‘This 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.’ For a moment he had Craw wondering if he’d list the whole bloody hundred but thankfully he stopped there, frowning at the hilt, wound with dull grey wire. ‘This is my reward and my punishment both. This is the only blade I need.’
