More archers appeared through the trees by the second, drawing their bows. Training kicking in, Michael threw himself to the ground, behind the pile of furs that were supposed to be his seat. The others followed his lead, just in time. Arrows whipped through the air. Too close.
Even as the projectiles were slamming into the snow around them, Ser Rykker and Jon Stark piled up more of the fur bundles to protect the maester, Tarly and the red-faced First Steward. Better cover for the old man in particular, while he examined the Lord Commander's wound gently with his hands and Tarly answered his questions.
"Private, give the maester some disinfectant!" Michael ordered. He was about to follow up with more instructions, until the horse and cart that had brought the maester bolted away. Using that distraction, Six Skins ran past as fast as his legs could carry him, due east. A few arrows flew at him, mostly landing short. A little too lucky, Michael's mind whispered, before putting away the thought.
"Craven!" Tormund shouted after him. If Six Skins heard the shout, he didn't care.
Rattleshirt's troops began slowly moving across the clearing at last, confident that they had at least injured some of their prey but knowing that a wounded animal is often the most dangerous. The group was equipped almost identically to the one that had attacked at the Laughing Tree; fur and leather, spears and axes. It was also far larger.
Michael grit his teeth, and ignored the cold shiver of fear down his spine that had nothing to do with the snow he was laying on as best he could. At least their eyes aren't glowing blue. "Sayer, with me." He began crawling through the middle of the circle of furs, flat on his stomach. The Private did the same. The Crows moved the other way, letting them pass.
The exceptions were Jon Stark and Ser Rykker. With their own people in the way, the Free Folk archers had stopped shooting, so the two Crows stood up and prepared to meet the charge. Michael couldn't help but admire their bravery, albeit the sort that was probably drilled into them since birth. Planning to make sure they wouldn't need to use their swords, he and Sayer both laid their rifles over the furs, using them as shooting rests.
Jon Stark glanced down with undeniable curiosity, the knight Rykker resisting the temptation far better than the teenager. Don't worry, you'll be seeing our weapons any second now, Michael thought. "Centre mass, one shot each, Private," he commanded in English, "We might have to shoot a whole lot more than just these ones."
"No warning shot?" Sayer asked, reluctant to shoot without it.
Morality and law both were on Michael's side, however, and he would brook no hesitation from the young Canadian Ranger.
"We've received accurate fire, Private. No warning shots."
Sayer's mouth turned into a thin line, but he gripped his weapon tighter and put his chin to the stock to aim it. Attaboy.
Michael looked through the optical sight on his weapon and selected the first of his targets, a large man with a stone warhammer. Okay big guy, that's far enough. "Open fire."
The rifles peeled, the muzzles flashed, and the Crows unfamiliar with the sound and sight half-jumped out of their skins.
Sayer got his opening shot off first, Michael firing a split second later. They moved from target to target, giving each a bullet a piece. Almost none of them were killed instantly, but almost all dropped or stopped dead, their injury too painful and novel to ignore. The tracer rounds made warriors flinch, which slowed and then halted the advance.
That's right, learn your lesson, Michael said to himself as he dared to hope it would be that easy, Go home to Mama.
But reinforcements came up from behind, ignoring or not noticing the carnage. Michael's insides wrenched. The calculations were clear as day to him, they would reach his position. And calculation turned to rage when he saw who was leading the renewed charge, a personal retinue of sorts all around him.
The Weeper. We've been betrayed.
"Private, see the guy with the scythe?" Michael asked during a lull for reloading.
"Yeah."
"Shoot him after I've cleared the way."
Michael didn't wait for Sayer to acknowledge the order, and zoned in on the Weeper himself. The chieftain was looking straight at him, and noticed the change. Michael squeezed the trigger, letting a three round burst fly. As expected, the Weeper grabbed a man beside him, just in time. The bullets tore through the human shield, and into their intended target.
The Weeper kept coming, but his warriors kept out of arm's reach. He dropped to a hunch, trying to make himself a smaller target. Michael recognised that for the desperation it was, and felt sorry for the guy. Every one of them saw his little sacrificial act. He's a dead man.
Sayer took his shot. The bullet erupted through the Weeper's neck. He dropped to his knees, clutching the injury as blood poured through it. Michael did not see him die. His warriors simply went around their mortally wounded leader, didn't bunch up, and began to sprint. They've seen gunfire before, Michael realised, When we fought off wights at the Fist.
"Ghost!" Jon Stark called at the top of his lungs, "Ghost!"
"Why is he calling 'ghost'?" Sayer asked loudly in English, as he reloaded, "There are ghosts too?!"
Michael didn't answer, the enemy force were barely twenty yards away now.
"Snow, protect the Lord-Commander!" Ser Rykker said, stepping forward towards the enemy.
"I'll not die laying on my arse," Tormund growled to no one in particular, "Not while Crows die standing!" He stood to join Rykker, spear in hand.
Michael waited a moment for them to die and open up his lanes of fire, but no arrows flew to strike them down and the enemy seemed genuinely afraid of them for a moment.
How the hell am I supposed to shoot if you idiots step in front of me? He complained to no one. Getting up himself, quickly followed by Sayer, Michael began moving to get a clear shot once again.
Ser Rykker met the first of the Weeper's men directly. He took a blow from a stone axe on the flat of his blade, shattering the axe, before following up with a wide sweep across the man's face. Tormund claimed the next dose of blood, shoving his iron-tipped spear through the throat of a man running at him with a bronze sword speckled with green rust.
A wave of warriors washing over the pair, Michael could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he concentrated on keeping the Crow and the Chief alive. His rifle moved this way and that, sweeping over anyone trying to get in behind the pair. Sayer copied him, and soon there were collections of dying men and spearwives on the ground to either side.
But not even a minute later, his rifle clicked empty.
"Reloading!" Sayer called, his voice breaking as warriors spotted that he had stopped shooting too. They rushed him, raising their axes to strike.
Panic rising like burning vomit in his throat, Michael took his pistol into his hand and emptied it at the group. The cluster of warriors dissolved, some dead, others fleeing at the sudden rapid fire. But the damage had been done. Their comrades moved to surround, coming in from all sides to attack. Fending them off, Tormund soon had a large cut across his cheek, and Ser Rykker a wound to his left arm, neither cooperating with the other to defend themselves.
Avoiding the same mistake, Michael and Sayer backed off, stepping behind the piled furs again and completing the reload of their weapons. Gunfire kept the blades and points at bay, but the warriors were so close now, Michael could smell their breath and sweat. As soon as rifle and pistol ran dry again, they'd be all over both groups resisting them.
Michael began shooting sparingly, looking to scare them off rather than kill all of them and keep the stalemate alive longer. Tormund's troops aren't just going to stand there and watch him die, his mind promised him, Just hold out a little longer.
A push by trios from two sides forced Michael and Sayer to open up with everything they had left. With no real distance to slow them down, the bullets passing through the men and injuring others behind. Michael let the empty magazine drop out of his rifle, frantically reaching for a spare, but he already knew it was too late. A spearwife with a spear ran forward with her weapon held like a rifle and bayonet. Sayer pulled out a small steel hatchet, as two others advanced on him with clubs.
KIA on another world. Damn. Refusing to die without a useful weapon in his hand, Michael reached for his knife, hoping his armour would protect him enough to use it.
A blizzard of bright white fur filled his vision, forcing him to blink. For a split second, Michael thought snow had been magically summoned, fear of the Others shooting through. Only when the smell of wet dog hit his nostrils and the blizzard pinned the spearwife with its jaws around her throat did he realise the truth.
A gigantic white wolf turned to find its next victim, revealing a bloody muzzle and eyes the same dark red as the sap of the Laughing Tree. Michael's eyes widened at the sight so much that they filled with tears due to the cold. His body refused to move. The animal's gaze looked to him and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed except him and the wolf.
Reality resumed as the wolf bounded away silently, towards the next victim, a thin man with a spear. It pulled him to the ground with a tug on the leg, and tore into the arm holding the weapon.
It's only attacking the enemy, Michael realised. Not stopping to consider why, he wasted no time in using the distraction to feed his weapon another magazine. By the time he was finished, Jon Stark and Halfhand ran past and joined the wolf in putting warriors down.
Whatever annoyance Michael felt at the Crow Ranger being cut free, Jon Stark made up for it. Stark killed three men in six seconds, pirouetting about in a semi circle. Blood soaked his longsword, flicking away as it moved. Whenever the teenager swung the blade, he killed or deflected a blow that would have killed him. Halfhand was just as good if not better, but he was slower and killed fewer.
They're dyed-in-the-wool killers, Michael thought, feeling strongly that he was on another world once again.
From the north, another warcry echoed, sending Sayer spinning on the spot. Michael stopped the Private from shooting out of sheer adrenaline, knowing there was only one force that could come from that direction.
Tormund's warbands attacked the Weeper's depleted force, rolling over it like a hedgehog of spears and men. The sheer weight of numbers told its tale.
Hunched over and panting hard, Michael watched with relief at the warriors scattering with comical haste, some even dropping their weapons. It was only then he noticed that most of them were just as young as Jon Stark, Sayer or Ygritte. Until then, they were just savages trying to kill him. The realisation bothered him a little. But only a little.
Checking to see if reinforcements weren't coming in to resume an attack, Michael glanced southwards to see how the battle elsewhere was going. He saw only corpses littering the ground beyond the weirwoods, no mass of Free Folk warriors clashing with Crows. Whatever had happened, the fight was over or had moved on.
The wolf just stood in the midst of the bodies, licking the blood from its cheeks, watching. What is it doing? Michael asked himself.
Soon, the movement of Tormund limping caught his notice. As did the dozen wounds from his face to his legs that he now possessed. A few seconds more and he'd have been caught out, Michael knew. With Halfhand and Ser Rykker ignoring the man's plight to instead rush back to his Lord Commander, Michael went and helped Tormund back to the campfire. He'd earned a little aid given his performance and the trust he had shown in the plan, acts that had undoubtedly helped to save all their lives.
The chieftain grunted his thanks and accepted the help, while Jon Stark hovered around, observing quietly. Like the wolf.
"Maester Aemon," Michael said as they got close, "Got another casualty for you."
Both the Crows and the Free Folk standing around took notice of that, except for the maester himself, who kept working. The arrow itself had been removed by now, and Mormont looked like anyone in pain; red faced, sweaty and cringing.
"The Lord Commander requires our full attention," Aemon said, referring to himself and an extremely pale Tarly, the latter passing his superior a makeshift poultice of some kind.
Giantsbane spat into the embers of the fire, raising a hiss from it. "Leave the old man to his work. I'll live, but our chances of making an agreement are as dead as that fucking wight now. We'll keep the Lord Commander and the rest of our Crows prisoner, alive. Mance will want to speak to them."
Mance will want information out of them, Michael thought, And the Lord Commander will not be forthcoming. "Rattleshirt doesn't represent Mance, and we killed the Weeper ourselves. We came here in good faith. We can still make an agreement."
Tormund scoffed. "Aye, I am sure the Crows will be delighted to make peace with the people who they think just tried to kill them."
"They'll follow their Lord Commander," Mormont rasped, summoning a surprising amount of authority despite his condition, "After what I have seen these past two days, I am obliged to continue speaking peace." The man glanced at Michael's rifle.
"You're a dead man anyway, Crow," Tormund replied, "Maybe not today, but soon."
Michael couldn't help but agree with that assessment. Infection alone was going to be a serious threat to the Lord Commander's life. "Man has a point," he said, looking to Mormont, "Might be best to keep talking here and now. Create a fait accompli, an agreement that the Watch can take or leave as your last act."
The maester merely gave a chuckle, as if to say 'shows what you know'.
"The Lord Commander can be saved, easily," he said, "But only if we return to Castle Black."
Giantsbane gestured to the old man, like he could see. "Do you think me fresh off my mother's teat?" Tormund asked, "Wound like that will fester, Lord Crow here will die of a fever."
"And at Castle Black, there are materials to prevent it," the red-faced steward stated matter-of-factly, "Our knowledge of healing is greater than yours." Michael had almost forgotten the man existed, and suddenly remembered his name; Marsh.
"And even if it isn't good enough, he's no use out here," Jon Stark added, "The Lord Commander can speak to the men, use his dying words to keep the negotiations alive."
Michael frowned, unable to tell if there really was a chance or if the Crows just wanted to get the hell out of there. He certainly would in their place. He spotted Tormund looking around for a moment, between Crows, his warriors and back south, before sighing mightily.
"I'm going to regret this," Tormund grumbled, "Since you're so insistent he can live, old man, we'll bugger Rattleshirt from behind and give you back to your men."
"And we'll keep Halfhand hostage, as before," Michael added quickly, pleasing Tormund. Keeping the intelligence the Ranger had gathered out of the hands of his brothers in black remained a concern. The man in question shrugged, though he didn't drop or hand off his newly-acquired sword.
"You cannot attack Rattleshirt so close to my men," the Lord Commander said, "With Ser Rykker, Marsh and I here, Ser Alliser is in command. He will see your force as just another warband coming to attack him."
"Or pretend to," Marsh added, "He would never believe you come to deliver us back to Castle Black. I would not have believed it before I saw you strange foreign men strike down the wildlings coming for us." The steward's new found appreciation for Canadians notwithstanding, Michael could not help but admit there was truth in what they were saying.
"Nor would Ser Alliser's honour allow him to believe we were not hostages," Mormont agreed, "Even if you placed us in front of your men, and told him what you planned, he might still attack out of hatred for you and a will to defend what he and every other southron in the Watch believes it stands for."
"Killing wildlings, I presume?" Michael guessed.
"Aye," Mormont replied.
Ser Rykker frowned at his leader, but said nothing. Michael had guessed he was exactly the sort of 'honourable' knight type from the South that Ser Alliser was, he was just more polite about it.
"Then we'll defeat your Crows," Tormund stated, "Even if it'll upset the Canadians here."
"Canadians?" Jon Stark asked.
Damn it. Michael could've floored the bearded idiot of a chieftain. "Tormund, order your tribe back to camp and to stay there," he commanded, pointedly ignoring Jon Stark's question, "Bring Halfhand back with you. Find Six Skins and find out if he betrayed us. We'll take the Lord Commander's party back to the Wall ourselves. Such a small party won't be mistaken for a Free Folk attack, even deliberately." Unless Ser Alliser wants Mormont's job and is willing to murder for it…
Tormund shot up from his seat, causing his wounds to ooze blood again. "Are you mad?" he roared, "You two against Rattleshirt's whole warband and his allies?"
Michael found himself unable to suppress a shit-eating grin."We've killed his whole warband before, Giantsbane."
Every Crow turned his head to look at that, including the blind maester.
Tormund merely shook his own. "Even if you do it again… There is another path we could walk here. If we defeat the Crows now, the Wall will be defenceless. Can you not see that those few hundred are all the warriors Head Crow could spare?"
I noticed, Michael thought, wanting to physically close the chieftain's mouth, I just didn't want the Crows to know that I knew.
"The warriors you saw are far from the only force I can bring to bear," Mormont retorted over his shoulder at the chieftain, "And the lords of Westeros will act if you attack us so brazenly."
Then why haven't they? Michael wondered, Is the land up here not worth taking? Are the raids not worth answering? His school history lessons had taught him the economic value of fur trading in North America. If he was a lord, there was real money to be made north of the Wall and there was every reason to retaliate against raiders.
"Tormund, you know why we came here, and slaughtering Crows isn't it. I'm not tempting fate by putting your warriors in close proximity to the main Crow force. Mance sent you with me for a reason. I'm guessing it's because you're one of the more cunning leaders among your people."
"Har!" Tormund interrupted, "I am that."
"Then trust me," Michael insisted, "What I promised your king still holds."
Tormund chewed on that for a moment, considering the matter. The promise to Mance to join the war against the Night's Watch if they became unreasonable was not lightly made. But anyone with a brain could understand that the opposite was true too. If Free Folk leaders betrayed the Canadians, Michael would not forgive it.
"Ah! I give up!" Tormund said, throwing up his hands and standing again, "I'll let Mance decide if you were wrong or right."
The Canadians slowly led the way to the gate of Castle Black.
The Crows pulled their Lord Commander on a stretcher-sled made of animal skins, loops of leather and long weirwood branches. The two juniors were assigned to the task. Jon Stark did the job without comment or complaint. Tarly on the other hand huffed and puffed to an embarrassing degree.
Without the horse and cart or more men to pull another sled, the 'maester' had to walk along with his cane. It was likely the longest walk the ancient man had taken in a very long time. Only Ser Rykker and Steward Marsh remained unencumbered, and both were on guard with their swords, the former more competently than the latter.
So, to say Michael was on edge about the speed of their pace was an understatement. They had to stop for a break every few minutes, either for Tarly's benefit or the maester's. Each time, he felt his skin crawl, the wind blowing the trees making him see movement everywhere in his peripheral vision. He almost wished he hadn't insisted Halfhand remain a prisoner, as the extra sword hand would've soothed his worries.
They weren't even clear of the battlefield's original area and he had already worked out it would take the rest of the daylight hours to make the distance. At least we brought night vision, he thought, not liking the idea of walking through the dark woods with just Sayer without the ability to see.
Michael had wanted to warn the Crows off from stopping in the middle of the large collection of fallen bodies, but Tarly was already as red as the weirwood leaves and there was no pushing him onwards. Annoyed, he let the heavy teenager be, knowing no good would come of chastising him for his unhealthy state and not wanting to be the bad guy about it either.
He began a rough count of the dead. "A hundred, mostly dead Free Folk," Michael noted aloud, "Very few Night's Watch." The proportion was something like twenty to one. The Free Folk's lack of iron and steel relative to their enemy was written all over the field.
"These will need to be burned, sir," Sayer remarked, kicking snow towards the nearest corpse, a raven-haired spearwife even younger than Ygritte, her mouth carved open by a sword-slash.
Feeling that Sayer's comment was badly timed, Michael grimaced. "Don't tempt fate, Private. I can see the damn things picking themselves up to kill us in my mind's eye already."
Sayer paled and nodded, paying the corpses far more attention at once. That made Michael feel a little guilty. If the White Walkers strayed this close to the Wall, they'd have been spotted long before by the Crows on the top of it. Yet the fear of that situation was very real even for him, rationality be damned.
"Sounds like you've seen something like that before," Jon Stark remarked from behind.
Michael frowned, not sure why the kid was talking to him unsupervised. "We have."
The teenager looked thoughtful, looking up at the Wall. "Can they climb?" They meaning the wights.
Michael didn't know the answer to that. "They can wield weapons, so I'd assume so. Not sure even they could climb that thing, if that's what you're worried about. The human ones, anyway."
"The human ones?"
"The Free Folk tell of White Walkers riding dead horses and other things. Anything that dies up here is a potential soldier for the Others, unfortunately. We've only ever seen human wights ourselves, but I believe those who say they've seen different kinds."
There's a conversation I never thought I'd have, Michael thought to himself, Unless it was about a TV show.
Stark gave a single nod, brooding in the way only a teenager could. Michael couldn't shake off the feeling that the kid wasn't supposed to speak to him. "Why are you asking me? Lord Commander tell you to get information out of me?"
Looking a little hurt by the notion that he'd willingly deceive anyone out of ill intention, Stark shook his head. "I'm my own man, Canadian," he said firmly, "I haven't said the vows yet."
So he's worked out that the 'Canadians' are us, Michael thought as he looked him up and down, Not that it was difficult, damn Tormund. The kid was wearing black from head to toe, just like any other Crow.
"Well, that explains why Ser Alliser was so rude to you. You're dressed like a member of the Night's Watch without being one. Even where I'm from, soldiers do not like people doing similar things. There's even a term for it, 'stolen valour'."
Jon Stark went red, though Michael couldn't tell out of what emotion. "I had no choice. The Lord Commander would not allow me or Sam to wear our own clothes north of the Wall. And I would take my vows today if I could."
"So Mormont wanted to present a united front, and Ser Alliser holds it against you anyway," Michael concluded, "I'd like to say such an idiot wouldn't be allowed near a military position back home, but that's not true. No shortage of arrogance in the Army." Maybe I'm guilty of it myself.
"Is that what Canadian means?" Stark asked, changing tack fast, "Like Crow is to the Night's Watch, Canadian is another name for a soldier in your army?"
Michael wasn't about to give that away. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Stark."
"Why are you so reluctant to talk about that? Or tell us your real name?"
"Don't know my name, can't associate it with 'wildling' activity among the lords in the South before I get to speak to them."
The kid opened his mouth to refute that, which Michael Michael had thought of arguments against lying about his name too, but Ser Rykker called the young man. Leaving the argument unfinished, Jon Stark returned to his place by Tarly without another word. The maester's assistant was looking better already.
The march towards Castle Black resumed quickly.
The corpses continued on the path, a string of bodies, telling a tale.
Sayer reported the story aloud to Michael at each break as they went.
"The Crows withdrew together. They have actual boots, you can see the hobnails impressions in the slush. Free Folk followed, shooting arrows."
Then…
"Free Folk hit them from one side as one group. See the dead all in a row? Hit that shieldwall and bounced off it, I think. Lots of broken arrows, a few pieces of wood and leather too. Crows held the line here."
Then…
"Crow cavalry swept through here. No Free Folk bodies though. Guys on horses trying to get around the back?"
And finally, in English…
"Lieutenant! Come see this!"
Michael, having been staring up at the Wall as it practically leaned over them. There was artillery at the top of it, he had noticed. Regardless, he tore his eyes away to find his subordinate once again. He strode past the sled, where Ser Rykker was giving Tarly and Mormont water from a skin, finding Sayer a good distance to the front. The Private was kneeling behind a tree. Michael joined him, and peered around the tree.
"Report."
"Clearing ahead. Gate is just beyond. Corpses on the ground. Rattleshirt's group fought to the end. By the look of the snow, the cavalry came up and rode them all down."
As interesting as that was, Michael didn't know why that required him to come over at once. "What's the problem? The cavalry still out there?"
"No. Look at the body over there." Sayer pointed to the one of the nearest corpses. Aside from the blood which had melted into a pool in the snow, whoever it had been wore bones strung from the furs, and a giant's skull on their head.
Rattleshirt.
"With me, Private," Michael ordered, "Keep alert. This might be a trick."
"Sir."
They advanced together, guns up. When they arrived at the body, Michael saw that it was no ruse. He could identify Rattleshirt from the yellow-toothed sneer still pasted to his face. The man hadn't seen his death coming and it came quickly. Just beyond, there was another scatter of corpses, almost as many as the group at the weirwoods.
"Took a sword to the back of the neck," Sayer said, "Cut clean through his spine?"
Man was turned into a reverse Pez dispenser.
"Cavalry charge. Must not have heard the horsemen coming over the sound of the fighting over there." Without thinking, his attention was drawn to the clearing and then the Wall itself, seeking out the gate. Its doors were made of a metal frame, thick wooden panels and more metal reinforcements nailed into it. Nothing to worry about, until he realised how large they were. When he looked through his sight to double check, his heart dropped.
"That gate is too small," Michael said, "We'll never get the BV through that." The crawler's width was larger than a mammoth, if not the height.
Sayer shrugged. "So we use a different gate. This can't be the only one."
"This is the gate to Castle Black. The Lord Commander's castle. I'd assume it has the largest tunnel through the ice."
"Maybe Mance will kno…"
A horn blast from the top of the Wall interrupted Sayer, forcing both of them to crane their necks to look at the peak of the structure. At the very top, a small black figure could be seen at the edge.
"One call?" Michael said, "What's that mean?"
"Rangers returning," said a familiar voice from behind.
Son of a bitch! Michael brought his rifle around and found its barrel planted against the chest of Halfhand. The Crow Ranger had his hands up, sword sheathed and as disarming a face as he could muster. Sayer jumped and then aimed at the man himself.
"How the hell did you get away from Tormund?" Michael demanded, "Start talking."
"Kill me now and my brothers will not be forgiving," Halfhand replied, like he was talking to a child, "Put the weapon down and we'll talk. Else the wolf might get the wrong idea." The Crow Ranger tilted his head to the left, towards the massive, silent white wolf. Sayer quickly shifted his aim to the animal, which merely padded sideways, as if trying to find a better angle to pounce.
Not in the slightest bit intimidated by the threat implied there, Michael wanted the answer more than the Ranger's death. He lowered his weapon, but gave a canine smile nonetheless. "Did you kill anyone on the way out?"
Halfhand smirked, then shook his head. "Just reasoned with Giantsbane," he said, "That my brothers were far more likely to support the Lord Commander's position if I am there to speak in its favour. Pledged that I'd return to Craster's afterwards, on one of the weirwoods. Giantsbane saw no harm in it, as you still have the rest of my ranging party."
"Wasn't his decision to make."
"He made it anyway."
Michael blew out a breath in frustration. He lacked the will and legal reason to shoot the man on the spot, and if the objective was still an agreement, it would've been stupid too. He had no conception that Tormund would be so rash. What were you thinking, you beardy prick…
"Qhorin!" came a call. The rest of the Crows were coming up.
"Ser Jaramy!" Halfhand greeted in return, "Got away from Giantsbane."
The knight seemed to find that dubious, but gave the man a small incline of the head regardless. The elder of the group had a far more amusing reaction.
"Excellent news, Qhorin," said Maester Aemon, "You can relieve Tarly on the sled."
Halfhand made a sound of disapproval as he went to do his duty, which brightened Michael's mood considerably. Consideration to taking Halfhand back with him did enter his mind… but this was quickly crushed when the wolf loped over to Jon Stark and grabbed his hand, pulling on it playfully. "Easy, Ghost!" the young man said to it. The wolf is the ghost, and Ghost is his, he realised, The kid must be a warg. Which meant the wolf was as much Stark's weapon as the sword at his hip.
Michael had no desire to tangle with the Crows after that information came to him. His ready ammunition was low, and the wolf was very close. With no Free Folk in sight, Rattleshirt and the Weeper dead, the danger seemed to have passed too. Time for a little peace. He tapped Sayer on the shoulder to follow and made his way to the sled gingerly avoiding the wolf at play.
"Lord Commander Mormont," he said, "I think you're safe from here. We'll wait a week for a reply on whether or not you want to continue negotiations, to let you get your ducks in a row."
Mormont's brow raised, not familiar with the phrase, but he got the general idea. He looked to the maester for confirmation. "That should be sufficient time for healing, if all goes well," the old man confirmed, "Though whether or not it is enough time to consider the matters you have already raised, I cannot say."
"Keep me alive and awake, Aemon," Mormont replied, "That will suffice."
Michael waved them along, following for a little bit while Halfhand and Jon Stark pulled the sled. The wolf had bolted into the trees. "Stark, one thing before you go," he said, "I owe you an apology. Being out here, with everything that has happened… Can make a man paranoid."
Jon Stark grunted with the effort of the first movement of the sled, glancing over his shoulder northwards before he answered. "That I can understand," he said.
Michael listened to Tormund complain for most of a week as he waited for the Night's Watch to return to the negotiation table.
It had turned out that Halfhand had not convinced the chieftain to let him go. The Crow had kicked him between the legs hard, dodged around the nearest weirwood and somehow evaded a good portion of the Ruddy Hall warband sent after him.
Tormund's displeasure that Michael hadn't dragged the man back was mercifully brief, as his amusement at the Ranger's 'sheer balls' increased as the ache in his own decreased. But he still ran at the mouth about it, and where Six Skins had disappeared to. All that could be done was to deflect into conversations about how to take the Wall, a subject about which Tormund liked speaking.
Aside from listening to that, there was little to do. Michael spent his time preventing Tormund's people from snooping around his things and preventing the Crows from escaping. They were so close to 'home' now that they would've made it even if they somehow lost their wool cloaks.
In the mean time, Sayer spent his time fending off horny spearwives who always seemed to find themselves in ready wife-stealing situations. Accidentally dropping their weapons around him, tripping up in front of him, hanging around the Canadian fire at night. Sayer was finding it hard to stop himself, being a healthy eighteen year old.
This would've been funny to Michael, except it was usually the same spearwives who tried to steal their equipment. Tormund's message on the matter hadn't gotten through their thick skulls, and they seemed to think it was the perfect way for Michael to steal them too. As none of them had been ravaged for their 'crimes', it had turned more into a game than a serious invitation to woo.
Michael was pulling one of the spearwives away from the horses on the sixth night, finding the task pretty easy as she made faces and onlookers laughed, when torch-bearing riders appeared at the southern end of the Nine Weirwoods. He quickly dropped his night vision goggles over his eyes, as the light of the flames in the distance was not enough to determine the nature of what was approaching.
Seven riders, he counted, as he released the spearwife, Not an attack. He quickly made his way back to Sayer, through the rushing about of Tormund's warriors, as they could not see anything. The Private was already tooling up, putting on the helmet that used to belong to Singh and grabbing up his scout rifle.
"It's a small group of riders," he said, "Not a threat."
Sayer paused, before cradling his weapon in his arms. "Why are they coming at night?"
"Good question."
Together, they made their way to the nearest weirwood, putting it at their back. The riders entered the clearing slowly, but came directly nonetheless.
A breathless Tormund made an appearance soon afterwards, spear in hand. The Crows were now close enough that their number was more obvious. "What do they want?" the chieftain asked, "It's the hour of the wolf! I was dreaming of my bear again…"
The mere mention of 'wolf' had Michael searching for Jon Stark's Ghost. No sign of the massive wolf could be seen, but he knew all the thing had to do was lay down in the snow and it'd be practically invisible, night vision or no night vision. Sayer's FLIR camera would've had better luck, but that had been left behind at Gilly's Hall to help with the defence.
"No idea," Sayer replied to Tormund, "But it's that asshole who's leading them."
And so it was; Ser Alliser was at the centre of the line of riders, flanked by Ser Rykker and a new man who hadn't been one to come see the wight. Of all the people the Crows could've sent, Michael wanted to see him the least.
Jon Stark was present too, but he was relegated to the edge of the group and didn't seem enthusiastic to be a part of it. Though Michael found it hard to tell, he wasn't close enough yet. Hopefully he's displeased with his would-be leaders and not me, he thought, remembering the swordsmanship the kid had shown.
No sign of Mormont, Halfhand or Marsh.
Uh oh. "Sayer, get your phone out and record this," Michael said, "Discreetly."
"Yes, sir."
That the group was led by the man who seemed to hate the whole idea of talking to 'wildlings' most was not a good sign. As much as Michael was determined not to believe all was lost just yet, measures for leadership back home to understand why things went up in flames might be needed too. The Private obliged, starting a video capture.
Michael waited until he was sure the recording had begun, before he addressed the party of Crows. "Ser Alliser Thorne!" he shouted out, remembering the man liked his full title, "Welcome back."
The 'knight' said nothing at first, simply dismounting. Ser Rykker and Jon Stark did the same, the teenager running to catch up. All of them were gripping their sword hilts, albeit in a reverse way. In response, Michael shifted his weapon into his hands. The Crows slowed.
"Har," Tormund grunted to himself, "They learnt fast."
"You can say that again," Michael grinned at the chieftain.
For a moment, there was nothing but the strangely pleasant sound of crunching snow underfoot as the Crows made their way across.
"Ulysses of Ithaca," Ser Alliser said, "Let's make this quick."
Michael frowned. He got the distinct impression that the 'knight' was trying to railroad something, all of a sudden. "There is no way we can make it quick," he said, "We still have a lot to discuss regarding an agreement…"
"No longer," Ser Alliser stated, "I am here to do clarify matters. First, to thank you for informing us of the threat of the wights and how to fight them. Second, to inform you that we will not be making an agreement with the traitor, Mance Rayder."
Michael couldn't believe his ears, and began to grow suspicious. "Where is Lord Commander Mormont?" he asked in interruption, "Qhorin Halfhand?"
"He fell ill with a fever from his wounds," Ser Alliser replied, "The maester is tending to him, but he sleeps. Even if he wakes, it may be months before he is capable of leading. Qhorin is still being questioned about everything he saw."
Not believing it was that simple, Michael looked to Jon Stark. The boy gave a sombre nod. It was true. Mormont was out for the count, at least for now. And Halfhand ostracised in some way, perhaps for not doing his duty and trying to kill Mance Rayder. To say nothing of the Canadian allies of the 'wildlings'.
"I thought you would not believe the truth from my own lips," Ser Alliser sneered, "So I brought the bastard."
"You thought correctly," Michael said, "I take it this means you won't be letting anyone through the Wall?"
Ser Rykker stepped forward, causing his fellow knight to scowl. "We have come to a compromise. Word has been sent to Winterfell, proposing that any man willing to disarm and pledge fealty to the realm shall be allowed through, as well as any woman and child. But none shall pass until they have Lord Stark's permission."
Michael knew that was a death sentence for many, and it must've showed on his face.
"Be glad we support that much," Ser Alliser added, "There are many among us who would rather we shut the gates. Or only take women."
"Men who can't count," Jon Stark commented from the side, "And rapers."
"True," Ser Alliser agreed, begrudgingly, "But brothers of the Night's Watch all the same."
"And those who will not kneel?" Tormund asked, "What will you do when the Others kill them and make them wights?"
"I'm sure Halfhand has told you how many he saw at the Fist," Michael agreed, "Are you so blinded by hatred that you can't see negotiation is the only way to save both your peoples?" And get me home without excess blood being shed.
"You are blinded by ignorance, you know nothing of what the realm has suffered at the hands of these savages," Ser Alliser said coolly, ignoring Tormund entirely, "That you would stand beside them forces our hand."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"With the Lord Commander indisposed, the officers took a vote," Ser Rykker said, "Despite the objections of some, we offer terms. You may pass south of the Wall, fully armed even, but only if you pledge fealty. Those are better than what we offer the wildlings, you will be sure to note."
It was better, but Michael saw through it. They're trying to split us from the Free Folk. Should I care if we are?
"How generous of you," Sayer said flatly.
"We'll think about it," Michael stated politely, not wanting to reject it outright until he had discussed it with O'Neill, "And take your terms back to Mance."
"No," Ser Alliser said, "For you Canadians, we would know your willingness to accept now. You are too dangerous for us to be uncertain about."
"Not all my people are here," Michael said, "I must consult with them."
"You are their leader," Ser Rykker said, "They will follow your commands. Qhorin has made that clear to us. You are their lord."
Cursing inwardly, Michael gave Tormund a dark look. It appeared Jon Stark had explained the Canadian thing to his brothers-to-be, or they had already caught on from the chieftain's outburst a week before.
"You would not pledge fealty now," Ser Rykker said quickly, "Only indicate that you would be willing to, when Lord Stark arrives."
The better knight was trying to soften the blow, but Michael saw it for what it was. They wanted the Canadians to defect, help them keep the 'wildlings' at bay without any regard for their humanity. The temptation to accept simply to get south to the Isle of Faces was there… but merely thinking of it made him feel dirty. And besides that, it was impossible.
"I have already sworn an oath to a monarch. It isn't legal for me to change allegiance, it would make me a traitor. The same is true of all my people north of the Wall."
Ser Alliser grimaced, bereft of any amusement or warmth. "Then you will be considered an enemy of the Night's Watch until such a time that you come to your senses, hand over your weapons, and kneel. We offer a far better fate than months or years among wildlings and then death at the hands of the wights. You would be wise to accept."
The Crows were backing him into a corner. Michael could not accept that they were doing this. "Can we simply not come to an arrangement?" he asked, "We are reasonable men and women who have just seen a dire threat to all our lives. We can take some time to come to a better agreement than a demand at swordpoint."
"What we offer is already a compromise," Ser Rykker said, "To concede more would be to invite mutiny in our ranks and the wrath of the lords of Westeros. As far as they're both concerned, our duty is to keep people north of the Wall."
Michael shook his head. And you all hate the 'wildlings' regardless.
"It's the same proposal Mormont suggested and I rejected. And delivered in this manner, without any room for modification, it amounts to a declaration of war," he stated, "You are not acknowledging any of us as people. We need safe passage, we're willing to compromise to get it, but you demand everything. Property, dignity, freedom, their lives, it would all be at your mercy."
"We are at war with all who would threaten the realm," Ser Alliser said, "Refuse to kneel and you are a threat to the realm. You do not acknowledge our laws, you ambush our Rangers, you travel with those who think the very concept of law and fealty is absurd. You were correct. Either you say you will kneel, or we are at war."
Michael glanced at Sayer, his phone held upside down but with the camera outwards. I hope you all got that, Private, it might keep us all out of prison.
"You already know what we want of you," Tormund growled at him, "Make your choice." The Free Folk chieftain and the right hand of Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall, was waiting for the answer just as much as the Crows were.
There was only one path Michael could see.
Feeling robbed of options, by Rattleshirt and the Weeper, by Mance, by the Crows, he found himself unable to speak in a tone free of piss and vinegar, though he kept his choice of words polite.
"I refuse your offer. I acknowledge your declaration that a state of war now exists between my country and the Night's Watch. Rest assured, there will be immediate consequences."
Ser Alliser's face turned to stone, a glare chiselled on it. Ser Rykker took a step back. This seemed exaggerated, melodramatic to Michael, and he waited for them to say something. They didn't. They were frozen like deer in the headlights.
They're afraid I'll shoot them down now, Michael realised to his amusement. He hadn't thought his tone had been that harsh. Maybe it was the rifles. "You have safe passage back to your Wall," he said, "We don't kill people at parleys. Run along now." He shoo'ed them off with his hand.
The two knights turned on the spot and made off with impolite haste. The third member of the delegation hesitated for a moment, which gave Michael an idea.
"Jon Stark! Tell your brother in Winterfell I'm coming. Tell him these idiots destroyed a real chance for peace, but that it's not the only chance. I'll speak peace to any lord that'll hear me!"
Ser Alliser stopped in his tracks on hearing the declaration, and growled at Stark to get back on his horse. The teenager merely inclined his head at Michael, a nod so subtle that it would've been undetectable if the kid hadn't been looking right at him. A tiny sliver of hope in what had been a Charlie Foxtrot of a situation.