'He was a great man, Rudd Threetrees,' said the old boy, 'great man.'

'Aye.' Dogman nodded. 'That he was.'

'Heard the Dogman took his place, though,' said One-Arm.

'That a fact?'

'So I heard. Mean bastard, that. Huge big lad. They call him Dogman 'cause he bit some woman's teats off one time.'

Dogman blinked. 'Do they now? Well, I never saw him.'

'I heard the Bloody-Nine was up there,' whispered the boy, eyes big like he was talking about a ghost.

The other two snorted at him. 'The Bloody-Nine's dead, boy, and good riddance to that evil fucker.' One-Arm shuddered. 'Damn it but you get some fool notions!'

'Just what I heard, is all.'

The old boy swilled down some more grog and smacked his lips. 'Don't much matter who's where. Union'll most likely get bored once they've got their fort back. Get bored and go home, across the sea, and everything back to normal. None of 'em will be coming down here to Uffrith, anyway.'

'No,' said One-Arm happily. 'They'll not be coming here.'

'Then why we out here watching for 'em?' whined the boy.

The old man rolled his eyes, like he'd heard it ten times before and always made the same answer. ''Cause that's the task we been given, lad.'

'And once you got a task, you best do it right.' Dogman remembered Logen telling him the same thing, and Threetrees too. Both gone now, and back in the mud, but it was still as true as it ever was. 'Even if it's a dull task, or a dangerous, or a dark one. Even if it's a task you'd rather not do.' Damn it, but he needed to piss. Always did, at a time like this.

'True enough,' said the old man, smiling down into his mug. 'Things've got to get done.'

'That they do. Shame, though. You seem a nice enough set o' lads.' And the Dogman reached behind his back, just like he was scratching his arse.

'Shame?' The boy looked puzzled. 'How d'you mean a—'

That was when Dow came up behind him and cut his neck open.

Same moment, almost, Grim's dirty hand clamped down on One-Arm's mouth and the bloody point of a blade slid out the gap in his cloak. Dogman jumped forward and gave the old man three quick stabs in the ribs. He wheezed, and stumbled, eyes wide, mug still hanging from his hand, groggy drool spilling out his open mouth. Then he fell down.

The boy crawled a little way. He had one hand to his neck, trying to keep the blood in, the other reaching out towards the pole the warning bell was hung on. He had some bones, the Dogman reckoned, to be thinking of the bell with a slit throat, but he didn't drag himself more'n a stride before Dow stomped down hard on the back of his neck and squashed him flat.

Dogman winced as he heard the boy's neck bones crunch. He hadn't deserved to die like that, most likely. But that's what war is. A lot of folk getting killed that don't deserve it. The job had needed doing, and they'd done it, and were all three still alive. About as much as he could've hoped for from a piece of work like that, but somehow it still left a sour taste on him. He'd never found it easy, but it was harder than ever, now he was chief. Strange, how it's that much easier to kill folk when you've got someone telling you to do it. Hard business, killing. Harder than you'd think.