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- Джордж Мартин
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- Игра престолов
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- Стр. 533/751
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The
corpse
lurched
forward
.
There
was
no
blood
.
One-armed
,
face
cut
near
in
half
,
it
seemed
to
feel
nothing
.
Jon
held
the
longsword
before
him
.
"
Stay
away
!
"
he
commanded
,
his
voice
gone
shrill
.
"
Corn
,
"
screamed
the
raven
,
"
corn
,
corn
.
"
The
severed
arm
was
wriggling
out
of
its
torn
sleeve
,
a
pale
snake
with
a
black
five-fingered
head
.
Ghost
pounced
and
got
it
between
his
teeth
.
Finger
bones
crunched
.
Jon
hacked
at
the
corpse
's
neck
,
felt
the
steel
bite
deep
and
hard
.
Dead
Othor
slammed
into
him
,
knocking
him
off
his
feet
.
Jon
's
breath
went
out
of
him
as
the
fallen
table
caught
him
between
his
shoulder
blades
.
The
sword
,
where
was
the
sword
?
He
'd
lost
the
damned
sword
!
When
he
opened
his
mouth
to
scream
,
the
wight
jammed
its
black
corpse
fingers
into
Jon
's
mouth
.
Gagging
,
he
tried
to
shove
it
off
,
but
the
dead
man
was
too
heavy
.
Its
hand
forced
itself
farther
down
his
throat
,
icy
cold
,
choking
him
.
Its
face
was
against
his
own
,
filling
the
world
.
Frost
covered
its
eyes
,
sparkling
blue
.
Jon
raked
cold
flesh
with
his
nails
and
kicked
at
the
thing
's
legs
.
He
tried
to
bite
,
tried
to
punch
,
tried
to
breathe
...
And
suddenly
the
corpse
's
weight
was
gone
,
its
fingers
ripped
from
his
throat
.
It
was
all
Jon
could
do
to
roll
over
,
retching
and
shaking
.
Ghost
had
it
again
.
He
watched
as
the
direwolf
buried
his
teeth
in
the
wight
's
gut
and
began
to
rip
and
tear
.
He
watched
,
only
half
conscious
,
for
a
long
moment
before
he
finally
remembered
to
look
for
his
sword
...
.
and
saw
Lord
Mormont
,
naked
and
groggy
from
sleep
,
standing
in
the
doorway
with
an
oil
lamp
in
hand
.
Gnawed
and
fingerless
,
the
arm
thrashed
on
the
floor
,
wriggling
toward
him
.
Jon
tried
to
shout
,
but
his
voice
was
gone
.
Staggering
to
his
feet
,
he
kicked
the
arm
away
and
snatched
the
lamp
from
the
Old
Bear
's
fingers
.
The
flame
flickered
and
almost
died
.
"
Burn
!
"
the
raven
cawed
.
"
Burn
,
burn
,
burn
!
"
Spinning
,
Jon
saw
the
drapes
he
'd
ripped
from
the
window
.
He
flung
the
lamp
into
the
puddled
cloth
with
both
hands
.
Metal
crunched
,
glass
shattered
,
oil
spewed
,
and
the
hangings
went
up
in
a
great
whoosh
of
flame
The
heat
of
it
on
his
face
was
sweeter
than
any
kiss
Jon
had
ever
known
.
"
Ghost
!
"
he
shouted
.
The
direwolf
wrenched
free
and
came
to
him
as
the
wight
struggled
to
rise
,
dark
snakes
spilling
from
the
great
wound
in
its
belly
.
Jon
plunged
his
hand
into
the
flames
,
grabbed
a
fistful
of
the
burning
drapes
,
and
whipped
them
at
the
dead
man
.
Let
it
burn
,
he
prayed
as
the
cloth
smothered
the
corpse
,
gods
,
please
,
please
,
let
it
burn
.
The
Karstarks
came
in
on
a
cold
windy
morning
,
bringing
three
hundred
horsemen
and
near
two
thousand
foot
from
their
castle
at
Karhold
.
The
steel
points
of
their
pikes
winked
in
the
pale
sunlight
as
the
column
approached
.
A
man
went
before
them
,
pounding
out
a
slow
,
deep-throated
marching
rhythm
on
a
drum
that
was
bigger
than
he
was
,
boom
,
boom
,
boom
.
