A man was sitting on his own on the long slope, his back to the city. A man hunched over in a battered coat, so still and quiet in the half-light that West had almost missed him. 'I'll catch you up,' he said as he left the path. The grass, coated with a pale fur of frost, crunched gently under his boots with each step.

'Pull up a chair.' Breath smoked gently round Ninefingers' darkened face.

West squatted down on the cold earth beside him. 'Are you ready?'

'Ten times before I've done this. Can't say I've ever yet been ready. Don't know that there is a way to get ready for a thing like this. The best I've worked out is just to sit, and let the time crawl past, and try not to piss yourself.'

'I imagine a wet crotch could be an embarrassment in the circle.'

'Aye. Better than a split head, though, I reckon.'

Undeniably true. West had heard tales of these Northern duels before, of course. Growing up in Angland, children whispered lurid stories of them to each other. But he had little idea how they were really conducted. 'How does this business work?'

'They mark out a circle. Round the edge men stand with shields, half from one side, half from the other, and they make sure no one leaves before it's settled. Two men go into the circle. The one that dies there is the loser. Unless someone has it in mind to be merciful. Can't see that happening today, though, somehow.'

Also undeniable. 'What do you fight with?'

'Each one of us brings something. Could be anything. Then there's a spin of a shield, and the winner picks the weapon he wants.'

'So you might end up fighting with what your enemy brought?'

'It can happen. I killed Shama Heartless with his own sword, and got stuck through with the spear I brought to fight Harding Grim.' He rubbed at his stomach, as though the memory ached there. 'Still, don't hurt any worse, getting stuck with your own spear instead of someone else's.'

West laid a hand thoughtfully on his own gut. 'No.' They sat in silence for a while longer.

'There's a favour I'd like to ask you.'

'Name it.'

'Would you and your friends hold shields for me?'

'Us?' West blinked towards the Carls in the shadow of the wall. Their great round shields looked hard enough to lift, let alone to use well. 'Are you sure? I've never held one in my life.'

'Maybe, but you know whose side you're on. There ain't many folk among these that I can trust. Most of 'em are still trying to work out who they hate more, me or Bethod. It only takes one to give me a shove when I need a push, or let me fall when I need catching. Then we're all done. Me especially.'

West puffed out his cheeks. 'We'll do what we can.'

'Good. Good.'

The cold silence dragged out. Over the black hills, the black trees, the moon sank and grew dimmer.