The giant moved quickly for a man of his size, but Lann stepped to one side, the Dreadblade coming up to meet the huge broadsword as it crashed down. The clash of metal sang to the gasp of the crowd. The Dreadblade was already sliding across the sharpened edge of Widowmaker, silver steel screeching in protest.

Lann and the black sword were one. Blade moved arm, and arm moved blade, neither controlling the other. The reverse-sweep cut through Oknhammer’s left calf.

The mercenary’s roar was filled with both anger and pain. He swung his great sword again, the blade horizontal, at a height designed to take Lann’s head from his shoulders. But this blow too was deflected by the black metal of Widowmaker’s nemesis. Thrown off balance, and unable to twist round in time because of that first wound, the giant gasped as the boy whipped the sword round to cut a blow in his hip, the blade sinking deep and bringing a hiss of anguish to the man’s lips.

Oknhammer knew that the greatest warriors were able to accept the pain of a terrible blow, yet counterattack as if it had not occurred. A sword-strike into bone, like the one just inflicted upon him, would almost certainly result in the opponent’s blade becoming lodged. So with no room to make a cutting attack, he quickly pointed his sword to the skies, pulled his elbows in, and struck down with the heavy pommel at the base of Widowmaker’s grip, aiming to turn his enemy’s head to pulp.

But the boy wasn’t there. Oknhammer gasped, reeling round to see his foe take a step backwards, sword moving snake-like in the air, his lips moving silently as he repeated those strange words over and over again. The mercenary took a moment to glance down at his wounds and the bloody rivers that accompanied them.

Anger was an emotion that had always sustained Oknhammer – that and its brother, hate. He knew that others believed anger was the enemy in a battle, but he’d found it fuelled him. Giving in to his rage, drinking it in, he rushed forward again. Using a technique that had never before failed him, he feinted low, as if to strike at the boy’s leading leg and so draw a defensive parry, but then whipped his hand round and up, extending the broadsword fully to skewer his opponent.

The black metal blade in his opponent’s hand moved too quickly, however. It was like a shadow that easily countered his attack, deflecting the strike down and to the side, and causing Oknhammer to overbalance. He righted himself, and lunged.