and I, we’re after keeping this place in neat-pin order and all you need do is lord over it like a noblewoman born.” His deep voice teased her gently, and his eyes glinted as if they shared some hidden joke.
Leeana made a face and handed him the sword. He gripped the basket hilt and drew six inches of shining steel, examining it critically before he slammed it back. He looped an index finger through the baldric ring to hold the scabbard in place and then flicked his wrist idly, and the sheathed weapon hissed as it cut the air.
“A nice balance,” he observed idly, balancing it easily in the crook of one finger. “An ancient blade, Kontovaran work and made for the Gryphon Guard, or I’m a Purple Lord.”
Kenhodan blinked as light reflected from the silver bands. The runes etched into them were far too worn and faint for any eye to read, yet they teased him with an elusive familiarity. The openwork of the basket was a finely fretted steel cage, affixed to the cross guard and knuckle-bow rather than directly to the hilt, as was the more common Norfressan practice, and the pommel knob was a plain steel ball. It also seemed younger than the rest of the weapon, which made sense if Bahzell was correct about its origins. If the hradani’s guess was accurate, that pommel knob had once been a stylized gryphon’s head, beak gaping in challenge.
“See how your hand likes its weight, Kenhodan.”
Bahzell tossed the sheathed blade across the table with absolutely no other warning, and Kenhodan’s right hand shot up like a striking snake. His fingers slipped into the basket to grip the ridged wire of the hilt in sheer, automatic reflex as he plucked the weapon from the air. Only then did he realize he’d gone for the difficult hilt catch rather than reaching for the scabbard, and Bahzell nodded, ears pricked forward in approval.
“A swordsman’s speed right enough, by the Mace.”
“And a risky way to prove it,” Kenhodan said tartly. “I’d be missing teeth if I’d missed that catch!”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Bahzell acknowledged. “But I’m thinking Wencit might’ve been wrong, you see, though that’s rare enough to be worth the noting. Any swordsman’s after needing speed of hand and quickness of eye, and it’s in my mind you’d best be finding out if you’ve both of them early rather than late.”
“And I’m sure one of Tomanāk’s champions wouldn’t have minded healing you if you hadn’t caught it,” Wencit said a bit repressively.
“Oh, aye, no doubt at all,” Bahzell agreed, flipping his ears impudently at the wizard. Then he turned back to Kenhodan, and his expression was more serious.
“Best be drawing it to see what you think, lad,” he said. “Brandark and I had it off a Shith Kiri corsair the best part of forty years back, and it’s served him well it did, until he found one as pleased him even more.”
Once again, Kenhodan had the sense of tales yet untold eddying under the surface, but he only cocked an eyebrow and rose, and thirty-eight inches of steel licked from the sheath with a soft, competent whine. It glittered in the lamplight and shadows like blue winter ice, and a strange, distant light kindled in his eyes. His face lost all expression as his nerves and muscles felt out the weight of the blade, and a sudden thrill ran through him as the steel melted into an extension of his hand and arm.
The double-edged blade was worn with use and honing, but the burnished, lovingly cared for metal was bright. The lancet tip shot back the fire glow like the crimson heart of a star, and his grip was light, as natural as instinct, as he moved slowly to the center of the kitchen. He fell into a guard position that raised Bahzell’s eyebrows, but before the hradani could speak, Kenhodan lashed out in a lightning lunge and recovery so swift he seemed hardly to have moved.
Bahzell and Leeana eyed one another speculatively.
“Good,” the hradani said quietly. “ Very
Leeana made a face and handed him the sword. He gripped the basket hilt and drew six inches of shining steel, examining it critically before he slammed it back. He looped an index finger through the baldric ring to hold the scabbard in place and then flicked his wrist idly, and the sheathed weapon hissed as it cut the air.
“A nice balance,” he observed idly, balancing it easily in the crook of one finger. “An ancient blade, Kontovaran work and made for the Gryphon Guard, or I’m a Purple Lord.”
Kenhodan blinked as light reflected from the silver bands. The runes etched into them were far too worn and faint for any eye to read, yet they teased him with an elusive familiarity. The openwork of the basket was a finely fretted steel cage, affixed to the cross guard and knuckle-bow rather than directly to the hilt, as was the more common Norfressan practice, and the pommel knob was a plain steel ball. It also seemed younger than the rest of the weapon, which made sense if Bahzell was correct about its origins. If the hradani’s guess was accurate, that pommel knob had once been a stylized gryphon’s head, beak gaping in challenge.
“See how your hand likes its weight, Kenhodan.”
Bahzell tossed the sheathed blade across the table with absolutely no other warning, and Kenhodan’s right hand shot up like a striking snake. His fingers slipped into the basket to grip the ridged wire of the hilt in sheer, automatic reflex as he plucked the weapon from the air. Only then did he realize he’d gone for the difficult hilt catch rather than reaching for the scabbard, and Bahzell nodded, ears pricked forward in approval.
“A swordsman’s speed right enough, by the Mace.”
“And a risky way to prove it,” Kenhodan said tartly. “I’d be missing teeth if I’d missed that catch!”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Bahzell acknowledged. “But I’m thinking Wencit might’ve been wrong, you see, though that’s rare enough to be worth the noting. Any swordsman’s after needing speed of hand and quickness of eye, and it’s in my mind you’d best be finding out if you’ve both of them early rather than late.”
“And I’m sure one of Tomanāk’s champions wouldn’t have minded healing you if you hadn’t caught it,” Wencit said a bit repressively.
“Oh, aye, no doubt at all,” Bahzell agreed, flipping his ears impudently at the wizard. Then he turned back to Kenhodan, and his expression was more serious.
“Best be drawing it to see what you think, lad,” he said. “Brandark and I had it off a Shith Kiri corsair the best part of forty years back, and it’s served him well it did, until he found one as pleased him even more.”
Once again, Kenhodan had the sense of tales yet untold eddying under the surface, but he only cocked an eyebrow and rose, and thirty-eight inches of steel licked from the sheath with a soft, competent whine. It glittered in the lamplight and shadows like blue winter ice, and a strange, distant light kindled in his eyes. His face lost all expression as his nerves and muscles felt out the weight of the blade, and a sudden thrill ran through him as the steel melted into an extension of his hand and arm.
The double-edged blade was worn with use and honing, but the burnished, lovingly cared for metal was bright. The lancet tip shot back the fire glow like the crimson heart of a star, and his grip was light, as natural as instinct, as he moved slowly to the center of the kitchen. He fell into a guard position that raised Bahzell’s eyebrows, but before the hradani could speak, Kenhodan lashed out in a lightning lunge and recovery so swift he seemed hardly to have moved.
Bahzell and Leeana eyed one another speculatively.
“Good,” the hradani said quietly. “ Very
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