“There’s a rumor from up north that your Company’s gone Girdish because a paladin visited you,” the Marshal said. “I’m Marshal Harak, and we’d be pleased to see you at the grange.”

“Not entirely Girdish,” Arcolin said. “It’s a long story. One of our soldiers—from this cohort, in fact—did become a paladin, but not everyone’s Girdish. I put no pressure on anyone to change faiths, if their character’s good. But there’s a grange building back home, in the stronghold, and a Marshal living in Duke’s West.”

“That’s good,” Marshal Harak said. “Some things happened that last year of Siniava’s War—”

“That none of us are proud of, yes,” Arcolin said. “I’ll not argue that. Did Burek tell you our problem here?”

“Something about bad blades—Siniava’s, do you think?”

“I can’t tell, but definitely evil. I felt the malice myself. We want to destroy them, beat them into lumps, but our armorer thought we should have a Marshal or Captain present.”

“If the malice is strong enough for you to feel, then yes, you need help. Let us go.”

In the armory, the armorer had set the bad blades far from the others, near his forge. He had a fire going and his tools set out.

“These are the blades, Marshal,” Arcolin said.

“Bad blades indeed,” Marshal Harak said. “You did well to send for me. Let us see …” He took out his Gird’s symbol, freed the chain from his neck, and dangled the symbol above the blades. Arcolin was not sure, but fancied he saw a sickly yellow-green glow gather between the blades and the medallion. “Oh, that’s nasty,” Harak murmured. “Gird won’t like that.” Still holding the medallion, he held out his other hand. “Armorer, lay one of those blades on the anvil, and give me a hammer, if you please.”

“Marshal?”

Marshal Harak grinned. “My father was a smith; I’m no master of the craft, but I know the use of a hammer.”

“But the steel’s cold.” Gingerly, the armorer reached out with tongs, snatched a blade from under the steady swing of the medallion, and laid it on the anvil. Then he gave the Marshal a hammer.

“And Gird is not. We will need the fire, I know that, but this is more in the nature of the clout you give a mule or horse that’s not paying attention, before you teach it.” Marshal Harak lifted the hammer in his right hand. “By the strength of Gird Strong-arm, by the fire of the High Lord’s altar, be still!” He brought the hammer down on the blade. It squealed like an ungreased wagon wheel; the blade jerked sideways, narrowly missing the Marshal’s leg.

Arcolin shuddered; Marshal Harak laughed, repeated his abjuration, and slammed the hammer onto the blade again. This time it merely shivered and the sound was less, more that of someone shaking a saw blade. Again the Marshal prayed and hammered, and this time the blade lay still. The Marshal handed the hammer back to the armorer, took the blade, and shoved it into the fire. Then he picked up the next and repeated the process.