Carls, all hard faces and tangled hair, heavy mail jingling, painted shields on their arms.
Logen knew a few of them. Some of Bethods closest, whod been with him since the beginning. Hard men all, whod held the shields for Logen more than once, back in the old days. They formed up in their own half-ring, closing the circle tight. A wall of shieldsanimal faces, trees and towers, flowing water, crossed axes, all of them scarred and scuffed from a hundred old fights. All of them turned in towards Logen. A cage of men and wood, and the only way out was to kill. Or to die, of course.
A black shape formed in the bright archway. Like a man, but taller, seeming to fill it all the way to the high keystone. Logen heard footsteps. Thumping footsteps, heavy as falling anvils. A strange kind of fear tugged at him. A mindless panic, as if hed woken trapped under the snow again. He forced himself not to look over his shoulder at Crummock, forced himself to look ahead as Bethods champion stepped out into the dawn.
By the fucking dead, breathed Logen.
He thought at first it must be some trick of the light that made him look the size he did. Tul Duru Thunderhead had been a big bastard, no doubt, big enough that some had called him a giant. But hed still looked like a man. Fenris the Feared was built on such a scale that he seemed something else. A race apart. A giant indeed, stepped out from old stories and made flesh. A lot of flesh.
His face squirmed as he walked, great bald head jerking from side to side. His mouth sneered and grinned, his eyes winked and bulged by turns. One half of him was blue. No other way to put it. A neat line down his face divided blue skin from pale. His huge right arm was white. His left was blue all the long way from shoulder to the tips of his great fingers. In that hand he carried a sack, swinging back and forward with each step, bulging as if it was stuffed with hammers.
A couple of Bethods shield-carriers cringed out of his way, looking like children beside him, grimacing as if death itself was breathing on their necks. The Feared stepped through into the circle, and Logen saw the blue marks were writing, just as the spirit had told him. Twisted symbols, scrawled over every part of his left sidehand, arm, face, lips even. The words of Glustrod, written in the Old Time.
The Feared stopped a few strides distant, and a sickly horror seemed to wash out from him and over the silent crowd, as if a great weight was pressing on Logens chest, squeezing out his courage. But the task was simple enough, in its way. If the Feareds painted side couldnt be harmed, Logen would just have to carve the rest of him, and carve it deep. Hed beaten some hard men in the circle. Ten of the hardest bastards in all the North. This was just one more. Or so he tried to tell himself.
Wheres Bethod? Hed meant to bellow it, all defiance, but it came out a tame, dry squawk.
I can watch you die just as well from up here! The King of the Northmen stood on the battlements above the open gate, well-groomed and happy, Pale-as-Snow and a few guards stood about him. If hed had any trouble sleeping, Logen would never have known it. The morning breeze stirred his hair and the thick fur round his shoulders, the morning sun shone on the golden chain, struck sparks from the diamond on his brow. Glad you came! I was worried youd make a run for it! He gave a carefree sigh and it smoked on the sharp air. Its morning, like you said. Lets get started.
Logen looked into the Feareds bulging, twitching, crazy eyes, and swallowed.
Were gathered here to witness a challenge! roared Crummock. A challenge to put an end to this war, and settle the blood between Bethod, whos 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. Im the Bloody-Nine, and theres no number on the men Ive 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 Ive 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 Ive put back in the mud wed be here at sunrise tomorrow. Theres not a man in the North dont know my work.
Nothing changed in the giants 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 wentpainted, 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. Youve got the choice, big lad.
The Feared took hold of the Makers blade and slid it from the earth. It looked like a toy in his monstrous hand. His bulging eyes rolled up to Logens, and his great mouth twisted into a smile. He tossed the sword down at Logens 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 Dogmans nerves, theyre getting started!
I can hear that! Dogman snapped, coiling the rope round and round into easy circles, ready to throw.
You know what youre 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.