Kelewulf stared out of the window of his living quarters. Below him, in a large sand-filled square, a dozen or so people were engaged in combat training. The sound of their weapons making contact against each other, mixed with their grunts and shouts, hardly registered with him and he paid the combatants the same attention he would a colony of insects. If he was honest, they meant about as much to him.

No, he had other, more pressing matters on his mind.

In the room behind him, on a small table, was the book he’d sought for so long. And yet, now that it was finally in his possession, he felt afraid. He’d spent the morning trying to summon the courage to unlock the brass clasp that held it shut, but he had not been able to.

Kelewulf walked over to the grimoire, staring down at it for what must have been the hundredth time that day. It was thought to be the only one in existence, and it was much smaller than he’d imagined. Surely something containing such ancient knowledge and power should look more impressive? He shivered. He had shed blood to lay his hands upon this book, and now he was too frightened to open the thing and look inside. Why?

Because there’s no going back. Once chosen, the path you’ll follow leads one way, with no return.

He shook his head angrily. The price would be high, yes; but it would be worth it to show this barbaric world he inhabited what it meant to be truly powerful. Real power wasn’t shown by wielding a length of sharpened metal or by beating your wife and child while sycophants stood by and did nothing, but through creating fear in the hearts and minds of people.

And I could wield that power. But first I must open the damned book!

He turned away from the window, closing the shutters to block out the light. The door to his room was already barred but he couldn’t help but check it again. And, finally, Kelewulf stood over the Book of Roth’gurd. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and twisted the latch of the brass clasp.

The blunted axe crashed into Astrid’s shield and she swivelled on her left foot, twisting around to give herself a view of her opponent’s exposed flank. Thrusting forward in a short but firm motion, she allowed herself a small smile at the loud exclamation Matulda made as the rounded tip of the wooden training sword smacked painfully into her ribs.

‘You’re dead,’ Astrid said. ‘Four or five inches of cold Volken steel have just slid between your ribs and punctured your right lung.’

‘You don’t have to sound so happy about it,’ Matulda replied, rubbing her side.

‘You went too hard in that last attack and lost your form. You must strike a balance between aggression and patience.’

‘I saw an opening.’