And almost always, so far, the one falling back was Ninefingers. A great brute of a man by most standards, he seemed tiny, weak and brittle in that terrifying company. To make matters a great deal worse, there was something very strange at work here. Something West could only have called magic. Great wounds, deadly wounds, closed in the Feareds blue skin before his very eyes. This thing was not a man. It could only be a devil, and whenever it towered over him West felt a fear as though he was standing at the very verge of hell.
West grimaced as Ninefingers lurched helplessly against the shields on the far side of the circle. The Feared raised his armoured fist to deliver a blow that could surely crush a skull to jelly. But it hit nothing but air. Ninefingers jerked away at the last moment and let the iron miss his jaw by a hair. His heavy sword slashed down, bounced off the Feareds armoured shoulder with a resounding clang. The giant stumbled back and Ninefingers came after him, pale scars stretched on his rigid face.
Yes! hissed West, the men around him bellowing their approval.
The next blow shrieked down the giants armoured side, leaving a long, bright scratch and digging up a great sod of earth. The last chopped deep into his painted ribs and spat out a misty spray of blood, knocked him flailing off balance. Wests mouth opened wide as the great shadow fell across him. The Feared toppled against his shield like a falling tree and drove him trembling to his knees, wilting under the great weight, his stomach rolling with horror and disgust.
Then he saw it. One of the buckles on the spiked and studded armour, just below the giants knee, was inches from the fingers of Wests free hand. All he could think of, in that moment, was that Bethod might escape, after all the dead men he had left, scattered up and down the length of Angland. He gritted his teeth and snatched hold of the end of the leather strap, thick as a mans belt. He dragged at it as the Feared shoved his huge bulk up. The buckle came jingling open, the armour on the mighty calf flapped loose as his foot thumped down again, as his arm lashed out and knocked Ninefingers stumbling away.
West struggled from the dirt, already greatly regretting his impulsiveness. He glanced around the circle, searching for any sign that someone had seen him, but all eyes were fixed on the fighters. It seemed now a tiny, petulant sort of sabotage that could never make the slightest difference. Beyond getting him killed, of course. It was a fact he had known from childhood. Catch you cheating in a Northern duel, and theyll cut the bloody cross in you and pull your guts out.
Gah! Logen jerked away from the armoured fist, tottered to his right as the blue one rushed past his face, dived to his left as the iron hand lashed at him again, slid and nearly fell. Any one of those blows had been hard enough to take his head off. He saw the painted arm go back, gritted his teeth as he dodged around another of the Feareds mighty punches, already swinging the sword up and over.
The blade sheared neatly through the blue arm, just below the elbow, sent it tumbling away across the circle along with a gout of blood. Logen heaved air into his burning lungs and raised the Makers sword high, setting himself for one last effort. The Feareds eyes rolled up towards the dull grey blade. He jerked his head to one side and it chopped deep into his painted skull, showering out specks of dark blood and splitting his head down to the eyebrow.
The giants armoured elbow crunched into Logens ribs, half-lifted him off his feet and flung him kicking across the circle. He bounced from a shield and sprawled on his face, lay there spitting out dirt while the blurry world spun around him.
He winced as he pushed himself up, blinked the tears out of his eyes, and froze. The Feared stepped forward, sword still buried deep in his skull, and picked up his severed arm. He pressed it against the bloodless stump, twisted it to the right, then back to the left, and let it go. The great forearm was whole again, the letters ran from shoulder to wrist unbroken.
The men around the circle fell silent. The giant worked his blue fingers for a moment, then he reached up and closed his hand around the hilt of the Makers sword. He turned it one way, then the other, his skull crunching as bone shifted. He dragged the blade free, shook his head as if to clear a touch of dizziness. Then he tossed the sword across the circle and it clattered down in front of Logen for the second time that day.
Logen stared at it, his chest heaving. It was getting heavier with each exchange. The wounds hed taken in the mountains ached, the blows hed taken in the circle throbbed. The air was still cold but his shirt was sticky with sweat.
The Feared showed no sign of tiring, even with half a ton of iron strapped to his body. There wasnt so much as a bead of sweat on his twisting face. Not so much as a scratch on his tattooed scalp.
Logen felt the fear pressing hard on him again. He knew now how the mouse felt, when the cat had him between his paws. He shouldve run. He shouldve run and never looked back, but instead hed chosen this. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say that bastard never learns. The giants mouth crawled up into a wriggling smile.
More, he said.
Dogman needed to piss as he walked up to the gate of Carleons inner wall. Always needed to piss at times like this.
He had one of the dead Thralls clothes on, big enough that hed had to pull the belt too tight, cloak hanging over the bloody knife hole in the shirt. Grim was wearing the others gear, bow over one shoulder, the big mace hanging from his free hand. Dow slumped between them, wrists tied at his back, feet scraping stupidly at the cobbles, bloody head hanging like theyd given him quite the beating.
Seemed a pitiful kind of a ruse, if the Dogman was being honest. There were fifty things hed counted since they climbed off the walls that couldve given them away. But there was no time for anything cleverer. Talk well, and smile, and no one would notice the clues. Thats what he hoped anyway.
A guard stood each side of the wide archway, a pair of Carls in long mail coats and helmets, both with spears in their hands.
Whats this? one asked, frowning as they walked up close.
Found this bastard trying to creep in. Dogman gave Dow a punch in the side of the head, just to make things look good. Were taking him down below, lock him up til after theyre done. He made to walk on past.
One of the guards stopped him cold with a hand on his chest, and the Dogman swallowed. The Carl nodded towards the citys gates. Hows it going, down there?
Alright, I guess. Dogman shrugged. Its going, anyway. Bethodll come out on top, eh? He always does, dont he?
I dont know. The Carl shook his head. That Feared puts the fucking wind up me. Him and that bloody witch. Cant say Ill cry too hard if the Bloody-Nine kills the pair of em.
The other one chuckled, pushed his helmet onto the back of his scalp, bringing up a cloth to wipe the sweat underneath. You got a
Dow sprang forward, loose bits of rope flapping round his wrists, and buried a knife all the way up to the hilt in the Carls forehead. Dropped him like a chair with the legs kicked away. Same moment almost, Grims borrowed mace clonked into the top of the others helmet and left a great dent in it, jammed the rim right down almost to the tip of his nose. He dribbled some, stumbling back like he was drunk. Then blood came bubbling out of his ears and he fell down on his back.
Dogman turned round, trying to hold his stolen cloak out so no one would see Dow and Grim dragging the two corpses away, but the town seemed empty. Everyone watching the fight, no doubt. He wondered for a moment what was happening, out there in the circle. Long enough to get a nasty feeling in his gut.