Nothing changed in the giant's face. Nothing more than usual, at least. 'My name is Fenris the Feared. My achievements are all in the past.' He held up his painted hand, and squeezed the great fingers, and the sinews in his huge blue arm bulged like knotted tree roots. 'With these signs great Glustrod marked me out his chosen. With this hand I tore down the statues of Aulcus. Now I kill little men, in little wars.' Logen could just make out a tiny shrug of his massive shoulders. 'Such is the way of things.'

Crummock looked at Logen, and he raised his brows. 'Alright then. What weapons have you carried to the fight?'

Logen lifted the heavy sword, forged by Kanedias for his war against the Magi, and held it up to the light. A stride of dull metal, the edge glittered faintly in the pale sunrise. 'This blade.' He stabbed it down into the earth between them and left it standing there.

The Feared threw his sack rattling down and it sagged open. Inside were great black plates, spiked and studded, scarred and battered. 'This armour.' Logen looked at that vast weight of dark iron, and licked his teeth. If the Feared won the spin he could take the sword and leave Logen with a pile of useless armour way too big for him. What would he do then? Hide under it? He only had to hope his luck stuck out a few minutes longer.

'Alright, my beauties.' Crummock set his shield down on its rim and took hold of the edge. 'Painted or plain, Ninefingers?'

'Painted.' Crummock ripped the shield round and set it spinning. Round and round, it went—painted, plain, painted, plain. Hope and despair swapped with every turn. The wood started to slow, to wobble on its rim. It dropped down flat, plain side up, the straps flopping.

So much for luck.

Crummock winced. He looked up at the giant. 'You've got the choice, big lad.'

The Feared took hold of the Maker's blade and slid it from the earth. It looked like a toy in his monstrous hand. His bulging eyes rolled up to Logen's, and his great mouth twisted into a smile. He tossed the sword down at Logen's feet and it dropped in the dirt.

'Take your knife, little man.'

The sound of raised voices floated thin on the breeze. 'Alright,' hissed Dow, much too loud for the Dogman's nerves, 'they're getting started!'

'I can hear that!' Dogman snapped, coiling the rope round and round into easy circles, ready to throw.

'You know what you're doing with that? I could do without it dropping on me.'

'That so?' Dogman swung the grapple back and forward a touch, feeling the weight. 'I was just thinking that, after it sticking in that wall, it sticking in your fat head was the second best outcome.' He spun it round in a circle, then a wider one, letting some rope slip through his hand, then he hefted it all the way and let it fly. It sailed up, real neat, the rope uncoiling after it, and over the battlements. Dogman winced as he heard it clatter on the walkway, but no one came. He pulled on the rope. A stride or two slid down, and then it caught. Felt firm as a rock.