Don’t do it, thought Ulfilas. Do not take him. How can you trust an outsider – not a man of Isiltir? No matter how good, how could you rely on his loyalty? But Ulfilas remembered a conversation with Jael, how he seemed consumed with the fear of assassination. He could be tempted, if this man is as good as they say, and if he is anything like the one I met, then he is.

‘Are you sure he is better than Fram?’ Jael asked.

‘Perhaps a demonstration?’ Calidus said.

‘Yes. I would like that.’

Sumur rose and stepped into the cleared space before them, shrugging off his scabbarded sword, laying it carefully on a table, then picking up the wooden practice sword that Lafrid had used.

Fram stepped into the makeshift ring.

‘A friendly demonstration,’ Calidus warned. ‘No need for bloodshed or death. Or permanent injury.’ As he said it he stared hard at Sumur, who returned the gaze with his flat, black eyes. He shrugged.

Fram and Sumur bowed to Jael, then turned to face each other.

Sumur just walked forwards, as if Fram were an open doorway that he intended to pass through. Fram shuffled his feet, sword raised, looked mildly confused.

He is a counter-striker, prefers to defend, and strike off of his opponent’s blows.

Sumur’s feet moved, a ripple through his body, starting at his ankles, and then he was striking two-handed at Fram, a blurred combination to head, throat, chest, groin and thigh. Ulfilas did not see which blow connected – perhaps one, perhaps all, but a few heartbeats later Fram was lying groaning on the floor.

The problem with being a counter-striker is that you first have to block the strikes made against you.

Sumur stood over Fram, looked as if he hoped the warrior would get back up, then dropped the practice sword and calmly retrieved his scabbarded blade and slung it across his back.

‘Impressive,’ said Jael.

‘He is,’ Nathair said. ‘And he is yours. I will sleep better knowing you are watched over by one such as Sumur.’

‘My thanks,’ Jael murmured, ‘but . . .’

‘What? Ahh, I know. You doubt his loyalty. A shieldman must be prepared to give his life for you, and as he is not a man of Isiltir . . .’

‘Exactly,’ Jael said.

‘Sumur is loyal, to the extreme,’ Calidus said, leaning close in his chair. ‘Tell him to put a knife through his hand.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Jael said.

‘I think it is. But the order must come from you, else you would still question.’

Jael frowned as Sumur padded closer.

Even walking he is graceful as a dancer.

‘Tell him,’ Calidus hissed.

‘Sumur, put your knife through your hand,’ Jael said, wincing as if the words tasted sour.