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the middle of battles during which the belligerents would pause to step on their swords to straighten them out before resuming combat. The process of adding carbon to iron to make steel was for many centuries a secret of the dwarves, but when Bravnok the Great incorporated the dwarven kingdom into his empire, his smiths became privy to this knowledge. The Old Realm’s smiths even improved on the dwarves’ recipe, experimenting with the proportions of carbon and adding other ingredients to improve the blade’s resistance to rust and its ability to hold an edge.
    As with everything, though, there were trade-offs with the different sorts of steel. A sword that never dulled, for example, was bound to be brittle. Poor Corbet had probably sparred a few times with some sycophantic servant and concluded based on his sword’s ability to hold an edge that it was a work of superior craftsmanship. Boric knew better.
    Rather than wait for an opening, Boric decided to take advantage of Corbet’s overconfidence. He let Corbet’s blade bounce off his on an undercut, setting him up to take advantage of the momentum and come down hard on Boric. Boric anticipated the swing and struck back against Corbet’s blade with all of his strength. Now we’ll see the mettle of Corbet’s steel, he thought.
    Boric’s blade shattered, sending fragments of steel in all directions.
    The recoil of the collision had brought Corbet’s sword to a halt in mid-air, a few inches from Boric’s shoulder. For a moment the two men stood stunned, the shock of the impact shooting down their arms. Then Corbet smiled. Boric’s sword had been reduced to a pommel and eight inches of steel. He was finished.
    But Boric had one advantage: an eight-inch blade is lighter and faster than a three-foot blade. Boric hurled the remnant of his sword at Corbet’s face, hilt first. The pommel struck Corbet in the forehead, knocking his head back. Boric bent his knees and kicked, throwing his body backward as Corbet swung wildly, his blade scribing a red line across Boric’s cheek. Boric turned sideways, maintaining his momentum by rolling on his side away from Corbet. Being on the ground was a tactical disadvantage, but it was the only way to get out of the range of Corbet’s sword.
    He got to his knees and scrambled away from the sound of Corbet’s advancing footsteps. This was not going as well as he had hoped.
    “You fight well for a messenger, boy,” said Corbet snidely. “It will be a shame to cut your throat.”
    Boric turned to face Corbet, who had stopped advancing to gloat. Boric got to his feet. He could at least die with some dignity. Corbet would probably spare his life if he revealed his identity, but Boric was too proud to do that. Better to die as a messenger than to save his skin by confessing to his charade. Corbet brought his sword back, poised to strike.
    “Sir,” said a small voice to Boric’s left. Boric turned to see the boy he had entrusted with his possessions running toward him. The boy was holding, on his outstretched palms, a sword in a scabbard. Brakslaagt .
    “Wait!” shouted Boric. Corbet had already begun his stroke. The boy was running right into the path of its arc.
    The boy stopped in front of Boric, offering him the sword. Boric grabbed the hilt of Brakslaagt with his right hand and the top of the scabbard with his left, thrusting his upper torso forward and his arms apart. His left arm sent the boy flying into crowd and his right arm brought the sword up to meet Corbet’s. The sound of the blades clashing was like hailstones on a tin roof. Boric straightened and took a step back.
    The two men regarded each other for a moment.
    “Nice sword,” said Corbet. He was trying to sound jovial but there was an undercurrent of worry in his voice.
    Boric sliced the blade through the air several times. It was surprisingly light, considering its strength and durability — assuming it was made of the same material as Corbet’s sword.