'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.

The tearing pain in his shoulder was awful. Soon it was a lot worse. He was caught fast and helpless, stretched out like a rabbit for skinning. The crowd had fallen breathlessly silent, the only sound the battered flesh round Logen's mouth squelching, the air squeaking in one squashed nostril. He would've screamed if his face hadn't been so squeezed that he could scarcely wheeze in half a breath. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say that he's finished. Back to the mud, and no one could've said he hadn't earned it. A fitting end for the Bloody-Nine, torn apart in the circle.

But the great arms didn't pull any further. Out the corner of one flickering eye, Logen could just see Bethod leaning against the battlements. The King of the Northmen waved his hand, round and round, in a slow wheel. Logen remembered what it meant.

Take your time. Make it last. Show them all a lesson they'll never forget.

The Feared's great boot slid off his jaw and Logen felt himself dragged into the air, limbs flopping like a puppet with the strings cut. The tattooed hand went up, black against the sun, and slapped Logen across the face. Open-handed, as a father might cuff a troublesome child. It was like being hit with a pan. Light burst open in Logen's skull, his mouth filled with blood. Things drew into focus just in time for him to see the painted hand swing back the other way. It came down with a terrible inevitability and cracked him a backhand blow, as a jealous husband might crack his helpless wife.