Clariel lunged forward and gripped it by those impossibly thin wrists, to twist and bend it to the floor. Sparks and Charter marks flew in profusion, but the creature did not give way. It held fast as Clariel tried to twist its wrists, and she felt its cold thoughts invade her mind, exerting a terrible pressure that seemed to enter through the holes in her mask, as if unseen thumbs were pressing upon her eyes, rough fingers attacking her mouth.

‘I am Baazalanan,’ said a voice that filled the cavern and echoed deep inside Clariel’s head, making her cheekbones ache to the very marrow. ‘Bow down before your master!’

Clariel felt her knees begin to bend, her fingers begin to uncurl where they gripped those impossibly thin, impossibly strong wrists. Her hands were hot, almost burning, and there were fewer Charter marks falling from the gauntlets, the sparks subsiding, as if the protective cloth was already wearing thin.

‘Bow down,’ said Baazalanan. Its voice was soft and slippery, but strong, like a crawling snake that was winding through Clariel’s head, flexing and looping, readying itself to crush her and strangle her will. There was nothing she could do, even with the fury stretching every muscle and sinew, concentrating every thought. She could not move the creature, could not free its grip on her mind.

In her berserk state she could not believe this was happening. It was not possible for an enemy to resist her power. But in the small part of her mind that remained separate, she knew it was so, that she had gambled and lost. Mogget and Aziminil had led her on, and her own foolishness had put her feet willingly upon this path.

‘I will not give up,’ she whispered. Letting go of the creature, she stepped back and shouted, ‘Aziminil! To me!’

As she shouted, she surrendered the small conscious part of her mind to the fury, to become truly berserk. Frothing at the mouth, she smashed her bronze-armoured forehead into Baazalanan’s middle, and once again grabbed and twisted its wrists. She felt Aziminil close behind her, and drew upon her power, as much as she could through the barrier of her protective garments.

‘Bow down,’ said Baazalanan, but both its audible voice and the mental one in Clariel’s head quavered, and there was finally a tremor in its wrists. Clariel laughed, a laugh that was twin to her mother’s in Kilp’s house, the laugh of someone who has totally surrendered to their rage.