“Ha ha, my lad, ha ha. I’d love to do it, too, but they’ve got an awful stretch of walls down there, and I’m not much for climbing over ’em.” Crummock slapped one fat hand against his fat belly. “Twice too much meat for that. No, what we need for this task is a small man, but with great big fruits on him. No doubt we do, and the moon knows it. A man with a talent for creeping about, sharp-eyed and sure-footed. We need someone with a quick hand and a quick mind.” He looked at the Dogman, and he grinned. “Now where is it that we’d find a man like that, do you reckon?”

“You know what?” Dogman put his face in his hands. “I’ve no fucking idea.”

Logen lifted the battered flask to his lips and took a mouthful. He felt the sharp liquor tingling on his tongue, tickling at his throat, that old need to swallow. He leaned forward, pursed his lips, and blew it out in a fine spray. A gout of fire went up into the cold night. He peered into the darkness, saw nothing but the black outlines of tree-trunks, the shifting black shadows that his fire cast between them.

He shook the flask back and forth, heard the last measure sloshing inside. He shrugged his shoulders, put it to his mouth and tipped it all the way, felt it burn down to his stomach. The spirits could share with him tonight. Chances were good that, after tomorrow, he wouldn’t be calling on them again.

“Ninefingers.” The voice rustled at him like the leaves falling.

One spirit slid out from the shadows, came up into the light from the fire. There was no trace of recognition about it, and Logen found he was relieved. There was no accusation either, no fear and no distrust. It didn’t care what he was, or what he’d done.

Logen tossed the empty flask down beside him. “On your own?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re never alone if you bring laughter with you.” The spirit said nothing. “Reckon laughter’s a thing for men, not for spirits.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t speak much, do you?”

“I did not call on you.”

“True.” Logen stared into the fire. “I have to fight a man tomorrow. A man called Fenris the Feared.”

“He is not a man.”

“You know of him, then?”

“He is old.”

“By your reckoning?”

“Nothing is old by my reckoning, but he goes back to the Old Time and beyond. He had another master, then.”

“What master?”

“Glustrod.”

The name was like a knife in the ear. No name could’ve been less expected, or less welcome. The wind blew cold through the trees, and memories of the towering ruins of Aulcus crowded in on Logen, and made his back shiver. “No chance it’s some different Glustrod than the one came close to destroying half the world?”

“There is no other. He it was that wrote the signs upon the Feared’s skin. Signs in the Old Tongue, the language of devils, across his left side. That flesh is of the world below. Where the word of Glustrod is written, the Feared cannot be harmed.”

“Cannot be harmed? Not at all?” Logen thought about it a moment. “Why not write on both sides?”

“Ask Glustrod.”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“No.” A long pause. “What will you do, Ninefingers?”

Logen peered off sideways into the trees. The notion of setting off running, and never looking back, seemed a pretty one, right then. Sometimes it can be better to live with the fear of it, than to die doing it, whatever Logen’s father had told him.

“I ran before,” he muttered, “and I only ran a circle. For me, Bethod’s at the end of every path.”

“Then that is all our talk.” The spirit stood up from the fire.

“Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

“I do not think so. The magic leaks from the world, and my kind sleep. I do not think so. Even if you beat the Feared, and I do not think you will.”

“Message o’ hope then, eh?” Logen snorted. “Luck go with you.”

The spirit faded back into the darkness, and was gone. It did not wish Logen luck. It did not care.

Authority

It was a dour and depressing meeting, even for the Closed Council. The weather beyond the narrow windows was sullen and overcast, promising storms but never delivering, casting the White Chamber into a chill gloom. From time to time heavy gusts of wind would rattle the old window panes, making Jezal start and shiver in his fur-trimmed robe.

The grim expressions of the dozen old faces did little to warm his bones. Lord Marshal Varuz was all clenched jaw and harsh determination. Lord Chamberlain Hoff clutched his goblet like a drowning man clinging to the last fragment of his boat. High Justice Marovia frowned as though he were about to pronounce the death sentence on the entire gathering, himself among them. Arch Lector Sult’s thin lip was permanently curled as his cold eyes slid from Bayaz, to Jezal, to Marovia, and back.

The First of the Magi himself glared down the table. “The situation, please, Lord Marshal Varuz.”

“The situation, honestly, is grim. Adua is in uproar. Perhaps one third of the population has already fled. The Gurkish blockade means that few supplies are making it to the markets. Curfews are in place but some citizens are still seizing the opportunity to rob, steal and riot while the authorities are occupied elsewhere.”

Marovia shook his head, grey beard swaying gently. “And we can only expect the situation to deteriorate as the Gurkish come closer to the city.”

“Which they are,” said Varuz, “at the rate of several miles a day. We are doing all we can to frustrate them, but with our resources so limited… they may well be outside the gates within the week.”

There were a few shocked gasps, breathed oaths, nervous sideways glances. “So soon?” Jezal’s voice cracked slightly as he said it.

“I am afraid so, your Majesty.”

“What is the Gurkish strength?” asked Marovia.

“Estimates vary wildly. At present however…” and Varuz sucked worriedly at his teeth, “it appears they field at least fifty thousand.”

There were further sharp intakes of breath, not least from Jezal’s own throat. “So many?” muttered Halleck.

“And thousands more landing every day near Keln,” put in Admiral Reutzer, doing nothing to lift the mood. “With the best part of our navy on its way to retrieve the army after its northern adventure, we are powerless to stop them.”

Jezal licked his lips. The walls of the wide room seemed to close in further with every moment. “What of our troops?”

Varuz and Reutzer exchanged a brief glance. “We have two regiments of the King’s Own, one of foot and one of horse, some six thousand men in all. The Grey Watch, tasked with the defence of the Agriont itself, numbers four thousand. The Knights Herald and of the Body form an elite of some five hundred. In addition, there are non-combat soldiers—cooks, grooms, smiths, and so forth—who could be armed in an emergency—”

“I believe this qualifies,” observed Bayaz.

“—perhaps some few thousand more. The city watch might be of some use, but they are hardly professional soldiers.”

“What of the nobles?” asked Marovia. “Where is their aid?”

“Some few have sent men,” said Varuz grimly, “others only their regrets. Most… not even that.”

“Hedging their bets.” Hoff shook his head. “Brock has let it be known there will be Gurkish gold for those who help him, and Gurkish mercy for those who stand with us.”

“It has ever been so,” lamented Torlichorm. “The nobles are interested only in their own welfare!”

“Then we must open the armouries,” said Bayaz, “and we must not be shy with their contents. We must arm every citizen who can hold a weapon. We must arm the labourers’ guilds, and the craftsmens’ guilds, and the veterans’ associations. Even the beggars in the gutters must be ready to fight.”

All well and good, Jezal supposed, but he hardly cared to trust his life to a legion of beggars. “When will Lord Marshal West return with the army?”