He let Georgios get to his feet, allowed him a few more strokes, shifting his weight one way, then the other, small, tight movements on the ball of his right foot, breathing steady. Now and then he parried the other blade with his own to the ring of steel, but the hardest blows went sweeping harmlessly by. Only when he was sure of the man did he make his own move. He scuffed right and ducked low, inviting a killing blow from up high. Sure enough, Georgios obliged, slashing down at Erlan’s left shoulder.

Erlan shoved hard off his right foot, springing under the falling blade to come up behind the Byzantine’s sword arm. He snatched a fistful of hair and pulled backwards, then sank his teeth into the exposed cords of muscle. Georgios roared in agony, whaling his sword-arm uselessly, but Erlan already had his blade to the man’s throat. He tasted bloody iron, and victory. If he wanted, he could finish the man off in a heartbeat, and it was damn tempting. Although that would win him few friends here. He had made his point. He was about to shove his opponent away when his groin exploded with pain and a wall of bone slammed into his nose. He staggered back, blinded by the stars swimming in his skull, then his leg gave way as Georgios crushed his ankle under a hobnailed sandal. He went down like a sack of manure, sprawling in the dust and cracking his jaw on the paving beneath. The sword skidded away and came to rest at the general’s feet. The air was filled with laughter.

They were laughing at him. These bastards were laughing. He rolled onto his back and saw a walkway above the courtyard crowded with other guards looking on. No doubt they thought this was good sport. They were laughing too. And suddenly it was no longer their laughter but the laughter of the gods, of the Norns, of the Witch King who’d cursed his blood; of Saldas, of Vargalf, of Ramedios, of every fucker who had ever stood in his way. He remembered Inga and Kai and Bodvar and Adalrik and Leikr and Aska and his father. . . and Lilla. All that he had lost. And rage bloomed inside him, wave after wave of it, tumbling over itself into an eruption like the fire-mountains of old. He got to his feet. Arbasdos’s smile curdled into a sneer and he kicked the sword towards him. ‘Again!’

Erlan snatched the hilt and flung himself back into the fight. He cut and stabbed, he gouged and punched. Hack, slash, snarl. He was the Aurvandil. Hadn’t he cut his way out of the pits of Hel, hadn’t he carved a swathe through briars of steel and flesh, hadn’t he swum through an ocean of blood? But he was still here, wasn’t he?