He leaned over the parapet. “Get up here!” he bellowed at the men on the ladders, at the men at the foot of the ladders, at the men rushing to join ’em, some of ’em realising what was coming up behind and already scattering. “Push north!” he roared at the men already up, pointing towards the gatehouse. He thought he could see that witch on the roof, the bright red of her cloak, which meant the tall bastard beside her was Caul Shivers, sun glinting an instant on his metal eye. “The man who brings me that witch’s head gets its weight in silver!” he roared.

He’d been thinking about gold, but even at a time like this you have to get value for money.

They were fighting, up on the wall. Ignet could see ’em, peeking around the corner of her house. Something was burning. She could smell it. Like burned cakes.

She stared wi’ wide eyes, heart thumping. She saw a man kill another, up there on the walkway. Stab him with a spear. He fell, and tumbled onto a roof not far away, and slid down, his leg dangling from the thatched eaves.

“Get inside, Ignet!” screeched her mother, catching her wrist and dragging her in. Her da flung the door shut. Shut it and double-bolted it.

Ignet had always thought how strong those bolts looked, how heavy. Now they seemed spindly little sticks of iron to keep all those furious warriors out o’ the house.

She shrank into the corner. She could still hear the fighting. The walls had always looked so huge, but they didn’t any more. Would they come over? Would they get into the town? Would they start beating on the door?

She stared at the bolts, her shoulders up around her ears, waiting for them to jump and rattle in the brackets.

“What happens if Rikke wins?” asked her ma.

Her da just stared.

“What happens if she loses?” asked her ma.

Her da numbly shook his head.

“What do we do?” her ma screamed, clutching her da by his wrists.

“What can we do?” he muttered at her.

Ignet crawled under the table and put her hands over her head. Outside, deep and throbbing, she heard that horn blow again.

“Come on, come on,” muttered the Nail, eyes fixed on the crest of the hill, grass thrashing in the wind. “Come on, come on, come on…”

He was desperate to go. Burning to fight. He could feel the eagerness of the men around him, the men behind him, tensed like drawn bows, straining like dogs at the leash. He could hear the battle joined, the joyous steel and laughter music of it beyond the little rise. He couldn’t hold back, and he wriggled up to the crest, up to the waving grass, and peeked over, tongue-tip wedged between his bared teeth, down into the valley.

Over on the left—Crinna bastards, bones-and-hides men, up at the walls of Carleon. Straight ahead—Black Calder’s Carls, with ladders to the stones. Over on his right—Hardbread’s men had made it down to the city, fighting in the fields, fighting up on the walls, and he couldn’t help a little giggle.