‘We’re innocent of Calder’s death,’ Olin shouted, ‘but another step closer and I’ll have your blood on my conscience, and not lose a single night’s sleep over it.’ He shrugged his cloak from his shoulder, freeing his sword arm, and raised his black blade, high, two-handed, over his head.

The bald man hesitated on the steps, whether at Olin’s words or at the sword in Olin’s hands, Drem did not know, but his eyes were fixed on the blade of the black sword.

Others around and behind the bald man pressed forwards, though, and, for Drem, everything slowed. He saw Wispy Beard climbing the steps, a spear in his hand, a frenzied grin splitting his face, realized the man had shaved his head.

He must be cold. An impractical act for one who is wintering in the north.

Then someone was stabbing a spear at Olin, blade aimed at his da’s gut. Olin just seemed to shuffle his feet and then the spear was stabbing past him, through thin air, at the same time Olin’s black sword was chopping down, cutting into the man’s head, just behind his ear. There was a wet cracking sound, and what looked like a burst of flames around the starstone blade and the man’s head, except that the flames were black and sulphurous, and then the sword was shearing out through the bottom of the man’s jaw, the front of his face falling to the step with a slap, blood and bone and brains splattering those either side of him. Olin kicked the still-standing corpse back into those behind, men falling, tangled.

Drem fought the urge to vomit. The sight of a man swinging a sword at him helped him to get that under control. He stumbled back a step, felt the hiss of air past his face as the sword missed by a handspan.

How can this be happening? I just watched my da kill a man, while others are baying for our blood. Can I do this? Can I take another’s life?

He felt sick, wished for a moment he’d taken his da’s advice and run for the back window, though he wouldn’t have left without his da.

What do I do? Stand and fight? Kill or be killed?

A glance at his da, who was holding the top of the stairs, chopping through a spear shaft, splintering it like kindling, back-swinging across someone’s eyes, a spray of blood as they fell away.