‘You want to fight in the old style?’ Oknhammer nodded his approval. ‘I like that. It’ll be quicker.’ He threw off his shield and unbuckled the leather armour covering his torso, forearms and lower legs, revealing a host of ugly scars on his flesh. The sight of so many battle wounds made Lann wonder how the man was still alive. The warrior, seeing the boy’s expression, smiled; a cruel smile that never quite reached his eyes. ‘You think you can add to them, boy? Maybe.’ He tapped the sword at his side. ‘Maybe when you’re skewered on Widowmaker here, your eyes bulging like a frog as your lifeblood pours out, you might take some small solace in the fact that you marked me.’ He looked Lann up and down, and then spat on the ground in a gesture of utter contempt. ‘But we both know that will not happen, don’t we? No, you will die quickly, pissing in your pants like the frightened little boy you are.’

Lann swallowed. He knew that Oknhammer’s words were meant to sting and dispirit, that warriors used tactics like this to scare and distract their opponent. But the mercenary needn’t have bothered. Because Lann couldn’t be any more afraid if he tried. There was no warrior’s bravado to dent, no gallantry to undermine. There would be no songs sung of this day; of when the boy took on the mercenary and showed the people of Stromgard what it truly meant to be brave. He was just a frightened little boy, a terrified idiot who’d made a dreadful mistake and put himself in this position – one for which he would pay the ultimate price.

Shhhhk! He looked up sharply at the noise of the blade called Widowmaker being drawn from its sheath. It was a huge sword, and would have taken a normal man two hands to wield, but Oknhammer brandished it as easily as if it were the wooden toy Lann had played with as a lad on the farm, pretending to be a Volken warrior. Lann’s hand shook as he reached over and placed it on the hilt of his own blade.

And, just like that, the Dreadblade awoke. The noise that filled Lann’s head was a harsh, piercing cry; a war cry that demanded he draw the weapon free of its own confines. He willingly did so. The black sword was like a living thing in his hand, filling him with a new emotion, something he thought had deserted him forever. Hope.

He held the blade out before him, the doubts and fears he’d felt only moments before now disappearing. And in his head, he could hear the sword’s voice as it repeated a phrase over and over: Kurum-na murt. Kurum-na murt. Kurum-na murt …