Chapter 3

After the wooly mammoth incident, the army cordoned off the entire old historic site. The scenic standing stone circles which were a part of the local scene and culture since time immemorial were blocked from public view as large fences and barbed wire were erected overnight, with scowling armed uniformed men with equally unfriendly hounds patrolling the area to ward off any curious tourist or visitor.

Despite tourism to the stone circle crashing to an all-time low, Mrs. Richards, owner of the Old Stones Café, couldn't be happier with this new arrangement. There were more squaddies in the area than she could ever remember, and with her café being the only establishment for miles to serve anything resembling hot food, business was better than ever. So much so, she could even afford to hire permanent staff instead of having to bully and harangue her grandchildren into helping around the café halfheartedly. A trade off which more than made up for the fact that the army even blocked her tourist attracting view of the stone circles with large tents and tarp covers.

Even though it was late in the night and long past her normal hours, the café was still open and bustling with life as Mrs. Richards flew around the workstation with more energy and vigour she had felt in ages. The chat and banter from the squaddies created a lively din that wouldn't be out of place from a pub.

Seeing this many soldiers in her café brought back fond memories of her youth. Even the veil of secrecy from the soldiers about their activities in the area and a formal visit from the secret services to "ask" her to keep quiet about the mammoth brought a nostalgic smile to her face. Though she would never admit it as she feared that people would find her batty for it, she missed the Cold War.

The old café owner turned her head to the entrance and smiled as the bell above the door tinkled, announcing the trudging entrance of another squad of wet and hungry soldiers on the hunt for something warm and filling.

As she took the orders for her new hungry customers to the already overworked chef, a thought popped in her head wondering what all this fuss was about from the military, though only briefly, as her sense of pragmatism took the curious nosey thought round the back and shot it in the head. When business was this good, why look a gift horse in the mouth?

It wasn't like they were hurting anyone.

/

In the room known as the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, or COBRA to the public, Ed Miliband held his head in his hands as the words began to sink in. "I'm awfully sorry, Malcolm," he calmly said as he furiously rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a migraine, "Could you repeat that again for me? It's just that I thought you said that British troops fired on the natives?"

Malcolm Tucker, his right-hand man and master spin doctor in the government, had the absolute gall to look bored as he delivered news of a possible interdimensional diplomatic incident to the Prime Minister. "It's not as bad as it sounds Prime Minister, after all, if there were no media covering it, did it even really happen?"

Ed threw him a dirty look, even on the inside he was relieved that Malcolm talked him out of allowing journalists through the Gate. His withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan, despite pressure from the Americans and even his own party members to increase British commitment in Helmand, would look downright disingenuous if the media ever got a hold of this little incident.

He let out a noise of frustration. "What even happened? How did this happen?"

Malcolm shrugged, "Natives apparently took offense from us chopping down their trees for our basecamp." He sniffed, "Luckily no one from our side was hurt."

"Because of our superior training and tactics?"

Malcolm slid a picture of one of the captive natives. "Because the locals were armed with spears and swords."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Really?!" Malcolm was impressed. The Prime Minister wasn't one for swearing.

The Foreign Secretary snorted as he read through the reports. "Trust the squaddies to shoot first, ask questions later, I told everyone here that this was a delicate mission for the Foreign Office to handle. This is just another example of the old colonialist attitude from the armed forces rearing its ugly face again!"

"Oh, shut up Douglas," the Defense Secretary, growled back affronted, not at all appreciating his armed forces tarred with imperialism accusations, "The troops did what they were supposed to do. It was the boffins who fucked up. They were the ones who were supposed to come up with first contact strategies!"

The Business and Innovation Secretary squawked angrily, and the whole COBRA fell into disarray as the ministers squabbled and busied themselves with playing the blame game whilst the PM had his face buried in his hands. Tucker closed his eyes, counted to ten, and took a deep breath, "SHUT THE FUCK UP YA USELESS SHITES!"

All the people in COBRA fell silent as his Scottish brogue echoed through the small room. The Prime Minister lifted his face from his hands and gave his number 2 a nod. "Thank you, Malcolm. Now, I don't know whose fault this was, and now frankly, I don't give a damn. It happened, and now we need to focus on solutions. Anyone?"

There was a long and awkward silence as the members of COBRA tried not to make the first move. Malcolm took this opportunity to speak up. "Excuse me, Prime Minister, may I?" The Prime Minister waved his hand impatiently to tell him to get on with it.

"Look, from my point of view, this is barely a blip. It's insignificant, hardly worth the effort to come to COBRA. As far as everyone and the press knows, Project Stargate is just another military exercise in Dartmoor, and by the time the truth comes out, we'll have dotted every 'i' and crossed every 't' to make sure that we'll come out smelling like roses from this incident. In fact, I'll give you a taste on how we're going to do it."

He smirked as he pulled out another folio of papers, an academic report from the other side of Stargate. "Mr. Prime Minister, did you know that there are people on the other side of Stargate who practice cannibalism?"

/

Hiding behind a mound of snow, Faramir muffled a snarl as the foreigners chopped down the sacred groves that stood since the time of Bran the Builder without any regard to their sanctity as they rapidly expanded the clearing around their fortress.

Accompanying the blasphemous tree choppers were men who carried strange and unwieldy looking weapons. They stood bored as they looked at the forest. Faramir swore that one of them lingered their gaze for far too long on his position before shifting his foot and looking away.

These men worked through day and night, chopping down trees and building up their fortifications, but it will all be for naught. For whilst these strange folk arrogantly displayed their strength on free folk land for all to see, Faramir has called the drums of war. Warriors and spear wives have flocked to his banner, eighty and five in all, a mighty force to raid the invaders.

Let them build. Let them chop down the trees from the gods. Soon, darkness will fall, and so will the strange fortress.

/

By the time that the last light of dusk has died, another ten has joined his cause. A near hundred free folk. Faramir felt humbled as he gazed at the people who volunteered to come. Free folk raiding parties rarely reached this size, and when it did, it was usually to go forth south and raid the kneelers for their wealth and food.

There might be wealth, there might also be food at this fortress, but for certain, there will be glory. And they were all looking at him to lead them to it, though presently, they were just standing around huddled around campfires, talking as if they had all the care in the world.

That really wouldn't do. Pre-battle mood could swing the flow of the fight and sway the favour of the gods. He had to get their blood up and soon.

Remembering how his father led warriors into battle, Faramir stood on top of a stump with his torch raised up in the air as he let out a battle cry. The crowd immediately stopped talking as they all looked with curiosity at the mad man who called them here

"I AM FARAMIR, SON OF FAFNIR, AND I CALLED YOU HERE FOR ONE THING AND ONE THING ONLY." He roared with the passion of a thousand men, "These strangers come here and cut down the sacred groves!" He spat out as he gestured towards the stumps. "They come here and build their fortress to challenge us all!"

"To this I say one thing." He swung his sword at the direction of the fortress where men were still standing outside, busy with their strange and offensive ways, the full moon shining the free folk a way to victory. "LETS FUCKING GUT THEM ALL!"

A hundred free folk roared with bloodlust in return. The strangers must have heard them, but it was already too late for them. Faramir, with torch and sword in hand, looked every bit the free folk hero as he led a charge against the invaders.

A heartbeat into the charge, Faramir could tell something was wrong. The outsiders were too calm as they looked at the charging host, almost as if they expected them. The men with the magic swords stopped buzzing as their companions stepped forwards.

A thunderclap resounded around the forest as he continued to charge, which was odd, as the night sky was clear and free from thunderclouds. The outsiders still looked too calm facing against the might of the True North, but Faramir pushed away the feeling of wrongness and pressed on.

When he was within fifty paces away, he saw a man lifting his weapon up and pointing it at him. Before Faramir could wonder what the point of it was, he saw a flash and sudden punch in his gut. Faramir found himself looking at the night sky, admiring the cosmos in its infinite glory whilst his companions faltered and fell as shouts of fear and confusion took over the raiding band.

It was strange, he thought as darkness crept at the edges of his vision, with the night sky this clear, where did the thunder come from?

/

"Fuck me," Jonesy exclaimed as he lowered his rifle, "Fucking spears and shit. What the actual fuck?"

Captain Lawrence felt the same, though he wouldn't exactly word it like that. The army saw the rabble coming a long time ago, and he, like everyone else, looked in disbelief as the Conan the Barbarians knockoffs were photo'd by the recon drones to be carrying spears and swords. They were obviously no threat to the operation, and thus, top brass saw no reason to go out and engage with the growing numbers of "armed" locals gathering near their base, though they also saw no reason to go out and attempt first contact with such a primitive people without an agreed upon strategy from the boffins, who even now, were probably at each other's throats about the best way to approach the locals without it ending up a repeat of the Europeans arriving in America.

Lawrence really didn't envy the base commander at the moment as the boffins would probably turn their ire from each other towards the obviously heavy handed and bloodthirsty military leaders in charge.

He sighed as they slowly approached the site of the "battle". Moans and groans could be heard all round as the survivors were clutching their wounds in fear and confusion. Some of wounded natives looked up and he was surprised and slightly annoyed to see them still glaring at them with murderous intent, spears and swords pointing in their direction.

Why must they make things harder than they had to be? Low tech their weapons may be, the average British flak jacket wasn't designed for a spear jab or a sword slash. The thought of his records showing that he allowed casualties from stone age savages made him shiver in his spine. His career wouldn't survive it.

Irritated, he brought the radio to his mouth, "Lawrence to HQ, requesting riot gear and restraining equipment. We have survivors refusing to come in quietly. Over."

/

It was warm and bright. Faramir wondered if this was the afterlife. If it was, it was a lot softer than he thought it would be. Though it didn't explain his pounding head, nor his parched lips, nor the increasingly painful feeling in his gut.

Even though his eyes were shut, the bright lights still felt like sharp daggers into his tender skull. He raised his hand to rub his temple, but it was abruptly stopped. He suddenly registered the feeling of a cold metallic clasp wrapped around his wrist in a vice-like grip.

With a cold shiver, Faramir then noticed that his furs were all gone; he was wearing naught save for a thin cloth on top of his torso. Fear gripped his heart as he realized that he wasn't in the afterlife, but there were far worse fates than death.

Though painful, he willed his eyes open and for a heartbeat, his whole world was a bright white light.

As his eyes got used to the unnatural brightness, he could just about make out some blurry movement. Suddenly there was a face far too close to his own. He yelped, trying to scooch away from the sudden intrusion. When the blurriness faded away, Faramir found himself staring in the face of a very old man. A very old, and grinning old man with what looked like a couple of bored looking guards standing closely behind.

Licking his very dry lips, he tried to summon what little courage he had left. "Go to hell, you fucking kneeler," is what he wanted to say. What actually came out was a pathetically whimpering "Please, give me some water." He hoped there were no other free folk in the room who saw that.

The old man nodded as if he understood, and poured some water out of- what the fuck was that? Faramir ogled at a jug that looked like it was made from the clearest ice or white crystal that was full to the brim with water.

He knew he was just a simple northern lad, but even he knew that clear glass like that was worth more than its own weight in gold. And it was being used to pour mere water. What opulent wealth!

The old man finished pouring into a small cup that was similarly transparent, and handed it to Faramir, who held it in his hand like it was the finest treasure in the North. He frowned, for the feel of the cup was odd, unnaturally smooth, clear like glass but it bends ever so slightly to the touch.

"Rest up, my child, for we soon shall have a talk." The old man patted his shoulders before leaving him alone in this strange room, illuminated by some sort of sorcery.

He emptied his cup in one swig and as the last cool drop of water went down his dry throat, a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Was that old bastard speaking in Old Tongue?"

/

Covered by ice, mist and magic, the Other looked at the rip in the fabric of their world and the beings that crawled out of it with fear and trepidation. Magic was swirling like a vortex at the tear, like it was being sucked towards it. As beings of magic, this was extremely concerning.

The being known to humanity as the Night King watched grimly as a wight shared its memory of the battle between the free folk and the foreigners and gritted his teeth at the one sided put down. Not even their kind possessed such power.

The dangerous weapons, the unknown faction, the magical tear in the fabric of reality. Whilst all true folk of the ice yearn for the day that their land was rightfully returned, the Night King felt he was standing at a nexus point for his people.

To dream of a better tomorrow, all the land down south for their children to inherit, or to endure. stay put and survive another millennium?

As his people shuffled quietly but fitfully behind him as he ruminated over his limited choices. All their plans and preparations, the slaughter of the forest folk, the harrying of the Three Eyed Raven and their increasing sizes of their wights, were all meant for a humanity that was weak and divided. He certainly did not account for the other worldly folk with weapons that he would rather not test his invulnerability against.

After what seemed like an eon to his followers, the Night King made his choice. Though unhappy with his decision, the other Others merely grumbled in their language underneath their breaths as they fell in line with their King.

Afterall, the Night King reasoned, they had waited thousands of years for their conquest of the south, what's a thousand more years to the people of the ice?