They’d be going soon. Shivers shut his eye and grinned into the sun. Tipped his head back and stuck his tongue out. It was getting colder as the year wore down. Felt almost like a fine summer morning in the North. Like mornings he’d fought great battles in. Mornings he’d done high deeds, and a few low ones too.

“You seem happy enough,” came Monza’s voice, “for a man about to risk his life.”

Shivers opened his eye and turned his grin on her. “I’ve made peace with myself.”

“Good for you. That’s the hardest war of all to win.”

“Didn’t say I won. Just stopped fighting.”

“I’m starting to think that’s the only victory worth a shit,” she muttered, almost to herself.

Ahead of them, the first wave of mercenaries were ready to go, stood about their ladders, big shields on their free arms, twitchy and nervous, which was no surprise. Shivers couldn’t say he much fancied their job. They weren’t making the least effort to hide what they had planned. Everyone knew what was coming, on both sides of the wall.

Close round Shivers, the second wave were getting ready too. Giving blades a last stroke with the whetstone, tightening straps on armour, telling a last couple of jokes and hoping they weren’t the last they ever told. Shivers grinned, watching them at it. Rituals he’d seen a dozen times before and more. Felt almost like home.

“You ever have the feeling you were in the wrong place?” he asked. “That if you could just get over the next hill, cross the next river, look down into the next valley, it’d all… fit. Be right.”

Monza narrowed her eyes at the inner walls. “All my life, more or less.”

“All your life spent getting ready for the next thing. I climbed a lot of hills now. I crossed a lot of rivers. Crossed the sea even, left everything I knew and came to Styria. But there I was, waiting for me at the docks when I got off the boat, same man, same life. Next valley ain’t no different from this one. No better anyway. Reckon I’ve learned… just to stick in the place I’m at. Just to be the man I am.”

“And what are you?”

He looked down at the axe across his knees. “A killer, I reckon.”

“That all?”

“Honestly? Pretty much.” He shrugged. “That’s why you took me on, ain’t it?”

She frowned at the ground. “What happened to being an optimist?”

“Can’t I be an optimistic killer? A man once told me—the man who killed my brother, as it goes—that good and evil are a matter of where you stand. We all got our reasons. Whether they’re decent ones all depends on who you ask, don’t it?”

“Does it?”

“I would’ve thought you’d say so, of all people.”

“Maybe I would’ve, once. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe those are just the lies we tell ourselves, so we can live with what we’ve done.”