'Good. We can always use a man with experience.' He watched the recruits clambering down off the carts and gave a long sigh. 'We've still got far too many here without. You should go up and join the rest of the Northmen.'

'You've got Northmen with you?'

'We have, and more coming over every day. Seems that a lot of them aren't too happy with the way their King has been leading them. About his deal with the Shanka in particular.'

'Deal? With the Shanka?' Logen frowned. He'd never have thought that even Bethod would stoop that low, but it was hardly the first time he'd been disappointed. 'He's got Flatheads fighting with him?'

'He certainly does. He's got Flatheads, and we've got Northmen. It's a strange world, alright.'

'That it surely is,' said Logen, shaking his head. 'How many do you have?'

'About three hundred, I'd say, at last count, though they don't take too well to being counted.'

'Reckon I'll make it three hundred and one, then, if you'll have me.'

'They're camped up there, on the left wing,' and he pointed towards the dark outline of trees against the evening sky.

'Right enough. Who's the chief?'

'Fellow called the Dogman.'

Logen stared at him for a long moment. 'Called the what?'

'Dogman. You know him?'

'You could say that,' whispered Logen, a smile spreading right across his face. 'You could say that.'

Dusk was pressing on fast and night was pressing in fast behind, and they'd just got the long fire burning as Logen walked up. He could see the shapes of the Carls taking their places down each side of it, heads and shoulders cut out black against the flames. He could hear their voices and their laughter, loud in the still evening now the rain had stopped.

It had been a long time since he heard a crowd of men all speaking Northern, and it sounded strange in his ears, even if it was his own tongue. It brought back some ugly memories. Crowds of men shouting at him, shouting for him. Crowds charging into battle, cheering their victories, mourning their dead. He could smell meat cooking from somewhere. A sweet, rich smell that tickled his nose and made his gut grumble.

There was a torch set up on a pole by the path, and a bored-looking lad stood underneath it with a spear, frowning at Logen as he walked up. Must've drawn the short straw, to be on guard while the others were eating, and he didn't look too happy about it.

'What d'you want?' he growled.

'You got the Dogman here?'

'Aye, what of it?'

'I'll need to speak to him.'

'Will you, now?'

Another man walked up, well past his prime, with a shock of grey hair and a leathery face. 'What we got here?'