Whirrun settled back on his heels. ‘You’re done. And not a bad job either, though I’m singing my own praises. Maybe I’ll give up the killing and turn to healing after all.’

A growling voice cut through the faint ringing still going in Craw’s ears. ‘After the battle, though, eh?’

Whirrun blinked up. ‘Why, if it ain’t the Protector of the North. I feel all … protected. Swaddled up, like in a good coat.’

‘Had that effect all my life.’ Dow looked down at Craw with his hands on his hips, the sun bright behind him.

‘You going to bring me some fighting, Black Dow?’ Whirrun slowly stood, pulling his sword up after him. ‘I came here to fill graves, and the Father of Swords is getting thirsty.’

‘I daresay I can scare you up something to kill before too long. In the meantime I need a private word with Curnden Craw, here.’

Whirrun clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Wouldn’t dream of putting myself in between two lovers.’ And he swanned off up the hill, sword over one shoulder.

‘Strange bastard, that,’ said Dow as he watched Whirrun go.

Craw grunted as he unfolded his legs and slowly stood, shaking his aching joints out. ‘He plays up to it. You know how it is, having a reputation.’

‘Fame’s a prison, no doubt. How’s your face?’

‘Lucky I’ve always been an ugly bastard. I’ll look no worse’n before. Do we know what it was did the damage?’

Dow shook his head. ‘Who knows with the Southerners? Some new weapon. Some style o’ sorcery.’

‘It’s an evil one. That can just reach out and pluck men away like that.’

‘Is it? The Great Leveller’s waiting for all of us, ain’t he? There’ll always be someone stronger, quicker, luckier’n you, and the more fighting you do the quicker he’s going to find you. That’s what life is for men like us. The time spent plummeting towards that moment.’

Craw wasn’t sure he cared for that notion. ‘At least in the line, or the charge, or the circle a man can fight. Pretend to have a hand in the outcome.’ He winced as he touched the fresh stitching with his fingertips. ‘How do you make a song about someone whose head got splattered while he was half way through saying nothing much?’

‘Like Splitfoot.’

‘Aye.’ Craw wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone look deader than that bastard.

‘I want you to take his place.’

‘Eh?’ said Craw. ‘My ears are still whining. Not sure I heard you right.’

Dow leaned closer. ‘I want you to be my Second. Lead my Carls. Watch my back.’

Craw stared. ‘Me?’

‘Aye, you, what did I fucking say?’

‘But … why the hell me?’

‘You got the experience, and the respect …’ Dow looked at him for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. Then he waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. ‘You remind me o’ Threetrees.’

Craw blinked. It might’ve been one of the best things anyone had ever said to him, and not from a source prone to lazy compliments. Or any compliments at all, in fact. ‘Well … I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Chief. That means a lot. A hell of a bloody lot. If I ever get to be a tenth of the man he was then I’ll be more’n satisfied—’