Dawn of Swords by David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre

the swamp. The tip of the young man’s sword still dripped blood when Patrick approached him. The stranger introduced himself as Crian Crestwell, son of Clovis and Lanike of House Crestwell, one of Karak’s First Families. Crian had dropped to his knees, thanked Patrick for his help, and handed him his sword as a token of appreciation. “The smith calls it Winterbone, as it was forged in the snows of the northern mountains that bear the name of my family,” the young man had said. “It is a good blade. It will never dull.” And with that young Crian Crestwell departed, leaving akiss on the back of Nessa’s hand as his final parting gift. The girl had blushed for weeks afterward.
    Patrick cocked his head and stared at the weapon. From what he could tell, Winterbone was the only sword that existed in all of Ashhur’s Paradise. There was simply no practical need for swords. But
Patrick
needed Winterbone. His possession of the massive blade impressed many of the ladies who would have normally offered him looks of disgust. They were drawn in by the long and slender cutting edge, the golden pommel cast to look like a femur, and the strange, reflective crystal that jutted from the base of the handle. Possession of the blade made him attractive when he was by all rights ugly, made him interesting when he was anything but.
    He drew the sword from its scabbard and lifted it. Crian had been correct; the blade never dulled. It whistled through the air with even the gentlest of movements. At over four feet long, it was a heavy sword. Even with his oversized shoulders, Patrick had a difficult time keeping it steady. He braced his feet apart, unbalanced given the unevenness of his legs, and a familiar shooting pain charged up his mangled spine. He pushed himself through it, flinging his free arm out wide and gradually bringing his sword arm up, flexing his muscles to steady them both. He held Winterbone parallel to the ground, its tip aimed at the mirror that mocked him from across the room.
    There was a knock at his bedroom door, and Patrick’s first thought was that Brittany had forgotten something and returned.
    “Come in,” he shouted, keeping his pose even though his right arm began to tremble. Perhaps this show of strength, holding a two-handed broadsword out straight with one hand, might impress her.
    “Patrick, put your clothes on.”
    His concentration broken, his sword arm faltered, sending agony into his forearm, and the blade came crashing down. He leapt outof the way on his too small feet just as the cutting edge swung close to his toes. Winterbone rattled against the stone floor. Shaking his hand, he turned toward the door. His sister Cara stood there, hands on her hips. A single streak of gray weaved its way through her strawberry-colored hair, taunting him.
    “You’re going to hurt yourself,” she said.
    “I’m fine.”
    “You almost cut off your toe.”
    Patrick grabbed a pair of pants from atop his bureau and sat down on the bed to pull them on. “I was
fine
,” he mumbled.
    Cara gestured to his bed and the mussed sheets atop it. “Your guest seemed nice,” she said.
    “She was.”
    “She left in a hurry.”
    “They always do.”
    “Oh. That’s a shame.”
    Patrick slapped his knees and glared at his sister. “Do you have a reason for being here, Cara?”
    His sister frowned. “Mother wants to see you in the atrium.”
    “Now?”
    She nodded.
    “Fantastic.”
    Cara slipped out the doorway without another word, leaving Patrick alone with his guilt. He knew his sister cared for him—all of his sisters did. But Patrick had long tired of their constant attention. They treated him like he was a child, despite the fact that he was the second oldest of their parents’ children and a ripe old sixty-five. Despite their love, he knew only Nessa saw him as an equal. And if he was being honest with himself, he often believed himself inferior to the others as well.
    He picked up Winterbone with care and