pressed, without their usual advantage over the hill-bred fighters. His sword
stole the lifeblood of two men, but then he was cut himself and fought
defensively, unaware of the fate of his men or the tide of battle. He was forced
to retreat another step; the open back of a wagon pressed against his hips. The
one who bore down on him was as yet un-wounded. It was time for a soldier’s last
prayers.
Snarling, the attacker took his sword in both hands for a decapitating cut.
Walegrin braced to take the force of the stroke on his sword which he held in a
bent, injured arm. His weapon fell from his suddenly numb hand, but his neck was
intact. The brigand was undaunted, his smile never wavered; Walegrin was unarmed
now.
Steadying himself to face death with courage, Walegrin’s leaden fingers found an
object left forgotten in the wagon: the old Enlibar sword they had found in the
dust of the mine. The silver-green steel showed no rust, but no-one had
exchanged his serviceable Rankan blade for one forged five hundred years before
his birth-until now. Walegrin brought the ancient sword around with a bellow.
Blue-green sparks surged when the swords met. The Enlibar metal clanged above
the other sounds of battle. The brigand’s swordblade shattered and, with a
reflex born of experience not thought, Walegrin took his assailant’s head in a
single, soft stroke.
The fabled steel of Enlibar!
His mind glazed with the knowledge. He did not hear the hillmen take flight, nor
see his men gather around him.
The Steel of Enlibar!