The skinny septon shook Michael's hand so hard that the force rolled up his arm and hurt his shoulder, the man saying his thanks the whole time as tears streamed down his face. The priest was tall and lanky, grey creeping at his hair next to crows' feet. Behind, half a village's worth of people was nodding and adding their own thank yous to the mix. O'Neill and Sayer were taking their thank-yous in turn, reassuring them as best they could.
"We all thought we were doomed…" the priest wept, "They came out of the south, we were expecting the northmen to come, not rogues from the south… Our lord is fled to King's Landing… Then your owl came with your message asking if we needed help, our prayers answered…"
Wanting to untangle himself from the man, Michael put his free hand on the septon's shoulder, gently peeling him away. "Well, you're safe now," he said. Until the Starks and Tullys do come. There was still an open question of how the riverlords in particular would control their men, given how badly their own people had been treated. Michael was not looking forward to finding out.
"I only pray the northmen are as gracious as you," the septon nodded, finally releasing the hand from the grasp of both of his, "Their Old Gods can be cruel, as we learned in the last war." Not an idiot then.
Michael glanced to his right, meeting O'Neill's eyes. The warrant officer tilted his head slightly, indicating the time had come. That forced a sigh, before he turned back to the septon. "If you want to repay me, I do have a favour to ask."
"Anything," the septon smiled. Another Mexican wave of nods rippled through the little crowd.
Michael smiled, unable to stop himself. These were just ordinary people, genuinely grateful. Good for them, good for me. "Could you write down the events of the last day as best as you understand them?" he asked, "My Queen demands reports of all battles from her officers. Your account would be invaluable."
The septon froze, as if unsure why anyone would want such a thing, before he blinked and smiled himself. "Certainly," he said, "I'll do it as soon as the dead are seen to."
His enthusiasm was good, but Michael saw that it also might lead to problems. "Write exactly what happened, and then if you want to, express any gratitude you may have towards her Majesty," he said, "Accuracy is the most important things in these reports. If I did anything that displeases you, please include that too."
Michael was not a man to make the same mistake twice. Just as with the seizure of Castle Black and the battle at the Ruby Ford, his report on the battle at Sept-in-the-Woods was going to be impeccable, complete with witness statements, camera footage of the charge of the raiders against O'Neill and Sayer, and an accounting of both POWs and the dead with their weapons.
The septon drew back, offended. "M'lord, I could not conceive of anything that you have done that could possibly offend," he said.
"Wait until we're finished," O'Neill said flatly, "At the moment we're documenting all those who've been killed for the report. When that's done, we'll want all the dead burned. As I understand it, that's against your usual practices for the dead?"
The septon did his deer-in-the-headlights act again. "It is not unheard of where there are many who have passed," he said after half a minute, "May I ask why you insist on such a thing?"
Michael's smile died. The truth, let's see if he accepts it. "Beyond the Wall, the dead are rising to kill the living," he said, "It is no rumour. I have seen it with my own eyes, and so has O'Neill. That's why we're down here. To stop you Westerosi from killing each other for long enough to stop the dead."
The septon goggled and blanched, the villagers behind whispering to each other behind their hands. Yeah, they don't believe me.
"'Twould be poor manners for me to call you a liar, m'lord," the septon allowed, villagers quietening at his words, "In honour of your intervening on our behalf, the gods would allow your request."
Like they could stop me, even the evil gods fall to big enough bullets.
Michael ignored the presumption and pat the man on the shoulder again. "Thank you," he said, "The prisoners will prepare the pyre under guard before we leave, and you can lead the funerary rites. In the mean time, put your people back in the castle. More of my soldiers are coming, in the same machines we have here. I'd rather not see one of your people run over because they're not familiar how to act around them."
That got the villagers moving quickly back up their hill. The arrival at dawn of the four crawlers and three recon buggies had concerned every one of them in the castle deeply. Michael had to wake the skinchanger again to send the exact owl that had been used the night before, to reassure the septon and his flock.
"Friendly lot," O'Neill sniffed.
"Because their lord isn't here," Sayer complained, "I doubt they'd be cheering if he was. Or if it was Robb Stark or Edmure Tully riding to the rescue." A lot of the castellans of the places that had already surrendered were very salty about the disarmament terms demanded of them.
If it was the riverlords, the village would probably be ravaged and burned on general principle. "It doesn't matter," Michael said, "The reason their lord left is because we're taking three castles a day. So it's our responsibility to defend people on our way, if it's within our capability."
The Warrant Officer made a non-committal noise, looking back at the troops. The enemy KIA had been arranged in rows with their weapons in front of the sept, the allied KIA on stretchers with their body parts matched as best as possible. The prisoners were being kept in the stable stalls under guard, sitting down with hands still zip-tied behind their backs.
"The locals should be grateful it is within our capability," O'Neill noted, "The mapmakers fucked the dog on the distance between Harrenhal and here courtesy of them disagreeing where the Crownlands begin. Everyone is lucky that this little diversion appears to be a shortcut to the capital. I again voice my concern for our fuel supplies, sir."
"I again note your concern," Michael smirked back, "We'll be back to the MSR again by sunset." As if we'll see sunset exactly. He looked up at the overcast sky, on the coldest day yet since they had marched south of the Neck. Not that it was actually cold, just not sweltering.
O'Neill let out a silent laugh, his doubts expressed. "Orders until then?"
"Gather the NCOs here," Michael decided, "The weapons detachment and the MPs will be bringing the civilians here while Marcach moves south on the King's Road. I want military business concluded before they get here. Sayer, you go tell Zheng she's exempt, she's only just started talking to the prisoners. That kid who shouted Winterfell is a person of interest."
The Warrant Officer gave a nod, and stepped away to issue orders over the comms. Sayer saluted and ran off to the stables. Michael waited, wondering if he should radio Portelance and Melnyk to ask about Ygritte. He felt an itch to call in about how she was doing every hour or so, but had resisted so far.
Not subtle, he thought to himself, Can't do it over the comms. The need to keep the Situation as quiet as possible was pretty high. His soldiers were aware of the relationship, but given the rules on fraternisation were strict on them at the moment, it wasn't a good idea to rub their noses in it.
His sergeants arrived in a few minutes, O'Neill leading them. They were all tired smiles and bleary eyes; it had been a total victory against an enemy that deserved to lose, but they all really needed some sleep. Me too, Michael thought as the sight of them made him yawn.
Of all of them, Cue Ball was most pleased with himself. "Captain," the man said, tipping his helmet while it was still on his head, "We are absolutely untouchable."
Michael's brow raised. There had been a few hairy moments that he had seen during the combat, mostly because of the close quarters nature of the fight. Though for once, he hadn't fired a single shot himself, despite a searing anger after seeing what had been done to Ygritte. Presumably the sergeant was referring to the fact there had been no casualties.
"Speak for yourself, Sergeant," O'Neill growled, "I caught a fuckin' crossbow bolt on my front plate. Could've easily went into my neck or face."
"And you'd have been far prettier for it," Schafer joked back, before quickly adding, "If I may say so, Warrant." O'Neill gave him a wan stare for his trouble, which the irrepressible Schafer took in good spirits.
"I'll say nothing of the bawbag who thought my head looked like a good place for his axe!" MacDonald added, Glasgow accent turned up to nine in exasperation, "Except he'd never saw a shotgun before in his life and never will again."
A guffaw from the others sounded into the morning. Whatever you could say about MacDonald's unvoiced opinions on matters of command, his capability in a close fight was second to none. Even O'Neill wasn't so quick on the draw, though the Warrant Officer and some others could outshoot him at a distance.
Michael was just glad it was people he had worked with before that had been sent to him, and not complete strangers. "Untouchable or not, it was necessary work," he said, "And we'll do the same to any bunch of idiots who think attacking a village is a recreational activity."
That got the sergeants nodding like the villagers had been. "Here here," growled Nowak. O'Neill looked more sceptical, probably because of the fuel issue.
"Let's get the next duties out of the way," Michael continued, "So we can keep moving towards our original goal. Nowak, your report on the enemy combatants."
The pig-faced sergeant grinned, his square teeth like headstones.
"Bacon is pleased to report one hundred and twenty seven enemy combatants killed in action," Nowak said, "Every single one of them a shady-looking son of a bitch with all sorts of interesting things on them. Lots of them have scars on their faces and hands, like they've had daggers used on them. We even found two dead in a cage wagon behind the stables, they caught fifty-cal through the wall. They were shackled to the floor. One of them had his teeth filed down to points, and the other had his nose chopped off."
Michael rolled his eyes. Nowak's embrace of his nickname went too far sometimes, but he was observant, which is why he had been assigned to do the due diligence on the enemy.
"Interesting things like what?" O'Neill asked.
"Lockpicks," Nowak replied, "Small daggers and hammers. Cheese-cutting wire. Jewellery that most certainly wasn't theirs hidden in pouches in their pants. Gold coins fell out of one guy's belt and he doesn't look the sort to be a merchant. I think we caught ourselves a bona fide organised criminal group. The guys in the cage were probably in on it too, until they pissed someone off."
Some good news, Michael thought, A group that looks like shit to anyone looking to paint them as victims. Though it's strange a gang would have a cage wagon to begin with… "How many wounded? Fled?"
Nowak's nose twitched. "I'd have to wait to see what Zheng comes up with to know how many fled," he said, "But we have treated a dozen wounded combatants. Worst is a kid, must've walked into a machine gun at some point. Took a seven-six-two to the calf."
The whole group sucked in air like they had just been about to suffocate.
Not so good news. "Yikes," Schafer winced.
Nowak held up both his hands. "It's okay, he's stabilised. It was a clean through and through, no arterial or bone damage. Dentist should be able to patch up him and stop any germs. Probably would've been lethal if we weren't around. Weird thing is, the kid's arms are green to the elbow and I can't figure out why."
The Warrant Officer flinched at the words 'green to the elbow'. "I'll put Sayer on asking that," O'Neill said, "Don't want some weird disease creeping up on us."
"Wasn't about to touch the arms anyway," Nowak grunted.
The idea they had shot a kid was bad enough, but at least there'd be no child on the pyre. He had enough reputation problems without that added to his record, even if it wasn't his fault and every NCO would back him on it. "MacDonald, the POWs?"
"Forty two," the Moustache replied, "Including the wounded. We took most in the stables and the church. Others in the streets just ran and got away into the forest. Didn't shoot runners even if they were armed, as ordered. From what I saw of the ransacked houses sir, that might've been a mistake."
Now he wants freer rules of engagement, Michael said to himself with bemusement. "Village priest estimated two hundred. One hundred and twenty seven plus forty two covers the bulk of that number, plus the survivors will be scattered. They'll cause trouble, but villages on alert because of the northerners should be able to handle them. We have bigger fish to fry."
"Or to be more accurate," O'Neill added, "The Lion of Lannister who's in charge needs another lesson, because apparently he didn't get the picture when we blew him the fuck up and shot him."
"Sir," MacDonald stated, disagreeing but not making an issue of it.
"What will we do with the prisoners, sir?" Nowak asked, "We don't have a lot of room in the vehicles."
Michael spotted Zheng and Sayer marching over from the stables now, the Private pushing a prisoner along between them. The man had a coarse, weathered face behind a black beard and black eyebrows, his hair a mop in the same colour. The man's dark clothes and cloak were covered in mud-dust from the ground, though there also appeared to be horse shit dried on his knees.
What is this? "Same thing we did before you got here, the Afghan solution," Michael answered Nowak, "Hand them over to local authorities for trial. Unless Zheng has something to say about it?" He stuck his chin out at the approaching sergeant and the duo following. The others turned and looked on.
"Hey Zheng," Schafer said as she got closer, "Didn't know this guy was your type?"
His fellow sergeant smiled sweetly and stuck her middle fingers up in the air, to general amusement.
"Captain Duquesne," Zheng said when she was done, "This one's Yoren, a brother of the Night's Watch." Sayer shoved the prisoner forward, who came to a sliding halt in front of the confused sergeants, his beady eyes searching their faces. She had spoken in Common Westerosi. "Yoren, meet Captain Duquesne," she continued, "The one the Free Folk call the Wallbreaker."
'Yoren' glanced around, as if looking to see who she was talking about. Michael stepped in front of his sergeants and met his prisoner's gaze. The man's clothes were in fact all black or dark grey under the dirt and grime, just like every other man of the Night's Watch he had ever met. His shoulders didn't sit at the same height.
The Crow turned his head and spat a globule to the floor.
"Fucking charmer," O'Neill said in English to the others, before repeating the introduction Zheng had given for their benefit. Understanding bloomed on their faces, though they were still quiet. The man just listened, eyes searching as he listened to the words he couldn't understand.
"Now now Yoren," Zheng said, "We were having such a nice chat before." She was all menace, her default mood when dealing with kneelers in particular.
The man kept quiet. He picked a place in the sky to stare at, and ignored them.
Another uncooperative Crow. Michael scratched his chin with annoyance. "What did you ask him and what did he say?" he asked the interrogator.
"He's a recruiter," Zheng replied to the group, in English this time, "He goes around collecting willing men and asking lords to empty their prisons for the Watch. Apparently Lord Lannister rounded up all the thieves in the capital and dumped them out with Yoren here."
She pulled out a large leatherbound ledger and held it up. Michael took it from her, and opened it to the last page entry. It was line after line of entries on rough paper. It hurt his head to read them a little, but the magic did its work and he understood they were records of every recruit the man had ever picked up. Complete with their crimes, if they were not willing recruits. Jackpot.
"Siege preparations," MacDonald announced at once. Michael and the others turned to him. The outburst was unusual for him. "Sieges are shite and you don't want tadges goin' round, stealing everyone's bread."
It made sense, and it wouldn't have occurred to Michael… but it was still strange that MacDonald had come to that conclusion so quickly. Suppose he's from somewhere with medieval castles. But isn't O'Neill too?
"This Lord Lannister expects to fight then," Nowak grumbled, "Arrogant shit. We'd roll over him, walls or no walls."
Zheng looked at him like he was stupid. "Probably not us he's worried about. There's two or three other kings now who want his head even if we agree to leave him alone. You saw the fucking direwolf, yeah? Might be afraid of getting his balls chomped off by that."
Nowak conceded the point with no grace at all, grumbling to himself.
"That's enough," Michael said, losing patience. The sergeants straightened up at once, to his surprise. Wonder if they'd do that for any other captain? He turned to Yoren, who was still looking heavenward.
"I told Lord-Commander Mormont to dispatch word to all his people," Michael continued in Common, "By our treaty, all Crows are supposed to follow my orders. I sent word into this village for everyone in it to surrender, you didn't do as you were told. That's a violation of the agreement."
Yoren finally met Michael's gaze. "To be taking commands from foreigners who killed us, allied to wildling rapers and thieves who we've fought to keep out for thousands of years… how low we have fallen."
Tired and with little capacity for patience left, Michael's blood rose up again: Another dumb shit spouting off about the old hatreds when the Others were coming for everyone. Another Ser Alliser Thorne. But the mot juste was already on the tip of his tongue. He took his rifle in hand and leaned forward.
"You could fall a lot lower. You and all your brothers at the Wall."
Yoren scoffed, though his eyes had tracked towards the rifle. Yeah, you know you'd be screwed.
Michael stepped back again, and looked to his sergeants. I'll force this idiot to do his duty even if it kills him.
"Change of plans. The prisoners, children excepted, will be secured at the next castle we take and left for the northmen to send to the Wall. Next time someone needs to go gather wights, this gentleman will do it. He's going to get to see if the ice demons are as impressed with his arrogance as I am." And if he baulks at the duty, I'll tell Mance the treaty is in abeyance. Good night, Night's Watch.
Michael was long finished with Crow bullshit, and finding he had stepped in more of it this far south was just unpleasant. The prisoner had ignored the strange foreign speech and was standing silently once more.
Nowak scratched his cheek under his helmet's strap, shaking his head. "I don't get it, why do we care about this guy? If he led the raiding party, does it matter? He lost control of his criminals. Let the locals hang him."
Don't tempt me, Michael thought.
"These are the same guys that decided to pretty much declare war on us," Zheng agreed, "We asked for negotiations to save hundreds of thousands of lives, and they spat in our face, told us to die with all the Free Folk and that they'd fight us. Would've needed a UN Security Council resolution to stop you after that, sir."
The sergeants grinned widely, knowing better than Zheng did how true her statement was. Michael rubbed the back of his neck and looked away for a moment. He himself was plainly aware of his own proclivities.
MacDonald was the exception where Yoren was concerned. "From the look of those ice demons, we'll need every man at that Wall we can spare," he said, "Even if they are shites."
The voice of reason speaks. Michael shot the Moustache a thumbs up of approval. "Mac is right. We're sending Yoren here to do what he's supposed to do. That's punishment enough when there are ice demons screwing around up there."
O'Neill wasn't so convinced. "The Night's Watch," he said, in Common, "Their brains aren't worth shite, their word isn't worth shite. Shites all."
That got Yoren's attention, and looked like he wanted to defend himself or his order from the charge of shitery. O'Neill stopped him with a look and a visible curling of his large fist. The Warrant Officer was done with the Crows too.
"With some exceptions," Michael allowed, feeling better enough already that it felt incorrect to include Jon Stark or Sam Tarly in the general statement. He addressed Yoren next, to explain his plan. "You'll be kept at the next castle we take and sent to the Wall. Next time there's a patrol north of the Wall, you and all your adult recruits will be on it."
The man's eyes widened. "So you're letting us go?" he asked.
"Letting you go so you can get stabbed to death by a White Walker," Michael replied, "Things have changed since you were last north, they need volunteers to gather wights. You just volunteered."
The prisoners moved their dead and built a long pyre from the large piles of firewood that the village had stockpiled, downwind and away from the buildings. Nowak's section guarded them as they did it, the sounds of Johnny Cash on the air from loudspeakers on the section's crawler.
The septon prepared the southron bodies as best he could, working with what could be assumed to be lay brothers of the Faith of the Seven to clean them, before giving Michael the letter he had requested. The contents were absolutely glowing with praise for the Canadian intervention, to the point it was a little too much.
At the same time, Michael had his own troops prepare a smaller pyre nearby for the Free Folk killed in action. Their funerals would be separate from the barbarians that had chopped them up and abused their bodies. The crawlers would also be bringing the lovers and relatives of the dead, and he had no intention of carting around bodies.
The convoy arrived just as the pyres were completed, led by the military police vehicles.
Ahead of schedule, Michael noted. He hadn't wanted the civilians to see the process of loading dead bodies onto kindling, but the idea of leaving them the whole day with just the weapons section and the cops to protect them was worse. The Laughing Tree were afraid of Canadian soldiers, but from what Ygritte said, they were deeply unimpressed with the civilians. Don't need a stealing on my hands.
The crawlers descended from the village proper and parked up in what had been the lumber yard, now emptied of its logs. They're early.
Even before the crawlers had properly halted, Free Folk in mixed furs and Canadian CADPAT were running from them, heads on a swivel, searching. Michael pointed to where their relatives were laying and the rush began. Wails of anger and sorrow soon mixed with the music, until someone wisely turned off the latter.
Civilians dismounted soon after, stretching their legs and gawking at the scene from what they probably thought was a respectful distance; pyres, prisoners and bodies.
Michael activated his comms as soon as he saw some usual suspects breaking forward from the pack. "O'Neill, I see Cloutier and Shih coming towards the POWs," he reported, "Stop her, please."
"Copy," came the reply. A moment later, Schafer's section jumped up from their seats atop their crawler to intercept. The civvies did not take kindly to being stopped, and although the words weren't intelligible, Michael could tell they were being as argumentative as possible.
To be expected from people who are here because they were protesting on top of a door to another world, he mused. With a shrug, he turned towards the crawlers. The ones designated as ambulances caught his eye, and Michael found himself wanting to walk briskly towards the one Ygritte was in. She's okay, he reminded himself, It was a flesh wound.
The sound of incomprehensible shouting in the distance tore his eyes away. Doctor Cloutier arguing with O'Neill greeted him, and he got that sinking feeling which tiredness was greatly exaggerating. The two were walking his way, with Doctor Shih, Zheng and MacDonald following along. Michael shook his head. "Fuck," he murmured, stepping towards them and looking for the problem.
It didn't take long; both pyres were being loaded with the dead. The POWs were not being delicate about it to the displeasure of the septon. They were just dumping the corpses whatever way was convenient. The Free Folk were much more careful, holding arms at attention as those carrying the dead lined the bodies up perfectly, making sure the severed parts stayed together.
So that's what it is, Michael said to himself, She's seeing the toll, and this time it was me who made the corpses. As soon as Cloutier was within reasonable shouting distance, he stopped and let her complaints wash over him for a moment, watching the Free Folk funerary rites for future reference. It was only when she got in his face that he paid her any heed.
"Well?" Cloutier demanded.
"Well what," Michael replied flatly.
"Are you using prisoners to burn the dead?" She gestured to the large pyre. "There must be two hundred bodies being put on that wood pile." Her tone suggested he was trying to hide the evidence. Not a very good method.
Michael inhaled a breath, gathering his response. "We engaged in combat with the full support of both our orders and the law. The prisoners are taking care of the result of that. Our primary adversary raises the dead, Doctor, we can't leave bodies for them to use against us later."
Cloutier snorted with doubt. "You drove off the road to the capital," she said, "We're not supposed to be here."
Michael scratched his chin, wondering if he should even indulge her unspoken question of why.
"Reconnaissance indicated a village under attack by a raiding force. I sent a message via skinchanger bird to the village leaders in the holdfast asking if they needed assistance. They responded that they needed it at once. I sent warning and a demand to surrender to the enemy before we engaged, though I was not obliged to do so. And in the end, the enemy shot at us first."
The Professor frowned. "We're not here to rule these people, Captain," Cloutier countered, "The villagers had a castle, they were safe. From how this looks, the dead men never stood a chance."
"And what about the next village?" Michael asked, "What if they don't have walls to hide behind? What if they all don't make it in time?"
That gave the Professor pause for a moment. Gotcha. "They were Night's Watch, were they not?" she said, "It was all a misunderstanding. And you shot a child!"
Michael found himself astonished she had that information already. Clearly she was cultivating some kind of network. "You're suggesting I should have ignored a war crime in progress," he pressed on, "Just as I'm not allowed to attack a civilian target, neither is anyone else."
"Of course not," Cloutier said, "But at the risk of giving you a lecture, you have to think of the consequences beyond. Our presence here could destabilise their society. If you think I like the idea of leaving villages to be attacked, I don't. But many empires have expanded using morality as their excuse, and I'm concerned we'll be here a while, long enough to start one.."
She really is intelligent. Michael mused. "And what should I have done?" he asked, curious, "Since you don't like seeing villages attacked?"
"Yes, give us the experience of your many years of military experience," Zheng threw in.
Ignoring the sergeant of auxiliaries, Cloutier's answer was calm and measured. "We can't act like we are the law here. You should have reported it to the nearest local force, or given back the surrendered garrisons their weapons to deal with it. It's not like you couldn't have done that within a day."
"And it was stupid to begin with," Doctor Shih complained, "There are not many of your soldier boys, getting yourselves in danger for no good reason… What do we do if enough of you get killed? We're not fighters."
Michael felt exasperation lick him like flames. Someone give me a coffee before I suplex these idiots. "This isn't a UN peacekeeping mission, I don't have to restrain myself from military action against an armed force attacking civilians. And I won't have my name dragged through the mud because I let a village get raided."
"Your name was already dragged through the mud," Clouter responded idly. She winced as soon as she said it, clearly not having thought through the words first.
Michael stared at her for a moment. What the hell do you know about anything?! he ground out in his head, before realising she might know quite a bit. Teixeira…
"What does that mean?" he asked her, as politely as he could. There was only one thing she could have been talking about. MacDonald flinched slightly himself, knowing exactly what he was referring to as well.
Cloutier cleared her throat, standing back a little. "It's nothing," she said, "I apologise."
Michael smelled a rat. "Not getting away that easily," he smiled, "What do you mean?"
The Professor's lips thinned, but she stayed stubbornly quiet, just pushing her blonde hair out of her face and not meeting his gaze.
Oh no you don't. Michael turned to MacDonald. "Sergeant, have Master-Corporal Teixeira report here, immediately." The Scottish NCO's mouth moved as if to blanch, but he saluted and stepped away to get on his comms.
"O'Neill, summon the NCOs again," Michael continued, knowing all the others not present would support his position, "At the double."
The Warrant Officer leaned in. "I take it story time has arrived?" he asked quietly.
Michael frowned. "I'm about to find out," he replied, "Let me handle it until the time for discipline arrives, please." O'Neill nodded, and issued his own orders without leaving the little circle.
Cloutier became quite flustered, her head turning rapidly between MacDonald and Michael, like she was trying to decide what she could do. "Why are you summoning Corporal Teixeira?" she asked.
I don't owe you an answer on that. Michael yawned uncontrollably, before wiping tired tears out of the corners of his eyes. If Teixeira hadn't been talking out of class, Cloutier wouldn't be saying his reputation had been dragged through the mud. A quick look at Shih told him that she wasn't surprised either, which meant the Professor had repeated something of the claim to others.
Teixeira appeared first and saluted, but no one said anything. He looked to Cloutier for answers, whose face was entirely apologetic. The guy knew he had fucked up too, which only got worse when the rest of the NCOs ran up. Only then did Michael begin.
"Master-Corporal Teixeira, Professor Cloutier has just been telling me that my reputation has dragged through the mud. Any idea where she might have gotten that idea?"
Everyone knew he had been the one hanging around with her. Schafer, Nowak and Melnyk all glanced at the man with extreme displeasure, knowing that he had a bug up his ass about previous events. Teixeira's face drained, turning his skin a deathly pallour. His tongue worked in his mouth uselessly. Michael kept up the pressure.
"Last I checked, the brass promoted me to Captain and the government granted me the civil rank of ambassador. Does that sound like someone whose reputation has been sullied?"
"No, sir," Teixeira admittedly weakly.
"You told her about the last time I commanded this platoon in battle, didn't you?"
"No, sir!" More emphatic this time.
Michael knew that wasn't the whole truth. "But you disparaged me nonetheless," he stated, "You expressed your opinion of me as a result of what happened, did you not?"
Teixeira glanced to Cloutier. "I spoke in confidence only to Doctor Cloutier after she heard rumours about you, sir. I spoke to no one else about it and I revealed no military information."
Michael rounded on the two academics. "And she told her friends," he said, "Is that not the case, Doctor Shih?"
The geneticist bared her teeth in anger. "So we shouldn't know what sort of man is in charge of our lives?" she retorted, pointing to the pyre, "There's a literal pile of dead people over there."
"This pile of corpses is brought to you by the letter F," Zheng said flatly, "F for fuckwits, who attack villages and don't surrender after being warned." The civilians were positively venomous in response, but the sergeant just smirked back. O'Neill told her to shut up, which she did with a complete lack of grace.
Of course, Shih wasn't entirely wrong but had just proved the point Michael was making regardless. "Master-Corporal Teixeira, thanks to you, I now have to address this situation where the civilians think I'm a bloodythirster murderer. You're going to assist me."
"Then I'll deal with you," O'Neill threw in, "Count on that."
The Master-Corporal's attitude went from fear to resistance in an instant. "You weren't there, Warrant."
O'Neill cocked an eyebrow. "I've been here with the Captain for months, Corporal."
The Warrant Officer had made comments about Michael on occasion, like when he had turned the armoury of the Night's Watch into an 'abattoir'. I suppose it's a relief that O'Neill is a pragmatist first and foremost.
"Leave Teixeira alone," Cloutier interrupted, "This wasn't his fault, it was mine."
Michael respected her attempt to defend the corporal, but it was hard for civilians to understand that badmouthing your superiors was common as hell in the military. Bottom line, you couldn't let that interfere with the job. Maybe that's the problem, these civvies haven't been able to do their jobs when on the march. Boredom makes trouble more than anything else except desperation.
"It was both of you," O'Neill growled, "Pair of eejits who can't keep their gobs shut. This isn't like trespassing, you undermined the chain of command while being subject to it. You'll get your comeuppance too, I promise."
The Professor's face became a storm of anger. "You are not dictator here," she boomed, before looking to Michael, "And what's more, you better tell us what the hell you did or I'll make such a report back home, you'll regret you ever joined the army. You have support at Defence Headquarters, but I know politicians, Captain. The government can't ignore what the civilian liaisons say."
Shit. Of all the threats she could've made, that was actually one Michael had reason to fear. He doubted the military would be allowed to contact Westeros alone again. Unless he arrested or killed her, Cloutier would get her audience with the civil servants. And if her report got his previous record dragged into a debate over his command, the politicians might overrule the military. Eventually they'd find some idiot to take the one way trip to Westeros.
To hell with it.
"Then I guess I have no choice, Doctor."
That caused a ruckus among the NCOs, and the Moustache was the first to clear through the noise.
"Sir," MacDonald warned, "You can't give out classified information!"
Michael shook his head. "I won't," he said, "I'm just going to speak in hypotheticals." The civvies don't know enough about the military to connect the dots anyway.
MacDonald and the others collectively frowned, which was funny enough to cheer Michael up a little. Evidently they thought that wouldn't be good enough. But as far as he was concerned, there was no choice. The civilians would disrupt everything they could if they believed he was some evil bastard. He didn't know if an explanation would help with that, but at least it would take secrecy out of it.
The two present looked utterly mystified. Zheng and O'Neill were listening intently too, not having been part of the events of Michael's last overseas deployment.
Where to begin, he thought, before his mind decided to go comedic with it.
"Once upon a time, there was a place near a border; an airport, a harbour, a rail station, whatever."
"Where?" Clouter asked.
"Doesn't matter. What does matter is that a certain armed group decided to take this prize for themselves, inconveniently for our political masters. There was a mild crisis, there was a multinational force to stop plenty of trouble needing squashed."
Cloutier tilted her head. "So it could be Middle East, Eastern Europe or Africa," she interrupted, "All the imperialist classics."
"I wouldn't try to narrow it down if I were you," Michael warned gently, before he picked up where he left off, "Anyway, our government didn't want us engaged too heavily after Afghanistan, so we got the 'easy' assignment in the middle of nowhere. Little chance of real action. Until we got word that there was going to be dinner and a show at the prize."
"Can you get to the point, please…" Shih sighed, growing bored.
"It was a race," MacDonald answered, "We couldn't let anyone else have that position. Only reason we didn't hold it to begin with was numbers. The operation needed more men, but the other involved governments didn't want to commit them, which is why we went in the first place."
"Exactly," Michael agreed, "Our platoon was out on patrol, the rest of the company was caught up dealing with a public order situation. We were the closest, along with a company of friendly locals. The mission was to lead the push with our armoured infantry fighting vehicles and block reinforcements to the prize. Meanwhile, our company would be mustering to get to us, and that would deescalate the situation."
Michael found the memory of that crazy drive, the weather as clear as could be as they went through the countryside, but most vividly, the smell of exhaust from the vehicles of the 'locals'. He realised he had paused, and glanced around sheepishly.
"Whoever made it to the position first would win, or that was the idea anyway."
"But it didn't work out like that," MacDonald said.
"No, it didn't."
"You lost the race," Cloutier stated.
Michael blinked away the reverie of seeing the enemy vehicles pulling into the place just before his platoon did. "We did, and it was worse than that; the armed group wasn't the only ones that had beaten us, but the troops of another nation. Serious ones."
Cloutier's jaw clenched. "How have I not heard of this?"
Michael waved that off. "It was all covered up, for reasons we'll get into," he replied, "Anyway, we backed off and reported it. Less than fifteen minutes later, I was on comms with the leader of both the Canadian contingent and the leader the whole multinational force, ordering me to repel the occupying force at once."
That got a reaction. "Bet the latter was an American," Cloutier said, in a tone so dry, it would've made the Sahara look wet.
In other circumstances, Michael and the others might have laughed at that. But it was a deadly serious situation.
"Could've been British or French too," he countered, though it was not in fact the case. There was a reason the Americans liked him. "My own superiors were not amused, but didn't have the authority to countermand the order. While they were busy trying to call up our own higher authorities, I ordered the attack."
The civilians just stared at that.
"Against the advice of Sergeant MacDonald," Teixeira added in for flavour. The Moustache glared at him furiously, but the corporal was apparently in a sharing mood now that the floodgates had opened.
"Tell the audience what your objections were, Mac," Michael said.
The man blinked in confusion, before doing as he was told. "There were clearly more of them than us," he said, "Professionals, I mean. On top of that, I didn't think we should provoke a larger conflict."
Michael gave a small tilt of his head to concede that before giving his own counterargument. "You did say something about the Third World War," he smirked for a moment, "But our force outnumbered them in absolute terms, and we had the LAVs, armoured vehicles with big guns. That was my logic. The opposition could have withdrawn any time they wanted."
MacDonald's jaw worked slightly, but his mouth kept closed. He still thought it had all been a terrible idea, and it was just pure luck that everyone hadn't been killed.
"You must have won," Cloutier said, "Or you wouldn't be here."
"Of course we won," said Schafer, "We won so much, we got in trouble for it."
"Mostly Duquesne," Nowak corrected.
The two civilians both looked at Michael like they were owls interested in something they hadn't seen before.
"We attacked," he explained, "We used our big guns to get close, keep the enemy's head down. That's when things got bloody. The soldiers from the other nation waited until our armoured vehicles approached to drop us off. Let off some anti-tank weapons. One of our LAVs took a hit to the front, killed the driver instantly."
Michael paused, and looked to Teixeira. The Master Corporal was looking at the ground. The driver who had been killed had been close to him. It was always a suspicion that casualty had been the whole reason for Teixeira's hostility, but it wasn't possible to prove.
"That scared the shit out of our local friends," he continued, "Some of them ran right then and there."
"They didn't get far," Nowak said gravely.
"Which is why I ordered the buildings raked with every heavy weapon we had," Michael agreed, "Then I led two of our sections and some of our friends in, while Mac and Melnyk covered us. Long story short, we won, but it was very bloody."
MacDonald odded. "The professionals had been hit hard and weren't able to stop us, but managed to keep their own local friends in the fight to the end. Very few surrendered. Seems they had been ordered to hold out at any cost."
Doctor Shih shook her head in disbelief. "For a building?"
"No," MacDonald replied.
"It was going to be where the other nation moved its troops into the country," Michael explained, "They weren't about to be left out of the fun. And they had obviously used the place before, because we found about forty million in currency there. Paychest for the locals, maybe."
Cloutier whistled at that. "That is a lot of poutine."
"Yep," Melnyk agreed.
Michael could still remember the pallets of cash, wrapped in plastic. Didn't remember any new money smell though, by then that sense had been overwhelmed by blood and gunsmoke. The numb feeling from back then was still there, any time he thought about it.
"Anyway, we succeeded in stopping the other nation from interfering, our reinforcements arrived before theirs and it was all good for a little while."
Cloutier looked to Teixeira for a moment. "Doesn't sound like a reason to think you're a bad guy," she said.
Michael let out a single laugh. "One would think," he said, "Didn't take long for people to say otherwise. First of all, some people felt I had been reckless and got Canadians killed for the trouble."
He didn't even need to look at Teixeira for that one. That was MacDonald's report.
"On top of that, we killed so many that some less-than-neutral people who showed up later thought I had ordered everyone to ignore surrenders, to give no quarter."
"Did you?" Cloutier asked, a little too quickly.
"No," Michael replied with certainty. I didn't have to order it. He looked to Schafer, Nowak and Melnyk. They had seen everything he had. Then there was MacDonald, who resented his role in the whole affair and blamed Michael for it. "The enemy fought to the death."
"For the record, I don't believe you killed surrendering combatants either," MacDonald said, "Whatever other objections I had." Of course you don't, you were part of the reason I was accused. Michael nonetheless greeted the statement by thanking the sergeant. He had been vindicated in the end.
"Going to talk about the money, sir?" Teixeira asked.
Michael shrugged. "Of course, Corporal," he smirked, "The millions of euros went missing, while we were still there. I was accused of looking the other way by the same less-than-neutral local parties, though by then our whole company had shown up, so I really do wonder when I had the opportunity."
"And did you?" Cloutier inquired, "You're a resourceful man, Captain."
As if I would tell you. "If I had a couple of million dollars, would I still be in the Army?"
"Yes, sir," Teixeira said emphatically, "The Army is exactly where you would be. Both because you aren't stupid enough to flaunt the money, and because you live for this shit. You get excited for this shit."
Yeah, because I really like doing the same thing over and over again. Michael said nothing. Teixeira was wrong, combat didn't get him excited, at least not any more than anyone else. But the reason he stayed in the Army wouldn't be possible for the civilians or Teixeira to understand, and it would be the same if he was rich or poor.
"Hey!" Nowak complained, "Where the hell is my cut, sir?"
The other NCOs from the old days chuckled. Even O'Neill cracked a smile.
"And in case you didn't notice, Teixeira won't shut the fuck up about all this stuff," Schafer said to the civvies, "You want my take? We were ordered into a shitshow. Duquesne led us through it, and we kicked many asses that rightly deserved it. Our people that died, they absolutely did not die in vain."
"How many did you lose?" Shih asked, finally engaged with the explanation.
"Four," Michael replied, "Moretti, Smythe, Park, Schwarz. And absolutely all of us were wounded."
"Good people all," Melnyk said, before adding, "Except Moretti, that man could piss off a saint. Him and his fucking bragging and pranks."
Michael and the others grinned at each other, though he was sure they felt the same sadness about it as he did. It was strangely like old times.
"In the end, the brass loved me," he said, "I did what I was ordered to do, and what we did was so embarrassing to the other nation that they agreed to stay out. But I was inconvenient to the mission because of all of the shit, despite an investigation finding absolutely nothing. In the end, they transferred me and covered the whole thing up as a matter of international diplomacy."
"Sounds more like the government fucked up," Doctor Shih mused, "Or the Americans."
"I didn't say anything about Americans," Michael said.
The geneticist rolled her eyes. "Right."
Cloutier ran her fingers through her hair, breathing out through her teeth loudly. "I'm not sure this really improves my impression of you," she said, before meeting his eyes, "You're a killer, Duquesne. I don't think anyone can deny that. But I don't believe you're a criminal."
Wouldn't be for you to judge anyway, Professor. "I suppose I'll have to settle for that," Michael said.
"Don't be upset," Cloutier said gloomily, "After what I saw in that village by the lake… I suppose I overreacted here. I'm… just not used to seeing and smelling the recently dead. So many." Doctor Shih turned her head away, not willing to admit the same thing.
I suppose that is the right reaction for non-killers, Michael thought, But it's time to get them out of my hair. "Doctor Cloutier, now that this is resolved, feel free to observe the funeral rites. If you want to. Teixeira, take your group and escort her."
Cloutier nodded, and walked off, Shih following closely behind. Teixeira saluted, his eyes still filled with contempt, and went to follow his orders. That guy is going to be a problem.
"What a wonderful trip down memory lane," Schafer said, all sarcasm.
"Fucking bitch," Nowak added.
Michael waved dismissively at them. "She's an academic recently kidnapped from her ivory tower," he said, "Her attitudes are understandable, if still a pain in the ass." A pain I can't make go away.
"Think she's really politically connected?" Melnyk asked.
"Doesn't matter," O'Neill said, "She's civilian liaison. Any stink she raises will smell to high heaven. Now get back to your sections. We've got work to do if we want to get back onto the King's Road before sunset."
The NCOs did as they were told, dispersing quickly and leaving Michael alone with the Warrant Officer. They stood in companionable silence for a while as the sounds of birds chirping and shouted orders to the prisoners were carried on the air. They watched as the septon himself set the torch to the bottom of the enemy's funeral pyre, Cloutier observing close by with Sayer and Teixeira's men. The fire took very quickly, the wood having been properly dried for the purpose by the villagers for winter.
Michael could almost sense the question coming before it did.
"Was that the truth, sir?" O'Neill asked.
Given all that had happened, Michael thought the man deserved honesty.
"The enemy professionals stood and fought," he answered, still looking out at the scene in front of them, "Their puppet terrorists did too, for a while. Once we killed enough of the real soldiers, the cats-paws ran… but they didn't drop their weapons. We chased them through the complex, fighting at arms length. Bayonet range. Chased them right into MacDonald's section and Melnyk's GPMG covering the empty enemy vehicles, just as I wanted."
"Foxhounds to the hunters," O'Neill grunted.
"Yeah," Michael confirmed, "MacDonald's people got hit hard, but still stacked bodies by the doors while we were doing it inside. Our local friends got it almost as bad helping us. Park was one of Mac's guys, caught it in the face. The good Sergeant hasn't liked me very much ever since, because I could have ordered him to let the enemy go."
"Why didn't you?"
"They were bad guys. They didn't deserve the chance."
O'Neill spread his hands to either side of him. "And the money?"
Michael wondered if he should lie about that, given what the answer was. Honesty is honesty.
"CIA took it," he said, "Sent a message through command to confirm their identity, one that our brass wouldn't recognise as proof of anything. Then they threatened Faucher and myself if I didn't cooperate. Promised to make any problems with what happened disappear if I did. I guess they really wanted that untraceable cash."
His eyes wide, O'Neill nodded repeatedly, as if the response was crazy but still made sense.
"What was your cut?"
Fatigue having completely eroded his discipline, Michael beamed a grin at the Warrant Officer and said no more.