Craw nodded. ‘Might be the most ever fought for the North in one spot.’

‘There’s going to be quite a battle here,’ said Yon. ‘Quite the hell of a battle.’

‘One for the songs!’ Whirrun had hooked his legs over the branch and was hanging upside down now, for some reason best known to his self.

‘We’re going to make a right mess o’ those Southerners.’ Drofd didn’t sound entirely convinced, though.

‘By the dead, I hope so,’ mouthed Craw.

Yon edged forwards. ‘Did you get our gild, Chief?’

Craw winced. ‘Dow weren’t in the mood to bring it up.’ There was a round of groans at that, just like he’d known there would be. ‘I’ll get it later, don’t worry. It’s owed and you’ll get it. I’ll talk to Splitfoot.’

Wonderful sucked her teeth. ‘You’d be better trying to get sense from Whirrun than coin out o’ Splitfoot.’

‘I heard that!’ called Whirrun.

‘Think on this,’ said Craw, slapping Yon’s chest with the back of his hand. ‘You get up that hill you’ll be owed another gild. Two at once. Ain’t going to be time to spend it now anyway, is there? We got a battle to fight.’

That much no one could argue with. Men were moving through the woods now, all geared-up and ready. Rustling and rattling, whispering and clattering, forming a kneeling line stretching off both ways between the tree trunks. Sunlight came ragged through the branches, patching on frowning faces, glinting on helmet and drawn sword.

‘When were we last in a proper battle, anyway?’ muttered Wonderful.

‘There was that skirmish down near Ollensand,’ said Craw.

Yon spat. ‘Don’t hardly call that proper.’

‘Up in the High Places,’ said Scorry, finishing the cutting and brushing the hair from Agrick’s shoulders. ‘Trying to prise Ninefingers out of that bloody crack of a valley.’

‘Seven years ago, was it? Eight?’ Craw shuddered at the memory of that nightmare, scores of fighters crowded into a gap in the rock so tight no one could hardly breathe, so tight no one could swing, just prick at each other, knee at each other, bite at each other. Never thought he’d come through that little slice of horror alive. Why the hell would a man choose to risk it again?

He looked at that shallow bowl of crop-filled country between the woods and the Heroes. Looked a bloody long way for an old man with more’n one dodgy leg to run. Glorious charges came up a lot in the songs, but there was one advantage to the defensive no one could deny – the enemy come to you. He shifted from one leg to the other, trying to find the best spot for his knee, and his ankle, and his hip, but a variety of agony was the best he could manage. He snorted to himself. True of life in general, that was.

He looked around to check his dozen were all ready. Got quite the shock to see Black Dow himself down on one knee in the ferns not ten strides distant, axe in one hand, sword in the other, Splitfoot and Shivers and his closest Carls at his back. He’d put aside his furs and finery and looked about like any other man in the line. Except for his fierce grin, like he was looking forward to this as much as Craw was wondering if there was a way free of it.