THE NIGHTFORT
While the sun was up, the Wall almost completely consumed attention when viewed from close by, reaching up to the sky to the point that it hurt to look higher. It crept into peripheral vision when looking in most other directions. Even when looking the opposite direction, it gave the feeling like something was looming just behind the viewer. The tall trees seemed to lean away from it.
Impenetrable, Michael decided was the one word to describe it, Something so large it can't be gotten through by force. A description he would test soon.
The column of warriors under Michael's command had recovered from the attack for a day, tending to the wounded as best as could be done, burning their dead and decapitating the wights' bodies. Such a delay was accounted for in his plan with Mance, though the people he had been expecting to fight were other Free Folk, or even the Thenns, not the Others.
They finally arrived at the 'safe distance' position from the gate of the Wall they intended to assault, the one leading to the former headquarters of the Crows; the Nightfort. It was the only uninhabited castle along the Wall that Mance knew had a tunnel entrance that led through stone rather than ice, and it was also the largest castle. Exactly what Michael needed, both for getting through and establishing some sort of defence afterwards. All that was required now was the signal that the diversionary attacks elsewhere had begun.
Off in the distance, the portculis gate was just barely recognisable under the encrusted ice around it, the metal frozen deeply up against the Wall, the mechanisms to raise it long gone. Michael raised his binoculars to examine the tunnel entrance more closely, and not for the first time. It seemed large enough for the crawler easily, to say nothing of giants and mammoths. That was the good news. The bad news was that the outer layer was not made of stones frozen together, but of solid ice. If it wasn't for the frozen portcullis, you'd never know there was a tunnel there at all.
A deep thudding announced the arrival of a particular chief; Mag the Mighty, chief of the Giants.
Despite his name, he was shorter than the one called Wun Wun that had been in charge of the group of giants at the Fist of the First Men. He was also clearly older, his fur grey and white. Michael shifted his weight, leaning away from the sasquatch. He still wasn't used to them, not like O'Neill and Sayer were. To him, they all looked like Bigfoot, and that fact made him uncomfortable about what he thought he knew about reality on Earth.
"Good morning," Michael said to him, the words changing to the Old Tongue.
Mag gave a single belching laugh. "Not sure if good yet. Only good if we go through today, Canuck."
Michael grinned back. "For your information, the Calgary Flames are my team," he said to the giant, "But don't tell Zheng. She's from Vancouver." At least there aren't any Oilers fans here, he thought cheerfully.
Mag the Mighty gave a mighty glare, the translation magic not allowing for a proper explanation of North America's ice hockey's teams. Yet it translates songs properly, Michael thought, Whoever made the rules of this magic needs to re-prioritise.
"What do you mean, 'Flames are my team'?" said another voice, "Is that how you will break into the tunnel? Flames?"
Resisting the urge to flinch, Michael found the Magnar of the Thenns had also arrived with the giant. The man stood, looking up at the Wall, it only having been a few days since he first laid eyes on it himself. Magnar Styr was pretty hard to miss, being tall, lean, bald and earless. Yet somehow, Michael hadn't noticed the man's presence at all, not with the sasquatch as a greater distraction.
Styr's arrival with Mag was not surprising as a matter of principle though. The Thenns were the only major tribe other than the Giants for whom the Old Tongue was the language of their birth. Common was the the most spoken language in the lands beyond the Wall, though there were others.
Which tells you how many women they took from the South, Michael thought darkly, Children learn language from their mothers as well as their fathers. He had discovered that most Free Folk spoke the Old Tongue to some degree, but the Thenns held most of them in disdain regardless, not unlike the lords of the Seven Kingdoms did.
Which might have been a problem on this march, but they respected Tormund Giantsbane, the man having commanded one of the wings of the army that had smashed the Thenns three times and into compliance with the King Beyond the Wall. They were also curious enough about unicorns to play nice with the tribe that rode them. Nor were they stupid enough to challenge the Laughing Tree tribe with any Canadian around to see it. So inter-tribal relations within Michael's assault force were pretty good. For the moment.
"We'll be using something with a little more strength than flame," Michael replied to Styr's questions, "The Calgary Flames… I was referring to was a sports team. Ice hockey. Competition between tribes… I'll explain some other time."
The Magnar's mouth thinned to a line and he nodded, taking that as a rock-solid promise. The Thenns were funny about promises. On the march, O'Neill had promised one Thenn to let the man try coffee sometime. Said Thenn reported to the Sergeant daily to ask if it was coffee day.
Recalling O'Neill's annoyance, Michael exhaled an amused breath out his nose, before pointing at the tunnel entrance. "That should be big enough for all of us," he said to the two chieftains, "We're keeping a watch for Crow patrols, and we're ready to move the second Mance sends the signal."
"Good," Styr said, "I like not that we have to stay here with such a small number of warriors. The Others may return."
Seeing Sayer approach with Zheng, Michael turned to the Magnar. "I don't think the White Walkers will bother us again," he said, "Not until they gather a much larger force against us."
"Every dead man is theirs, Canadian," Styr stated, "You would do well to restrain your confidence."
"Soon we'll have that wall between us and the dead," Zheng chipped in as she and Sayer arrived, "I'd say our confidence levels are correct."
The Magnar couldn't deny that, and his mouth curled to show he didn't like it. The Free Folk and Thenns alike had been utterly buoyant after the attack of the dead was repulsed, despite their casualties. The Magnar was just thinking longer term.
Need to do something with the Thenns after we've won this, Michael noted, the tribe's aggression a possible problem for the peace he wanted to craft.
With no solution immediately coming to mind, he looked to Sayer. The Private's face had been sliced badly, a line of black stitches running in a crescent from just below his eye to his ear. Seeing that, Styr made a gesture of greeting to his chest, almost bowing to the Private. "Otherbane," he said, "Well met. I hope to destroy our enemies alongside you soon."
Sayer blinked, bewildered for a moment. "Sounds like we're going to get the opportunity," he grinned, "Try to keep up, when the time comes." Recovered well there, Michael thought with amusement.
The Magnar grinned back, and Mag the Mighty laughed mightily, sounding like he was burping the alphabet. Zheng rolled her eyes, muttering about Sayer's mouth writing cheques his ass won't be able to cash.
Michael was glad that the young man was getting credit from all quarters. O'Neill had sent Sayer on what probably seemed like a suicide mission, and Ygritte along with him. When they had come back, the spearwife had been the one to spread the word of the engagement, making them both sound like heroes of legend. Sayer's own report was far more honest, and contained more useful military information.
Michael's favourite part was hearing that the bullets of the bolt action rifle were at least somewhat lethal to the White Walkers, particularly as the machinegun used the same bullets. O'Neill asserted that he'd be shocked if the Others ever let them get close enough for accurate fire like that again, and Michael was inclined to agree. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
"How's the wound, Private?" he asked, pointing at his cheek.
"Itches, sir," Sayer replied, scratching at his own.
"Here to report a Crow sighting? Or some problem with the crawler?"
"…No, sir."
"Then what?"
"About the spearwives, sir…" The Private scratched the back of his neck and blushed deeply.
Zheng snorted, giving away the game. It was about how the women trying to steal him. Sayer's defeat of the White Walkers had made him the most attractive man alive to the entire female section of the Free Folk contingent. It was the one downside to being credited with multiple Walkers KIA. Once the Wall was breached, Michael thought it might take actual gunfire to stop the romantic and sexual advances.
Hasn't turned Ygritte's head though.
A sinking feeling coming over him, Michael suddenly wished O'Neill was there. Lecturing the Private on fraternisation wasn't something he was prepared to do given what the Sergeant repeatedly called 'The Ygritte Situation'.
The Situation herself saved his bacon. Ygritte ran from the camp behind, shouting and running at a sprint over the light dusting of snow, weaving through trees. Her arm was raised up as a perch for the large white owl clutching to it, clearly a warged creature. In her free hand was a piece of paper; word from Mance.
Messages by owl. What next, a wizard school? Michael banished that thought before it became reality. Things were weird enough.
"It's time!" Ygritte shouted as she approached, "Look!" She half threw the message at Michael. He caught it with a swipe and opened it between his fingers. The writing was in a script that was similar in look to Nordic or Celtic runes. Michael gave the spearwife a blank look. He couldn't read it.
Ygritte understood at once, rolled her eyes and took the message back to read aloud. "It's Old Tongue. Ice River clans attacking Shadow Tower tomorrow, Dogshead climbing Wall east of Castle Black, Antler river clans will attack Eastwatch by the Sea in three days, bonfires set at Nine Weirwoods. We're ready. Do what you will. All those living beyond the Wall depend on it."
Michael paused, considering the words. The delay to the attack on Eastwatch wasn't good news. It meant the clans along the Antler River had not mustered quickly enough, which likely meant the forces from that castle would have been free to reinforce Castle Black before the threat to Eastwatch itself became apparent. It wasn't a problem for Plan A, but it would make Plans B and C far more bloody.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Styr growled, "You read Mance's words. Breach the Wall. You said you were prepared."
Michael ignored him and turned to the owl. "Tell Mance we started at once."
The owl hooted, its eyes losing focus for a moment before the bird flew off, released from its warging. Only after watching the now-free animal flap onto a branch of a nearby tree did Michael return his attention to the chiefs.
"Tell Giantsbane and Ryk to prepare the work crews. Until we give the signal, you must keep everyone at camp from getting closer than this position. Mag, that means you as well. Any that get any closer may be killed by our tools. What we are doing is extremely dangerous. And we will have to do it many times before we are through."
Styr and Mag glanced at each other in a strangely human motion for a sasquatch and a supposed god-among-men, but accepted the duty without dispute. And a good thing too. Michael could already see the camp stirring. Everyone knew what was about to happen.
"O'Neill, we've gotten word. Break out the first charge and meet us at the gate."
"Copy," the radio chirped back.
The process of cracking the Wall's defences began with the gas torch usually used to warm up the engine of the crawler. It was not unlike a blowtorch, just not as powerful, and it didn't need to be. All that was required of it was to melt the ice around some sections of the frozen portcullis gate.
Michael let Ygritte use the tool, as she had tagged along without a word and her inquiries about how the tunnel was going to be opened were distracting. She guessed the obvious quickly; namely that the torch was not the way he planned to break the stone and ice.
But she also understood the activity was related, and sung to herself as she melted a large hole between the metal bars. Michael pretended not to listen. Her singing voice is lovely.
"How many charges will we need?" Sayer asked out of the blue.
"We won't know for sure," Michael replied, "The first is going to be the largest, because the rest should have the ice and stone of the Wall itself to funnel the force in the directions we want. But even if we don't have enough, we'll be able to clear the remainder with tools quickly."
"Are you going to explain what a 'charge' is, Michael Duquesne?" Ygritte remarked.
"The description wouldn't do it justice," O'Neill replied, "Keep melting. You'll see what we mean with your own eyes."
Zheng spat to the side, ejecting something from her mouth. "Gah! All the meat here is half bone!," she proclaimed, before she returned to the topic at hand, "I still say it's a waste of our C4. We should've just swam the crawler around the Wall at Eastwatch on a calm day."
The Sergeant clicked his tongue. "It's a big snowmobile, Corporal," he retorted, "Not a fucking boat."
The Corporal levelled her near-black eyes at the Sergeant, sending the message Of course I know it isn't a fucking boat. The Sergeant glared back, and won the contest when she looked away, watching what Ygritte was doing as she was supposed to.
Michael had taken the decision himself, but hadn't explained the reasons. Feeling the need to now, he spoke into the awkward silence that began to brew. "Going via Eastwatch would mean contesting an entire castle openly, a castle that's much further away than this one. Sure, we'd save the C4, but we'd waste far more bullets and fuel. I don't want to walk to Winterfell. I don't want to be caught later with no bullets."
"There are castles south of the Wall," Zheng said, "Halfhand said so. Might be useful to have C4 to crack them open. Sir."
"Why would we want to crack open a castle?" O'Neill asked, "We're going to an island, Corporal, not a castle."
"An island where some book says there's magic leprechaun people," Zheng grumbled, "With respect, we have all lost our minds if we think the answer is really there."
Then I've lost my mind, Michael's mind urged him to say, but he stopped himself. Let's not undermine the chain of command by admitting it's that big of a long shot. Canada and the world, their world, needed to know about everything he had seen. And he had people he wanted to see again in his lifetime. So, he remained quiet.
"The Isle of Faces is real," Ygritte insisted, "It's known as a place of power and hidden knowledge. Tales of it have been passed down."
"Have you visited it yourself?" Zheng countered, "Do you know anyone who has? Or even anyone whose grandfather dropped by it?"
Ygritte stopped melting the ice and puffed up, ready to explode at the Corporal. Zheng was equally pissed, her hands tightening around her carbine as her eyes glanced at the torch.
With the mood was moving in an insubordinate and violent direction, Michael stepped between them. He needed all concerned to be focused on the tasks at hand; take the Wall, get to Winterfell, get the Starks to help with the Others, get to the Isle to figure out how to go home. "That's enough. See to the business in front of us. Worry about everything else later, when we're not about to breach an enemy fortress. Is that clear?"
"As crystal, sir," Zheng replied blankly. Though still wanting to say something, Ygritte returned to her work, to Michael's relief. There is a God, he decided. "Good, now shut up. That's an order."
"We're almost ready here, sir," O'Neill reported as he glanced over Ygritte's shoulder, "I'd say we're good to go, actually."
Michael looked at the cavity in the ice. It was behind the two thickest metal bars on the portcullis. This will reflect the explosive force back towards the tunnel and tear off the rest of the gate. I hope. He nodded and held his hand out for O'Neill to give him the required items.
First he tucked the bricks of explosive putty itself in behind the metal and arranged it in a rough cone in the hole. Second, the remote detonator was placed in the putty after some fiddling with the caps and his multi-tool. Finally, he armed the remote receiver.
There was now enough explosives ready to go that they could've atomised him if they had blown at that moment. Satisfied it would at least make a dent, he backed off a step and looked to the others. "Let's move out," he declared, "Not sure what the cold will do to the batteries, or if the meltwater from above will come in and screw up the whole thing."
Every Canadian present knew what he meant, and knew what sort of power they were dealing with, and moved off immediately. Michael was about to join them, but Ygritte fiddled with her weirwood longbow for a moment, the newly liberated one from the broken hands of a White Walker. "Is that it?" she asked, "Are those box things going to melt the ice?"
Michael smiled, and pulled her sleeve to get her moving quicker. "Something like that."
It took some time to get back to what O'Neill and Michael both agreed was a safe distance. The camp was deliberately placed in a drop in the ground, and wasn't directly opposite the tunnel either. Not that it matters, Michael thought to himself as he saw the crowds, Every single person is at the ridge-line to watch the fireworks. And they don't even know what fireworks are. There wasn't a soul left in the camp, where it was truly safe.
Michael knew he could do nothing about it despite the danger. The Wall was a thing of hatred for all Free Folk who lived near it, and the Thenns had heard of it at the very least. He had declared he'd break through it. The how was a matter of great curiosity. Strangely looking forward to indulging the curiosity, he joined the others in greeting Tormund, Styr, Mag, Ryk and the chief of the unicorn riders, a small man called Fallon.
"Welcome back, Lord Duquesne," Tormund thundered in greeting. He wore a large, toothy and genuine smile over his beard, but his clenched fists told that he was also impatient.
Michael deliberately slowed his steps, not about to be rushed. "Actually, I'd prefer if you referred to me as Prince from now on."
Ygritte snickered, punching him on the arm gently. She knew what he was talking about. All part of the plan.
Tormund did not understand. "What?" the chief of Ruddy Hall grumbled.
"I did say I wasn't a lord, remember?"
"But that doesn't mean yer…"
"Fire in the hole!" Michael held up the radio trigger for the explosives, and squeezed it.
In a flash of light and a bubble of super-heated steam, the ice and metal portcullis of the Nightfort screamed to flying pieces. The debris cut through the air in a wide semicircle, shards of iron stabbing into the snow, dirt and trees at every angle. Michael brought up his binoculars to observe the tunnel entrance, and as the steam cleared quickly in the cold air, saw that the first detonation had cut through to the packed stones inside it. Gotcha, he thought in triumph, as an eerie quiet descended around him.
He looked to see what everyone else was doing, and found them looking up near the top of the Wall. Quickly, Michael tracked where they were looking with his binos and found the reason. Deep cracks ran up the face of the structure, and ice was beginning to shift. Downwards.
"Oops," Zheng remarked out of the blue.
Michael watched with unease as gouges two metres deep from the tunnel entrance upwards carved away and fell. Each long chunk took a long time to fall, all seeming to originate from holes in the top of the Wall. His eyes tracked each of them, and other things falling too. He would've been relieved as he saw the ice did not fall in front of the tunnel itself directly, but rather to the sides… but the other things he saw falling were bodies. Bodies dressed in black cloaks.
No, no, no! He thought, There weren't supposed to be any Crows up there! Dead Crows meant there were probably living Crows somewhere nearby. And the Crows had ravens. The Nightfort was not so far from Castle Black that it couldn't be reinforced, and it would be a hell of a thing to get through the tunnel only to find its mouth heavily defended.
Michael opened his mouth to ask what the hell the pickets were smoking when they said there were no Night's Watchmen on the Wall.
But his words could not be heard over the sound of the mighty cheer that erupted the same moment they were spoken. The Free Folk shouted and roared, shook their fists in the air, hugged one another… some even began to cry. The great barrier between them and everything they ever wanted had been struck a blow unlike anything they had ever seen. The Giants and their mammoths stomped, hissed and growled, not liking the explosion at all. Even the Thenns were affected, struck dumb and still as statues, only their eyes moving, scanning every piece of damage and debris.
Michael tried to move and shout to get them to quiet down, but found himself entangled with Ygritte at once. She jumped and coiled her arms around his neck, covering his mouth with little kisses, her eyes wide with joy. He was tempted to give in to her at that moment, his worries melting away. "Gods…" she whispered in between the kisses.
Not liking the sound of that at all, he gingerly removed her from his face. "The gods have nothing to do with it," Michael said, trying to stop her, "And we're not through the Wall yet." She gave a single laugh, like it was a sure thing anyway, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Giving in, he let her do it for a moment. A long moment. Best get it out of her system. Or our system. Could be dead in a few days. She tasted like mint, somehow.
Thankfully, O'Neill and Tormund of all people began shouting at the top of their powerful voices, restoring order among the Free Folk. And reminding Michael where he was and what he was doing.
"Youse gobshites shut your holes! That's an order!"
"I don't think the Starks in Winterfell heard you! Quiet before I slap the jaws off your faces!"
Michael fully extracted himself from Ygritte's arms, though she grabbed his sleeve to slow him and followed as he made for Tormund. The chief was slapping some young members of his tribe upside their heads for being the last to be quiet, but noticed his arrival.
"Well, Canadian, you proved your word!" he declared, before raising his voice to the crowd, "Now it's our turn, go clear the ice from the tunnel entrance so we can see such a sight again!"
The Free Folk gave another cheer, more muted this time, before a great rush towards the Wall began. Men, women and children pretending to be one or the other made for the fallen debris to clear a path and pull as much stone from the entrance as they could. Satisfied with his handiwork, Tormund barked his har har har laugh for almost a full minute. "Well now, it is a thing of great luck that we did not face you in battle! I doubt I would have liked to be sent to the Moon in pieces."
"There were Crows falling from the Wall, Tormund," Michael said sternly, "We're screwed if any survived up there. And that's two mistakes the wargs have made now."
"Har! You didn't look closely enough then. And you do not know the tale of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels. A good story, and a true one it seems. Shows the Crows for the shits they really are. Though I was surprised to see them myself…"
Michael looked to Ygritte for an explanation, but she just shrugged.
"Tormund, what the actual hell are you talking about?"
"Follow me and find out." With that, the chief of Ruddy Hall wandered off in the direction of the Wall.
Michael instructed O'Neill to grab the next set of explosives, and walked after Tormund. Sayer, Ryk and Ygritte came with, and together they made their way into the debris field.
It wasn't long before the chief of Ruddy Hall found one of the dead Crows. Even as he approached, Michael could tell something was wrong. What parts of the skin he could see were yellowed, and it seemed to sag in defiance of gravity. Its pose was twisted. The clothes the body wore seemed tattered and more grey than black, and were also defying what gravity said they should be clinging to.
He's been frozen solid, Michael realised, And not recently.
Tormund kicked the body over, revealing the head under a black woollen scarf. The yellow and brown skin had stretched back and split, the skeletal face moulded into an eternal scream under a mop of rust-brown hair. What happened?!
"By the gods," Ryk complained, lip curling in disgust, "What is that, a mangled Crow?"
"Meet one of the sentinels," Tormund smirked, "Never thought to meet one myself… but it is proof of the power of your tools as much as anything else."
"Where did he come from?" Michael asked in disgust, trying to figure it out himself, "Do they put their most honoured dead in the Wall or something?"
Tormund grunted. "More like their most dishonoured dead. Mance told the story better than I will… but long ago, some Crows deserted south, led by some lordling who didn't want to be a Crow."
"Who would want that?" Ygritte smirked.
Tormund grunted agreement and continued. "The deserters flew down to the keep of the lordling's father to hide, but the father gave them up to their Lord Commander. As punishment, the Crows made holes in the Wall and buried them alive inside the ice, forcing them to stand guard forever."
And every Crow who ever served at the Nightfort would know, Michael thought, Know that they were stepping on the graves of the deserters. A very effective way to keep men in line. Barbaric, but effective.
"Kneelers," Ygritte muttered, hatred in her voice.
"Aye, they find interesting ways to punish every man who wants to be free," Tormund said, "It's said the lordling's father joined the Night's Watch in his later years to be with his son. I know not if it was an act of regret, but the story makes my blood burn."
Michael frowned. "Think if you gave up your son for Mance and you'll figure it out."
There was quiet and stillness from all for some time after that. Michael couldn't help but wonder what the deserters' last moments would've been like. It was only when Sayer raised his rifle towards the Wall, examining it through his scope, that broke that particular horror for him.
"The holes must've been weak points that the force of the C4 broke," the Private surmised, "The ice did peel off from the top, sir."
"It has been a long summer," Tormund added, "And there are not enough Crows to add ice where it has melted."
Michael shifted his weight, seeing an immediate problem. "We'll have to burn the bodies. We can't wait until they thaw to decapitate them, and I'd rather not have people hacking away at frozen corpses. We can't have dead men laying about on the ground for some White Walker to raise and attack us with. I doubt they need to wait for the bodies to thaw." Not when they're made of ice themselves.
"Aye," Ryk agreed, "I'll find some folks to see to it. I hope to never see a wight again in my life."
"You will see them, boy," Tormund growled, "And many of them. Thanks to these Canadians, you'll have the Wall between them and you for some time yet, at least. But do not doubt you will face them in battle again."
Ryk scowled, not liking the picture Tormund painted or being called a boy. For all intents and purposes, he was a chief now, after all. He left, moving towards some stragglers who had stayed back, to get a pyre detail together.
"I need to go set the next charge," Michael said, "With so many hands at work, clearing the rubble isn't going to be any problem."
"I'm coming too!" Ygritte declared cheerily, the spell of anger at the kneelers shattered, "Next time, I'll be the one to strike a blow to the Wall. Using that thing!" She pointed at Michael's waist.
"The trigger?"
"Aye."
"If you don't kiss me after. You're lucky the Sergeant didn't see you."
"No promises, Michael Duquesne. Watching that Wall fall made my heart race. And I like your fuzz." She quickly gave the side of his face a stroke, brushing her fingers across the short beard developing there. He hadn't shaved since the start of the march.
Of course she likes the beard, he thought wearily.
Explosion after explosion had boomed from the tunnel for hours, each one clearing away more and more iced rubble than the last. It also stripped the inside of the arches supposedly built to hold up the roof, revealing seamless black stone underneath. The tunnel utterly dark, the glittering ice nowhere to be seen within. And only the light provided by electric torches seemed sufficient for the work of clearing the rubble out of the way.
No wonder it is called the Nightfort, Michael thought the second time he entered the tunnel proper, Its foundations are made from a stone that sucks the light away. He guessed that later Crows had covered up the stuff due to their finding it just as disconcerting as he did. It seemed greasy or like glass, like 'dragonglass' even, but it was rough like rock to the touch.
The seventh detonation was the last, and Michael knew it beforehand.
Mance had provided a general idea of how thick the Wall was at both the base and the top, and Sayer had a laser rangefinder. The rest was simple mathematics. Lucky too. We only have enough C4 for one more try after this.
Michael. made preparations accordingly. The crawler gained a crude wooden moose bumper/bulldozer blade. The Thenns and his auxiliaries were made ready for battle and placed at either side of the mouth of the tunnel. But it would be Canadians going in first, just as night fell.
The last explosion's sound was different, more muted; its power finally released out of the other side of the tunnel. There was no time for relief or elation this time, for Thenn, Free Folk or Canuck.
"We're through," Michael stated to Zheng, as he climbed into the crawler, "Drive."
"Yes, sir," came the enthusiastic reply.
The engine roared as the Corporal swung the machine forward and into the gaping maw of the tunnel.
The world went entirely black for a few seconds, before the headlights lit up, illuminating the still icy ground and causing the black stone around them to glisten. The dying embers of the day's sun peeked out ahead and grew larger. The vehicle lurched as Zheng eased up on the pedal, just in time to lessen the impact of the rubble on the bumper, keeping the tracks of the crawler from climbing over it.
Michael stood up through the roof of the crawler to the machine gun, as planned. Yet no force of Stark men or Crows came jumping out to attack or fling arrows at him.
Just like that, he thought, We're through the Wall. The obstacle to all progress had fallen to their efforts in just a day. His throat tightened. From one perspective, it was anticlimactic. From another, it was just the start of a lot of hard work, hard fighting and no respite. All to get home.
Feelings that were not helped by what was actually there to greet them on the other end of the tunnel; a forested ruin.
The lights of the crawler shone across the buildings and towers of the Nightfort as Zheng pulled it around a Crazy Ivan. The structures were more or less heaps of stone, most having at least one wall down or no roof. Some looked damaged recently. The explosions. Probably the last one.
A stairway to the top of the Wall was cut directly into the ice, to Michael's surprise, a zig zag just barely visible in the last red light bouncing off the clouds above. It made him wonder how anyone could try to climb up it without slipping and sliding the whole way down.
In between the buildings and sometimes growing up out of them were trees, full grown and full of leaves. A massive weirwood dominated the space, sprung up from right in the middle of one of structures from an underground space.
Zheng brought the crawler to a halt beside the tunnel mouth. As soon as that had Michael led the way in dismounting again, establishing a post at the mouth of the tunnel. They doused the headlights and flipped down their goggles, the world turning a sickly green again. Seeing in the dark was one advantage he planned to exploit to the hilt.
The four of them began their watch on the ruins and the trees, waiting for the Free Folk to catch up through the tunnel. For a little while, it was just the locale and the wind, no matter which way Michael looked or pointed his rifle. If there's someone out there, they're being smart.
"Creepy," Sayer remarked over the radio, "Like we're being watched."
Zheng looked over at the Private. "Sayer, you killed four demons on your own," she replied flatly, "Anything watching should be afraid of you."
Laughter burst out of Michael, with O'Neill joining him. It was a true thing well said.
"Sayer the Slayer," O'Neill chuckled, "That's what they're calling him now." That set Zheng off, asking 'if he does vampires too'.
The Private seemed unamused, which made Michael feel a little guilty. After all, the fight against the Walkers was likely the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to the kid. Or to any soldier of Canada, given the metaphysical implications.
"Alright, ease off," he said after a while, "Sayer, it is creepy, I think so too."
"It's that fucking dark stone, sir," O'Neill said with a dismissive wave, "I'd bet a month's salary on it."
And I wouldn't take that bet, Michael thought, quietly.
"Or it's a ruined castle at night," Zheng added, loosening her outer coat with one hand while keeping her weapon up with the other, "It's warmer here too. Must be five degrees higher at least."
"The Wall's stopping some of the hot air coming up from the south I think," Michael guessed, "One more way it's screwing everyone who lives north of it, I suppose."
"Here they come," Sayer mumbled, looking back at the tunnel.
They meaning a full mass of Free Folk warriors, led by Ryk and Ygritte, fiery torches in one hand, weapons in the other. They were hurrying a little too much. It was hard to tell at first if it was fear of the black stone the explosions had revealed or eagerness to get through in the first place. But then Michael saw the greedy grins on all their faces. Good lord, it's going to be work keeping them from stealing anything that's not nailed down. Not that there's anything worth taking here.
The mass spread out in a crude line of battle once out of the tunnel, expecting some sort of attack. When none was apparent, Styr, his son Sigorn, Ryk and Ygritte broke out of the formation and wandered over.
"What now?" Ryk asked in Common, "Are there Crows up on top do you think?" The language gap was filled by Sigorn's muttered running translation for his father.
"That's what we'll find out," Michael said, "Ryk, you lead some people up those steps. Preferably with ice climbing shoes, the antler ones you showed me before. Go see what you can see, report back. See an enemy, light up the flare I gave you and wave it."
Ryk executed a salute, to Michael's amusement, before running off to grab some people to do as he was commanded. No doubt he'll have plenty of volunteers, Michael thought, Most of the Laughing Tree tribe have never been to the top of the Wall before.
Styr pointed at the larger ruined buildings with a bronze tipped spear. "The Thenns will search the hold. If there are Crows here, they are hiding. Mance said there are many tunnels. The power of your magicks has scared them beneath the ground." The man had said it as if he was the one giving the orders.
"As has our numbers," Sigorn added, his father approving the statement, "There can be no army of Andals here."
Andals? Michael had no idea what the man was talking about. "I want the Crows alive, Magnar. I want to know what they know. We still don't know how many Crows there really are."
"That isn't a request," O'Neill chimed in.
Jaw clenched, Styr inclined his head to acquiesce, before leaving with Sigorn. Reluctantly. Michael got the feeling that if anyone else had given the Magnar an order like that, he would've buried his spear in their gut. Including Mance, who would've got his way by persuasion, if he asked nicely. It's amazing what a little plastique can do to a guy's disposition, Michael thought darkly.
"He doesn't like you," Ygritte said, getting too close.
"Doesn't need to," Michael replied, taking a step away, "He respects me. Or my gun, at least."
"Fuck his opinion," O'Neill declared, "The baldy prick thinks entirely too much of himself, sir. The Earless God himself."
Ygritte snorted and waved the rest of the Laughing Tree tribe to join the Thenns in the search. Both were soon dividing up their force to search all the buildings, the traffic out of the tunnel cleared for everyone else still north of the Wall.
With the giants and unicorn riders coming next, some management would be required. Michael dispatched O'Neill and Sayer to aid with the securing of the place, while Zheng and Ygritte helped him with the other tribes. Soon the compound of the Nightfort was filled to the brim with giants and their mammoths, as well as foul-smelling unicorns and their riders.
Tormund and his Ruddy Hall tribe came last. His command of the rearguard had been the result of a lost bet on how many detonations it would take to get through the Wall. Somehow one of the unicorn rider chiefs got it absolutely correct after only the second detonation.
"Wallbreaker! At last!" Tormund bellowed as he exited, his torch guttering as he waved it, "Thought the shadows in there would never let me go."
Never getting rid of that nickname… "Well, that was the easy part," Michael said, "We've still got to storm Castle Black." He immediately regretted mentioning it.
"Aye, and it'd be a lot easier if you didn't insist on trying to save Crow lives," Tormund bitched, "Their kneeler ways won't let them accept us, why bother."
Beating a dead horse. "Some won't, the knights from way south," Michael agreed, "But they also happen to be the men who declared war on both of us after we showed them the wights. While their Lord Commander was injured. Which makes them traitors to all humanity, and even their own order maybe."
Tormund scratched his beard. "And we do know how to deal with traitors, north or south of the Wall. But let's not tread on that path again. It is tiresome."
Follow your own advice, Michael thought, more annoyed than he wanted to be. He was fatigued enough already.
"Aye, let's not," Ygritte agreed, "Crows don't deserve our mercy, but we'll follow where you lead, Michael Duquesne." She stepped closer again. Michael sighed. Shouldn't have let her kiss me. Shouldn't have enjoyed it.
"Many a Crow wants to fly free," Zheng remarked idly, "They're not all at the Wall out of choice. Hell, even the Stark kid was there because their society said he couldn't have a real future." Isn't that the damn truth.
The radio crackled, with Sayer's voice coming out, trying to report something. Michael strained to hear it. "One thing at a time," he said to the others nearby, before using the comms, "Sayer, repeat your last?"
"Something you have to see, LT," the Private stated, his signal much clearer all of a sudden, "In the kitchen, the one with the weirwood."
"Copy," Michael said, turning to the others, "Tormund, would you mind setting a guard on the tunnel? Zheng will stay at this end."
"Don't want anything else following us through," the Giantsbane said quietly, "It'll be done."
"Good. Ygritte, with me." No need to have her stir the pot with Tormund.
The spearwife double-taked but followed, and together, she and Michael went into the octagonal building that had blood red leaves blowing out of it. The inside was gutted, though you could tell it was a kitchen from its layout. However, in the middle was a large well, the type with steps you could use to get to the water.
Sayer climbed out of it, with some difficulty, and waved to them. "LT, you won't believe what we found," he said, "This way."
"You found something in a well?" Ygritte asked, while moving to it, "In the middle of this pile of stones?" Her impression of what a castle was supposed to be was greatly damaged, it seemed.
"Just follow," Sayer said to her.
Grumbling, Ygritte did just that. Michael pat her on the shoulder as consolation, and climbed down into the well himself. The way down wasn't long, and O'Neill stood there, looking at another passage leading off from the lowest step. Staring at what appeared to be nothing.
Disturbed, Michael took his weapon in hand.
The motion caught the Sergeant's attention at last. "No need for that, sir," he said, "I don't think it's a threat." He pointed.
At the end of a small but tall corridor, there was a face. A glowing, eight foot high face carved out of white weirwood; a face of an old man, wrinkles and all. It wasn't exactly terrifying, but Michael didn't take his hands off his weapon. "What the hell…"
"It gets worse, sir," O'Neill replied, "Go a little closer."
Michael eyed the Sergeant warily, but figured it wouldn't be lethal if O'Neill was the one suggesting it. He took a few steps forward. The face opened its eyes and its mouth.
"Who are you?" spoke a deep voice, which seemed to come not just from the face but from the walls around the corridor too.
More magic. Michael stopped, not wanting to get any closer. But he answered, almost automatically. "Michael Duquesne."
The face did not reply. It closed its eyes again.
"Did the same thing for us," O'Neill called.
Ygritte stepped forward, joining Michael. The face opened its eyes again, and repeated its question.
"Who are you?"
"Ygritte!" the spearwife declared.
Again, the eyes drooped closed. Michael got the picture.
"It's a door," he said, "Or a safe. It's looking for a password."
"Which we don't have," Sayer said.
"Exactly," Michael said, "Which makes it nothing we need to worry about right now. This place has been abandoned for a long time, and I doubt even the Crows know what the password is now. Let's get out of here."
"But…" Ygritte started.
"We've got a long march ahead," Michael said, walking away, "I have no intention of solving every magical mystery in Westeros."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The next chapter will be Jon Snow