The vehicle kept moving for another six hours.
No sign of the Others followed, even before sunrise. Ygritte lost enough of her fear of the vehicle's speed and gave instructions to the best routes. Soon, it was speeding along relatively wide paths and game trails that wound through the forest. Luckily, the pines did not like to grow close to one another, so it was a relatively straight shot to their destination.
They all slept in rotation, except for Zheng. She was the only one who could drive the crawler smoothly. Michael and the others napped as best they could in the shifting and rolling of the trail. The man on watch spent their time up on the machinegun mount, canvass covering the hole in the roof around their waist.
Michael was on duty when the Fist of the First Men came into view, the vehicle approaching from the south-east.
As places that could be called a strongpoint, it was impressive. It had the geometry of a ramp. A gentle but still defensible slope from south to north, finishing with a near sheer drop at the north and ones nearly as bad on the east side. The peak was flat, topped with small ruined buildings, and was surrounded by a short and broken wall, looking like a broken crown from a distance. It had to be a hundred feet higher than the ground around it at least.
Michael had to admit it was well named. Its overall shape looked like a titan had punched up through the ground at an angle.
It was also inhabited. The smoke of camp fires and cooking could be seen and smelled. Tents and lean-tos covered any surface from the bottom of the slope to the very top, stitched furs draped over wood and whalebone supports.
It was not a pleasant surprise.
"Zheng, stop and wake Ygritte," Michael growled with his comms open, "Send her up to me. Now."
"Copy," the corporal yawned back. The crawler came to a gentle halt. There was a muffled cry from under the canvass. Zheng had not been gentle about waking their prisoner-guide.
Ygritte appeared from below, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She had popped up rather close, and Michael repositioned a little to give her room.
"Are we here?" she mumbled, "I couldn't keep my eyes open…"
"Yeah, we're here," Michael said sternly, "Care to explain why there's an army camped out?"
Ygritte stared bleary eyed across the valley around the Fist. "Told you Mance was closer to here," she smiled sleepily, "Looks like he's gathered all the clans from the Frozen Shore and the south forest."
"I didn't want to meet your King until I had found a place to retreat to," Michael warned, "You lied to me."
"Didn't know Mance would be here," Ygritte countered, waking up enough to sound as defiant as she had the night before, "How was I to know that he'd move sooner? I don't have your radio to speak to my people, Canadian."
Michael looked away, unable to decide if she was lying or had genuinely just been overtaken by events. Dead men were rising, it seemed like moving quickly was common sense by now. But then, so was safety in numbers. Either way, it moved up his schedule.
"You're staying up here," he said to Ygritte, changing places with her, "Front and centre, so your people can see you. Soon as we see any Free Folk, you better start waving and acting friendly. I do not want to get into a fight."
"You'd lose that fight."
"I know, that's the point."
Michael ordered Zheng to get the crawler moving again, at a 'polite' pace. O'Neill and Sayer woke up groggily, but the situation acted like a shot of strong coffee. They soon had their weapons back in their hands and their eyes on the swivel for threats.
It did not take long before Michael spotted Free Folk archers atop platforms and the among the massive trees. Almost all of them armed themselves or fled at the sight of the vehicle.
Ygritte played her role, waving to them. It prevented any immediate violence, because she was dressed and presented herself quite obviously as one of them. Though she still kept her own bow close by. The weapon was made of the same species of wood as the Laughing Tree, and to Michael, seemed almost like some sort of polymer in sunlight.
The closer to the camp they got, the more remains of fires could be seen. Charred pits blackened with soot ringed it. Defence against the Others. At least we know big fires work, Michael thought, as they passed a pyre for the dead.
A company of warriors made its appearance to block their entry to the camp-proper. It was far larger than that the bone-wearing 'Rattleshirt' had sent to kill Michael's fireteam, at least twice as big. Spears, axes, bows and clubs all in hand.
It was led by a man of average height, thick arms and a large belly. A great white beard descended from his chin. He wore chainmail on his upper torso and brown bearskin across his shoulders.
The leader did not seem particularly afraid of the metal monstrosity slowly and loudly rumbling towards him. He barked orders at his troops and a triple line of spearmen assembled at his back. More disciplined than Rattleshirt's people, Michael noted. He aimed the GPMG to bear at the leader as Zheng stopped the vehicle. But he did not light up the man. The Free Folk refrained from shooting their arrows too. Both sides examined the other.
It was a stand-off for about a minute, until a shout from the ranks behind broke the stare of the Free Folk leader. "Ygritte!" the call sounded over the massed mumbling.
A short man with an unfortunately narrow head pushed his way through the warriors. Michael was reminded a little of a fish, if a fish had a twisted brown beard. He couldn't have been much older than Ygritte was. Michael trained the MG on him instead, as he ran past the Free Folk leader and towards the crawler.
"Hold," Ygritte urged, before shouting back, "Ryk! I bet you never dreamed to see me return like this!"
"You could say that!" 'Ryk' replied with a strained smile, gesturing to the vehicle, "Who are these? What is this beast?"
Ygritte glanced at Michael. "'tis a long tale."
"Then come down and tell it," Ryk said, "There are a great many people who would hear." He turned to the spear line behind him, every man and woman in which was listening with great interest.
Without asking, Ygritte ducked back down into the crawler.
"Hey, wait!" Michael said, "I didn't…"
Too late. She was already down and out the front rightside door, O'Neill too far to grab her. She half-ran over to 'Ryk' and they briefly embraced, before exchanged words rapidly. And too quietly for Michael to hear over the sound of the engine.
O'Neill cursed like a sailor for a moment. "We take any more prisoners, I'm tying them up with duct-tape and zip-ties. Do you want me to go out there and drag her back, sir? She was the only leverage we had over these… gentlemen."
Michael frowned, doubting they would care. Ygritte had been a warrior in a warband, not a leader of any kind, as far as he could tell. The only leverage she provided was of a different type. "No, take my place on the MG."
"Armed diplomacy time, is it sir?"
"I always was a gambler."
Michael disembarked the crawler through the same door that Ygritte had, closing it loudly behind him.
Heads turned as he approached her, her friend reaching for a knife but being stopped by her. Michael put his thumb on the selector of his rifle, flicking it to full auto again. Every step he took seemed to cause the Free Folk to bristle more.
Ygritte waved him over. "This is Michael," she said to Ryk, "He's the one."
Her friend looked him up and down with no shortage of scepticism.
Well, that's vague, Michael thought, She must be referring to shooting the White Walker. At least she doesn't seem to want me flayed and displayed for taking her prisoner.
Swallowing any pride he might have about parlaying with people who attack at random, he offered his gloved hand to the man. "Good to meet you," he said with a slight smile, "You people must be brave to live where dead men walk around killing folks."
Ryk's brow raised up. He accepted the hand. "We don't have a choice," he said, amiably enough, "We be brave or we be dead." His accent was the same strange Nordic-British as Ygritte's, albeit deeper.
"True," Michael said, "It seems we're in the same boat now."
Nodding, Ryk approved of the sentiment.
Another man emerged from behind the spear line.
Michael's eyes were drawn to the iron helmet he was wearing; large black wings spread backwards from the temples. It had bronze reinforcements that were polished to a shine. Long greying brown hair flowed from it onto more chainmail made of a darker iron. A strange cloak of black wool and red silk billowed from his frame in the wind. He was about average height for the Free Folk.
Michael knew at once who this was.
Even before he strode across the light snow and the white-bearded leader fell in behind. It was the way everyone looked at him. Ygritte, Ryk, the spearmen and archers… they all watched carefully, waiting for the penny to drop.
The King Beyond the Wall stepped forwards and took off his ravenwing helmet, revealing a sharp face and piercing brown eyes, his mouth flanked by laughter-lines.
Best foot forward, Michael thought to himself. He turned to the man and stood to attention, and gave the man as formal a salute as he could muster. "Your Majesty."
A broad grin erupted from the King, the laughter-lines creasing deeply.
"Har!" shouted the white-bearded man with him, "That's a new one! And what is he doing with his hand?"
"I believe that is a salute, Tormund," the King said in good humour, "But an unusual one to be sure."
"Kneelers and their strange ways," the white-bearded Tormund agreed.
Michael found the exchange disarming in the extreme. This was not how he thought meeting a king would go in the slightest. But it was nothing that prevented him from making his play. "I am Lieutenant Michael Duquesne. Third Battalion, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. If at all possible, I'd like to sit and speak with you. We require assistance."
The King regarded him coolly. "As you already seem to know, I am Mance Rayder," he said, "You are trespassing, Lord Duquesne. In the strangest of manners, but trespassing nonetheless. Why should any man, King or not, sit and speak with a trespasser? Give him aid?"
Just as prickly as Michael expected. He knew the next part would require some finesse.
"We are not on your lands of our own free will. We were shipwrecked."
"That strikes my ear as not entirely the truth," the King said, an edge of menace in his tone now, "Now I want to know why I should not seize you all and take what is yours for my own."
A mistep then. Michael shifted his weight, trying to play it off as awkwardness. But he was really moving so it would be easier to bring his rifle to bear on the man.
In response, the one called Tormund drew a short spear from a loop of leather behind his back and held it down by his leg. The King did nothing, awaiting a more verbal response. Michael did not have a verbal answer. Anything he might offer would mean fighting a war he felt he had no part in. Anything he might threaten would mean death.
"He killed an Walker!" Ygritte blurted out, "With that weapon he is holding."
That's a lie, Michael thought. He was sure that the thing he had shot more than fifty times got up again, and he was sure that Ygritte knew that too. The King however, took note, and not just because of the words but who was speaking them.
"He's no Crow, no kneeler," she insisted, "He is not from the South or anywhere we know. Look at him. Have you ever seen cloth like he is wearing? Or runes like those on it?"
That must've rung true to the King. He frowned, scanning Michael from top to bottom. The ice had been broken. "The girl speaks well on your behalf," he said, "What has she seen, Lord Duquesne? What happened exactly for you to make an ally of a spearwife? Did you save her from the White Walkers? And if you are not from the South, where do you hail from?"
And there it was. The big problem. The question had been asked. Time to bite the bullet. "We are not from this world," Michael replied, "We were shipwrecked on yours."
There was nothing but silence for what seemed like ten minutes.
The King's eyes bored into him. He did not seem to disbelieve, but there was something about the news he did not like. The one called Tormund scoffed, once his mind had processed what he had just heard. "What nonsense is this? Have you been eating the wrong mushrooms?"
Michael shrugged. "You should believe your eyes," he said, "As Ygritte here pointed out, surely nothing I am carrying or have is like anything you have ever seen. A carriage that moves without horses? My clothes? My weapons and armour?"
"Your way of speaking too," the King chipped in, "You speak the Common tongue, but you add words from High Valyrian. Yet I get the impression that neither of them are the words of your mother."
Michael blinked. He had assumed that everyone just spoke English. Magic, he realised, My words are being translated by magic. In hindsight, it seemed obvious. How could a person on another world be speaking a language from his own?
He recovered just before his pause got awkward. "Exactly. Either I am from so far away that it is impossible for you to know that I am lying, or I am telling you the truth."
The King turned his helmet in his hands for a moment. Considering it.
"Here is what I propose," Michael continued, "You may not believe what happened from my mouth, but you will from Ygritte's." He gestured to her. "She is one of your people. She is a free woman with no obligation to lie on my behalf. Speak to her. We will withdraw to a safe distance."
"Then what?" Tormund asked.
"If you agree to talk with me, I want to hear about anything you know about moving to other worlds," Michael replied, "Any legends to do with magic like that. We can speak about fair exchange for that information as well."
The King smiled again. "And if I decide I do not want you to return?"
"We'll leave," Michael promised, "We'll head south to the Wall and try our luck with the Crows that guard it. I know you are at war with them. We will say nothing about you or this army. I suspect keeping that quiet is in both of our interests. If I told them we had come to you first or they suspected that, conflict would be inevitable."
"Smart man," the King agreed. He exchanged looks with Tormund, who seemed to deflate and put away his spear.
The King smiled. "Very well. You claim to have seen and fought our enemy. You have earned the trust of one of our people. I think you're utterly mad, myself, but I cannot refute your words either. I will speak with Ygritte, and see if we cannot help each other." He offered his hand.
Michael shook it. The King squeezed hard and enjoyed it. Michael squeezed right back. The contest only ended when Tormund held up the roughest loaf of bread Michael had ever seen, sprinkled with salt of all things.
The King must've detected confusion about the offer. "You and your company should eat this. It will make you my guest. Which will protect you under guest right and myself as your host. There is no need for you to withdraw, until I make a decision or the next day dawns."
Wondering if that was simply an excuse to Michael took the bread, tore off a piece and ate it. It was as rough on the tongue as it was on the eyes, though its taste was not bad.
"Enjoy that," the King smirked, "It's one of the last pieces of real bread North of the Wall." He turned to leave, Tormund following him, before sending a look towards Ygritte. He expected her to follow.
She held up a hand, asking him to wait, which caused both the Free Folk leaders to smile as she turned to her former captor.
"I'll see you again soon, Michael Duquesne," she promised.
Michael let out an amused breath. "Happy to have you," he replied, honestly enough. She seemed satisfied with that answer.
He walked back to the vehicle to share the bread.
She walked off with her King, her friend in tow.
The conversations between the King Beyond the Wall and Ygritte the Spearwife took most of the day.
In the mean time, the Free Folk established a perimeter around the Canadian position, and the Canadians watched them with their firearms, eating candy to keep themselves going.
Zheng and Sayer were caught up by O'Neill on what information Ygritte had provided at the pyre site. Michael also informed them they were the only ones in fact speaking English.
"More magic," O'Neill complained, "What next? Dragons?"
"At least this magic is on our side," Sayer said, "It's better than 'White Walkers' and Night of the Living Dead."
"Could be very useful if we're stuck here," Zheng agreed, "And I think that's exactly what we are. Nothing Ygritte told you about matches anything about Earth."
"Enough of that talk," Michael warned, "If there is a door to here, there is a door home. If there's a door home, someone knows about it. It's a matter of finding them, and they're more likely to be near the door than far away from it."
The fatigue for the fresh revelations rendered them all silent for a long time afterwards.
As sieges went, it was casual. It had been clear some sort of accord with the King, and there was no desire among the Free Folk to provoke the people that rode a roaring metal beast with glowing eyes.
The quiet was broken at last when O'Neill called out from the MG on the roof.
"Jesus Christ!" he said, "There's fecking sasquatches coming up the path!"
There was a commotion as everyone inside the vehicle climbed to look. Michael pulled himself up to join the Sergeant above the roof hatch. The man had not been hallucinating.
From the path to the Free Folk camp, a group was approaching. Most of them were men. One of those was Tormund. An envoy from the King? Or there to command the attack? Michael could not tell, but he did not care.
Because there were three shaggy sasquatches leading the way. They had to be ten feet tall, long shaggy brown hair flowing off them. Their faces too were classic Bigfoot; small eyes, noses that barely protruded, wide mouths. They all carried tree trunks blackened from fire as clubs.
The Sergeant immediately aimed the MG at them. "If those things get close, I'm not sure we can kill them fast enough, sir," he said, "Permission to feed them lead from here?"
Michael remembered the bread and salt. "No, they're not here to harm us," he said, "I get the feeling they take their little hospitality ceremony with the food seriously."
"That's no reason to let them get close enough to smack us with those clubs, sir."
"Agreed. Tell me when and I'll warn them off. The fat man walking with them will recognise me. If they don't comply, warning shots first."
"Grand."
Sayer laughed randomly, his voice coming over the comms. "I've just realised something," he chuckled, "What if the sasquatches from our world are actually originally from this one? Wouldn't that mean there is a way home? Maybe they come back here when they're not hunting on Earth or something, which is why they're so hard to find?"
Michael's spirits raised immediately. The sasquatch was a legend he had not believed back home, a tale for conspiracy theorists. But he could not shake the feeling that the creatures moving up the trail towards him were intelligent. Perhaps they could hide in the vastness of North America temporarily, if they were smart.
Perhaps the way home was not so hidden after all.
"I hope so," Zheng replied to the Private, "And if you're right Sayer, I will buy your drinks for the rest of your life."
"Hear hear," O'Neill sounded off, "Lieutenant, they're getting as close to us as I feel comfortable with. If you wouldn't mind?"
Michael sat on the roof of the vehicle, raising himself up a little higher. "That's far enough!" he called, addressing the sasquatches rather than Tormund. A test to see if they were in fact intelligent.
The sasquatches stopped and rested their clubs against their shoulders. "You are ones from other world?" the lead Bigfoot said, the bass of his voice shaking the air.
Michael grinned at O'Neill. The magic translator was working.
"We are, and I'd be happy to discuss it!" he continued, "But first we must speak with the one called Tormund!" The sasquatches inclined their heads in agreement, and waved the barrel of a man in question to approach.
Tormund came forward alone. "You speak the Old Tongue?" he asked as he got close, "And well enough that the giants could understand you. How could that be if you are not from here?"
So they're called giants by the Free Folk. Michael wasn't sure if Tormund was actually speaking the language from before or this 'Old Tongue'. The magic seemed to translate everything. Though the complexity of what he was saying did seem to suggest it was the language from before.
"We're a people of many talents. What is the decision of your King?"
"He agrees to your terms," Tormund said, "Says to join him in his tent."
"And where is that?"
"Top of the hill."
Michael looked on. That was some distance away. No wonder it had taken so long to get back with the reply. Time he had no intention of waiting again. And there was something else to consider too. It could be a trap, he thought, a ruse to get us in amongst his army, where we can't run away as easily. Guest right or otherwise.
There was an easy way to test that, however.
Michael leaned over the side of the crawler. "Want a ride?" he asked Tormund.
The man's eyes widened, before warming and being joined with a wide toothy smile.
"Har! I thought you would never ask!"
The crawler made good speed as the trails opened up to those cleared by the people in the camp, only having to slow where some of the Free Folk had pitched their tents too closely together. Zheng handled the machine like an expert however, and the sasquatches had tried sprinting in an odd loping manner to catch up.
The sight of Tormund Giantsbane riding the metal beast while outrunning actual giants was enough to drop the jaw of every man, woman and child who saw it. Cooking food over open fires, tending to shaggy sheep and goats, making weapons, playing, dancing; it all paused for a moment as the vehicle passed.
Michael enjoyed it, despite the smell of stale roast chicken and sweat off of the man in close proximity to him. Such awe would prevent enthusiasm for attacking him and his team. But it was also just fun to bamboozle people with the technology too.
Or perhaps it was just the continuing shock of his situation that made it feel that way.
The climb to the top of the Fist of the First Men was a piece of cake for the Bandvagn, though its engine made a little more noise. Soon, Zheng had manoeuvred it into a defensible place away from most of the tents, in the shattered remains of a one-floor building built of large stones.
"That was bracing! Har!" Tormund joked, slapping Michael on the shoulder, "I really hope you go along with what Mance has to say. With a beast like this, you would be a great ally against the Crows. And who knows what the Others must think of such a thing!"
The Others were not as impressed, Michael thought. "Well, let's hear what he has to say," he said, indulging the chieftain a little, "I hope he has what we need. We want to go home."
"And we want to live free of dead men killing us," Tormund said, "Follow me. Take one other only." The man climbed out of the vehicle by swivelling on the roof and jumping down directly, rather than through the cabin and doors. He made his way out of the shattered building.
"Christ he smelled," O'Neill complained from below, "Having his arse that close to my head put the fear of God into me."
Michael was glad himself that he had been out in the open air, cold or no cold.
"Orders, sir?" Zheng asked.
"You'll come with me, Corporal. You're the one who's tamed the metal beast, after all."
Zheng liked that description, wiping tears of utter tiredness out of her eyes.
Michael tapped his sergeant on the arm. "O'Neill, Sayer, you'll guard the vehicle. There'll be curious folks and thieves. Keep the former off it. Warn then shoot the latter. Don't tolerate threats. Refuel as well. If we need to make an exit, I don't want to have to stop at night."
"Yes, sir," O'Neill said with enthusiasm.
Michael climbed down and exited, Zheng following. They followed Tormund's tracks in the crunchy snow, finding him waiting by another collapsed building in the midst of tents. Other Free Folk kept their distance, but whispered to one another. Kids and dogs were kept away too.
The King's Tent was the largest that Michael had seen in camp.
Its surface was made from polar bear pelts, over a whalebone frame. Huge antlers from an elk crowned the thing. Advertising it was the royal residence, perhaps. Two spearmen stood guard outside, but they parted for Tormund. They held up the hanging furs over the entrance and waved the two Canadians inside.
The floor of the tent was covered with furs, brown ones this time. In the four corners of the tent, there were crude iron braziers, the peat inside producing an earthy burning smell, plenty of warmth and quite a bit of reddish light. The space was as big as an apartment, and it was occupied by more than just the King too.
Michael took off his gloves, helmet and undid his coat, trying not to look uncomfortable. A half-dozen sitting men and women were staring at Zheng and him from a circle in the middle. All dressed in skins or furs, with mugs and drinking horns. Chieftains all.
Ygritte was not present.
The King himself was directly opposite the entrance at the far end of the circle. His helmet was on his lap. To either side of him were two beautiful women who had to be sisters, both having blonde hair in braids down to their waists. It is good to be King, Michael thought to himself, finding it difficult to look away from the pair.
"Lord Duquesne," the King greeted, "Welcome. Please, would you and your companion sit? You too, Tormund." He gestured to an open section in the sitting circle, to his left.
Michael and Zheng stepped behind those already sitting carefully to reach the spot, while Tormund went the other way to another place on the King's right.
"You know I'm not a lord, right?" Michael said as he sat down, crosslegged, "An officer, someone who commands soldiers, yes. But not a lord."
The King's brow descended. "I must say that surprises me," he said, "You are well dressed, well fed, quite obviously possess wealth. The way you carry yourself is not unlike the highborns I have met in my life either. Except you do not hold contempt for us, or hide it better than they ever could."
"I'm not here to judge your people," Michael replied, "And I keep my own opinion of them private unless it is necessary, your Majesty."
Laughter rolled around the circle, the Majesty thing getting the same reaction out of the other chieftains as it had with Tormund.
"Spare me the majesty and I shall spare you the Lord," the King said, "And who is your companion?"
"Leanne Zheng," the corporal replied, "A soldier."
The King leaned back, holding onto his knees. "If I did not know better, I would say you were from YiTi. Though I have only read about what the people of YiTi look like. Your name sounds like their language too."
"Well, I'm from Vancouver," Zheng smiled viciously, "Pretty sure you've never read about the people from there."
The King smiled back at her. "Well said, Lady Zheng of Vancouver. Let us get the introductions out of the way, and we can talk about the exchange I propose."
Each member of the circle was named.
Tormund Giantsbane was first, confirming his place as the King's right hand man.
Varamyr Six-Skins, a small grey man and a warg, or in other words a man who could enter the minds of animals and control them. The King claimed Varamyr had spotted their approach through the eyes of his eagle, which was why they had been able to muster Tormund's spears quickly enough to stop the Canadians reaching the camp proper.
Harma Dogshead, a squat and rotund woman with obvious strength in her arms. Michael couldn't see any reason she would be called Dogshead. She didn't look like a dog or have any canine ornaments. He doubted it was pleasant.
Ygon Oldfather, an older heavily bearded man who the King stated had eighteen wives over the course of his life, and enough children and grandchildren to make up his own clan.
And last but not least, Dalla and Val, the blonde sisters.
Dalla was the Queen, the King warmly proclaimed, and this was a recent development. He claimed to have met her on returning from a trip south of the Wall, and that she was wiser than he was. Val was her younger sister and advisor. Together they had helped convince their clan to join Mance's army, which had been a holdout.
Michael listened to each introduction and offered his hand to those in range to do so. Only Dalla and Tormund accepted. When it was his turn, he spoke about each person who had come through with him to the Lands Beyond the Wall. O'Neill, Zheng, Sayer, Arran, Singh and himself. He did not have as much to say as the King had about his chieftains, but they listened all the same.
Now, business could begin.
"I take it from what you said to Corporal Zheng that you believe us," Michael said, "That we are from another world."
The King's sister-in-law curled her lips inwards, an action that drew Michael's eye. If only because it was the first real reaction the woman had. She did not believe.
"Some do, some do not," the King replied, "All agree that your joining us would be for the best. Ygritte told her story. She did not seem to be lying to me, though we are not without doubts. The power of your weapons is something I would like to see for myself."
"I'm sure a suitable demonstration can be arranged," Michael said, "Though if you plan on asking us to provide you with them, I cannot agree. We have enough for our own use, not enough to equip an army. And they are not ours to give in the first place."
"A pity," the King frowned, "Weapons that can kill wights so easily would save many lives. But I assumed you would say something like that."
"What do you propose?" Michael asked.
The King rubbed his chin, and took a drink from a horn. From the smell, it was mead.
"I must first tell you some disappointing news. I spoke to the men and women before you about magic, and the giants we have in camp. Only the giants knew anything about moving to another world. An old tale whereby the Children of the Forest attempted to flee this world and brought giants along. But they did not know if it was true, or how such magic works."
Feeling sorrow like he had never felt before, Michael exhaled to steady himself.
"Children of the Forest?" Zheng asked, her voice wobbling slightly.
She is having just as hard a time hearing the news, Michael thought.
"The Children of the Forest inhabited this world before Men," the King explained, "They are said to possess great magic, and were enemies of the First Men until the Others came during the first Long Night. Occasionally someone will claim to have met them even today. They have not joined our cause. Even the giants do not know where they are."
Michael rubbed his face, wondering what to do with this news. It meant that he was trapped on this other world. Which was potentially convenient for the cause of Mance Rayder. Is it a lie? "So you have nothing to exchange for our help?"
The King shook his head. "There may be a place where you can find the answers you seek. But it is south of the Wall."
"So our only hope is past the Wall you also want to get past." Zheng asked bluntly, "How do we know you're not feeding us a bowl of shit?"
Michael winced. Talking to a king like that struck him as a poor decision. Sleep deprivation had taken its toll on the corporal's patience.
This King was tolerant of such talk. Far from being offended, he looked to his Queen. Dalla rummaged around behind her briefly, before producing a leatherbound book of considerable size.
The King took it and opened it, revealing yellowed parchment pages. The two he opened it on had a series of illustrations in red.
"The Isle of Faces. The place where peace was made between the First Men and the Children. A holy site that has avoided every invasion of Westeros that there ever was. If the Children of the Forest yet live, this is the only place it is certain that they can be found."
He pushed the book over to Michael.
The inked drawings inside showed a series of small thin people, not particularly child-like, meeting with men dressed in much the same way the Free Folk were. Around them were trees with faces carved into them. Michael was again reminded of UFOs and aliens. The 'Children' had very wide eyes, not unlike a Roswell Grey.
"More laughing trees," Zheng said flatly, "Great."
The King smiled inwardly at a joke only he heard in her words.
"It indicates that maybe Mance here isn't lying through his teeth though," Michael said, flicking through the pages and finding he couldn't read any of the words. No magic text translation then. "We were brought to a foot of a tree like that, and I doubt he had an entire book written, illustrated and bound in a day."
Refusing to accept it fully, Zheng took the book to look through it herself, hoping to find any sort of clue that might help.
"So you see the exchange I want?" the King asked, spreading his hands in front of him, "I give you the path to the Isle of Faces. And you help us take the Wall, which is something you will need to do to get to the Isle regardless."
Michael shook his head. "Not good enough," he said, "Directions, yes, we need them. But if Ygritte told you her story, you know that the first reaction of your own people was to attack. The kneelers as you call them would have the same instinct."
"You killed Rattleshirt's warband in less than a hundred breaths," Tormund snorted, "Crows and kneelers would be no harder a fight for you. If they could even catch you in that metal carriage of yours, har!"
"We defended ourselves…" Michael began.
"Tormund is not accusing you of murder," the King interrupted, "He is simply making the argument that the southerners would not be able to resist you."
"How would I know that?" Michael replied, "There is a whole other set of peoples behind that Wall that we know nothing about. Their culture, their money, their politics, their military. Directions are a start. Every piece of information you have about what we'll face past the Wall is next."
"I do not know everything, but I will tell you what I can," the King conceded, "Is that all?"
"No," Michael said, "The other thing is something I don't think your friends here are going to like."
"You sit here under guest right, lad," the King said, "Speak your mind."
"You need to talk to the Crows," Michael said, "The threat of dead men is just as real for them as it is for you. If we do this, I insist you let me try and bring them to negotiate."
"He wants us to talk to the Crows?" Ygon Oldfather growled, "Mance, I would sooner let a wight fuck me than speak peace to a Crow."
"It can be arranged if you don't shut your mouth," Harma Dogshead countered, "Did you see that metal beast of theirs climb the Fist, Ygon? Faster than any mount? Or are your eyes failing you? I want the Crows to shit themselves at the sight of it, knowing that those who ride it are with us."
The Oldfather replied only with an obscene gesture, which was returned in kind.
"Let Michael propose his solution," the King said gently, "There's no harm in talking about talking." He gestured to the Canadians to continue.
Michael inclined his head in thanks. "I am bound by our laws to try for a peaceful solution," he said, "I go to them, tell them about the threat of the White Walkers. Tell them where they can find out for themselves. I'm not from here, they should believe me. Give them some time to make sure I am not lying, and when they are sure of that, I can propose to bring your people through the Wall."
"They already know," the King said, "About the White Walkers, I mean. Their ranging parties have visited villages that have been attacked or abandoned. They must have lost brothers to the Others by now. Their masters in the South would not believe them, even on your word of honour, or theirs. So they could never agree to let us pass the Wall in peace."
"Our people have raided their lands for centuries," Tormund added, "It is not easily forgiven. Many of the clans of this host would kill each other for the same reason, except they have seen their families killed by the Others."
Michael hesitated. "I have to try," he said, "If we make it home, we will have to account for our actions."
Zheng snorted from beside him. "Yeah, it wouldn't be fun for us to get back, only to be cashiered or thrown in prison."
A man rushed into the tent, the cold blowing in. That grabbed the attention of every person inside. The late arrival rushed over to where Varamyr Six-Skins was sitting, before kneeling behind and whispering in his ear. The King and the rest watched with interest. Michael tried to listen in.
Varamyr cleared his throat and looked to the King. "A ranging party of ten men is two day's ride away," he said, "It's the Halfhand. He's following the tracks of their beast."
The tent looked to Michael.
"It appears you'll have your chance to talk to the Crows after all," the King said, "Qhorin Halfhand has killed many of our number over the years, but I knew him when I was a Crow. Yes, I used to be a brother of theirs. He is a reasonable man, someone who would accept offers of parlay. You should ride out to meet him. If I cannot convince you that your talk will achieve nothing, he will."
Michael nodded, understanding the ball was now in his court. "It'll be dark soon. We'll leave at dawn tomorrow." He stood up, Zheng doing the same, and made to leave.
"Michael, one more thing," the King called, causing him to stop in his tracks, "By asking to bring us through the Wall, you will be revealing that we plan to try to do that soon. He will also ask how many we are. If he returns to the Lord-Commander with that knowledge, the kingdoms will call their banners. Which will doom any chance of getting through the Wall easily. Yours and ours."
"I'm not sure I understand?" Michael said.
"If you meet him and he does not agree that your idea can work," the King said, "You will have no choice."
"You must kill him."