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Whatever the weakness of this steel was, it hadn’t yet revealed itself.
    “Thanks,” he said. “It was a gift.” Boric thrust at Corbet’s midsection and Corbet knocked the blade to the side, answering with a sweep at Boric’s neck. Boric parried and followed with a swift chop at Corbet’s left side, which Corbet dodged.
    Boric had to admit Brakslaagt felt good in his hand. It was light for its size, but well-balanced and substantial. Sharp, too — the edge of the blade gleamed as if it has just been honed. One good slice with that blade and the slicee would be dead. And Corbet’s sword appeared to be its equal. It was time to end this before someone got hurt.
    Corbet jabbed at Boric’s groin and Boric parried and sliced at Corbet’s neck. Corbet ducked and sliced at Boric’s legs. Boric parried.
    The two men sparred for another minute, Boric’s swings gradually becoming more desultory, giving Corbet the impression that he was tiring. Corbet took advantage of his sluggishness, becoming bolder in his attacks. Finally the moment came that Boric was waiting for: Corbet lunged, overextending himself and exposing his flank. Boric dodged and brought his Brakslaagt down on Corbet’s skull, the flat of the blade striking him with a sickening thump . Corbet’s eyes rolled upward and he fell limp to the ground.
    Boric walked to the boy guarding his pack. The boy was staring open-mouthed at Corbet.
    “Is he dead?”
    “Nah,” said Boric. “Just sleeping.” He handed the boy a silver coin. “Thanks for your help. See that the innkeeper takes care of the prince.”
    The boy nodded eagerly. He had probably never held a coin made from real silver before that night — let alone two of them.
    “Now,” said Boric, “who wants to kill an ogre?”

FIVE
    Boric had been trudging along the dark forest path for hours when he came upon a clearing, in the middle of which was a small cottage, the home of the Witch of Twyllic. He regarded the cottage with some trepidation. There weren’t many people Boric the Implacable was afraid of. None, in fact, other than the Witch of Twyllic. But he had no choice: the witch was the only one who might be able to tell him how to break his curse.
    Before he could talk to the witch, however, he had to cross the clearing, which meant traversing a good twenty paces of open ground in broad daylight. His eyes hurt just looking at the sunlight reflecting off the cottage’s thatched roof. He could wait until dark, but he didn’t want to spend any longer as a wraith than he absolutely had to. He was already growing accustomed to being a spirit occupying a corpse; soon he feared that he would forget altogether what it was like to be human.
    Boric retreated a ways into the forest and took a seat on a moss-covered log. He removed his armor and clothing and inspected his body. The wounds were still there, but they had stopped bleeding and caused him no pain. Even sticking his fingers into the gaping wound in his chest evoked only a sort of dull ache, as if someone was gently pressing the end of a walking stick into his ribs. He shuddered at the sensation.
    His flesh was pale and had begun to sag appallingly. Soon he would begin to rot. Something needed to be done before that happened. He stood up and started to get dressed.
    Behind him, a twig snapped. Boric sprang for his sword and spun around. Before him stood a small figure wearing a dingy gray robe and a wide-brimmed hat. The Witch of Twyllic. Forty years earlier she might have been reasonably attractive, but half a lifetime in the forest had taken its toll. Her dishwater-gray hair was thin and ratty and her face looked like a piece of paper that had been wadded up and retrieved from the trash.
    “What are you doing out here?” she snapped, in a surprisingly shrill tone.
    “I, uh…” Boric started. He realized that his voice had turned into a dry rasp.
    “I got enough problems without half-naked wraiths lurking about,” said the witch.