First time, said Grim.
Dogman nodded, hardly able to believe it himself. What are the odds? Whos first?
Dow grinned at him. Whoevers 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.
Theres a rope here! he shouted, brandishing his knife around and making like he was trying to cut it away from the grapple. Some bastards trying to climb in!
By the dead! One came running, gawped down at Grim swinging around. Hes coming up now!
The other one pulled his sword out. Dont worry bout that. He lifted it, grinning, ready to chop through the rope. Then he stopped. Herewhy 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 Dogmans 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 Thralls 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 Dogmans 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 dont Another thumped into his neck and he lurched a step, wouldve fallen off the back of the wall if the Dogman hadnt grabbed his arm and dragged him down onto the walkway, held him there while he slobbered his last breaths.
When he was finished, Dogman rolled up and stood bent over the corpse, breathing. Grim hurried over, taking a good look around to make sure no one else was likely to happen by. Alright?
Just once. Just once Id like to get the help before Im at the point o getting killed.
Bettern after. The Dogman had to admit there was some truth to that. He watched Dow pull himself over the battlements and roll down onto the walkway. The Thrall Dogman had stabbed was still breathing, just about, sat near the grapple. Dow chopped a piece out of his skull with his axe as he walked past, careless as if he was chopping logs.
He shook his head. I leave the two o you alone for ten breaths together and look what happens. Two dead men, eh? Dow leaned down, stuck two fingers in one of the holes Dogmans knife had made, pulled them out and smeared blood across one side of his face. He grinned up. What do you reckon we can do with two dead men?
The Feared seemed to fill the circle, one half bare and blue, the other cased in black iron, a monster torn free from legends. There was nowhere to hide from his great fists, nowhere to hide from the fear of him. Shields rattled and clashed, men roared and bellowed, a sea of blurred faces twisted with mad fury.
Logen crept around the edge of the short grass, trying to keep light on his feet. He mightve been smaller, but he was quicker, cleverer. At least he hoped he was. He had to be, or he was mud. Keep moving, rolling, ducking, stay out of the way and pick his moment. Above all, dont get hit. Not getting hit was the first thing.
The giant came at him out of nowhere, his great tattooed fist a blue blur. Logen threw himself out of the way but it still grazed his cheek and caught his shoulder, sent him stumbling. So much for not getting hit. A shield, and not a friendly one, shoved him in the back and he lurched the other way, head whipping forward. He pitched on his face, nearly cut himself on his own sword, rolled desperately to the side and saw the Feareds huge boot thud into the ground, soil flying where his skull had been a moment before.
Logen scrabbled up in time to see the blue hand coming at him again. He ducked underneath it, hacked at the Feareds tattooed flesh as he reeled past. The Makers sword thudded deep into the giants thigh like a spade into turf. The huge leg buckled and he dropped forward onto his armoured knee. It should have been a killing blow, right through the big veins, but there was hardly more blood than from a shaving-scratch.
Still, if one thing fails you try another. Logen roared as he chopped at the Feareds bald head. The blade clanged against the armour on the giants right arm, raised just in time. It scraped down that black steel and slid off, harmless, chopping into the earth and leaving Logens hands buzzing.
Ooof! The Feareds knee sank into his gut, folded him up and sent him staggering, needing to cough but not having the air to do it. The giant had already found his feet again, armoured hand swinging back, a lump of black iron the size of a mans head. Logen dived sideways, rolling across the short grass, felt the wind of the great arm ripping past him. It crashed into the shield where hed been standing, broke it into splintered pieces, flung the man holding it wailing into the earth.
It seemed the spirit had been right. The painted side couldnt be hurt. Logen crouched, waiting for the clawing pain in his stomach to fade enough for him to breathe, trying to think of some trick to use and coming up with nothing. The Feared turned his writhing face towards Logen. Behind him on the ground the felled man whimpered under the wreckage of his shield. The Carls either side of him shuffled in to close the gap with some reluctance.
The giant took a slow step forwards, and Logen took a painful step back.
Still alive, he whispered to himself. But how long for, it was hard to say.
West had never in his life felt so scared, so exhilarated, so very much alive. Not even when he won the Contest with all the wide Square of Marshals cheering for him. Not even when he stormed the walls of Ulrioch, and burst out from the dust and chaos into the warm sunlight. His skin tingled with hope and horror. His hands jerked helplessly with Ninefingers movements. His lips murmured pointless advice, silent encouragement. Beside him Pike and Jalenhorm jostled, shoved, shouted themselves hoarse. Behind them the wide crowd roared, straining to see. On the walls they leaned out, screaming and shaking their fists in the air. The circle of men flexed with the movements of the fighters, never still, bowing out and sucking in as the champions came forward or fell back.