'What's this?' one asked, frowning as they walked up close.

'Found this bastard trying to creep in.' Dogman gave Dow a punch in the side of the head, just to make things look good. 'We're taking him down below, lock him up 'til after they're done.' He made to walk on past.

One of the guards stopped him cold with a hand on his chest, and the Dogman swallowed. The Carl nodded towards the city's gates. 'How's it going, down there?'

'Alright, I guess.' Dogman shrugged. 'It's going, anyway. Bethod'll come out on top, eh? He always does, don't he?'

'I don't know.' The Carl shook his head. 'That Feared puts the fucking wind up me. Him and that bloody witch. Can't say I'll cry too hard if the Bloody-Nine kills the pair of 'em.'

The other one chuckled, pushed his helmet onto the back of his scalp, bringing up a cloth to wipe the sweat underneath. 'You got a—'

Dow sprang forward, loose bits of rope flapping round his wrists, and buried a knife all the way up to the hilt in the Carl's forehead. Dropped him like a chair with the legs kicked away. Same moment almost, Grim's borrowed mace clonked into the top of the other's helmet and left a great dent in it, jammed the rim right down almost to the tip of his nose. He dribbled some, stumbling back like he was drunk. Then blood came bubbling out of his ears and he fell down on his back.

Dogman turned round, trying to hold his stolen cloak out so no one would see Dow and Grim dragging the two corpses away, but the town seemed empty. Everyone watching the fight, no doubt. He wondered for a moment what was happening, out there in the circle. Long enough to get a nasty feeling in his gut.

'Come on.' He turned to see Dow grinning all across his bloody face. The two bodies he'd just wedged behind the gates, one of 'em staring cross-eyed at the knife hole in his head.

'That good enough?' asked Dogman.

'What, you want to say a few words for the dead, do you?'

'You know what I mean, if someone—'

'No time for clever, now.' Dow grabbed him by the arm and pulled him through the gate. 'Let's kill us a witch.'

The sole of the Feared's metal boot thudded into Logen's chest, ripped his breath out and rammed him into the earth, the sword tumbling from his clawing hand, puke burning at the back of his throat. Before he knew where he was a great shadow fell across him. Metal snapped shut round his wrist, tight as a vice. His legs were kicked away and he was on his face, arm twisted behind him and a mouthful of dirt to think about. Something pressed against his cheek. Cold at first, then painful. The Feared's great foot. His wrist was wrenched round, dragged up. His head was crushed further into the damp ground, short grass prickling up his nose.