‘Does it talk to you now? The blade?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what does it say?’

‘I don’t understand all the words. Not yet. But … it’s looking forward to the battle. Oknhammer has done terrible things. Horrific things. The Dreadblade was forged to defeat monsters.’

‘Frindr Oknhammer is a man,’ Fleya pointed out.

‘Not all monsters are from the Void, Aunt. Some are men with souls so black that even Lorgukk would not be able to tell them apart from his own minions.’

They turned at the sound of the door opening, standing together as Queen Astrid entered the room. And as her eyes met Lann’s, he had no difficulty reading her thoughts.

‘Great,’ Lann mumbled under his breath. ‘Somebody else who thinks I’m mincemeat.’

20

In keeping with tradition, the accused’s champion was first to arrive. A cart had been sent to collect Lann from the rooms he’d stayed in overnight, and he was grateful; his legs were shaking so hard he could barely stand. The ride was slow, the driver plodding the old horse up the dirt streets so that everyone could get a look at the ‘champion’. Lann, his heart heavy with dread, knew it was his funeral procession.

The blade had abandoned him.

He had woken up this morning to silence – the sword deathly quiet for the first time since he had accepted it from Rakur. The whispers in that ancient tongue, so familiar to him now, were gone, and with them any remote chance he might have had of surviving today.

He’d spent most of the morning pondering this. How could he have been so wrong about the blade? He and the thing were not ‘one’ as he had thought. No, the Dreadblade wanted nothing to do with this trial, and it would allow him to perish. In doing so, perhaps it might find a new owner, one who understood the true nature of the pact between the blade and its wielder. Perhaps it had decided it would be better served by a man like Frindr Oknhammer. Had he condemned his aunt to the same fate as Erik? And Astrid? These thoughts, and a million others, piled in on top of one another, a relentless torrent of doubt and fear so great he was no longer able to even think straight.

When the cart finally came to a halt, Lann somehow managed to get his treacherous legs to work as he climbed down into a sea of waiting faces, all wearing one expression: disbelief.

Someone shouted a command, and the crowd in front of him gave way, pulling back on either side so he might walk through. There were murmurs, but no words. No encouragement was offered him. The people of Stromgard knew they were here to see this young man die.