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.'

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.'