Ludwig drew Oathcarver. The weapon's condition made Joana frown immediately. "What in god's name did you do to this poor weapon?"
"Ah, this," Ludwig said, letting out a rueful smile. He turned the blade in his hand so its battered profile caught the pale light. "For a sword to sustain five years of constant fighting against the Wrathful Death, it did pretty damn well… which brings me to ask, I hope you still have friendly relation with the blacksmith that adjusted Durandal…"
"I still do," Joana answered aloud, though her thoughts curled inward. 'Since he knew of Durandal, and even remembered that she was the one who arranged its reforging, this had to be Ludwig.' Yet doubt lingered. It could still be some creature that had taken his memories, wearing them like stolen clothes.
"However," she added, her eyes narrowing on the mangled hilt and blunt edge, "you can't fight me with that. It's a handle with a chunk of metal on it. Not even worth being called a sword."
