Something must have changed inside Frindr Oknhammer in that moment too, because his sneering arrogance momentarily faltered, as if he, too, could hear the cry of the black blade and knew what it wanted.

‘That is a strange sword,’ he whispered.

When Lann spoke, he was hardly aware of the words that tumbled from his lips. They were not entirely his own. They were his and the blade’s both, united in the face of an enemy that would do them harm.

‘It is as old as the world itself. It has tasted the blood of countless battles, and has been wielded against mighty enemies. The gods themselves fear it and named it Dreadblade. Today it will be the end of your reign of terror. For you have committed crimes of blood that have gone unpunished, Frindr Oknhammer. You have killed the innocent and the weak. You have turned your weapon on those you served, those who trusted you. You have used it on women and children. And you have done so without remorse.’ He raised his voice. ‘You claim to be a warrior, but you are a murderer without remorse. And today, you will be made to pay for your wrongdoings.’ As Lann uttered these last words, a galvanising force, like a lightning bolt, shot through him. He felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He had never felt stronger.

‘Who told you these things?’ Frindr bellowed, looking around him as if he might find the answer in the crowd. ‘Who? I shall kill that man when I have done with you, boy!’

‘No man.’

‘A woman then. The witch!’

‘No woman.’

‘WHO?’ Oknhammer roared.

‘The sword you hold in your hand told me. The blade you call Widowmaker. It knows all your darkest secrets. You have ill-used that weapon, killer.’

The mercenary looked from the blade in his hand to the black one in his opponent’s. Deep frown lines beetled his brow.

‘I will cut out your tongue with this “ill-used” sword, boy.’

‘We’ll see.’ Lann stared back at the man. ‘Kurum-na murt,’ he said. The words escaped his lips unbidden, the Dreadblade and its wielder speaking in one unified voice.

‘What was that you said?’

‘Kurum-na murt.’

‘And what does that mean, boy?’

Lann looked at the giant from beneath his eyebrows, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. ‘Death is coming,’ he replied.

Oknhammer, quivering with rage and roaring with fury, took off across the square, his weapon raised over his head to smite the boy with one fell blow. Lann was vaguely aware of Fleya crying out a warning from behind him, but he paid it no mind.