Astrid watched helplessly as Erik was brought out to jeers and insults from the crowd. In those first few seconds the sunlight blinded him. She watched as he strained to see the faces of those who had gathered to watch. There were few there to support him, and she wondered if Glaeverssun had had a role in choosing the audience for this terrible business.

‘King-killer!’ an old woman shouted, lurching at the prisoner and spitting at him. His guards pushed her away, but without much conviction.

Try as she might, Astrid couldn’t help but look at the apparatus that was to end her brother’s life. The gallows had been hastily erected. A rope hung from a cross-beam, the other end tied to the saddle of a horse. There would be no quick death, dropping from a height mercifully high enough to snap the neck. No, her brother was to be pulled up into the air and strangled, kicking and twitching like a puppet while the crowd jeered and hollered. She had seen men and women killed like this before, seen eyes bulge in faces turning purple-black, tongues loll from mouths.

Astrid stood by Jarl Glaeverssun’s side, acutely aware of the armed man stationed behind her. Pale and stony faced, her stomach tied itself in knots as her heart pounded away inside her.

Erik looked terrible, his body emaciated and his face swollen with new cuts and bruises.

Nevertheless, he walked with his head held high, looking his accusers in the eye as he passed, as kingly as if he were leading the army of Stromgard out on a raid against an enemy. He was their father’s son in every way. Mounting the steps, he faltered for a moment, then turned and fixed the executioner with a stare as the man went to put the noose around his neck.

‘STOP!’ a voice called out, and such was the power of that voice that every head turned.

Into the mob strode a woman, her face covered by a hood.

‘Who dares interrupt the business of the kingdom?’ bellowed Jarl Glaeverssun, his face flushed.

‘Business of the kingdom?’ Fleya said, rounding on the man and walking towards him. ‘A king decides the business of the kingdom. You are no king.’

‘Who are you? Guards! Take this woman away. Perhaps some time in the stocks will teach her some manners.’

As the armed men moved towards her, Fleya pushed the hood back from her face. When she raised her arms, the cloak fell away and the crowd gasped. The witch was dressed in grey, the robe marked with ancient, powerful symbols that only those who had mastered the Art dared wear, and it was the sight of these majik runes that stopped the guards in their tracks. Out of the clear sky a dark cloud gathered, its colour perfectly matching Fleya’s outfit.