‘That is quite a sword,’ said Javre. ‘It is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, the Battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end. Some say it is God’s sword, fallen from the heavens.’ ‘Huh.’ Javre held up the roughly sword-shaped bundle of rags she carried with her. ‘My sword was forged from a fallen star.’ ‘It looks like a sword-shaped bundle of rags.’ Javre narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to keep it
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