Year 295 After the Conquest
Mance breathed out, feeling the snowflakes frosting his face.
Their massive host had raised an equally vast camp just down from the source of the Milkwater, and the first graves were already being dug up. It became abundantly clear early on that food would be hard to come by. Or at least, the amount of food necessary for meaningful trade with New London.
While he proclaimed himself King-Beyond-the-Wall, he wasn't much of a king. Mance was simply an excuse for the free folk to stick together. Most men only hunted for themselves or for their clan or tribe. Most of their food was provided by the Milkwater and its abundant population of fish, but even that wasn't enough for anything but feeding themselves.
And in time, the size of their host would only grow, to sprawl over the whole valley, as more and more join their ranks. Already, he was planning to set out for the west, to convince the men of the Frozen Shore and ice-river clans to join their cause. Food would only get scarcer and scarcer, as they have more bodies to feed.
He knew a group of free folk had already left for New London, mostly young women and children who haven't grown into the stubbornness that came with age. Mance did not stop them - he did not have the control or influence to do so.
And that was a problem. The free folk were undisciplined and disorderly - they were uncivilised folk, and they took pride in that. But pride will not bring them south of the Wall, pride will not hold back the Enemy. Frustratingly, there was nothing he could do about it. Mance had built his army on a twisting web of promises, lies, and debts. Every clan wanted something, every tribe and every family. Pleasing all of them was work in itself - organising them?
They would not listen, and all the strings would unravel through his fingers.
It was why he considered the Horn of Joramun the only chance they had of making it across the Wall. Mance was no fool, he had been a brother of the Night's Watch - he knew there was no making it through the Wall by force, no matter how they tried. In small numbers, certainly, but a host as large as theirs?
Mance felt a weight on his chest, and retrieved the metal device hidden there. He still hadn't the faintest clue how it worked - though the trigger did remind him of a crossbow, pulling it made no difference. It was a weapon, he was almost certain, and yet…
He should've just asked the man - Richard Aynesworth - how it worked. If only he hadn't been so occupied with the off-chance his companions would make trouble and jeopardise his efforts.
"Mance!"
Mance hastily stowed the weapon away just as Tormund came into vision, an odd taint of worry obvious upon the usually jovial man's face. Styr came up along with him, his weirwood spear firmly in hand.
"What is it?"
"The Bag o' Bones missing, Mance!" Tormund came right up to him, "Him and his entire warband!"
What? Mance tried to recall the last time he had seen Rattleshirt's ugly mug, only to realise he hadn't since they returned to the Milkwater from New London. His blood began to freeze over.
"Not just him?" he pressed, "His entire warband?"
"Aye," even Tormund seemed grim, "Longspear Ryk, Ygritte, Lenyl, Ragwyle - the whole lot. Couldn't find 'em for a hunting party, me'thinks they're up to no bloody good."
Rattleshirt was never up to good. That was about as obvious as saying snow is white and the sky is blue - there simply wasn't a single unwicked bone in him. But exactly how much trouble was he up to?
So where could he have gone? It wasn't as if there was much to do in the Frostfangs other than hunt, dig, and fuck.
"Where'd you see him last?"
Tormund furrowed his brows, beard rustling, "What am I, Rattleshirt's momma? Haven't seem 'im since, well, fuck if I know."
So not anytime recently. A thought struck him.
"Tormund, get your warband and find Harma," he said, "Both of you are going to New London. Find Rattleshirt, and drag him back 'ere by the ear. Kill him if you have to."
"You think they joined t'lot who left a few days ago?" Tormund asked.
"Aye," the more Mance mulled over it, the more he felt assured that was the case, "Rattleshirt's probably thinking he could pull the wool over the New London's guards and sneak in before making havoc. If he does that, we're good as done. So leave as soon as possible, and intercept him before he reaches the city. If you're too late, then I swear by gods old and new, I will head there and beg for forgiveness myself."
"Don't ye' think ye'r being bit too troubled, Mance?" Tormund struck him on the shoulder, "It's just one tribe. Aye, maybe they're little smarter than the rest of us lot, so what? Rattleshirt's thinking he could raid them - if the soppy cunt pulls it off, is this New London really worth befriending?"
Mance gripped him, "Tormund, listen man! How do we kill wights?"
"...Fire and dragonglass."
"Aye, fire and dragonglass," he hissed, "At what did we find in New London?"
"Fire," Styr rasped, "A god of fire and the centre. Fire in every building and under every street, walked by monsters with fire for blood. I saw it. Even at night, snow doesn't reach the ground before it melts. Fire from the earth, like the Valley of Thenn. And that means dragonglass as well."
"If we cannot get south of the Wall," Mance said seriously, "New London is our last chance at survival. We must learn their ways, their weapons. And if Rattleshirt cocks it all up?"
"They'll become our enemy too, and we ain't gettin' that fire o' theirs," Tormund muttered, "I suppose that's why ye'r king and not the rest of us. Aye, I'll get me sons."
Tormund turned to leave, only to stumble a half-pace back as if he had hit a wall.
"Looks like they come to us first," he pointed at the sky.
Three sky-ships, emerging from the mist of the mountain passes. Unlike when they were seen last, this time they bore sails - if sails hung from the sides of a ship, since above them were the great leather bellies that seemingly kept them afloat. The forerunner had four sails, stark white canvas half-covered in soot as black smoke billowed out of its bilges.
Their wings folded inwards, sails stricken, and the ships began to list into their direction.
"...Weapons, Tormund," Mance pushed the man, "Weapons! Gather all the fighters!"
Tormund Giantsbane took off with all the speed of a shadowcat and grace of a mammoth, bellowing with such a strength that it befitted his style of Horn-caller. Styr, Magnar of Thenn, began calling for his men in that guttural Old Tongue, warriors in bronze armour heeding his call, their plates engraved with runes of protection almost shimmering in the wintry light.
Mag the Mighty roared in the distance, stirring the camp more than Tormund ever could. A ripple of panic began surging through their ranks as more and more took sight of the approaching sky-ships. Cries of sorcery and ancient magics from those who haven't yet seen, and wary determination from those who have.
A lone arrow sailed into the sky, and it was as if the world had gone silent as countless eyes followed it. It didn't even reach the ships before it began falling back down.
"I could piss further than that," Styr muttered.
An ear-splitting crack resounded throughout the valley, reminiscent of a strike of thunder. The very same kind that shot Orell's eagle straight out of the sky, he imagined. But this time, there was nothing else. They sky-ships were directly over the host, now, and yet they did not attack.
There are only three ships. Did they think three ships could deal any substantial damage to a host nearing sixty-thousand?
No. Aynesworth was a figure as conniving as any southron lord, that much Mance could glean from their short interaction. He was well-spoken and polite, and bore himself like a man educated from birth. He was not stupid.
Which either meant Rattleshirt had not yet reached New London, or they have come seeking answers and recompense.
"Styr," Mance said, "They come in peace."
"They come for us striking ghostly thunder," the earless man scowled, "But we shot first. Fine."
The word was spread around, and while most still gripped their weapons tightly, none made any outward movement. The three sky-ships coasted along invisible currents, gracefully drifting through the sky like swans upon the mirror lake's surface. Mance waited until the ships were directly above his head, their shadows sliding over him.
An anchor was dropped mere yards away from his feet, like a meteor striking the earth. A geyser of snow exploded into the air as the cast iron head slammed through a good feet of soil underneath. The chain groaned as it tautened, and slowly, the forerunner began to descend.
Gawking eyes watched as the ship bore down upon them, why the unending sky no longer the backdrop, the vessel's true size was a thing of wonder. From so far down, they may look no larger than birds - but at their feet? It towered even the giants upon their mammoths, leather bellies filling out the sky in their vastness. From up close, it became apparent that they were as far from seagoing vessels as they could.
Its hull of wood were clean planks secured to a steel frame, giving it a wicked, angular silhouette. They radiated with heat - as did everything the men of New London made - geysers of steam hissing from pipes and openings. A rope ladder was dropped over side, though the first man off seen fit to simply vault over the railing and drop to the snow.
"What's your problem, you bloody bastard!?" a lean, red-haired man with a groomed beard shouted, "I've flown over my ship over you lot three times now, and every single time you shot at me!"
"My apologies, but your ships are quite the… frightful thing to my people."
The man muttered something beneath his breath, before speaking up, "S'pose so. Joseph Edye, a pleasure, this beauty here is my ship, the Dragonfly."
Joseph Edye's crew began climbing down the ladder, all hard-faced men and women with the strange shortspears slung over their shoulders. Some of the Thenns began to shift warily at the sight of them. And most intriguing, each person had that same lamp strapped to their chest that gave a glow of dazzling warmth and light.
"How can we help you, Captain Edye?" Mance inwardly braced himself, hastily forming an anticipatory sentence in his head.
"Nothing much," Joseph pulled out a small book from his vest and scribbled in it, "Seems you made a good place for yourself. Aynesworth's looking for good relations, see? So if there's anything you need, don't be afraid to ask aye?"
Mance spotted a child edging forward to touch the Dragonfly in wonder. He made to interrupt it, until he saw a young crewmate already watching the girl without any caution.
"So… did the group of ours at your city make any trouble?"
The captain frowned, "Y'mean the fifty or so? Dunno, we passed them a few hours north of the city - or a day, by foot. They must've arrived by now. Will they make any trouble?"
"I fear there may be a man among them," Mance paused, "Who goes by the Lord of Bones. They have been missing for some time, so it may be that they have disguised themselves among the group with the intention of sneaking into New London."
Someone choked with laughter - crewmate of the Dragonfly, "What a name. What a stupid bloody name. Sounds like he'll go right along well in the House o' Lords!"
Sniggers broke out across the small crew of the ship at that, and even Joseph Edye himself broke a smile. Mance wished he could be that amused.
"Man's an untamed hound," he warned, "Made a name for himself by crafting an armour out of the bones of the people he's killed."
The chuckles died down, replaced with disbelief and disturbed faces.
"Well that's rather foul, innit?"
One of the crewmates - who had a peculiar red-black band around their left arm - snorted.
"The Order won't take shit lying down," they spat, "The only thing this Lord o' Bones gon'na find is what the breath of the Generator feels like."
"Breath of the Generator?" Styr asked, his facing morphing.
"We have a special way of dealing with troublemakers in New London," Joseph Edye explained loudly - so that everyone could hear, Mance realised, "All the furnaces are beneath the Generator. So we take the criminal and tie 'em right above an exhaust funnel, before opening the hatch."
"Have you e'er seen a man get boiled alive?" a female crewmate grinned, "All the heat will melt the snow 'round ya, make it stick to ye'r skin. And you get cooked real nice. Your skin grows redder and redder until ye'r a fucking tomato, then it's slicks right off your muscles like wet paper!"
"If you're still alive after all that," Joseph added, "We close the hatch and leave you there until you die. All the steam will return to water, and that water'll turn to ice. The last time, we left a man on the rack for a sennight, and right after he was frozen so solid you could take a hammer to 'em and shatter them like a block of ice."
Deafening silence remained in the wake of that rather vivid description, and the whistling of wind might as well be screaming in his ears. Styr and his Thenns seemed intrigued, along with some of the other tribal chieftains. But for the most part the air was filled with morbid fascination.
"Hey," Edye patted his shoulder, "Don't worry 'bout it aye? It's too late for us to double back now, but Aynesworth's a hard-ass when it comes to these things. We'll signal London anyway. Tell you what; if you afford us some food and coal, we'll put in the good word for ya. Sounds good?"
Joseph Edye grinned, raising an eyebrow expectantly.
Mance sighed, "We don't have coal. Is charcoal acceptable?"
"Just as well."
It reminded him - might as well ask the man how to use his new gift. At least he'd get something back from this mess. And if Rattleshirt ends up being fed to this Generator, well, it would be one less rat for him to deal with.