The cup was re-filled and passed to the second lieutenant, who drank deeply and quickly. He dropped the chalice and his shoulders hitched, but he managed not to vomit.

Next Albrecht lifted a plank of wood from the altar and, painted upon it, Emuel saw one word: Llothriall. Albrecht burned this relic of the broken ship, inhaling the smoke and uttering something in a foreign tongue between wracking coughs.

As far as sorcery went, Emuel had witnessed more impressive rituals, and as the old man bent double in the grip of another coughing fit, he wondered whether Albrecht would die before the ceremony could be completed. Then, as he straightened up, put his right arm on the altar and a knife to his wrist, Emuel realised, with a shudder, that the sorcerer was going to die regardless, that the ritual wouldbe completed.

Albrecht pressed down with the knife, but he had to saw the blade back and forth before his flesh gave way. Even when it parted there was no immediate trickle of blood. The only sound in the temple was the sorcerer’s ragged breathing, as he sought to sever an artery.

Finally, the blade did its job and a crimson thread worked its way down Albrecht’s wrist. He worked the knife and the thread became a trickle, the trickle a flood, and a great scarlet sheet poured down the face of the altar. Despite the life flowing from him, Albrecht still stood, holding the gazes of the men and women before him.

As the blood flowed from the foot of the altar and washed across the flagstones towards them, Emuel wondered just how much of the stuff this dried husk of a human sorcerer could contain. It lapped up against their boots, the coppery stench of it making his eyes water as it surrounded them in a widening pool, quickly spreading to all corners of the temple.