'They can have a king if they want one,' whispered Crummock in his ear, 'but I can't say I do. Especially not the man who killed my son, eh?' Logen felt himself go cold, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his fingers. 'What did you think? That I wouldn't know?' The hillman leaned back to look Logen in the eye. 'You slaughtered him before the whole world, now, didn't you? You butchered little Rond like a sheep for the pot, and him just as helpless as one.'

They were alone in that wide hall, just the two of them, and the shadows, and Skarling's chair. Logen winced as Crummock's arms squeezed tighter, round the bruises and the wounds the Feared's arms had left him. Logen hadn't the strength left now to fight a cat, and they both knew it. The hillman could've crushed him flat, and finished the job the Feared had started. But he only smiled.

'Don't you worry, now, Bloody-Nine. I've got what I wanted, haven't I? Bethod's dead and gone, and his Feared, and his witch, and his whole bastard notion of clans united, all back to the mud where they belong. With you in charge, I daresay it'll be a hundred years before folk in the North stop killing each other. Meantime maybe we up in the hills can have some peace, eh?'

'Course you can,' croaked Logen, through his gritted teeth, grimacing as Crummock pressed him even tighter.

'You killed my son, that's true, but I've got plenty more. You have to weed the weak ones out, don't you know? The weak and the unlucky. You don't put a wolf amongst your sheep then cry when you find one eaten, do you?'

Logen could only stare. 'You really are mad.'

'Maybe I am, but there's worse than me out there.' He leaned close again, soft breath in Logen's ear. 'I'm not the one killed the boy, am I?' He let Logen free, and he slapped him on the shoulder. The way a friend might, but there was no friendship in it. 'Don't ever come up in the High Places again, Ninefingers, that's my advice. I might not be able to give you another friendly reception.' He turned and walked away, slowly, waving one fat finger over his shoulder. 'Don't come up in the High Places again, Bloody-Nine! You're beloved o' the moon just a little too much for my taste!'

Leadership

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