'That so? Didn't you fight alongside 'em, all those hard and bloody years?'

'I did. But I can't say I ever much liked 'em.'

'Well, if it's any consolation, I doubt they think too much o' you these days.' Dow gave him a long look. 'When did Bethod stop suiting you, eh, Ninefingers?'

Logen stared back at him. 'Hard to say. Bit by bit, I reckon. Maybe he got to be more of a bastard as time went on. Or maybe I got to be less of one.'

'Or maybe there ain't room on one side for two bastards as big as the pair o' you.'

'Oh, I don't know.' Logen got up. 'You and me work real sweet together.' He stalked away from Dow, thinking about what easy work Malacus Quai, and Ferro Maljinn, and even Jezal dan Luthar had been.

Seven days, and they were all at each other's throats. All angry, all tired. Seven days. The one consolation was that there couldn't be many more.

'They're coming.'

Dogman's eyes flicked sideways. Like most of the few things Grim said, it hardly needed saying. They could all see it as clearly as the sun rising. Bethod's Carls were on the move.

They were in no hurry. They came on stiff and steady, painted shields held up in front, eyes to the gateway. Standards flapped over their heads. Signs the Dogman recognised from way back. He wondered how many of those men down there he'd fought alongside. How many of their faces he could put a name to. How many he'd drunk with, eaten with, laughed with, that he'd have to do his best to put back in the mud. He took a long breath. The battlefield's no place for sentiment, Threetrees had told him once, and he'd taken it right to heart.

'Alright!' He lifted up his hand as the men around him on the tower readied their bows, 'Hold on to 'em for a minute yet!'

The Carls stomped on through the churned-up mud and the broken rocks where the valley narrowed, past the bodies of Easterners, and Shanka, left twisted where they lay, hacked, or crushed, or stuck with broken arrows. They didn't falter, or lose a step, the wall of shields shifted as they came, but didn't break. Not the slightest gap.

'They march tight,' muttered Tul.

'Aye. Too tight, the bastards.'

They were getting close, now. Close enough that Dogman had to try some arrows. 'Alright, boys! Aim high and let 'em drop!' The first flight went hissing from the tower, arced up high and started to fall on that tight column. They shifted their shields to meet them and arrows thudded into painted wood, spun off helmets and glanced off mail. A couple found marks, a shriek went up. Holes showed, here or there, but the rest just stepped on over, trudging up towards the wall.

Dogman frowned at the barrels where the shafts were kept. Less than quarter full, now, and most of those dug out from dead men. 'Careful now! Pick your marks, lads!'