlons.
As a servant of the Lord of Light, Moqorro found it easy to eliminate wights, but he lacked the means to deal with the Others themselves. The extreme cold of these magical creatures made them immune to ordinary fire spells. To kill them, one either needed dragonglass or Valyrian steel infused with sufficient magic to disrupt their internal energy flow, or a crushing amount of fire magic to neutralize them entirely. Sadly, as a being of flesh and blood, Moqorro could drain the marrow from his very bones and still fail to burn off so much as an Other's arm.
Since he was no match for them in a head-on collision, it was better to stay hidden, let the other soldiers draw the fire, and preserve his life—until the critical moment. As a faithful servant, Moqorro's heart belonged only to R'hllor; he would exhaust his wit and skill to complete the sacred task. Anyone and anything could be sacrificed.
"Right there!" A wight could never make such a precise and powerful ranged attack. The Red Priest, face splattered with hot fluid, was not deterred by the blood. Still crouching, he hurled a torch over the battlements and shouted an incantation. Amidst a ripple of magic, the cloth-wrapped wood ignited from the inside out. He converted the chemical energy of the wood, oil, and resin into a burst of light and heat, creating a powerful flare that lasted several seconds. It turned the patch of ground beneath the wall into day. He then puffed out his chest and roared, "Unsullied, attack!"
The Unsullied were not deterred by their fallen comrades. Upon receiving the order, they rose from behind the wall without hesitation, their resolve inspiring the Night's Watchmen to stand with them. Under the light of the "flare" hovering in the air, everyone saw two pale humanoid figures sitting on horseback just a dozen meters from the wall. Without a second's pause, they rained down spears, bombs, and arrows indiscriminately, hoping one of the attacks would strike a miraculous blow for humanity.
"Wait!" Moqorro not only stayed down himself but held back Iron Emmett as he tried to stand. He waited until two more Unsullied were struck down by throwing stones—meaning the enemy could not immediately launch another attack—before releasing the ranger and slapping his shoulder. "Now! Aim true. Everything depends on this!"
...
Beyond their physical prowess, the Others had another advantage that emboldened them to trade fire with dozens of humans: a layer of crystallized skin they had hardened moments ago for protection while casting near the wall.
Like the weapons they typically used—ice swords that could shatter steel and ice spears that could bring down dragons—this shell was composed of the same material as their bodies: a hint of physical substance and a torrent of pure magic. By consuming energy to crystallize their micro-structure, this skin became stiff, hindering movement and magic flow, but it also became tougher than any natural substance. Ordinary frozen fire weapons used by the Watch couldn't even leave a scratch on its surface, let alone penetrate.
Amidst the whistling of air, the two priests raised their arms to protect their vulnerable eyes. They allowed the humans' dragonglass spears and arrows to strike their bodies. The tips shattered into glass shards with rhythmic thuds, and the wooden shafts clattered to the ground. Then came the roar of the bombs. Dragonglass shrapnel, propelled by gunpowder gases, was far faster and sharper than arrows. Yet, besides being ground into even finer dust against the crystallized skin, they caused no harm. Only the luckless wight-horses were shredded by the fragments; their legs gave out, dumping the two priests onto the snow.
The first exchange ended. The two unharmed Others moved their arms from their eyes and searched the battlements for the Red dog once more. Still failing to find him, they raised their arms and picked two random targets, preparing to throw more devastating stones.
But in the next heartbeat, an arrow that had somehow flown a second later than the rest streaked through the air. The Commander of the Eastern Wight Column instinctively raised an arm to block, but the projectile tore through the limb and several layers of crystallized shell on his chest. A surge of incredibly dense fire magic poured into his chest cavity without resistance. The energy was so pure and overwhelming that he might have wondered if R'hllor himself had manifested to kick him in the ribs. This terrifying energy instantly annihilated all the magic in his chest, shattering the rhythm and law of his internal power. He didn't even last a second before bursting into countless shards. The shards further decomposed and vaporized; before he could even complete the motion of falling, he turned into a plume of frigid mist in mid-air. Save for the arrow itself, not a single fragment hit the ground before he returned to the world as pure cold magic.
A dragonglass weapon could never achieve such an effect!
The Vice-Commander, arm still raised, blinked. He saw his colleague, who had been inches away, vanish into primal magic without leaving a trace. Paralyzed by the shock of his comrade's soul-scattering end, he finally understood: the enemy's confidence did not come from the Red Priest or the bombs. It was a divine artifact he had never seen, capable of a one-hit kill.
The servants of the Great Other knew no fear, but the mission the Night King had woven into their consciousness demanded they protect themselves at all costs. Without hesitation, he severed his connection with the majority of the wights and absorbed a breath of the pure cold magic left behind by his comrade's death. The remaining Other then bolted away from the wall, leaping onto the back of a sprinting shadow-bear. He rode the agile beast, vanishing into the darkness.
...
"Emmett, keep shooting! I'll give you the opening!" Moqorro stood up the moment he sensed the first Other's death. He locked his eyes on the retreating back of the second enemy, his hands clenching into phantom fists. His lifetime of magical mastery seemed to have accumulated for this single moment. His entire reservoir of magic condensed into a needle, flying toward the back of the bear-riding foe.
He couldn't kill an Other directly with magic, but against a single wighted animal, his power was more than enough.
The shadow-bear stumbled as its link to the Other was severed. The moment it collapsed and threw its rider into the snow, it erupted in white flames, turning into a brilliant fireball. In the brief moment the remaining Other was illuminated on the ground, the Chief Ranger of Eastwatch had already nocked a second dragonsteel arrow and loosed it. The mage and the archer, though strangers, achieved a perfect synchronization. The masterfully crafted Lightbringer III traced a beautiful arc over eighty meters, burying itself accurately in the back of the enemy—now a stationary target pinned in the snow.
With a soft thud, the ten thousand wights of the eastern column were instantly rendered lifeless.
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