“Could be I made a mistake.”
“A big one,” said the Dogman.
There were a hundred fires burning down there on the dark slopes, a hundred fires and more. There were men down there too, it hardly needed saying. Thralls mostly, lightly armed, but plenty of Carls as well. Dogman could see the last light of the day glinting on their spear tips, and their shield-rims, and their mail coats, polished up and ready for a fight, clustered round close to the flapping standards of each clan’s chieftain. Lots of standards. Twenty of ’em, or thirty even, at a quick count. The Dogman had never seen more than ten together before.
“Biggest army there’s ever been out of the North,” he muttered.
“Aye,” said Threetrees. “All fighting for Bethod, and not five days’ ride from the Southerners.” He pointed down at one of the banners. “That Littlebone’s standard down there?”
“Aye,” growled Dow, and spat into the brush. “That’s his mark alright. I got scores with that bastard.”
“There’s a world o’ scores down there,” said Threetrees. “That’s Pale-as-Snow’s banner, and Whitesides, and Crendel Goring’s over by them rocks. That’s some bloody company. Them as went over to Bethod near the beginning. All grown fat on it now, I reckon.”
“What about them ones?” asked the Dogman, pointing out at some that he didn’t recognise—evil-looking signs, all leather and bones. Looked like hillmen’s marks to him, maybe. “That ain’t Crummock-i-Phail’s standard, is it?”
“Nah! He’d never have kneeled to Bethod or anyone else. That mad bastard’ll still be up there in the mountains somewhere, calling to the moon and all the rest.”
“Less Bethod done for him,” grunted Dow.
Threetrees shook his head. “Doubt it. Canny bastard, that Crummock. Been holding Bethod off for years, up in the High Places. He knows all the ways, they say.”
“Whose signs are they then?” asked Dogman.
“Don’t know, could be some boys from out east, past the Crinna. There’s some strange folk out that way. You know any o’ them banners, Grim?”
“Aye,” said Grim, but that was all he said.
“Don’t hardly matter whose signs they are,” muttered Dow, “just look at the numbers of ’em. There’s half the fucking North down there.”
“And the worst half,” said Dogman. He was looking at Bethod’s sign, set up in the middle of the host. A red circle daubed on black hides, an acre of ’em, it looked like, big as a field, mounted on a tall pine trunk, flapping evil in the wind. Huge great thing. “Wouldn’t fancy carrying it,” he muttered.
Dow slithered over and leaned in close. “Might be that we could sneak in there in the dark,” he whispered. “Might be we could sneak in and put a blade in Bethod.”
They all looked at each other. It was a terrible risk, but Dogman had no doubts it was worth the trying. Wasn’t a one of them hadn’t dreamed of sending Bethod back to the mud.
“Put a blade in him, the bastard,” muttered Tul, and he had a smile right across his face.
“Uh,” grunted Grim.
“That’s a task worth doing,” hissed Dow. “That’s real work!”
Dogman nodded, looking down at all them fires. “No doubt.” Noble work. Work for Named Men like them, or like they used to be, maybe. There’d be some songs about that, alright. Dogman’s blood was rushing at the thought, skin prickling on his hands, but Threetrees was having none of it.
“No. We can’t risk it. We got to go back and tell the Union. Tell ’em they got guests coming. Bad guests, and in numbers.” He tugged at his beard, and Dogman could tell he didn’t like it, backing off. None of ’em did, but they knew he was right, even Dow. Chances were they’d never get to Bethod, and if they did they’d never get out.
“We got to go back,” said Dogman.
“Fair enough,” said Dow. “We go back. Shame though.”
“Aye,” said Threetrees. “Shame.”
Long Shadows
“By the dead.”
Ferro said nothing, but for the first time since Logen met her, the scowl had slipped off. Her face was slack, mouth hanging slightly open. Luthar, on the other hand, was grinning like a fool.
“You ever see anything like that?” he shouted over the noise, pointing out at it with a trembling hand.
“There is nothing else like that,” said Bayaz.
Logen had to admit that he’d been wondering what all the fuss was about when it came to crossing a river. Some of the bigger ones in the North could be a problem, especially in the wrong season and with a lot of gear to carry. But if there was no bridge, you found a good ford, held your weapons over your head, and sloshed across. Might take a while for your boots to dry out, and you had to keep your eyes well opened for an ambush, but otherwise there was nothing much to fear from a river. Good place to fill your water-skin.
Filling your skin at the Aos would have been a dangerous business, at least without a hundred strides of rope.
Logen had once stood on the cliffs near Uffrith, and watched the waves crash against the rocks far below, the sea stretching away, grey and foaming out of sight. A dizzy, and a humbling, and a worrying place to stand. The feeling at the brink of the great river’s canyon was much the same, except that a quarter mile away or so another cliff rose up from the water. The far bank, if you could use the word about a towering rock face.
He shuffled up gingerly to the very edge, prodding at the soft ground with the toes of his boots, and peered over the brink. Not a good idea. The red earth overhung slightly, bound up with white grass roots, and then the jagged rocks dropped away, almost sheer. Where the frothing water slapped against them, far below, it sent great plumes of bright spray into the air, clouds of damp mist that Logen could almost feel on his face. Tufts of long grass clung to the cracks and the ledges, and birds flitted between them, hundreds of small white birds. Logen could just make out their twittering calls over the mighty rumble of the river.
He thought on being dropped into that thundering weight of dark water—sucked, and whirled, and ripped around like a leaf in the storm. He swallowed, and shuffled cautiously back from the edge, looking around for something to cling on to. He felt tiny, and weightless, as if a strong gust of wind might snatch him away. He could almost feel the water moving through his boots, the surging, rolling, unstoppable power of it, making the very earth tremble.
“So you can see why a bridge might be such a good idea!” shouted Bayaz in his ear.
“How can you even build a bridge across that?”
“At Aostum the river splits in three, and the canyon is much less deep. The Emperor’s architects built islands, and made their bridges of many small arches. Even so, it took them twelve years to build. The bridge at Darmium is the work of Kanedias himself, a gift to his brother Juvens when they were yet on good terms. It crosses the river in a single span. How he did it, none now can say.” Bayaz turned for the horses. “Get the others, we should keep moving!”
Ferro was already walking back from the brink. “So much rain.” She looked over her shoulder, frowned and shook her head.
“Don’t get rivers like that where you come from, eh?”
“Out in the Badlands, water is the most precious thing you can have. Men kill over a bottle of it.”
“That’s where you were born? The Badlands?” A strange name for a place, but it sounded about right for her.
“There are no births in the Badlands, pink. Only deaths.”
“Harsh land, eh? Where were you born, then?”
She scowled. “What do you care?”
“Just trying to be friendly.”
“Friends!” she sneered, brushing past him towards the horses.
“Why? You got so many out here you couldn’t use another?”
She stopped, half turned, and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “My friends don’t last, pink.”
