'Eh?'

'My point is this. Someone needs to stop her.'

Dogman hadn't thought he could feel any lower. Now he knew better. 'Good luck with that,' he muttered.

'Ha ha, my lad, ha ha. I'd love to do it, too, but they've got an awful stretch of walls down there, and I'm not much for climbing over 'em.' Crummock slapped one fat hand against his fat belly. 'Twice too much meat for that. No, what we need for this task is a small man, but with great big fruits on him. No doubt we do, and the moon knows it. A man with a talent for creeping about, sharp-eyed and sure-footed. We need someone with a quick hand and a quick mind.' He looked at the Dogman, and he grinned. 'Now where is it that we'd find a man like that, do you reckon?'

'You know what?' Dogman put his face in his hands. 'I've no fucking idea.'

Logen lifted the battered flask to his lips and took a mouthful. He felt the sharp liquor tingling on his tongue, tickling at his throat, that old need to swallow. He leaned forward, pursed his lips, and blew it out in a fine spray. A gout of fire went up into the cold night. He peered into the darkness, saw nothing but the black outlines of tree-trunks, the shifting black shadows that his fire cast between them.

He shook the flask back and forth, heard the last measure sloshing inside. He shrugged his shoulders, put it to his mouth and tipped it all the way, felt it burn down to his stomach. The spirits could share with him tonight. Chances were good that, after tomorrow, he wouldn't be calling on them again.

'Ninefingers.' The voice rustled at him like the leaves falling.

One spirit slid out from the shadows, came up into the light from the fire. There was no trace of recognition about it, and Logen found he was relieved. There was no accusation either, no fear and no distrust. It didn't care what he was, or what he'd done.

Logen tossed the empty flask down beside him. 'On your own?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you're never alone if you bring laughter with you.' The spirit said nothing. 'Reckon laughter's a thing for men, not for spirits.'

'Yes.'

'Don't speak much, do you?'

'I did not call on you.'

'True.' Logen stared into the fire. 'I have to fight a man tomorrow. A man called Fenris the Feared.'

'He is not a man.'

'You know of him, then?'

'He is old.'

'By your reckoning?'

'Nothing is old by my reckoning, but he goes back to the Old Time and beyond. He had another master, then.'

'What master?'

'Glustrod.'

The name was like a knife in the ear. No name could've been less expected, or less welcome. The wind blew cold through the trees, and memories of the towering ruins of Aulcus crowded in on Logen, and made his back shiver. 'No chance it's some different Glustrod than the one came close to destroying half the world?'