The booms of chopping axes and the rustling of falling trees was surprisingly soothing, sending tingles down the back of the head and neck. Slowly but surely, the half-naked members of the Laughing Tree and some of their prisoners cleared the path from shore to the weirwoods, turning the barely navigable dirt trail into something approaching a road.
Morale was high in the Free Folk ranks, particularly when the similarly half-stripped O'Neill and Zheng showed up, male and female heads turning. Particularly Zheng, as she had taken to teasing the poor guys before threatening mockingly to riddle them with bullets. The men laughed it off as a joke, albeit one they knew she would execute in a heartbeat if they got touchy-feely.
Even Lord Tyrion, having volunteered for work to get out of the muddy pit the prisoners were being kept in, was in a jolly mood, though his fellow Lords and Sers who had also volunteered remained surly under Ryk's watch. The little man was swinging his woodaxe with no small amount of zeal,
With the mood so good and work proceeding apace, Michael took the opportunity to sit down on a small stump nearby the front of the work and just watch for a while. Sweating through his shirt, he crunched into a fresh apple and chewed, listening to the idle chat of his little squad.
"Any sign of them?" O'Neill asked, trying to be quiet but not quite succeeding.
"Not a glimpse," Zheng replied.
"We're cutting down their forest," Sayer began.
"Only part of it," Zheng objected.
"Part of it is enough," Sayer continued, "They seem like they'd object to that."
The Sergeant grunted in agreement. "Yeah, they do give off the impression of being hippie gobshites," he said, "At least, until you get to the whole blood sacrifice thing."
Sayer growled curses and spat.
Michael had to suppress a snort. He's too young to sound manly when cursing. "Wonder if the Mexica, Maya and Incas got their sacrifice ideas from the Children of the Forest," he said.
"Meh-she-cah?" asked O'Neill, sounding out the syllables a little incorrectly.
"The Aztecs," Zheng answered.
O'Neill blew out a breath. "Ah, I doubt it. Human sacrifice was all over the place. That's one advantage of Christianity anyway, Jesus was the last guy who needed to be sacrificed."
Michael didn't comment on that perspective. He just bit into his apple again, carving off almost a quarter of it. These things are smaller here, he noted to himself, Maybe the best aid we could give Westeros is better seed stock. Not advice on human sacrifice.
"Okay," Sayer said dismissively, "But where the hell are the Children?"
Michael pulled an errant seed out of his mouth and threw it to the ground. "Doesn't matter. If they had a problem with this, that bodysnatcher guy would be up in my face right now, riding around the elk-rider like the elk-rider rides his elk."
"There's a tongue-twister," Zheng said flatly, "Not afraid a fireball's going to fly out of the woods and burn us."
"No," Michael said honestly, "These guys are living with the descendants of people that almost wiped them out, and they can relive the past whenever they want. That pain is probably still fresh. So, they're like the hyper-progressive types back home. Peace and justice and all that good stuff. They might want some kind of revenge for what happened eight thousand years ago, but if they were going to do something aggressive, they would have done it already."
"Doesn't mean they aren't plotting something," Zheng said.
"They are," Michael agreed, "Almost certainly. But that's what five-five-six is for, eh?"
Zheng let out a laugh and nodded rapidly.
A comfortable silence fell over the group for a while, as they oversaw the logs and branches being dragged back to a point where the carts were waiting. The prisoner section was working hard nearby to widen the section properly, reducing stumps to ground level. Lord Tyrion was perhaps uniquely well built for that task, Micheal noted, and he seemed to put a lot of rage into his swipes.
"Sir," O'Neill said out of nowhere, and nodded down the road.
Jon and Val were making their way up towards them, led by the white direwolf. They weren't quite dressed down as much as everyone else, but there wasn't a strip of fur in their wardrobe either. The wolf's tongue lolled to its full length, the heat not agreeing with the fur coat it couldn't shed. What's going on now?
Michael stood up and bit into his apple again, which seemed to get the wolf's attention. It padded up, nose sniffing wildly. Its dark red eyes flickered between looking at the apple and meeting Michael's own gaze. "Thought you only ate meat?" he joked at it.
The wolf looked at the apple again.
"Go on then," Michael conceded, throwing the apple lightly at Ghost. The wolf happily snapped it up mid-air, crunching away and letting the juices leak out of its jowls.
"He eats anything," Val said, "He even keeps trying to drink my ale."
"Which is why he grows so quickly," Jon added flatly.
Michael looked up to greet the happy couple, but found his mouth unable to move. The sight before him was shocking.
Jon Stark looked like half a dead man. Though he stood with all the pride a Westerosi lord could muster, back bolt straight, but his skin was paler than usual and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. Jesus, has he slept at all?
"Lord Stark," Michael forced himself to speak, "Princess Val."
"Lord Duquesne," Jon said in reply with a tired smile, "We were just wondering if you had heard from the Children of the Forest yet?"
Michael shook his head. "Haven't seen them all day," he said, "Or their people."
Jon and Val exchanged glances.
"Have you looked to the trees, to see if their animals spy on you?" Val asked.
"No," O'Neill answered, "Why?"
What the hell are they here to say? Michael wondered.
Jon shifted uncomfortably. "I came to warn you," he said, "Against relying on their magic. What they offer is not what it seems…"
Michael clicked his tongue. This wasn't news to him. "Yeah, I do wonder if they'll dump us in the middle of the Arctic or somewhere in the Sahara," he said, before correcting himself, "Somewhere very cold or very hot. That's why I'm cutting a path for the crawler." He gestured down the hill and then over his shoulder, indicating the road with two fingers.
"Don't dismiss his warning," Val said firmly, "You know nothing, Michael Duquesne."
"I like to think I know something," Michael replied.
Val opened her mouth to get the last word, but a screech rang out. Michael took his rifle in hand and skirted around the couple. He found Lord Tyrion pulling an axe out of the foot of a young Free Folk man, and his fellow lords and knights brawling with their guards. The young guy had been bringing the prisoner work detachment skins of water.
Tyrion Lannister gave a single glance to the Canadian party, and must have seen that Michael had already rounded the obstacles in the firing line. He gave a shout and waved to the trees, and together, the prisoners bolted into the forest. The guards were too busy helping the wounded, particularly the young man that caught the axe to the foot.
Son of a bitch, Michael thought, So much for the parole of a noble. In truth, it was the perfect time to try to escape. No warged human beings around, plenty of trees to hide behind if you made it far enough, and the Laughing Tree were strung out over a large area.
"Sayer, shoot the little guy."
The Private hmm'd, unsure as he moved around to see.
"Don't kill him, just immobilise him," Michael clarified, "They won't abandon him." He's the heir of their kingdom, after all. Or so he says.
Sayer levelled his rifle and aimed. The lower branches of the trees had already been stripped for kindling, so target concealment was barely a factor. And Tyrion Lannister could not run quickly.
The shot came soon and struck home. A terrible groan came from the forest, followed by arguing shouts. They're debating leaving him.
"Bullseye!" Zheng laughed, "You shot him in the ass! Serves him fucking right. Should do the same to the whole batch."
Sayer shrugged and grinned, looking happy for the first time since the Bloody Ford.
Michael couldn't see where Lord Tyrion caught the bullet, but the Corporal was at a higher elevation than he was. "O'Neill, Sayer, go retrieve our prisoners and bring the little guy to the maester," he commanded, "Zheng, go see to the guy with the bloodied foot and bring him to the maester too. Make sure they do the right thing with the wound."
The Sergeant and Private immediately took to their heels, sprinting off to catch the escapees. Knots of Free Folk broke off from their tree clearing to follow, a little too eagerly perhaps. Zheng stayed behind, brow creased deeply in a fierce scowl. "Why am I tending the wounded, sir?" she asked.
Because you'll do something to the prisoners to make sure they don't do this again. They're rapists and rape-enablers. "Young guy needs help," Michael replied in English, "We're almost home free here, I don't need reports going to the brass from our allies that we didn't take care of them."
"And you think a pair of tits will help," Zheng asked, though it was not a question. It was an objection.
It wasn't the first reason why Michael wanted to send her, but she made a good point. Evidently that showed on his face.
Zheng sighed. "Fine, I'll go hold his hand, sir. I know him a little, actually. And you're right."
Right about the tits? "I promise if anyone needs killing, I'll call on you first," Michael joked.
"I'll hold you to that, sir," Zheng replied, turning and waving over her shoulder.
Michael turned back to Jon and Val.
"See, I do know something," he said, switching to Common, "I know how best to cripple an escape attempt by nobles in a highly stratified society." He pointing his hand out at the forest, as Tyrion Lannister was being hauled out by his own subordinates, grasped under both arms.
Val rolled her eyes. "If you insist."
"I do," Michael replied, before looking to Jon, "And I insist you go get some sleep, Jon Stark. Now." Before you keel over and cause a diplomatic incident.
Jon sulked, refusing to meet Michael's gaze. "I am well, Lord Duquesne, worry not."
The teenage petulance was particularly irritating in light of the fact the young man absolutely was not well.
Michael loomed over the young man.
"You will go back to your tent, make love to your beautiful wife, and go to sleep," he commanded, "This is not a request. This is an order. By the agreement I made with Lord-Commander Mormont and the treaty we made with your brother, you follow my orders. And that you don't get that is proof that you are not 'well', Lord Stark. Now go do what I said or I'll throw you in the pit with that little shit." Michael pointed with his rifle off towards Tyrion.
Jon's spine seemed to straighten further, if that were possible. "Yes, Lord Duquesne," he said, almost robotic. He turned on his heel and walked off.
Val stayed for a moment. "Thank you," she said quietly, "He wouldn't listen to me."
I bet you tried the dagger. "Almost makes me curious about what he saw," Michael warned, before moving to a lighter tone of voice, "Tire him out and put him down for twelve hours at least."
Val made a face, like she hadn't heard those words before but got the idea.
With both duties to subordinates complete, Michael went and sat back down on the stump, hoping that was the last of the day's surprises.
Cloud cover came in the evening, trapping the day's heat and humidity. By midnight, the temperature still hadn't dropped below twenty, and it felt far warmer than that. The campfires were kept low, existing only to provide light. Still, with no moonlight, the dark was near absolute. The Laughing Tree camped where the road met the weirwood groves, gathered in a great circle around the crawler.
Michael and the others sat on top of it, with the additions of Ygritte and Ryk. The pair looking positively indecent, though Ygritte was in no mood to indulge in the implications of that. 'Air's too sticky' she had blanched when Michael had made the suggestion during a quiet hour near sunset.
Thunder and lightning are coming, he decided, We might need better shelter. The Free Folk teepee-like summer tents didn't look up to the task of handling a real storm.
"Would it just fuckin' rain," O'Neill complained, drinking from his water flask.
"Would the Children of Oz just open the fucking door home," Zheng complained back, "I know they said it would take a few days, but I'm sick of this shit."
"It's too hot," Ryk complained, "Gods I never thought I would say that."
"I can't sleep," Ygritte agreed, "I can't breathe."
Oh, you have no idea. Michael put a hand on each of their shoulders. "This isn't even close to how hot it can get," he said. They both recoiled in horror, and looked to O'Neill for confirmation.
The Sergeant nodded. "There are some dry places that are so hot that most plants can't grow and few animals can live, and wet places so hot that plants grow and consume all the space in an area. On our world at least."
"Our world too," said a new voice, "You could be describing Dorne and the jungles of the Summer Isles." It was Maester Carden, with Jon and Val in tow. Michael looked around and found no sign of Ghost anywhere. Must be off hunting, he decided.
Every Canadian on top of the crawler gave weak waves of greeting, too tired and annoyed by the heat to do much else. "How are our wounded?" Michael asked the maester.
"Well as can be," Carden replied, "The boy has lost the smallest toe on his right foot. He must be careful of infections, but will walk again. The dwarf had his buttocks torn horizontally..."
Zheng and Sayer snickered, to O'Neill and Carden's disapproval.
"He required stitching and cannot sit straight," the maester replied, "He's at greater threat of infection, particularly as I do not have mixtures to prevent it. Irony is that his father took my supply with him when he retreated."
Michael frowned. "I'd prefer if he didn't die. He's the highest ranked prisoner we have."
Carden nodded. "I know. I have already instructed him to keep the wound out in the air, and not to sit or lay in the dir…"
"Wait," Zheng said all of a sudden, "You mean to say he's been told he has to keep his ass bare or he'll die?"
Carden glared like a schoolteacher, knowing where the question was going. "Yes," he confirmed.
Zheng and Sayer howled with laughter, the Corporal slapping her thigh. That set off everyone in earshot. Michael couldn't help but grin at the very least. Even Jon was chuckling under his breath. Only the Maester remained aloof from the amusement.
Zheng is right. Mostly. "Then no more punishment for is required," Michael declared, "We'll have to keep him out of his pit, but that's no privilege in his condition."
The maester's half-lidded, pursed lip expression told the tale of his exasperation. "Quite," Carden said, "I shall go get some rest, it was a long day."
Michael and the others wished him a good night, and he left. That left Jon and Val.
"Get a good rest?" Michael asked Jon. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the guy looked better. The dark rings were gone at least.
Jon shifted his weight. "Yes," he said, "I cannot say I have settled entirely. But you were right to command me so. I thank you." Michael turned to Val and gave her a small nod of thanks. She waved it off.
A new arrival soon stepped into the orange light of the nearest campfire, tall and heavily cloaked like the heat was nothing. It was the elk-rider, Arrel, his antler-crested helm cradled under one arm. And from his gait, Michael could tell it was the Child in control of the man, not the human being. Sayer moved in place, making it easier for him to bring up his rifle and crack off a shot if something went wrong.
"We have found the means to send you home," Arrel declared, "We received unexpected help in discovering the necessary memories."
Maybe our luck really is changing. "You're here early," Michael agreed, "I thought we'd have a few more days."
"About time," Zheng muttered under her breath.
The elk-rider stood and looked up, saying nothing. He seemed to be examining each of them, each Canadian in turn. Michael was last, and the man seemed to be trying to look into his soul. Damn annoying.
"Well?" Michael asked, "When can we return home?"
Arrel bent down and placed his helmet on the ground. Next, he took off his cloak, and both the sword and a chainmail shirt that had been hiding under it. They were put onto the ground too. Lastly, he dropped a dagger from his boot, and stood up straight again.
Ygritte slid off the top of the roof and wandered over to the pile of things, picking up the sword. "Why'd you drop your blades?" she asked, "Are these gifts?" She pointed the sword at him, though without much intent to harm him. He paid it no mind.
They're not gifts, Michael thought with absolute certainty. But he didn't know what the weapons and armour had been shed from the man either.
Arrel responded at last. "You will return when you decide which of you will be the sacrifice."
Michael stilled, the rest of the world feeling like it was falling away in exactly the same way as the magic vision at the ritual site. He blinked away the disorientation as quickly as he could. "But the sacrifice already happened," he said, "We saw it."
"You saw a sacrifice," Arrel said, "To bridge the worlds and allow creatures with souls to pass from one to the other requires a death every time. Your travel to our world was paid with the blood of one of our fallen cousins. Its power never faded, merely remaining dormant. As has the power of all the others. But no such pool of sacrifice from your people exists here."
He's lying, Michael decided, his mind searching for the why, What
Zheng laid back onto the roof, hands on her face. "Fuck," she said, "Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck."
"If you say I told you so, I'll kill you," O'Neill sighed at her, mouth working like he was chewing on something. He doesn't know what to do.
Zheng shook her head rapidly, her hands trying but failing to cover up tears. She didn't make a sound, keeping her grief as quiet as possible. Even in sorrow, she was afraid of looking weak.
Michael wanted to put an arm around her and say he was sorry. She didn't need to tell him 'told you so'. He already knew. He had ordered her to shut up about it. And now he felt like an evil prick for doing that.
Sayer knelt on the roof and raised his rifle at Arrel. "You knew!" he declared, "You knew all along!"
Michael grimaced. It can't be…
"What do you mean he knew?" O'Neill asked, "Put that rifle down, Private."
"He knew it would need a sacrifice!" Sayer said, "This is their revenge. He wants blood for blood. They were never going to let us go without killing at least one of us. And I bet I know which one of us he wants."
Fucking hell, Michael thought, He's right.
Zheng bolted upright, her eyes almost glowing red from her despair and anger. She gathered up her rifle and aimed it at Arrel too. "Over my dead fucking body," she snarled.
"Yeah, fuck that noise," O'Neill agreed. The Sergeant cocked his pistol and aimed it down at Arrel.
The declaration sent half the camp in the firing line scampering away, clearing out before hot lead began sailing through the air. They had all seen what had happened at the Wall and Castle Black and the Bloody Ford. Ygritte stepped back rapidly like a dog was about to jump her.
In a flurry of action, Jon grabbed Val's hand and pulled her out of the area entirely, disappearing towards their own tent, well out of the way.
Throughout the chaos, Arrel's eyes never stopped looking at Michael. The longer it went on, the more anger bubbled up in him like acid. Don't look at me, you walked yourself into this. Now you can choose the grave or a swift explanation. "Best answer them," he said in answer to the stare, "It looks like military discipline is breaking down."
"That shit's a shipwreck now," Zheng stated, "ANSWER!"
Arrel responded, about a half-second before the Corporal would have hosed him down with thirty rounds rapid-fire. "We did not know. We knew it was one way, but we thought that perhaps the power locked at the Spiral on your world could be tapped from here. We were wrong. In trying to return to this world, even our cousins had to sacrifice some of their number."
"You're lying," Sayer said, "This is revenge."
"I shall admit that spilling your blood would sate our hatred for your people," Arrel said, "I shall admit also that we allowed you on the island in the hope you would make that choice. But we are no fools. We have seen you fight. We cannot force you to do a thing you do not wish to do. The choice is yours."
Michael grit his teeth so hard, it hurt. If it's a lie, it's a good one. "So bottom line, whether or not you need a sacrifice, we aren't going home without one."
Arrel smiled widely. "You are wise."
You smug son of a gun…
It nearly killed him to do it, but Michael gave the order. "Lower your weapons."
That his order was obeyed was a testament to just how far everyone had come in Michael's mind. He had been the new officer of the platoon when they had arrived. Now they were following commands he wasn't even sure he would have followed in their place.
Michael got them away from the main camp as soon as possible. The discussion to be had wasn't for anyone else. He chose a spot a little way down the road, away from the weirwoods, and ordered the building of a new campfire.
The task of gathering firewood and getting the flames licking and spitting embers was a good distraction. It was a little too large in the end for comfort in the night's heat, but that did no harm.
By the time it was done, each of their faces was painted orange by the light.
Zheng was sitting, her hands on her bare knees, staring at the flames. Her eyes were clear now, and in the near-dark, the orbs looked almost entirely black. Sayer stood opposite, biting his tongue, which meant he wanted to say something. O'Neill was pacing in a circle around the fire, just thinking.
They're still processing… but we don't have time. "Sayer," Michael began, "What's on your mind?"
The Private nodded. "We stay."
Michael paused. Has he got a plan? "We stay?"
"We stay here," Sayer insisted, pointing at the ground.
O'Neill stopped his pacing for a moment. "The Isle of Faces?"
Sayer reacted like he'd been slapped. Of course he doesn't want to stay with the Children of the Forest. "No," he shook his head, "In Westeros. On Westeros. Whatever."
The Sergeant looked up at the sky and resumed his pacing.
"Look, the way I see it, never mind the whole sacrifice thing," Sayer pressed on, "I don't want one of you to die just so I can go home. You guys are… I don't know, like family now. Only person I've spent this much time with ever was my mom and my cousin."
O'Neill stopped again beside Michael, cocking his head. "Private, we ordered you into battle to go home, and went into battle ourselves to go home," he said, before pointing repeatedly at the ground, "The only reasons we are all standing here is good luck, pure fuckin' skill and not being afraid of sacrifice."
There's a difference, Michael thought.
Sayer was unperturbed. "You volunteering, Sergeant?"
O'Neill mumbled curses and once more began walking in a circle.
Of course you're not volunteering, Michael thought, You have children, and you're just one death away from seeing them again.
"Not all of us made it," Zheng reminded everyone, "Arran and Singh didn't. A bunch of guys who followed us didn't."
Michael shuddered, remembering Arran and Singh's half-burned corpses climbing off the pyre, taken by the magic of the Others. How long as it been since I thought about that sight of Hell? "True," he said, "We should think about the idea of staying seriously. I can think of a few advantages."
"Other than not getting sacrificed," O'Neill muttered loudly.
Michael began scratching his chin, putting together what he could of a case to not bother with magic portals. It wasn't his first choice. "Yeah, other than that. We have enough ammunition to affect the war here. To say nothing of the warriors and skinchangers following us. That's something we can take to the bank, if we want to."
"Plus it'll really give the finger to the fucking evil leprechaun assholes," Sayer added, "I'm all for that."
O'Neill shook his head. "We'll be rewarded, but we'd have to integrate," he said, "That means putting up with all their lordly shit forever more. Kneeling, if I may borrow the phrase from our new friends. I have to say that offends my republican and Fenian bastard sensibilities mightily."
Duquesne smirked back at him. The man's objections weren't bad, but his reasoning was bullshit. You want to see your kids again, admit it. "Some Fenian you are, taking an oath of allegiance to Queen Elizabeth."
O'Neill shrugged. "The Queen doesn't live in Canada," he said, lightening up an inch for a moment.
"Touché," Michael said, rolling his eyes.
The Corporal threw a rock into the fire, sending the wood crackling and smoking more than before. "I'll have to be married off," Zheng stated, "Let's just say that won't end well." There's an understatement.
"We all would, probably," Sayer conceded, "Can't say Iola or Grette… or Ygritte would be happy about that."
Ygritte will fight my bride at the wedding reception, Michael thought, Then me.
"We can work something out," he replied, "We hold the cards still, even if we played some of them to get here. There's only four of us. We can find some quiet place in the world and live our lives, if we want to. Or we could go around like rock stars, making money hand over fist with our knowledge from another world. I'd say political marriage might be something we can get out of either way."
"Forgetting something?" Zheng said, "You know, the evil ice zombies and their even more evil masters?"
How could I forget? "That's a war we're even better equipped to fight," Michael answered, before his mind caught up, "But then again, if we fight to settle the war between the humans here, we might not have enough bullets for the demons…"
"Shit," O'Neill sighed.
My thoughts exactly, Michael said to himself.
The Private bounced on his heels, brow waggling with contemplation. "We could leave," Sayer said, "I've been reading about Braavos in the books we got. Place is a democracy, guys. If you're rich enough anyway, but it's a centre of trade, so we could be. We can grab a boat there at Maidenpool or Saltpans."
"We know absolutely no one in Braavos," O'Neill objected, "And it doesn't matter what world you're in, it's who you know. We'll be attacked for our crawler, guns and boots before the month is out. Why?"
"Because we don't know anyone," Sayer said, concluding the thought, "I still think it's better than getting stuck in two wars."
O'Neill couldn't really argue with that part, and neither could Michael. But there were other problems with the plan.
Michael grimaced. "Maidenpool isn't likely to be friendly after we told the heir to the place to eat crow," he thought aloud, "And I don't think the sea will keep the ice zombies away forever. Not that it would matter, if it's a Long Night, then crops aren't going to grow anyway."
"We can come back when the zombie thing becomes a real threat again," Sayer said haltingly.
"Winter sailing in tiny fuckin' wooden ships," O'Neill mocked, "Hope you don't get sea sick. And that you're immune to hypothermia." The Private threw up his hands and finally shut up, half-throwing himself to the ground to sit beside Zheng.
Sorry kid, it wasn't half bad an idea, Michael said, But it isn't half-good either.
The Seven Kingdoms were out. Braavos was out. The rest of Essos didn't even need to be discussed for reasons of slavery on a scale that made the Romans, Portuguese and Arabs look like amateurs. Further afield was a big Here Be Dragons situation.
To Michael's mind, there was only one choice if staying was the only way. "We go live with the Free Folk," he suggested.
Even Zheng broke her fire-gazing to look up at that one. Good, I have your attention.
"The Free Folk are even worse than the kneelers," O'Neill said, "The amount of thieving I saw in the last few months…"
"We know them," Michael interrupted, "They know us. They respect us. Fear us."
His mind cooked up a storm of reasons now.
"They might do the wife stealing thing, but they also do not do the arranged marriages thing. We already have a loyal tribe on our side, and a king who owes his crown to us. We killed some Others, breached the Wall and subjugated the Night's Watch. We're friendly with the king's in-law, Lord Stark of the Moat. "
"Sorta," Sayer said, "I don't think he likes you much, Lieutenant."
He respects me, at least. "Whatever," Michael snorted, before continuing, "There's a lot of things we can teach them. Hell, we've already been teaching them. Their lands are isolated, too far for anyone but the Starks to come hunting for us. And they're far from the war between the humans."
"But on the frontline against the Others," Zheng said, "And not having arranged marriages is not a great trade off for the rape-as-first-date thing, sir. I can't and won't shut up about that."
She does have a point, said Michael's mind to itself, Maybe we should do something about that. "The Others are a problem that we're going to need to deal with," he thought aloud, "And we have a lot of advantages against them to be honest. But for us to change Free Folk society… we'd need to overthrow Mance for a start."
"Not good," O'Neill said, "Man doesn't deserve it, for starters."
"No, he doesn't," Michael agreed, "But he's the one with the crown up there. We'd need the same if we'd be making changes. And if we did it, the Free Folk was shatter into a dozen factions."
The Sergeant nodded. "Like I said, staying is not an option."
"Only way I'm staying is if we find a fucking LOAD of guns," Zheng insisted loudly, "It's the only thing these barbarians respect. Even the nice ones wouldn't be half so nice if we weren't armed to the teeth."
Michael cringed. That sort of talk had bad precedents… even if it was a true statement in the circumstances.
"Despised are the meek," O'Neill agreed, "Not blessed."
Michael waved a buzzing insect out of his face. "Let's not get biblical on this," he argued, "We need to break this impasse. Staying has future problems we can deal with. Going has one big problem we can't avoid."
"We have to go for another reason," Zheng said, "We should warn Earth of what we found here. Isn't that what you were always saying, sir?"
"I did," Michael admitted, "But the idea of a blood sacrifice to get it done…"
"We killed thousands a few days ago, sir," Zheng complained.
"They were our enemies," Michael said, "I'd kill a million of them if I had to." Maybe that was too honest. No one noticed.
Zheng stood up, opening and closing her hands. "I volunteer," she declared quietly, "We have to get back."
Michael exchanged a look with O'Neill.
"Very funny, Corporal," the Sergeant growled.
"I'm not joking."
"Good, because I'm not laughing. You volunteering would mean there wouldn't be any 'we' getting back, it would be you dead and us going back. And you'll let yourself be killed over my dead body."
"You can't watch me forever."
"I'll take that bet."
Zheng rubbed her face in frustration. "Look, we need to warn Earth about the Others. They're all magic and crap, they might be able to open the door home. Just because the leprechaun people can't do it doesn't mean the demons have the same performance problems."
Michael knew exactly how that would go. "At which point the government triggers NATO's Article Five. the combined might of Western civilisation descends on the North West Territories then curbstomps the Others into icemelt and corpse dust."
"Wouldn't that be a sight," O'Neill added.
"Doesn't matter," Zheng said, "It's not the zombies we need to worry about. It's the Long Night. You said it yourself. Crops won't grow."
Michael wanted to slap himself. How did I miss something that obvious? "And we have way more mouths to feed, living in places that you can't really grow food anyway… depending on logistics chains that can be disrupted by bad weather." Billions could die.
The Corporal nodded. "Exactly."
"Hold your horses," O'Neill said, "Remember what the vision quest arsehole said. The Children of the Forest couldn't bring enough magic to Earth to do shit. It isn't a natural thing. No magic, no magic beings. The ice demons go to Earth, they'd just die. Puppets with no strings."
"You're assuming they're just as good as the Children at magic," Zheng said, "I'd say they're better, if they're turning day into night for years on end. If the leprechauns were packing that sort of magic firepower, the First Men wouldn't have stood a chance when they were invading this continent."
"Maybe they did," Sayer said, "Think I read something about them breaking the land bridge to Westeros with magic?"
"It doesn't matter," Zheng said, before she looked to Michael, "Lieutenant, you're the officer. You're the big-picture kinda guy. Is this a risk you're willing to take?"
Though he felt like his arm was being twisted, Michael considered it.
The information in the books about the Long Night was extensive, courtesy of their book collection coming from the Night's Watch. But it was very old. The First Men, a Bronze Age civilisation at best, managed to fight off the Others somehow. That's a reason for confidence. Whatever the First Men could do, Canada and its allies could do far faster.
But the risk was huge. The First Men were a subsistence society by all accounts, with very low population density. That was probably a big advantage against an enemy that can recruit your dead. Canada is more populous than the entirety of the continent of Westeros. A lot of mouths to feed when crops aren't growing, and a lot of potential enemy foot soldiers.
To say nothing of the rest of the world. Food reserves and the like wouldn't run out immediately, but they wouldn't last forever. And then, there'd be chaos. War. Death.
But Michael also saw the real reason Zheng was making the argument.
"You're not wrong, Corporal," he said, "But you're also not throwing your life away because of the pigs that live here. I'm the officer, I'm the one who gets to decide who the heroes are." Zheng just waited patiently. She knew someone had to be picked for the job, if her argument was accepted.
O'Neill did too. "Then who, sir?" His tone made it clear he'd not accept the job if it came his way.
"It might not come to that," Michael dodged, "We have asked the locals what it would take to return us. We haven't asked if there's a way to communicate yet. Maybe we can send the message without killing anyone."
"And if we can't?" Zheng asked.
Sweating now from more than the heat, Michael gulped down a lump in his throat. "Then I claim the privilege of every officer to die for his country." It sounded more corny than he had been hoping.
O'Neill snorted. "Give me a fuckin' break."
"You are all my subordinates, I have a duty in these kind of situations to protect you," Michael explained, "Besides, O'Neill… you have kids. Zheng is in the most danger here of heinous life-long agony, and she shouldn't need to die to escape. And Sayer… he's a kid."
"No, I'm not," Sayer said, quickly clarifying, "I'm not volunteering either, but I'm not a kid. I've killed White Walkers and men by the dozen!"
Michael, Zheng and O'Neill shared an absurd laugh. Sayer glared. What a thing to get worked up about at a time like this.
"Sayer, have you had sex with your spearwives yet?" Zheng asked flatly.
The Private's mouth opened to answer, but closed itself again. The process repeated twice more, the last instance including a finger being held up.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." O'Neill slapped Sayer on the back and told him to not worry about it.
Sayer hasn't been 'with' another person at all, Michael noted, One more reason for him to live.
"So you're the man, LT," Zheng declared.
"The sacrificial lamb," O'Neill chipped in sourly, "Are you sure, sir?"
Hell no.
"Feeling very biblical tonight, Sergeant, aren't you?" Michael said, the thought of Arrel standing over him with an obsidian knife made him shudder a little. "Not even slightly sure, I'm going to exhaust every other possibility first. But if it comes to it…"
Zheng breathed with something like relief. "Thank you, sir." O'Neill and Sayer nodded.
A flash of light had strobed brightly enough to turn night into day. Michael flinched away from it, putting his hand over his eyes. It didn't last long enough for that to help. The source had been somewhere to the south-west, like a brief moment of sunrise from the wrong direction.
"What the hell was that?!" O'Neill shouted.
"Explosion?" Zheng speculated, "In an acoustic shadow?" There had been no sound at all to it.
The camp was in immediate uproar, being closer to the light. In the distance, Michael could see the Laughing Tree arming themselves and beginning to move out towards the source. He raised his radio earpiece to listen, and heard Ygritte and Ryk on the comms channel, audibly barking orders to muster and move out.
"Doesn't matter," Michael shouted, "Move it!" He ran back towards camp regretting they hadn't used the crawler to get some privacy. The others followed close behind, their weapons ready.