“I thought the Flatheads had got you all sure,” said Logen. “How d’you get out of there?”
“Threetrees got us out,” said Dogman.
Tul nodded. “Led us out and over the mountains, and hunted through the North, and all the way down into Angland.”
“Squabbling all the way like a bunch of old women, no doubt?”
Dogman grinned across at Dow. “There was some moaning on the trail.”
“Where’s Threetrees now, then?” Logen was looking forward to having a word with that old boy.
“Dead,” said Grim.
Logen winced. He’d guessed that might be the way, since Dogman was in charge. Tul nodded his big head. “Died fighting. Leading a charge, into the Shanka. Died fighting that thing. That Feared.”
“Bastard fucking thing.” And Dow hawked some spit into the mud.
“What about Forley?”
“Dead n’all,” barked Dow. “He went into Carleon, to warn Bethod that the Shanka were coming over the mountains. Calder had him killed, just for the sport of it. Bastard!” And he spat again. He’d always been a great one for spitting, had Dow.
“Dead.” Logen shook his head. Forley dead, and Threetrees dead, it was a damn shame. But it wasn’t so long since he thought the whole lot of them were back in the mud, so four still going was quite the bonus, in a way. “Well. Good men both. The best, and died well, by the sound of it. As well as men can, anyway.”
“Aye,” said Tul, lifting up a mug. “As well as you can. Here’s to the dead.”
They all drank in silence, and Logen smacked his lips at the taste of beer. Too long away. “So, a year gone by,” grunted Dow. “We done some killing, and we walked a damn long way, and we fought in a bastard of a battle. We lost two men and we got us a new chief. What the hell you been up to, Ninefingers?”
“Well… that there is some kind of a tale.” Logen wondered what kind, exactly, and found he wasn’t sure. “I thought the Shanka got you all, since life’s taught me to expect the worst, so I went south, and I fell in with this wizard. I went a sort of journey with him, across the sea and far away, to find some kind of a thing, which when we got there… weren’t there.” It all sounded more than a bit mad now he said it.
“What kind of a thing?” asked Tul, his face all screwed up with puzzlement.
“Do you know what?” Logen sucked at his teeth, tasting of drink. “I can’t say that I really know.” They all looked at each other as if they never heard such a damn-fool story, and Logen had to admit they probably hadn’t. “Still, it hardly matters now. Turns out life ain’t quite the bastard I took it for.” And he gave Tul a friendly clap on the back.
The Dogman puffed out his cheeks. “Well, we’re glad you’re back, anyway. Guess you’ll be taking your place again now, eh?”
“My place?”
“You’ll be taking over, no? I mean to say, you were chief.”
“Used to be, maybe, but I’ve no plans to go back to it. Seems as if these lads are happy enough with things the way they are.”
“But you know a sight more than me about leading men—”
“I don’t know that’s a fact. Me being in charge never worked out too well for anyone, now did it? Not for us, not for those who fought with us, not for them we fought against.” Logen hunched his shoulders at the memories. “I’ll put my word in, if you want it, but I’d sooner follow you. I did my time, and it wasn’t a good one.”
Dogman looked like he’d been hoping for a different outcome. “Well… if you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” And Logen slapped him on the shoulder. “Not easy, is it, being chief?”
“No,” grumbled Dogman. “It bloody ain’t.”
“Besides, I reckon a lot of these lads have been on the other side of an argument with me before, and they’re not altogether pleased to see me.” Logen looked down the fire at the hard faces, heard the mutterings with his name in them, too quiet to tell the matter for sure, but he could guess that it wasn’t complimentary.
“They’ll be glad enough to have you alongside ’em when the fighting starts, don’t worry about that.”
“Maybe.” Seemed an awful shame that he’d have to set to killing before folk would give him so much as a nod. Sharp looks came at him from out the dark, flicking away when he looked back. There was only one man, more or less, who met his eye. A big lad with long hair, halfway down the fire.
“Who’s that?” asked Logen.
“Who’s what?”
“That lad down there staring at me.”
“That there is Shivers.” Dogman sucked at his pointed teeth. “He’s got a lot of bones, Shivers. Fought with us a few times now, and he does it damn well. First of all I’ll tell you he’s a good man and we owe him. Then I ought to mention that he’s Rattleneck’s son.”
Logen felt a wave of sickness. “He’s what?”
“His other son.”
“The boy?”
“Long time ago now, all that. Boys grow up.”
A long time ago, maybe, but nothing was forgotten. Logen could see that straight away. Nothing was ever forgotten, up here in the North, and he should’ve known better than to think it might be. “I should say something to him. If we have to fight together… I should say something.”
Dogman winced. “Might be better that you don’t. Some wounds are best not picked at. Eat, and talk to him in the morning. Everything sounds fairer in the daylight. That or you can decide against it.”
“Uh,” grunted Grim.
Logen stood up. “You’re right, most likely, but it’s better to do it—”
“Than to live with the fear of it.” Dogman nodded into the fire. “You been missed, Logen, and that’s a fact.”
“You too, Dogman. You too.”
He walked down through the darkness, smelly with smoke and meat and men, along behind the Carls sitting at the fire. He felt them hunching their shoulders, muttering as he passed. He knew what they were thinking. The Bloody-Nine, right behind me, and there’s no worse man in the world to have your back to. He could see Shivers watching him all the way, one eye cold through his long hair, lips pressed together in a hard line. He had a knife out for eating, but just as good for stabbing a man. Logen watched the firelight gleaming on its edge as he squatted down beside him.
“So you’re the Bloody-Nine.”
Logen grimaced. “Aye. I reckon.”
Shivers nodded, still staring at him. “This is what the Bloody-Nine looks like.”
“Hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Oh no. Not me. Good to have a face on you, after all this time.”
Logen looked down at the ground, trying to think of some way to come at it. Some way to move his hands, or set his face, some words that might start to make the tiniest part of it right. “Those were hard times, back then,” he ended up saying.
“Harder’n now?”
Logen chewed at his lip. “Well, maybe not.”
“Times are always hard, I reckon,” said Shivers between gritted teeth. “That ain’t an excuse for doing a runny shit.”
“You’re right. There ain’t any excuses for what I did. I’m not proud of it. Don’t know what else I can say, except I hope you can put it out of the way, and we can fight side by side.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Shivers, and his voice was strangled-sounding, like he was trying not to shout, or trying not to cry, or both at once, maybe. “It’s a hard thing to just put behind me. You killed my brother, when you’d promised him mercy, and you cut his arms and legs off, and you nailed his head on Bethod’s standard.” His knuckles were trembling white round the grip of his knife, and Logen saw that it was taking all he had not to stab him in the face, and he didn’t blame him. He didn’t blame him one bit. “My father never was the same after that. He’d nothing in him any more. I spent a lot of years dreaming of killing you, Bloody-Nine.”
Logen nodded, slowly. “Well. You’ll never be alone with that dream.”
He caught other cold looks from across the flames, now. Frowns in the shadows, grim faces in the flickering light. Men he didn’t even know, afraid to their bones, or nursing scores against him. A whole lot of fear and a whole lot of scores. He could count on the fingers of one hand the folk who were pleased to see him alive. Even missing a finger. And this was supposed to be his side of the fight.