They parted, Corban breathing heavily, muscles and tendons strained and screaming for respite, bruises throbbing beneath his mail shirt where blows had sneaked through his guard, blood trickling down one leg from a shallow cut above his knee. Sumur was unmarked but looked . . . irritated.

I’m still alive, Corban thought. It came as quite a shock to him.

He knows the sword dance as if he were it, can strike with every conceivable combination, can counter the same. If that is all I can meet him with I am going to die – sooner or later I will tire, will slow down, and his strength and stamina are not changing. If anything his strength is growing with his anger. A memory flashed through his mind, of Gar standing over Akar in the weapons court.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corban breathed with a forced grin. ‘Can’t you kill me?’

Sumur snarled at that, powered in at him, blows coming from every angle. Corban blocked them all, just, then forced his body to change course, stepped in instead of obeying instinct and swirling away. He headbutted Sumur full on the bridge of the nose, punched his sword hilt into Sumur’s face as he staggered back a step, slammed his wolven-claws into the man’s belly, punching through chainmail links deep into soft flesh, ripping the claws free as he swept away.

Thank you, Coralen.

Sumur paused, looked at him with his head cocked to one side, dark drops of blood smearing his lips, dripping from his mouth. He did not seem to notice the wound in his belly, even though blood was dripping, pooling about his feet.

I have to take his head. I can hardly touch him, and when I do, I deal a blow that would kill any other man and he does not even notice it.

The uselessness and frustration of it threatened to overwhelm him.

No. Gar’s words from a million training sessions came back to him, ordering him on. I endure. I try again.

‘Surprised?’ Corban said. ‘Perhaps I’ll get to add your head to those of your kin that are decorating Drassil’s gate.’ He gestured behind him towards Drassil and then followed in before Sumur could respond. Their blades rang, a concussive, harsh rhythm, echoing off Drassil’s walls.

Abruptly pain ignited along Corban’s thigh, a line of burning fire, a downwards glimpse showing him a red line, bleeding heavily, soaking into his breeches. Sumur spun out of reach, Corban blocking a backswing with his wolven claws, taking too much of the power from Sumur’s blow, a pain stabbing through his wrist.

This is how the end comes. The slow creep of a myriad small wounds, blood draining away, muscles bruised, worn, weary, tendons stretched too far, too many times, exhaustion squeezing in upon your mind and body, all combining to slow you by a heartbeat for that one fatal blow.

No, he screamed at himself.