Twenty strides by twenty strides was the size of the square, each corner marked with a spear, buried point up in the ground. A rope had been strung up between the spears to define the space, and as he approached this, it was lifted by one of the guards to allow him inside.

To one side of the square was a priest in a long, hooded robe the deep red colour of blood. The garb marked the man as a minister of the new religion, a belief that worshipped not many, but one single god called Geshtrik. Without lifting his head to reveal his face, the priest raised an arm and pointed to the left side of the square, signalling that this was where the boy should stand.

The noise from the crowd swelled now as Lann’s opponent arrived. A new wave of dread flooded him and he fought the need to be sick.

Frindr Oknhammer smiled as he walked through the throng, closely followed by Jarl Glaeverssun and other members of the council. Lann was faced by a wall of scowling people at the mercenary’s back. Searching for just one friendly face, he glanced behind him to see his aunt, accompanied by Astrid and Erik Rivengeld. Fleya did her best to smile encouragingly at him.

Oknhammer looked across at Lann as if the boy were something nasty he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. He wore studded leather armour behind a huge shield with a black bear’s head painted on the front. If anything, he looked even larger close up than he had the previous day.

The giant frowned across at his opponent. ‘Where’s your armour?’ he growled at Lann. ‘And your shield?’

Lann had refused both when they were offered to him, reasoning that speed and flexibility would be his only assets against this opponent. In truth, he knew that neither of these qualities, nor any other, would make any difference to the result of this fight. As his aunt had suggested, Oknhammer would simply cut him down like a dog.

‘I require neither,’ Lann said, his voice sounding smaller and higher pitched than he would have wanted.