'How many men you killed, Da?' Had to be Crummock's daughter. There weren't too many high voices round that camp, more was the pity. Logen saw the hillman's great shape in the darkness, his three children sitting near him, their outsize weapons propped up in easy reach.

'Oh, I've killed a legion of 'em, Isern.' Crummock's great deep voice rumbled out at Logen as he came closer. 'More'n I can remember. Your father might not have all his wits all the time, but he's a bad enemy to have. One of the worst. You'll see the truth of that close up, when Bethod and his arse-lickers come calling.' He looked up and saw Logen coming through the night. 'I swear, and I don't doubt Bethod would swear with me, there's only one bastard in all the North who's nastier, and bloodier, and harder than your father.'

'Who's that?' asked the boy with the shield. Logen felt his heart sinking as Crummock's arm lifted up to point towards him.

'Why, that's him there. The Bloody-Nine.'

The girl glared at Logen. 'He's nothing. You could have him, Da!'

'By the dead, not me! Don't even say it girl, in case I make a piss-puddle big enough to drown you in.'

'He don't look like much.'

'And there's a lesson for all three of you. Not looking much, not saying much, not seeming much, that's a good first step in being dangerous, eh, Ninefingers? Then when you let the devil go free it's twice the shock for whatever poor bastard's on the end of it. Shock and surprise, my little beauties, and quickness to strike, and lack of pity. These are the things that make a killer. Size, and strength, and a big loud voice are alright in their place, but they're nothing to that murderous, monstrous, merciless speed, eh, Bloody-Nine?'

It was a hard lesson for children, but Logen's father had taught it to him young, and he'd kept it in mind all these years. 'It's a sorry fact. He who strikes first often strikes last.'

'That he does!' shouted Crummock, slapping his great thigh. 'Well said! But it's a happy fact, not a sorry one. You remember old Wilum, don't you, my children?'

'Thunder got him!' shouted the boy with the shield, 'in a storm, up in the High Places!'

'That it did! One moment he's standing there, the next there's a noise like the world falling and a flash like the sun, and Wilum's dead as my boots!'

'His feet was on fire!' laughed the girl.