AUTHOR's NOTE: This is a revised version of this chapter. The last one wasn't up to scratch, as a number of reviewers here and elsewhere pointed out. I thank them for their feedback, which was strangely respectful despite being highly critical.
This story is also being posted on Alternate History if you wish to discuss it in a forum setting.
YGRITTE
Her sleep that first night at the Fist had been restless. She lay under her furs well into the day, her mind racing in and out of consciousness, the events of the night itching in her head.
In the sky above, the Thief had been within the Moonmaid.
A sudden flash of light in the dark forest. Rattleshirt, the Lord O' Bones himself, ordering the entire war party to investigate. A battle fairly started and fairly ended. The White Walker arriving. The victors of the battle standing strong against it. The dead rising, killing two of their number. Their weapons striking down the Other, torturing it with the burning fire shot into its body. The journey in a machine that travelled faster than any horse. The questioning by the clan chiefs and Mance himself about it all.
But it wasn't any of that that kept Ygritte shifting and turning under the furs.
It was the one called Michael.
He stole her from Rattleshirt's warband.
He stole her from the Others!
He declared that he would be glad to have her in front of Mance himself!
And where was he?
She did not know, and that made her feel unease like she had never felt before. When a man steals a woman while the Thief is within the Moonmaid, it was said to be fateful. And everything about how she had been stolen screamed the same thing.
And where was he?!
The voice of reason whispered in her head every now and then. He isn't from the True North. He isn't from this world. He doesn't know that when a man takes a woman and she does not slit his throat in his sleep, she is his and he is hers. He doesn't even know where your tent is. It took most of the night for that voice to be heard over the roar of embarrassed anger, but as the sun rose towards noon, she had determined her next act.
If he does not know what he is supposed to do, by all the gods I'll teach him or cut his manhood.
Ygritte stirred from the pile of furs she had slept under, jaw clenched, reaching for her woollen undershirts and her rabbitskin vest. There would be time for real sleep, after she had found him and he had kept the promise of his acts.
The tent flap was pulled aside and Ryk's head appeared in the gap. "Mornin'. Wasn't sure you'd be here."
So now you know he has not come, Ygritte thought bitterly. "Aye, still here. What brings you? Need a second for hunting?" Her stomach burned with hunger as well as anger.
Ryk shook his head. "Wanted to know if you'd heard what's going on," he said, "And maybe you can tell me true about the rumours?"
Ygritte frowned. She had been alone all night, and hadn't heard a thing. "What now? The Thenns not coming down from their valley?" she asked, stepping into her boots and tying them on.
Ryk looked at her blankly. "Don't know how you slept. Your Canadians? They stopped a wight attack last night from the north. You spoke true before. Their weapons are like magic. Lights flew and set the wights ablaze. You didn't say how loud they were."
Ygritte slowed down her dressing. Was that why he had not come to her? she wondered, Between his own sleep of the journey and the fight to defend the Fist, had he just been exhausted? She shook that thought away. It was ridiculous and an excuse.
"The whole camp is talking about it," Ryk said, "And the new rumour. They say they're going today to talk to Qhorin Halfhand. They were supposed to go at dawn, but the attack last night delayed them."
Ygritte froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward her clansman. "What?!"
"The Halfhand is close, they say. Close enough to see our fires tonight. Mance is sending them out as a test. If the Canadians return without having killed him, they'll be killed. The Weeper arrived at sunset and is laying claim to their metal beast already."
"Mance would break guest right?"
"The sun has risen on another day. No offer of food or shelter has been made or asked for. The Canadians will've left camp. There is no guest right once they return."
Ygritte felt weak. It couldn't be. She was stolen under the perfect stars by a man who might die through his own choices. Choices he knew nothing about. Snapping herself out of it by clenching her fists, she hurried layering herself in her clothes. "Get your weapons," she said to Ryk, "We're going with them. Make sure they don't die because they don't hate Crows enough to kill on sight."
Ryk's mouth turned to a flat line. Not for the first time. Ygritte usually found it funny because it made him look like a fish, but she was in no mood. It only reminded her of what had changed. "Shouldn't get involved," he said.
Expecting that response, Ygritte grabbed her sheepskin helm and pulled it over her tangled hair to prevent herself saying something she would regret. Like she was containing the anger exploding out of her head. "Ryk, when my first tried to steal me again, you stopped him. You're my clan brother. I'm going with the Canadians. Are you saying you'll leave me to go alone? To face the Halfhand?"
Ryk snorted. "Michael Duquesne is more than a match for the Halfhand."
"Aye, in a fight. But what happens when the Halfhand pours lies in his ear? Who speaks for the Free Folk when the Crow sings about our raids and how we're just savages not worthy of livin'? It'll be me. And who'll defend me when the Crows try to shut me up?"
With a sigh, Ryk hung his head. "I will," he said, before withdrawing from the tent.
Ygritte felt a warmth of relief rush over her. The old certainties were not all dead, at least. She could rely on her clan brother still. She tied her gloves to her wrists, and slung her weirwood bow and took both bags of grey-fletched arrows she had hidden under the furs. She expected to use every one of them.
Ryk was waiting outside with his own bow, arrows and axe, his own tent right beside hers.
"Where are they?" Ygritte asked.
"Top of the hill."
"Fuck."
Together, they made their way through camp, avoiding playing children, still smouldering watchfires from the night before and frozen cesspits. The climb to the top of the Fist took some time, and every step of the way, Ygritte half-expected to see the 'Bandvagn' roll by at a speed no man or woman could ever hope to match.
But after rushing up and breathing heavily, they both made it. Beside Mance's tent among those of the chiefs, the crawler stood. She spotted the large one, O'Neill, standing out of the roof and preparing the machine-gun. His large bulk filled out the hole in the roof, and Ygritte had identified him from the beginning as the most dangerous member of the group.
The youngest was sat cross-legged on the roof with his bright red hooded cloak and strange grey-red weapon. She had glimpsed that the part on top of the weapon was a spyglass. Something she had only ever seen from a distance in the hands of Crows atop the wall. He was also not unlike the clansmen of the far west of the Frozen Shore in his looks, having slightly darker skin and a broad face.
"He's not here," Ryk said.
"He's in the tent with Mance," Ygritte replied with absolute certainty, "Means we're not too late. Come."
She stepped forward, the chiefs' families watching her bold approach with interest. Ygritte felt pride swell in herself. She was recognised.
"Hello there!" the one called Private Sayer called, "Didn't expect to see you again!"
Ygritte turned a vicious grin on him. "I told Michael Duquesne I would meet him again," she said, "I'm a woman of my word. I bring my clan brother, Longspear Ryk. We'll ride with you against the Crows. "
"Will you now?" the O'Neill muttered just loudly enough to be heard by her, "I think you're under the wrong impression about our gaomilaksir, little lady."
Ygritte did not return the insult or question the strange foreign word. The former because it had been said quietly and the latter because asking for an explanation would show ignorance. She knew these Canadians valued strength and wisdom. The O'Neill could easily tell Michael Duquesne to leave her behind if he thought her weak-willed or stupid. There was a trust between the two men.
Sayer climbed down from the roof, his weapon in hand. He approached them, friendly smile on his face. What does he want? Ygritte wondered, watching him carefully.
The Private held out his hand to Ryk. "Louis Sayer," he said, "Good to meet you."
Ryk returned the warm smile, and took Sayer's whole arm instead of just the hand.
"Longspear Ryk."
"Yeah, heard that," Sayer nodded, shoulder shaking as his arm was shook by Ryk, "Not heard a name like that before. Why Longspear? You don't have a spear?"
Laughter rumbled from O'Neill and burst out of Ygritte like water had gone down the wrong way. This one is a child, she thought, looking to her clan brother. Ryk's smile merely widened. Sayer looked around, startled.
"The thing between his legs, Private," O'Neill clarified, "He's a big hit with the girls."
"Ahhhhhh," Sayer said, slapping himself on the forehead.
"Yeah," the O'Neill grunted.
Sayer looked again to Ryk. "I guess that makes you the Rickest Ryk north of the Wall?" he said, in a tone that suggested a joke.
"They won't get that gīmigare, Sayer," Zheng called, appearing from inside Mance's tent, "Especially considering I'm not even sure I do."
Ygritte's jaw dropped. This was the first time she had seen Zheng with her head and face uncovered in the full light of day.
She had hair so black that it seemed to suck the light out of the air, parted to either side of a face that men would fight over. The colour of her eyes was such a deep brown that they were almost black too. She had strong arms and legs, was large at the chest, despite being the smallest of the group.
Ygritte had never seen anyone like her before. Even before this, the Canadian spearwife was the most mysterious member of the group. She seemed to be the only one who could control the crawler. She spoke like a spearwife, and fought like one too. And bickered with the O'Neill. He must have claimed her as a wife. Only a man as strong as he could have fought off others.
Zheng paused when she spotted the two of them.
"I see we picked up some strays. Again."
Ygritte bristled, forgetting her admiration for the woman at once. "You're going to see the Crows," she said, "We're going to see you don't get tricked and killed. Can't use your not-magic sticks if you don't think you need to. Crows are tricksy."
"Okay, Gollum," Zheng yawned, dismissing her with a wave and opening the door to the seat she controlled the crawler from. Ygritte's lip curled at her attitude, but she restrained herself. What she needed to do was too important.
"Zheng is still very tired," Sayer confided quietly, "Because of the attack last night, she still hasn't got enough sleep."
"None of us have," came a familiar voice. Sayer half jumped as he straightened himself up.
Michael emerged from Mance's tent, quickly followed by Tormund Giantsbane and Mance himself. Ygritte saw that his hair was a light brown, the sort that probably turned lighter still if it was warm enough to be allowed in the light of summer. He had deep blue eyes like daggers too. Do all these Canadians have dark eyes? she wondered.
He acknowledged her first. Before even his own. His eyes briefly hovered in their gaze below her own, though her body was still mostly covered with her clothing. He wonders what is underneath it all, she thought, All is not lost.
Mance gave a small nod in greeting, their brief acquaintance enough to earn her that.
Tormund Giantsbane grinned wildly from behind, his gaze moving between Ygritte and Michael knowingly. She raised her chin slightly, pleased that someone had recognised what was happening.
Michael himself came over after a quiet word with O'Neill above him. Ygritte's heart pumped faster, against her will. "Morning Ygritte," he said, "Where have you been?"
"My tent," she replied, "It's by the lonely sentinel off the eastern trail."
Ryk made a noise, one that sounded like a cough to anyone else but one Ygritte knew was mockery. She promised herself to punch him later for it.
Michael took a step away from Ryk, like he thought the man ill. "What are you doing here?"
"We're coming with you," Ygritte stated, brooking no disagreement.
Michael's brow creased. "You and your friend?"
"Ryk. My clan brother."
The leader of the Canadians looked over the two of them, considering. But didn't reject them, by word or gesture. Of course he didn't. She was a fine archer, kissed by fire and the woman he had stolen. She was certain now. He just does not know our ways.
Michael turned at the waist to look back at the King. "You have any objection to this?" he asked.
"None," Mance said politely, "But it will not make your task any easier."
"No, but it'll make getting back by another route easier," Michael countered, "We're already late by nearly six hours. If snow falls and covered our tracks, we can't find our way back on our own."
"As you say," Mance conceded.
"I'm sure you know how to keep warm even if you do get lost," the Giantsbane said with a wink, talking to Michael's back but aiming the wink at Ygritte.
"We're not babes sucking milk from our mothers, Giantsbane," she said, "Let's away. I don't want to be caught out in the dark." When the Others and their dead men stalk you.
Michael turned on his radio by fiddling with a box on his hip. "Zheng, start the crawler."
The metal beast roared to life, and Ygritte felt happy to hear it again.
They did not travel long. Without night's darkness anywhere to be found, the one called Zheng bade the crawler to move even faster than Ygritte had experienced before. Ryk whooped and roared with laughter every time they moved over a bump or it was driven downhill. Ygritte found herself joining in before long, the fear replaced by thrill.
It was more fun when they were not running for their life. Though soon we may be.
The Canadians liked Ryk, and it wasn't for his long-spear. Just as he always did, he talked to people like he was also their clan brother. They did the same in turn. The opposite of Ygritte's blunt honesty in some ways, she knew, but not in others.
The crawler followed the tracks it had made the night before last, until they curved around a large hill. A large white owl flew by the crystal-glass on its sides three times. One of Tormund's wargs, Ygritte knew, A warning; the Halfhand is coming.
"Three passes," Michael said, just loudly enough to be heard over the crawler's growling, "Close but not on top of us. This is as good a place as any. Pull over in there." He pointed off to the left.
"Looks like the King is good for his word," Zheng said idly. She turned the crawler in behind the hill and turned off the engine.
Good, Ygritte thought, The Halfhand will not see it there with such a mound in the way.
Michael clicked his tongue. "Mance is good for his word on this," he said doubtfully, "But he's a nādrēsy-jentys under the whole Viking warlord laehurlītos."
More strange words Ygritte did not recognise, and this time, she didn't understand what he was saying at all. What tongue is that? Their mother tongue?
The Canadians got out of their metal beast without another word, moving up to the peak of the hill. Ygritte and Ryk followed behind. From there, you could see the whole line of the trail going back half a league. The snow had melted in places, turning the ground into a soft bed of tree needles and leaves. Ygritte hated when it was like that. The mud always seeped into her boots somehow.
"They'll keep inside our tracks," the O'Neill said, "King said they were riding horses?"
"Yeah," Zheng replied.
"Do we kill the horses?" Sayer asked.
"Not unless the men riding them are getting away," Michael said sternly, "The horses didn't do anything to deserve death. Plus they're probably very valuable. We're not so far away from the camp here."
"I hope you're as smart as you think you are, Corporal," the O'Neill said to Zheng.
"I am" she replied, "You're under no obligation to accept my observations as fact, sir."
"Don't call me sir," O'Neill grimaced, "I work for a living."
Michael gave a 'Har!' that Giantsbane would have been proud of. The joke was that they all called him sir. Ygritte knew that the kneelers called their knights 'ser', but this seemed different. It was clear who was in charge, but not that he thought he was better than any of them.
Michael turned to Ygritte and Ryk,
"You two know how to ride a horse?"
"We do," Ygritte said.
"Good, because I don't. Can you get back to camp before dark from here? Even with lots of horses roped together?"
"Aye," Ryk said, "If we leave in the next few hours."
"Good. If things get messy, you'll take the horses back and I'll give you half of them for the trouble. Or half the price if it's only one."
Ygritte nodded, but said nothing about the offer. Canadians really were like kneelers on some matters. She was not of his clan, yet. Any thing he gave her was hers. Yet he was acting like he expected gifts to be returned. And there was always the chance that the Canadians would be killed, by the Halfhand or Mance, leaving her with all the horses in the end anyway. I don't want your horses, I want you.
Michael pointed to a place near the bottom of the hill, in the direction they had come from the Fist. "The hill can hide the vehicle," he said to O'Neill, "Reckon they'll ride right past."
The O'Neill grunted. "Reverse L-shaped ambush," he said, "How very textbook of you, sir. We'll still need to camouflage the vehicle. Maybe they have outriders that'll ride past and then back to report."
"Idea is to demoralise them into surrender," Michael said, "And if they aren't…"
"Yes, sir," the O'Neill replied, "They'd regret charging you down, that's for sure. Surrender or run are their only options, and running would seem like certain death."
Michael bared his teeth, looking predatory in a way that made Ygritte warm up and melt inside. "That's the point, Sergeant."
He looked to Private Sayer. "You're with me, Private. Take Arran's rifle."
Sayer blanched and did the strange hand movement to his head that they all did, what Mance called a sort of salute. He's no seasoned warrior, Ygritte thought, How could he not have killed many men? She imagined killing at least five men would be required to even be part of Michael's clan, since killing was so easy with their weapons.
The three of Michael's warriors began to move, already knowing what they were supposed to do. The O'Neill and Zheng returned to the crawler to cover it in a large canvass coloured like dirt and snow and what looked like fishing net with . They were soon moving off to the right, to a nook beside the trail. Sayer crouched down by a tree to the left, aiming his weapon with its spyglass down the trail.
"What about us?" Ygritte asked, "We can fight."
"True," Michael said, "But we're not here to fight if we can help it."
Ygritte took a breath to steady herself. She needed to tell him the talking was pointless.
"Mance is testing you," she said, "If you return without killing Qhorin Halfhand, he'll set the host on you."
There was silence for a moment. Ygritte nudged her clan brother with her elbow. He knew more than she did about it.
"Clans are already claiming the spoils to come," Ryk admitted.
Michael looked out over the trail. "I know," he said.
"You know?" Ryk said disbelieving, "How could you know?"
"The King does not trust me," Michael said, "He sent me here knowing that talking to the Crows would reveal my existence and the plan to attack the Wall. We both need to get past the Wall. Mance to get you all safe from the White Walkers. Me to bring my soldiers home. He is counting on Halfhand's reaction convincing me that the Crows would never let us through. Which would make the Crows my enemy as well as his."
What about me? Ygritte thought, Will you bring me to your home once you understand what you have done?
"So what'll you do?" Ryk asked.
"We'll do it our way," Michael shrugged, "We don't serve Mance and I can't take the chance the Night's Watch would betray us if I told them about us. But I am also bound by our laws to try a peaceful solution."
He scratched his chin. "Well, as peaceful as it ever seems to get out here."
Ygritte shook her head. She agreed with Mance. This would not work. "What're you going to talk to him about anyway?" she asked, "The only answers Crows ever give are 'no' and 'die', when their lordly lords and commanders are around anyway."
"I don't know if the Crows really know about the White Walkers," Michael said, "But I aim to find out. I'll drag them back to the Fist and show them with their own eyes. Then sit them down with Mance, talk about getting us all south of the Wall."
There was not a chance Qhorin Halfhand would agree letting the Free Folk through the Wall was a good idea. Wight or no wight. Which left the two futures ahead.
"Will ya kill the Crows if they refuse?" Ygritte asked, "What'll you do if Mance kills them instead of talking?"
Michael hummed to himself, as if not hearing the question. "I've planned as best I can." That was no answer.
He finally looked back from the trail to her.
"If you want to help," he said, "We'll need to get you radios quick."
It had taken some pushing and pulling to get the straps and helm with the 'radio' over Ygritte's hair.
Once they were on her head and Michael had explained what to do to talk, she had spoken from a distance with all of them for nearly an hour. There was no time to explain how it worked, but Michael insisted it was not magic. Ygritte couldn't understand how it could be anything else.
As the Canadians prepared their ambush, they explained what they expected of she and Ryk. Follow orders. Don't kill unless they were killing. Stop immediately if they stopped. No names if they captured any Crows. And finally, Michael explained the plan.
Not soon afterwards, he and Ygritte sat just behind a pile of unmelted snow to the side of the trail, underneath more of the strange fishing nets. Their white-and-grey clothing let them blend in with the mud-splattered ice. A rope
The others had been split into two pairs.
The O'Neill and Zheng were by the crawler, watching the road from the peak of the hill with something called fleer, a strange device shaped like the hilt of a sword in the black bone of some animal, with a box and small spyglass attached. It let them see the heat of a person's body.
More magic that is not magic.
Sayer and Ryk were in between Ygritte's place and the O'Neill's, where the rear of the column of horses would be when the ambush began.
When the Crows arrived, the Canadians would shoot every bullet that their rifles could.
Not into the black brothers, but around them. The flying lights, whistling through the air and thumping on the ground and trees would scare the shit out of them. The crawler would emerge behind, across the trail, blocking the way south.
Only then would the Crows be called on to surrender, as the Canadians fed their rifles more bullets to shoot. Even then, only those who made to kill in reply to this call would themselves be killed. Those running would be allowed to run, for they would know nothing except that a mysterious force using magic had asked them to yield. No one south of the Wall would believe such a thing, just as they did not believe in the Others.
Michael had said the runners would probably be as good as dead anyway. This close to the Fist, wights slept in the daytime. The craven would not escape darkness in time to escape the notice of the White Walkers.
Ygritte did not like the plan. If they want the Halfhand, they should kill the rest, she thought to herself, The Others had returned. Whether or not some Rangers died was nothing to compare to that. The Halfhand would recognise that or he didn't deserve to live anyway.
Michael agreed that would be most 'effective' when she voiced these thoughts. But there were laws that he had sworn to follow by sacred oath. Doing what Ygritte suggested might not have broken those laws, but he could not be certain.
In the end, it did not matter. They waited for hours in the cold. The Crows did not come.
The answer why appeared a little while after Michael warned they would have to abandon the day's efforts. First, smoke rose in the distance behind the next hill, indicating a large fire. Next, a snowstorm blew in from the southeast, exactly where the Crows were coming from.
"They must've stopped for the night," Michael said, "We need to get out of here before the wights show or we freeze to death. Withdraw back to the crawler."
Ygritte could not argue with that. The snow she caught on her hand fell thick, the flakes as big as she had ever seen in the south forest. So they made their way back. By the time they made it, the canvass and netting covering the crawler had been tied to the roof.
"What now?" O'Neill asked Michael as they arrived back, "Aren't we a bit too close to the Fist? A few hours ride tomorrow, he'll be able to take a look at that camp back there and run back to his superiors."
Michael nodded. "We'll only go back as far as the watchfires, not all the way to Mance's tent. The giants are waiting for us back there anyway. Strike out at the crack of dawn, soon as we know it's safe."
"The giants?" Ygritte asked, "What do the giants owe you?"
"Nothing," Michael shrugged, "They want to hear about the giants back home. So I asked them for a few favours in return."
"What favours?"
"You'll see."
"Tell me now."
"No."
Why won't he trust me? Ygritte slung her bow in frustration, and left him there. She marched off to talk to Ryk. He hadn't been there when she returned.
She found him relieving himself against the largest tree nearby, a little bit further into the forest. He was using it to shield himself from the rising winds. He stood with his back was turned to her and he made no sign that he had heard her approach.
"Hurry up," Ygritte shouted to him, "We're leaving!"
"Be patient!" Ryk shouted back, "Held this in for an age!"
"Why?"
"The fight could've started at any time. Didn't want to miss the look on the Crows' faces when the bullets started flying!"
Ygritte grumbled incoherently to herself that he was an idiot sometimes, but turned away and waited for him to finish.
A second later, Ryk shouted in pain. Ygritte spun on the spot, and found a crossbow bolt had sprouted in his shoulder. He turned and fell back against the tree, into his own steaming piss, his cock still out of his breeches.
Figures began rising from the snow mere yards behind him. Snow-covered black cloaks, black boots, black souls. And they were moving for Ryk. A trio aimed crossbows at her from behind a bush.
Fear shaking her into moving, Ygritte bolted forwards towards her clan brother. Her fingers clawed for her radio, as bolts zipped into the air where she had been standing a second before.
"Crows! The Crows are here!" she said, holding the radio mouthpiece closer to her mouth with a hand as she ran. The Canadians said something in reply, but she couldn't hear over the sound of the blood rushing to her head and the warcry of the black brothers.
"FOR THE WATCH!" shouted a half dozen throats, over each other.
"GO FUCK A DOG, CROWS!" Ygritte roared back, her mind summoning the dogfucker insult she had heard two nights earlier. She gathered her axe and knife into each hand, making it to Ryk. She pulled him around the girth of the tree, out of the way of the crossbows.
"How many?" he asked, gripping the bolt in his shoulder, blood all over his fingers.
"Too many," Ygritte replied, peeking around tree.
Her heart skipped a beat. The Crow in front was missing fingers and would reach her in a matter of a dozen breaths. The Halfhand himself was striding towards her at the head of his men. A sword in his whole hand and a small shield strapped to his other arm. Behind were another three, which meant at least that number were coming from the other side.
Pressing herself against the dark bark of the tree, she waited. The Halfhand had killed many, possibly hundreds, in his time as a Crow Ranger. There was no sign of the Canadians, their crawler apparently abandoned. The radio in her ear chattered about 'imminent threat'. She forced herself to breath.
The Halfhand rounded the tree, too far for her to spring at him. Swordpoint lowered.
"Take her," he said to his brothers that appeared from both sides, "We'll keep going up the hill. Looks like the others ran off, but we need to be sure." With that, he kept moving, towards the crawler. There was still no sign of the Canadians.
The man to his left approached, the other moving to come from the side. He was as young as she was.
His sword thrusted. Ygritte stood out of the way, and brought her axe down on the man's hand. The blade bit into his gloved fingers, half-severing some. He dropped the sword. Blood bubbled out of the wound, coating the fresh snow with red drops. He screamed and went to his knees. His brother hesitated.
"Now there's two Halfhands!" Ygritte roared at the Crow leader, shaking her axe in the air.
Qhorin Halfhand stopped and returned to her, his brothers following behind closely with faces twisted in rage. "It's over, girl," he said, "Yield."
"Never," said a voice from within her, "I belong to another."
He looked to her side, and then back at her. Inviting her to look the same way. Not trusting it wasn't a trick, she glanced with a snap of her head as quickly as she could. The crossbowmen had moved up to join. Their weapons aimed right at her. He opened his mouth to say something more.
The Canadians' rifles and machinegun spoke first.
Flashes of light in the growing darkness reflected off of every falling snowflake around Ygritte. The tracers flew in a stream through the crossbowmen aiming at her, bloody wounds erupting from all over their bodies, one-by-one. More flew over the heads of Halfhand and those around her, slamming into the tree above her head. Wood splinters showered down with the snow.
The brave Crows ducked, Halfhand first. The cowardly ones ran away in any direction that seemed to put trees between them and the attack.
When the shooting stopped, the Crows rose again to find Michael Duquesne, Zheng and Sayer advancing on them. Rifles and carbine raised. As they got closer, the O'Neill emerged from under the nets with the leaves sewn onto them with the machinegun and rushed forwards to join them.
"Drop your weapons!" Michael shouted, "Drop them now!" The others with him did the same. They repeated it.
"Drop your weapons!"
The Halfhand did not do what he was told at once. His eyes looked around, trying to work out what had happened. He was breathing hard, tongue working inside his mouth. Distracted.
Ygritte saw her chance. She grabbed the man whose fingers she had chopped by the hood and put her blade to his throat.
"Yield, old man!" she hissed, throwing his own words back at him, "It's over!"
The Halfhand said and did nothing. His eyes locked with hers. Considering.
Michael and Sayer stepped closer. Zheng moved off to the side, to check if the crossbowmen were dead.
Without warning or noise, a Crow burst forward from his crouched position. His sword held at a low guard, he went for Sayer, who had strayed too near. The Private turned the rifle of the dead man Arran upon the attacker, its bark sounding like cloth ripping deeply. The bullets flew straight through the Crow and into the forest again.
Sayer watched as the man fell at his feet, his face steely.
Not a child, Ygritte thought, correcting her former opinion, A warrior of Canada indeed.
The Halfhand glanced between the scene and Ygritte, before hanging his head briefly in defeat. He stood, drawing the aim of the Canadians' weapons, and dropped his sword to the ground. The black brothers who remained did the same. "We yield," he asked, "Who are you?"
The way the Crow had said it, he meant What are you? Ygritte had asked the same thing herself, and still she did not know the whole truth.
"People whose names and birthplace would mean nothing to you," Michael responded, "We're not what you would call Wildlings, but that doesn't matter."
The Halfhand nodded to himself. "It's clear you're no wildling," he said, "Though the girl with the knife to my man's throat is. And her friend against the tree too."
Michael looked at Ygritte. "Release the guy," he said, "We've won."
She showed the man her knife before releasing her grip on him. "Your lucky day, Crow."
Michael was right. They had won. She had won. She had spilled the blood of her enemy with Michael's clan, and her clansman had spilled his blood for them.
The look on the faces of the crows when the crawler moved from the top of the hill with a roar was something Ygritte knew she would remember for the rest of her life. They trembled as it came. All except the Halfhand. He just watched.
She also understood why the Canadians had not revealed themselves to the Crows as soon as Ryk had been hit. They would've run or attacked without hesitation. For her life to be saved and for the Halfhand to be captured, the Canadians needed to get in close and Ygritte had provided the perfect bait. You don't hunt hares or deer by shouting and jumping, she thought, And that's all anyone is to a Canadian. Prey.
A few Crows were taken into the crawler, with Zheng driving and O'Neill guarding. It returned, the captive Crows riding the horses from their camp. The animals had been tied together with rope in two lines of five, riding ahead of the 'vehicle' with the machinegun aimed at their riders the whole way.
Their swords were claimed by the Canadians, and each Crow was searched for more. This added a collection of daggers, axes and knives. Their water, food, tools and sleeping furs were also taken from them. Aside from the weapons, it was all piled up on top of the crawler, at its middle section, under the strange canvass and netting.
The Crows could not run even if they escaped. Not without anything to sustain them or keep them warm at night. They were too far from the Wall to make it, and all the villages in between were empty. Ygritte had been part of the effort to make it so.
The crossbow bolt was removed from Ryk's shoulder by Zheng, alcohol administered to the wound to stop it festering. A bandage was wrapped around him, taken from a box with a red cross painted on its side. Ygritte was surprised they didn't have some near-magic healing tool.
Final preparations were made to leave. So no one could be tempted to slip away from the back, the horses were moved in front of the crawler. They didn't like the smell of the thing and it was taking time. Torches were lit as sunset rolled by, and the crawler's strange not-magic lights were lit. The O'Neill supervised, Zheng guarded and Sayer watched with Ryk.
Ygritte bit her lip. Michael was nowhere to be seen.
She found him on the other side of the crawler. His coats made of materials she had never seen before was open at the front, revealing a deep green undercoat. He held the sword of Halfhand in his hand, unsheathed. He looked at it with interest, and tried swinging it, lips pursed with concentration.
Opening her mouth to ask what he was doing, Ygritte stopped herself. Now, said a voice from within, Find out if he will do what he promised. Show that you are willing. That he stole me.
She went to him, his attention only turning to her at the last moment. She pulled him closer and stood on her toes. He was tall. She gently pressed her lips to his.
For a few seconds, he did not respond. A terrible fear grew inside her. That she had made a mistake. That he wasn't only ignorant of what he was supposed to do with a woman he had stolen, but he did not want to do it.
As she began to break off, a hand went to the side of her neck and face. His fingers moved against her skin. His lips moved against hers. His body moved in closer, though her furs meant she felt only a pressure on hers. Their tongues met. He tasted like mint. Warmth began to pool inside her.
The sword dropped to the ground with a clink.
Michael pushed Ygritte away gently. "I'm not sure what that was for," he said, "And it was nice. I needed it more than I realised. But this can't happen."
Ygritte had never been more confused in her life.
A throat was cleared from the front of the crawler. The O'Neill stood there, watching. Ygritte recoiled in surprise. She had hoped to have more time.
Michael straightened up. "Sergeant."
"Lieutenant," the O'Neill replied sternly, "We are ready to get going, sir."
"Good," Michael replied, "We'll talk later about this… situation."
"Yes, we will," the O'Neill promised. He turned and disappeared to the other side of the crawler again.
"What's he all tight-arsed about?" Ygritte asked, "He has his own woman."
"The Sergeant is as responsible for upholding our laws as I am," Michael explained, "It's starting to get dark. I'll talk to you too about all this, later. When the threat of being killed by dead men isn't hanging over us."
Ygritte felt her chance slipping away. For that day, anyway.
"This isn't over," she said, "You stole me, Michael Duquesne. Under the stars."
With those parting words, like parting arrows, she left him. This battle was over.
The war was just beginning.