The great eyes went wide and the giant sprang forward with a thundering bellow. The Bloody-Nine rolled under his flailing fist and slid round behind him, saw the black iron on his leg flap away, the bright buckle dangling. The sword snaked out and slid into the gap, ate deep into the great pale calf inside it. The giant roared in pain, spun, lurched on his wounded leg and fell to his knees.

The circle was a crucible. The screaming faces of the men around its edge danced like smoke, swam like molten metal, their shields melting together.

Now was the time. The morning sun blazed down, glinted bright on the heavy chest-plate, marking the spot. Now was the beautiful moment.

The world burned, and like a leaping flame the Bloody-Nine reared up, arching back, raising high the sword. The work of Kanedias, the Master Maker, no blade forged sharper. Its bitter edge scored a long gash in the black armour, through the iron and into the soft flesh beneath, striking sparks and spattering blood, the shriek of tortured metal mingling with the wail of pain torn from the Feared's twisted mouth. The wound it left in him was deep.

But not deep enough.

The giant's great arms slid round the Bloody-Nine's back, folding him in a smothering embrace. The edges of the black metal pierced his flesh in a dozen places. Closer the giant drew him, and closer, and a ragged spike slid into the Bloody-Nine's face, cut through his cheek and scraped against his teeth, bit into the side of his tongue and filled his mouth with salt blood.

The Feared's grip was the weight of mountains. No matter how hot the Bloody-Nine's rage, no matter how he squirmed, and thrashed, and screamed in fury, he was held as tightly as the cold earth holds the buried dead. The blood trickling from his face, and from his back, and from the great gash in the Feared's armour soaked into his clothes and spread out blazing hot over his skin.

The World burned. Above the oven, the cauldron, the crucible, Bethod nodded, and the giant's cold arms squeezed tighter.

Dogman followed his nose. It rarely led him wrong, his nose, and he hoped to hell that it didn't fail him now. It was a sickly kind of a smell—like sweet cakes left too long in the oven. He led the others along an empty hallway, down a shadowy stair, creeping through the damp darkness in the knotty bowels of Skarling's Hill. He could hear something now, as well as smell it, and it sounded as bad as it smelled. A woman's voice, singing soft and low. A strange kind of singing, in no tongue the Dogman could understand.

'That must be her,' muttered Dow.

'Don't like the sound o' that one bit,' Dogman whispered back. 'Sounds like magic'

'What d'you expect? She's a fucking witch ain't she? I'll go round behind.'

'No, wait on—' But Dow was already creeping off the other way, boots padding soft and silent.