Its changed some, since the battle, all them years ago. Logen was looking down at his spread-out hand, waggling the stump of his missing finger.
There werent no walls like that round it then.
No. But there werent no Union army round it neither.
Dogman couldnt deny it was a comforting fact. The Union pickets worked their way through the empty fields about the city, a wobbly line of earthworks, and stakes, and fences, with men moving behind em, dull sunlight catching metal now and then. Thousands of men, well-armed and vengeful, keeping Bethod penned up.
You sure hes in there?
Dont see where else hes got to go. He lost most of his best boys up in the mountains. No friends left, I reckon.
Weve all got less than we used to, Dogman muttered. I guess we just sit here. We got time, after all. Lots of it. We sit here and watch the grass grow, and we wait for Bethod to give up.
Aye. But Logen didnt look like he believed it.
Aye, said Dogman. But just giving up didnt sound much like the Bethod he knew.
He turned his head at the sound of hooves fast on the road, saw one of those messengers with a helmet like an angry chicken race from the trees and towards Wests tent, horse well-lathered from hard riding. He reined up in a fumbling hurry, near fell out of his saddle in his rush to get down, wobbled past a few staring officers and in through the flap. Dogman felt that familiar weight of worry in his gut. Thats got the taste o bad news.
What other kind is there?
There was some flutter down there now, soldiers shouting, throwing their arms around. Best go and see whats happened, muttered Dogman, though hed much rather have walked the other way. Crummock was stood near the tent, frowning at the commotion.
Somethings up, said the hillman. But I dont understand a thing these Southerners say or do. I swear, theyre all mad.
Mad chatter came surging out of that tent alright, when Dogman pushed back the flap. There were Union officers all around the place and in a bastard of a muddle. West was in the midst of it, face pale as fresh milk, his fists clenched tight around nothing.
Furious! Dogman grabbed him by the arm. What the hells happening?
The Gurkish have invaded Midderland. West pulled his arm free and took to shouting.
The who have done what now? muttered Crummock.
The Gurkish. Logen was frowning deep. Brown folk, from way down south. Hard folk, by all accounts.
Pike had come up now, his burned face grim. They landed an army by sea. They might have reached Adua already.
Hold on, now. Dogman didnt know a thing about Gurkish, or Adua, or Midderland, but his bad feeling was getting worse every moment. Whatre you telling us, exactly?
Weve been ordered home. Now.
Dogman stared. He shouldve known all along it couldnt be this simple. He grabbed West by the arm again, stabbing down towards Carleon with his dirty finger. Weve nothing like the men we need to carry on a siege o this place without you!
I know, said West, and Im sorry. But theres nothing I can do. Get over to General Poulder! he snapped at a young lad with a squint. Tell him to get his division ready to march for the coast at once!
Dogman blinked, feeling sick to his stomach. So we fought seven days in the High Places for nothing? Tul died, and the dead know how many more, for nothing? It always took him by surprise, how fast something could fall apart once you were leaning on it. Thats it, then. Back to woods, and cold, and running, and killing. No end to it.
Might be another way, said Crummock.
What way?
The chief of the hillmen had a sly grin. You know, dont you Bloody-Nine?
Aye. I know. Logen had a look like a man who knows hes about to hang, and hes staring at the tree theyre going to do it from. When have you got to leave, Furious?
West frowned. We have a lot of men and not a lot of road. Poulders division tomorrow, I imagine, and Kroys the day after.
Crummocks grin got a shade wider. So all day tomorrow, therell be piles o men sat here, dug in round Bethod, looking like theyre never going nowhere, eh?
I suppose there could be.
Give me tomorrow, said Logen. Give me just that and maybe I can settle things. Then Ill come south with you if Im still alive, and bring who I can. Thats my word. Well help you with the Gurkish.
What difference can one day make? asked West.
Aye, muttered Dogman, whats one day? Trouble was, he could already guess the answer.
Water trickled under the old bridge, past the trees and off down the green hillside. Down towards Carleon. Logen watched a few yellow leaves carried on it, turning round and round, dragged past the mossy stones. He wished that he could just float away, but it didnt seem likely.
We fought here, said the Dogman. Threetrees and Tul, Dow and Grim, and me. Forleys buried in them woods somewhere.
You want to go up there? asked Logen. Give him a visit, see if
What for? I doubt a visitll do me any good, and Im damn sure it wont do him any. Nothing will. Thats what it is to be dead. You sure about this, Logen?
You see another way? The Union wont stick. Might be our last chance to finish with Bethod. Not that much to lose, is there?
Theres your life.
Logen took a long breath. Cant think of too many people who place much value on that. You coming down?
Dogman shook his head. Reckon Ill stay up here. I had a belly full o Bethod.
Alright then. Alright. It was as if all the moments of Logens life, things said and things done, choices he hardly remembered making, had led him to this. Now there was no choice at all. Maybe there never had been. He was like the leaves on the watercarried along, down towards Carleon, and nothing he could do about it. He gave his heels to his horse and off down the slope alone, down the dirt track, beside the gurgling stream.
Everything seemed picked out clearer than usual, as the day wore down. He rode past trees, damp leaves getting ready to fall golden yellow, burning orange, vivid purple, all the colours of fire. Down towards the valley bottom through the heavy air, just a trace of autumn mist to it, sharp in his throat. The sounds of saddle creaking, harness rattling, hoofbeats in the soft ground all came muffled. He trotted through the empty fields, turned mud pocked with weeds, past the Union pickets, a ditch and a line of sharpened stakes, three times bowshot from the walls. Soldiers there, in studded jackets and steel caps, watched him pass with frowns on their faces.
He pulled on the reins and slowed his horse to a walk. He clattered over a wooden bridge, one of Bethods new ones, the river underneath surging with the autumn rain. Up the gentle rise, the wall looming over him. High, sheer, dark and solid looking. A threatening piece of wall if ever thered been one. He couldnt see men at the slots in the battlements, but he guessed they had to be there. He swallowed, spit moving awkward in his throat, then made himself sit up tall, pretending he wasnt cut and aching all over from seven days of battle in the mountains. He wondered if he was about to hear a flatbow click, feel the stab of pain then drop into the mud, dead. Some kind of an embarrassing song that would make.
Well, well, well! came a deep voice, and Logen knew it right away. Who else would it be but Bethod?
The strange thing was that he was glad to hear it, for the quickest moment. Until he remembered all the blood between them. Until he remembered they hated each other. You can have enemies you never really meet, Logen had plenty. You can kill men you dont know, hed done it often. But you cant truly hate a man without loving him first, and theres always a trace of that love left over.