'I reckon we'll make three crews.' Dogman nodded to the tower. 'Me up there with five score or so o' the best archers. Good spot to shoot from, that. Nice and high, and a good view of the front o' the wall.'

'Uh,' said Grim.

'Maybe some strong lads to throw a rock or two.'

'I'll lob a rock,' said Tul.

'Fair enough. Then the pick of our lads up on the wall, ready to take 'em on hand to hand, if they get up there. That'll be your crew, I reckon, Logen. Dow and Shivers and Red Hat can be your seconds.'

Logen nodded, not looking all that happy. 'Aye, alright.'

'Then Crummock up behind with his hillmen, ready to charge if they make it through the gate. If we last more'n a day, maybe you can swap over. Hillmen on the wall, Logen and the rest behind.'

'That's quite the plan for a little man!' Crummock clapped him on the shoulder with a huge hand and damn near knocked him on his face. 'Like as not you had it from the moon while you slept! Ain't one thing in it I'd change!' He slapped his meaty fist into his palm. 'I love a good charge! I hope the Southerners don't come, and leave more for the rest of us! I want to charge now!'

'Good for you,' grunted Dogman. 'Maybe we can find you a cliff to charge off.' He squinted into the sun, taking another look up at the wall that held all of their hopes. He wouldn't have cared to try and climb it, not from this side, but it wasn't halfway as high, or as thick, or as strong as he'd have liked. You don't always get things the way you like, Threetrees would have said. But just once would've been nice.

'The trap is ready,' said Crummock, grinning down into the valley.

The Dogman nodded. 'The only question is who'll get caught in it. Bethod? Or us?'

Logen walked through the night, between the fires. Some fires had Carls round them, drinking Crummock's beer, and smoking his chagga, and laughing at stories. Others had hillmen, looking like wolves in the shifting light with their rough furs, their tangled hair, their half-painted faces. One was singing, somewhere. Strange songs in a strange tongue that yapped and warbled like the animals in the forest, rose and fell like the valleys and the peaks. Logen had to admit he'd been smoking, for the first time in a while, and drinking too. Everything felt warm. The fires, and the men, and the cool wind, even. He wove his way through the dark, looking for the fire where the Dogman and the rest were sitting, and not having a clue which way to find it. He was lost, and in more ways than one.