Clariel stormed towards the closer trio, a hooded figure of flame and smoke, her bronze mask gleaming. The first guard tried to parry her sweeping cut but his sword broke and Clariel’s weapon cut him in two. Even as he fell she withdrew the blade and engaged the second guard, who stumbled back and turned to flee. Clariel sprang forward further than anyone could possibly jump and took his head from his shoulders. That left her open to Aronzo, who cut at her shoulder, but through fear or weariness the stroke was short. Clariel whirled and the very point of her sword nicked him on the neck, just above his mail hauberk.

‘Father!’ screamed Aronzo, stumbling backwards. He fell over a corpse and landed heavily. ‘Help!’

Kilp threw his dagger. It struck Clariel in the side, easily parting the protective robes, long since threadbare and bereft of Charter marks. The hunting leathers beneath slowed the dagger a little, but not enough, the blade sinking deep. To Clariel, consumed by rage, it was no more than a pinprick. Ignoring it, she stood over Aronzo. He wasn’t smiling now, and she was pleased to see his cheeks were badly sliced, the wounds not healed.

‘For my mother,’ she said, striking down. Her sword pierced Aronzo’s mail with a thunderclap, flames licking across the metal. Aronzo screamed again, a bubbling scream that became the choking, rattling cough of death.

‘For my father,’ said Clariel, and she struck down again for the heart, killing him instantly. Clariel felt Aronzo die, felt his spirit cross all uncomprehending to the cold river that would bear him away beyond the Ninth Gate. For a moment she even had a vision of those implacable, rushing waters and once again her hand twitched as if it should be holding a bell.

Withdrawing her sword from Aronzo’s chest, she turned towards Kilp. He stared down from the dais. His mouth worked and his eyes bulged, as if he could not comprehend the ruin of his grand plans and the death of his son.

‘Who are you?’ he shouted, his voice high. He looked over Clariel’s head, towards the minstrel’s gallery. ‘Aziminil! We agreed, I said you could have the King! There is no need for this!’

‘Have you killed so many parents that you cannot remember their children?’ asked Clariel. She wished she could take the mask off, so Kilp could see her face before she killed him. But that was not possible.

Kilp turned to run, but he did not go far. Clariel cut him down at the King’s feet, stabbing him through the body. White surcoat and gilded mail offered no protection against her ensorcelled sword.

Kilp died, the look of disbelief set permanently on his once-handsome face.