His hands were shaking as he drew the trunk out from under his bed and opened the lid. He pulled back the clothing that had belonged to his mother and slipped out the sword, removing the sheath. It glimmered in the ray of sun that filtered through the stained glass window. Standing, he held the sword before him.
It had been a long time since he’d used it in battle, and his attempts to practice in the crypt had been few and far apart. Now, he had to use it for real. The adrenalin produced in part by fear, in part by rage, and in part by the hot blood of battle, surged in his veins. It left his heart pounding and his hands gripping the sword so tightly that they nearly cramped up.
He closed his eyes and remembered her, his mother, her dying gasps, and the man that had taken her life. Before that night was through, the son had avenged his mother and held in his hand his enemy’s sword. This sword. He hefted it. It was time.
He slipped it into the sheath and under his cloak, and stole through the night to the secret caverns in the Debatable Lands.