“We’re gathered here to witness a challenge!” roared Crummock. “A challenge to put an end to this war, and settle the blood between Bethod, who’s taken to calling himself King of the Northmen, and Furious, who speaks for the Union. Bethod wins, the siege is lifted, and the Union leaves the North. Furious wins, then the gates of Carleon are opened, and Bethod stands at his mercy. Do I speak true?”
“You do,” said West, his voice sounding small in all that space.
“Aye.” Up on his walls, Bethod waved a lazy hand. “Get to it, fat man.”
“Then name yourselves, champions!” shouted Crummock, “and list your pedigree!”
Logen took a step forward. It was a hard step to take, as if he was pushing against a great wind, but he took it anyway, tilted his head back and looked the Feared full in his writhing face. “I’m the Bloody-Nine, and there’s no number on the men I’ve killed.” The words came out soft and dead. No pride in his empty voice, but no fear either. A cold fact. Cold as the winter. “Ten challenges I’ve given, and I won ’em all. In this circle I beat Shama Heartless, Rudd Threetrees, Harding Grim, Tul Duru Thunderhead, Black Dow, and more besides. If I listed the Named Men I’ve put back in the mud we’d be here at sunrise tomorrow. There’s not a man in the North don’t know my work.”
Nothing changed in the giant’s face. Nothing more than usual, at least. “My name is Fenris the Feared. My achievements are all in the past.” He held up his painted hand, and squeezed the great fingers, and the sinews in his huge blue arm bulged like knotted tree roots. “With these signs great Glustrod marked me out his chosen. With this hand I tore down the statues of Aulcus. Now I kill little men, in little wars.” Logen could just make out a tiny shrug of his massive shoulders. “Such is the way of things.”
Crummock looked at Logen, and he raised his brows. “Alright then. What weapons have you carried to the fight?”
Logen lifted the heavy sword, forged by Kanedias for his war against the Magi, and held it up to the light. A stride of dull metal, the edge glittered faintly in the pale sunrise. “This blade.” He stabbed it down into the earth between them and left it standing there.
The Feared threw his sack rattling down and it sagged open. Inside were great black plates, spiked and studded, scarred and battered. “This armour.” Logen looked at that vast weight of dark iron, and licked his teeth. If the Feared won the spin he could take the sword and leave Logen with a pile of useless armour way too big for him. What would he do then? Hide under it? He only had to hope his luck stuck out a few minutes longer.
“Alright, my beauties.” Crummock set his shield down on its rim and took hold of the edge. “Painted or plain, Ninefingers?”
“Painted.” Crummock ripped the shield round and set it spinning. Round and round, it went—painted, plain, painted, plain. Hope and despair swapped with every turn. The wood started to slow, to wobble on its rim. It dropped down flat, plain side up, the straps flopping.
So much for luck.
Crummock winced. He looked up at the giant. “You’ve got the choice, big lad.”
The Feared took hold of the Maker’s blade and slid it from the earth. It looked like a toy in his monstrous hand. His bulging eyes rolled up to Logen’s, and his great mouth twisted into a smile. He tossed the sword down at Logen’s feet and it dropped in the dirt.
“Take your knife, little man.”
The sound of raised voices floated thin on the breeze. “Alright,” hissed Dow, much too loud for the Dogman’s nerves, “they’re getting started!”
“I can hear that!” Dogman snapped, coiling the rope round and round into easy circles, ready to throw.
“You know what you’re doing with that? I could do without it dropping on me.”
“That so?” Dogman swung the grapple back and forward a touch, feeling the weight. “I was just thinking that, after it sticking in that wall, it sticking in your fat head was the second best outcome.” He spun it round in a circle, then a wider one, letting some rope slip through his hand, then he hefted it all the way and let it fly. It sailed up, real neat, the rope uncoiling after it, and over the battlements. Dogman winced as he heard it clatter on the walkway, but no one came. He pulled on the rope. A stride or two slid down, and then it caught. Felt firm as a rock.
“First time,” said Grim.
Dogman nodded, hardly able to believe it himself. “What are the odds? Who’s first?”
Dow grinned at him. “Whoever’s got hold o’ the rope now, I reckon.”
As the Dogman started climbing, he found he was going over all the ways a man could get killed going up this wall. Grapple slipped, and he fell. Rope frayed, and snapped, and he fell. Someone had seen the grapple, was waiting for him to get to the top before they cut the rope. Or they were waiting for him to get to the top before they cut his throat. Or they were just now calling for a dozen big men to take prisoner whatever idiot it was trying to climb into a city on his own.
His boots scuffled at the rough stone, the hemp bit at his hands, his arms burned at the work, and all the while he did his best to keep his rasping breath quiet. The battlements edged closer, then closer, then he was there. He hooked his fingers onto the stone and peered over. The walkway was empty, both ways. He slipped over the parapet, sliding a knife out, just in case. You can never have too many knives, and all that. He checked the grapple was caught firm, then he leaned over, saw Dow at the bottom looking up, Grim with the rope in his hands, one foot on the wall, ready to climb. Dogman beckoned to him to say come, watched him start up, hand over hand, Dow holding to the bottom of the rope to stop it flapping. Soon enough he was halfway—
“What the fuck—”
Dogman jerked his head left. There were a pair of Thralls not far off, just stepped out from a door to the nearest tower and onto the wall. They stared at him, and he stared back, seemed like the longest time.
“There’s a rope here!” he shouted, brandishing his knife around and making like he was trying to cut it away from the grapple. “Some bastard’s trying to climb in!”
“By the dead!” One came running, gawped down at Grim swinging around. “He’s coming up now!”
The other one pulled his sword out. “Don’t worry ’bout that.” He lifted it, grinning, ready to chop through the rope. Then he stopped. “Here—why you all muddy?”
Dogman stabbed him in the chest, hard as he could, and again. “Eeeeee!” wailed the Thrall, face screwed up, lurching back against the battlements and dropping his sword over the side. His mate came charging up, swinging a big mace. Dogman ducked under it, but the Thrall barrelled into him and brought him down on his back, head cracking on stone.
The mace clattered away and they wrestled around, the Thrall kicking and punching while Dogman tried to get his hands round his throat, stop him from calling out. They rolled over one way, then back the other, struggled up to standing and tottered about down the walkway. The Thrall got his shoulder in Dogman’s armpit and shoved him back up against the battlements, trying to bundle him over.
“Shit,” gasped the Dogman as his feet left the ground. He could feel his arse scraping the stone, but still he clung on, hands tight round the Thrall’s neck, stopping him getting a good breath. He went up another inch, felt his head forced back, almost more weight on the wrong side of the parapet than the right.
“Over you go, you fucker!” croaked the Thrall, working his chin away from Dogman’s hands and pushing him a touch further, “over you—” His eyes went wide. He stumbled back, a shaft sticking out of his side. “Oh, I don’t—” Another thumped into his neck and he lurched a step, would’ve fallen off the back of the wall if the Dogman hadn’t grabbed his arm and dragged him down onto the walkway, held him there while he slobbered his last breaths.