The Mutewall & the North

A wall of black basalt 100 metres high and 2,000 kilometres long, running across the far north of the world. The names of every lawful king are set into its face, and at night they give off a dim blue light, like a constellation laid flat.

The hereditary soldiers of House Ravenfeather of the Mute March, holding 400 watchtowers. Their weapons are the oil cauldron, the longbow, the fire-oil barrel, the great crossbow and the stone-dropper — against the things that come up at night from beyond the wall.

The kings' names set into the Mute Wall have begun to flake away stroke by stroke. Flaking that makes a sound is slow, and can be traced; flaking that makes no sound is quick, and cannot.

The Mute Wall is 800 kilometres from the capital at Ironhold. Beacons cross the whole distance in a few hours but carry only the simplest signals; for detail there is the courier on horseback, 5 to 7 days slower.

A small village deep in the Mute March, 320 kilometres from the Mute Wall. Sixteen years ago the wall was breached and what came in from beyond it flattened the place; of the whole village only one child in swaddling was dug out of the ruins alive by the Wallwardens.