“Shit,” he croaked.

“Where’s your chief, boy?” Logen’s own voice scared him. Flat, and dead, and cold as the winter.

“He’s… he’s…” The lad raised a quivering finger to point towards the fires.

“Well then. Guess I’ll sniff him out myself.” The two of them edged out of Logen’s way. He didn’t exactly smile as he passed. More he drew his lips back to show them his teeth. There was a certain reputation to be lived up to, after all. “No need to worry,” he hissed in their faces. “I’m on your side, ain’t I?”

No one said a word to him as he walked along behind the Carls, up towards the head of the fire. A couple of them glanced over their shoulders, but nothing more than any newcomer in a camp might get. They’d no idea who he was, yet, but they soon would have. That lad and that old man would be whispering, and the whispers would spread around the fire, as whispers do, and everyone would be watching him.

He started as a great shadow moved beside him, so big he’d taken it for a tree at first. A huge, big man, scratching at his beard, smiling at the fire. Tul Duru. There could be no mistaking the Thunderhead, even in the half-light. Not a man that size. Made Logen wonder afresh how the hell he’d beaten him in the first place.

He felt a strange urge, right then, just to put his head down and walk past, off into the night and never look back. Then he wouldn’t have to be the Bloody-Nine again. It would just have been a fresh lad and an old man, swore they saw a ghost one night. He could’ve gone far away, and started new, and been whoever he wanted. But he’d tried that once already, and it had done him no good. The past was always right behind him, breathing on his neck. It was time to turn around and face it.

“Alright there, big lad.” Tul peered at him in the dusk, orange light and black shadow shifting across his big rock of a face, his big rug of a beard.

“Who… hold on…” Logen swallowed. He’d no idea, now he thought about it, what any of them might make of seeing him again. They’d been enemies long before they were friends, after all. Each one of them had fought him. Each one had been keen to kill him, and with good reasons too. Then he’d run off south and left them to the Shanka. What if all he got after a year or more apart was a cold look?

Then Tul grabbed hold of him and folded him in a crushing hug. “You’re alive!” He let go of him long enough to check he had the right man, then hugged him again.

“Aye, I’m alive,” wheezed Logen, just enough breath left in him to say it. Seemed he’d get one warm welcome, at least.

Tul was grinning all over his face. “Come on.” And he beckoned Logen after. “The lads are going to shit!”

He followed Tul, his heart beating in his mouth, up to the head of the fire, where the chief would sit with his closest Named Men. And there they were, sat around on the ground. Dogman was in the middle, muttering something quiet to Dow. Grim was on the other side, leaning on one elbow, fiddling with the flights on his arrows. It was just like nothing had changed.

“Got someone here to see you, Dogman,” said Tul, his voice squeaky from keeping the surprise in.

“Have you, now?” Dogman peered up at Logen, but he was hidden in the shadows behind Tul’s great shoulder. “Can’t it wait ’til after we’ve eaten?”

“Do you know, I don’t think it can.”

“Why? Who is it?”

“Who is it?” Tul grabbed Logen’s shoulder and shoved him lurching out into the firelight. “It’s only Logen fucking Ninefingers!” Logen’s boot slid in the mud and he nearly pitched on his arse, had to wave his arms around all over to keep his balance. The talk around the fire all sputtered out in a moment and every face was turned towards him. Two long, frozen rows of them, slack in the shifting light, no sound but the sighing wind and the crackling fire. The Dogman stared up at him as though he was seeing the dead walk, his mouth hanging wider and wider open with every passing moment.

“I thought you was all killed,” said Logen as he got his balance back. “Guess there’s such a thing as being too realistic.”

Dogman got to his feet, slowly. He held out his hand, and Logen took hold of it.

There was nothing to say. Not for men who’d been through as much as the two of them had together—fighting the Shanka, crossing the mountains, getting through the wars, and after. Years of it. Dogman pressed his hand and Logen slapped his other hand on top of it, and Dogman slapped his other hand on top of that. They grinned at each other, and nodded, and things were back the way they had been. Nothing needed saying.

“Grim. Good to see you.”

“Uh,” grunted Grim, handing him up a mug then looking back to his shafts, just as though Logen had gone for a piss a minute ago and come back a minute later like everyone had expected. Logen had to grin. He’d have hoped for nothing else.

“That Black Dow hiding down there?”

“I’d have hidden better if I knew you were coming.” Dow looked Logen up and down with a grin not entirely welcoming. “If it ain’t Ninefingers his self. Thought you said he went over a cliff?” he barked at Dogman.

“That’s what I saw.”

“Oh, I went over.” Logen remembered the wind in his mouth, the rock and the snow turning around him, the crash as the water crushed his breath out. “I went on over and I washed up whole, more or less.” Dogman made room for him on the stretched-out hides by the fire, and he sat down, and the others sat near him.

Dow was shaking his head. “You always was a lucky bastard when it came to staying alive. I should’ve known you’d turn up.”

“I thought the Flatheads had got you all sure,” said Logen. “How d’you get out of there?”

“Threetrees got us out,” said Dogman.

Tul nodded. “Led us out and over the mountains, and hunted through the North, and all the way down into Angland.”

“Squabbling all the way like a bunch of old women, no doubt?”

Dogman grinned across at Dow. “There was some moaning on the trail.”

“Where’s Threetrees now, then?” Logen was looking forward to having a word with that old boy.

“Dead,” said Grim.

Logen winced. He’d guessed that might be the way, since Dogman was in charge. Tul nodded his big head. “Died fighting. Leading a charge, into the Shanka. Died fighting that thing. That Feared.”

“Bastard fucking thing.” And Dow hawked some spit into the mud.

“What about Forley?”

“Dead n’all,” barked Dow. “He went into Carleon, to warn Bethod that the Shanka were coming over the mountains. Calder had him killed, just for the sport of it. Bastard!” And he spat again. He’d always been a great one for spitting, had Dow.

“Dead.” Logen shook his head. Forley dead, and Threetrees dead, it was a damn shame. But it wasn’t so long since he thought the whole lot of them were back in the mud, so four still going was quite the bonus, in a way. “Well. Good men both. The best, and died well, by the sound of it. As well as men can, anyway.”

“Aye,” said Tul, lifting up a mug. “As well as you can. Here’s to the dead.”

They all drank in silence, and Logen smacked his lips at the taste of beer. Too long away. “So, a year gone by,” grunted Dow. “We done some killing, and we walked a damn long way, and we fought in a bastard of a battle. We lost two men and we got us a new chief. What the hell you been up to, Ninefingers?”

“Well… that there is some kind of a tale.” Logen wondered what kind, exactly, and found he wasn’t sure. “I thought the Shanka got you all, since life’s taught me to expect the worst, so I went south, and I fell in with this wizard. I went a sort of journey with him, across the sea and far away, to find some kind of a thing, which when we got there… weren’t there.” It all sounded more than a bit mad now he said it.

“What kind of a thing?” asked Tul, his face all screwed up with puzzlement.

“Do you know what?” Logen sucked at his teeth, tasting of drink. “I can’t say that I really know.” They all looked at each other as if they never heard such a damn-fool story, and Logen had to admit they probably hadn’t. “Still, it hardly matters now. Turns out life ain’t quite the bastard I took it for.” And he gave Tul a friendly clap on the back.