Now! she hissed at him. Just get it
The axe blade made a clicking sound as it split her head neatly down the middle, all the way to her chin. Blood sprayed out and spattered in Dogmans gawping face, and the witchs thin body slumped down on the stones like it was made of nothing but rags.
Dow frowned as he twisted the haft of his axe this way and that, until the blade came free of Cauribs ruined skull with a faint sucking sound. That bitch talks too much, he grunted.
The Bloody-Nine felt the change. Like the first green shoot of spring. Like the first warmth on the wind as the summer comes. There was a message in the way the Feared held him. His bones were no longer groaning, threatening to burst apart. The giants strength was less, and his was more.
The Bloody-Nine sucked in the air and his rage burned hot as ever. Slowly, slowly, he dragged his face away from the giants shoulder, felt the metal slide out from his mouth. He twisted, twisted until his neck was free. Until he was staring into the giants writhing face. The Bloody-Nine smiled, then he darted forward, fast as a shower of sparks, and sank his teeth deep into that big lower lip.
The giant grunted, shifted his arms, tried to drag the Bloody-Nines head away, tear the biting teeth out of his mouth. But he could more easily have shaken off the plague. His arms loosened and the Bloody-Nine twisted the hand that held the Makers sword. He twisted it, as the snake twists in its nest, and slowly he began to work it free.
The giants blue left arm uncoiled from the Bloody-Nines body, his blue hand seized hold of the Bloody-Nines wrist, but there could be no stopping it. When the sapling seed finds a crack in the mountain, over long years its deep roots will burst the very rock apart. So the Bloody-Nine strained with every muscle and let the slow time pass, hissing out his hatred into the Feareds twitching mouth. The blade crept onwards, slowly, slowly, and its very point bit into painted flesh, just below the giants bottom rib.
The Bloody-Nine felt the hot blood trickling down the grip and over his bunched fist, trickling out of the Feareds mouth and into his, running down his neck, leaking from the wounds across his back, dripping to the ground, just as it should be. Softly, gently, the blade slid into the Feareds tattooed body, sideways, upwards, onwards.
The great hands clawed at the Bloody-Nines arm, at his back, seeking desperately for some hold that might stop the terrible easing forward of that blade. But with every moment the giants strength melted away, like ice before a furnace. Easier to stop the Whiteflow than to stop the Bloody-Nine. The movement of his hands was the growing of a mighty tree, one hairs breadth at a time, but no flesh, no stone, no metal could stop it.
The giants painted side could not be harmed. Great Glustrod had made it so, long years ago, in the Old Time, when the words were written upon the Feareds skin. But Glustrod wrote on one half only. Slowly, now, softly, gently, the point of the Makers sword crossed the divide and into the unmarked half of him, dug into his innards, spitted him like meat made ready for the fire.
The giant made a great, high shriek, and the last strength melted from his hands. The Bloody-Nine opened his jaws and let him free, one arm holding tight to his back while the other drove the sword on into him. The Bloody-Nine hissed laughter through his clenched teeth, dribbled laughter through the ragged hole in his face. He rammed the blade as far as it would go, and its point slid out between the plates of armour just beneath the giants armpit and glinted red in the sun.
Fenris the Feared tottered backwards, still making his long squeal, his mouth hanging open and a string of red spit dangling from his lip, the painted half already healed over, the pale half tattered as mince-meat. The circle of men watched him, frozen, gaping over the tops of their shields. His feet shuffled in the dirt, one hand fumbling for the red hilt of the Makers sword, buried to the cross-piece in his side, blood dripping from the pommel and leaving red spots scattered across the ground. His squeal became a rattling groan, one foot tripped the other and he toppled like a felled tree and crashed over on his back, in the centre of the circle, great arms and legs spread wide. The twitching of his face was finally still, and there was a long silence.
By the dead. It was spoken softly, thoughtfully. Logen squinted into the morning sun, saw the black shape of a man looking down at him from the high gatehouse. By the dead, I never thought youd do it. The world tipped from side to side as Logen began to walk, the breath hissing cold through the wound in his face, scraping in his raw throat.
The men whod made the circle moved out of his way, now, their voices fallen silent, their shields hanging from their hands.
Never thought you could do it, but when it comes to killing, theres no man better! No man worse! Ive always said so!
Logen tottered through the open gates, found an archway and began to climb the lurching steps, round and round, his boots hissing against the stone and leaving dark smears behind. The blood dripped, tap, tap, tap from the dangling fingers of his left hand. Every muscle ached. Bethods voice dug at him.
But I get the last laugh, eh, Bloody-Nine? Youre nothing but leaves on the water! Any way the rain washes you!
Logen stumbled on, ribs burning, jaws locked tight together, shoulder scraping against the curved wall. Up, and up, and round, and round, his crackling breath echoing after.
Youll never have anything! Youll never be anything! Youll never make anything but corpses!
Out onto the roof, blinking in the morning brightness, spitting a mouthful of blood over his shoulder. Bethod stood at the battlements. The Named Men stumbled out of Logens way as he strode towards him.
Youre made of death, Bloody-Nine! Youre made of
Logens fist crunched into his jaw and he took a flopping step back. Logens other hand smashed into his cheek and he reeled against the parapet, a long string of bloody drool running from his split mouth. Logen caught the back of his head and jerked his knee up into Bethods face, felt his nose crunch flat against it. Logen tangled his fingers in Bethods hair, gripped it tight, pulled his head up high, and rammed it down into the stones.
Die! he hissed.
Bethod jerked, gurgled, Logen lifted his head and drove it down again, and again. The golden ring flew off his broken skull, bounced across the rooftop with a merry jingling.
Die!
Bone crunched, and blood shot out over the stone in fat drops and thin spatters. Pale-as-Snow and his Named Men stared, white-faced, helpless and fearful, horrified and delighted.
Die, you fucker!
And Logen hauled Bethods ruined corpse into the air with one last effort and flung it tumbling over the battlements. He watched it fall. He watched it crunch to the ground and lie, on its side, arms and legs stuck out awkwardly, fingers curled as if they were grasping at something, the head no more than a dark smear on the hard earth. All the faces of the crowds of men standing below were turned towards that corpse, then slowly, eyes and mouths wide open, they lifted up to stare at Logen.
Crummock-i-Phail, standing in their midst, in the centre of the shaved circle beside the great body of the Feared, slowly raised his long arm, the fat forefinger on the end of it pointing upwards. The Bloody-Nine! he screamed. King o the Northmen!
Logen gaped down at him, panting for breath, legs wobbling, trying to understand. The fury was gone and left nothing but terrible tiredness behind it. Tiredness and pain.