A couple of Bethod's shield-carriers cringed out of his way, looking like children beside him, grimacing as if death itself was breathing on their necks. The Feared stepped through into the circle, and Logen saw the blue marks were writing, just as the spirit had told him. Twisted symbols, scrawled over every part of his left side—hand, arm, face, lips even. The words of Glustrod, written in the Old Time.

The Feared stopped a few strides distant, and a sickly horror seemed to wash out from him and over the silent crowd, as if a great weight was pressing on Logen's chest, squeezing out his courage. But the task was simple enough, in its way. If the Feared's painted side couldn't be harmed, Logen would just have to carve the rest of him, and carve it deep. He'd beaten some hard men in the circle. Ten of the hardest bastards in all the North. This was just one more. Or so he tried to tell himself.

'Where's Bethod?' He'd meant to bellow it, all defiance, but it came out a tame, dry squawk.

'I can watch you die just as well from up here!' The King of the Northmen stood on the battlements above the open gate, well-groomed and happy, Pale-as-Snow and a few guards stood about him. If he'd had any trouble sleeping, Logen would never have known it. The morning breeze stirred his hair and the thick fur round his shoulders, the morning sun shone on the golden chain, struck sparks from the diamond on his brow. 'Glad you came! I was worried you'd make a run for it!' He gave a carefree sigh and it smoked on the sharp air. 'It's morning, like you said. Let's get started.'

Logen looked into the Feared's bulging, twitching, crazy eyes, and swallowed.

'We're gathered here to witness a challenge!' roared Crummock. 'A challenge to put an end to this war, and settle the blood between Bethod, who's taken to calling himself King of the Northmen, and Furious, who speaks for the Union. Bethod wins, the siege is lifted, and the Union leaves the North. Furious wins, then the gates of Carleon are opened, and Bethod stands at his mercy. Do I speak true?'

'You do,' said West, his voice sounding small in all that space.

'Aye.' Up on his walls, Bethod waved a lazy hand. 'Get to it, fat man.'

'Then name yourselves, champions!' shouted Crummock, 'and list your pedigree!'

Logen took a step forward. It was a hard step to take, as if he was pushing against a great wind, but he took it anyway, tilted his head back and looked the Feared full in his writhing face. 'I'm the Bloody-Nine, and there's no number on the men I've killed.' The words came out soft and dead. No pride in his empty voice, but no fear either. A cold fact. Cold as the winter. 'Ten challenges I've given, and I won 'em all. In this circle I beat Shama Heartless, Rudd Threetrees, Harding Grim, Tul Duru Thunderhead, Black Dow, and more besides. If I listed the Named Men I've put back in the mud we'd be here at sunrise tomorrow. There's not a man in the North don't know my work.'