There were more carts behind, spread out in a slow line along the road, loaded down with men, food, clothes, weapons, and all the stuff you need to make a war. Each one had a lamp lit, hanging up near the front, so there was a trail of bobbing lights in the dull dusk, down into the valley and up the far slope, marking out the path of the road they'd followed through the woods.

Logen turned and looked at the Union boys, gathered up in a clump near the front of the cart. Nine of them, all jolting and swaying about together with the jumping of the axles, and all keeping as well clear of him as they could.

'You seen scars like that on a man before?' one muttered, not guessing he could speak their tongue.

'Who is he anyway?'

'Dunno. A Northman, I guess.'

'I can see he's a Northman, idiot. I mean what's he doing here with us?'

'Maybe he's a scout.'

'Big bastard for a scout, ain't he?'

Logen grinned to himself as he watched the trees roll past. He felt the cool breeze on his face, smelled the mist, the earth, the cold, wet, air. He never would have thought he'd be happy to be back in the North, but he was. It was good, after all that time a stranger, to be in a place where he knew the rules.

They camped out on the road, the ten of them. One group out of many, strung out through the woods, each one clustered close to their cart. Nine lads on one side of a big fire, a pot of stew bubbling over the top of it and giving off a fine-smelling steam. Logen watched them stirring it, talking to each other about home, and what was coming, and how long they'd be out there.

After a while one of them started spooning the food out into bowls and handing them round. He looked over at Logen, once he was done with the rest, then served up one more. He edged over like he was coming at a wolfs cage.

'Er…' He held the bowl out at arm's length. 'Stew?' He opened his mouth up wide and pointed into it with his free hand.

'Thanks, friend,' said Logen as he took the bowl, 'but I know where to put it.'

The lads all stared at him, a row of worried-looking faces, lit up flickering yellow on the far side of the fire, more suspicious than ever at him speaking their language. 'You talk common? You kept that quiet, didn't you?'

'Best to seem less than you are, in my experience.'

'If you say so,' said the lad who'd given him the bowl. 'What's your name, then?'

Logen wondered for a moment if he should make up a lie. Some nothing name that no one could have heard of. But he was who he was, and sooner or later someone would know him. That, and he'd never been much at lying. 'Logen Ninefingers, they call me.'