His opponent, this Georgios, had a broad forehead plastered with a sweaty crop of curly hair. He looked pleased with himself. Complacent. Erlan scoffed inwardly. Gods, hadn’t he been facing down muscle-bound muttonheads like this one since he was knee high to his father’s boot?

Georgios was stripped to the waist and wearing a kind of short skirt. To Erlan’s eye, he looked ridiculous, like a man in woman’s clothes, although his torso was anything but womanly – all hard muscle and sinew, lean as a hunting dog. His skin was already glistening with sweat.

He recalled the advice of his old spear-master, Garik. A man loses a fight more often than another wins it. In short, wait for your opponent to screw up. Erlan had seen him make a few strokes when they led him in. He had a long reach and didn’t look like he would tire easily. Even so, there was one advantage Erlan could always count on. Every man he’d ever faced had underestimated him.

The big man tossed him one of the swords. It landed at his feet in a puff of dust. He picked it up. It was an odd blade, shorter than Wrathling, but weighty, almost like a club. He made a few cuts at the air, then brushed his thumb against its edge. It was sharp as sin. Suddenly it felt like an age since he had stood in a training circle, while this brawny bastard looked like he lived there every day of the year. For a second, his stomach felt hollow, his ankle throbbed, his heart quickened, and then Arbasdos called them to guard.

‘Fight!’ The breath was hardly past his lips before Georgios lunged, his point darting up at Erlan’s throat. Erlan pivoted off his right foot and swung clear and the Byzantine’s momentum carried him past. He was fast but too heavy, too slow to change direction. Erlan could have split the man’s spine right there but instead he smacked his buttocks with the flat of his sword as he went lurching past. Georgios spun, fury burning in his eyes. Erlan laughed. ‘Dress like a woman, get slapped like a whore,’ he growled in Norse but no one understood him.

Georgios muttered his own curses in Greek. But Erlan thought he had the man figured. His sword arm was accurate but too strong for his legs. This offered many ways to throw him off balance. That the general couldn’t exploit this told Erlan something about him, too.