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“Sharper. Stronger. Faster.”
I moved through a few sword forms before sheathing the blade. The red glow died instantly. My hands still tingled. I drew Chun Yi halfway, watched the glow creep along the steel again, then let it fall back into the scabbard.
“Should I be extra careful with an enchantment?”
Vigoren waved his hand. “That sword has survived centuries of hacking and slashing.”
I reached for my coin purse. “How much?”
“Ninety koronas.”
“That sounds like a bargain.” My blood smudged the gold. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Vigoren smiled. “Just don’t let your sword cut you again. It might get a taste for your blood.”
“Never thought I would have a magic sword.” I laughed in disbelief. “I borrowed some magic from a man’s dagger once.”
“What kind of magic?”
“It was like shadows. They crawled from his hand to mine and turned us all but invisible.”
“I have never heard of such an enchantment. Was he an archmage?”
“No, a necromancer.”
Vigoren’s smile froze on his face. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Never trust a man who can raise the dead with his bare hands.”
“I trust him with my life.”
On the way back, after Vigoren had mended my sword and unveiled its magic, I lingered outside my favorite brewpub. The door swung open as a man wandered out, and the aroma of wiener schnitzel wafted to me. Laughter and a drinking song spilled into the golden afternoon.
I licked my dry lips, lured by the promise of ale.
At the bar, I ordered a pint of lager. The barmaid delivered a stein brimming with beer, deliciously cold and bitter. I propped my sore feet on the barstool, glanced around the brewpub, and sighed with growing contentment. Maybe this was what Austrians calledGemütlichkeit, the feeling of warm peace in good company.
I should ask Wendel if?—
“Excuse me!” A big man sat on the stool next to me. He had thinning, greasy hair and a sloppy grin. “Didn’t you hear me?”
I stared at him. “No.”
The big man leaned down to my height, his breath damp in my ear. He fouled the air with his beer breath. Not to mentionthe remnants of his last meal clung to his beard. I pressed my lips together and tried not to gag.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “I’m Dirk.”
“Fuck off, Dirk.”
He leaned back with mock surprise. “What’s the matter? Just trying to be friendly.”
Damn it, he had a sword. He must be some cut-rate mercenary or thug for hire.
I didn’t want to start a brawl in my favorite brewpub and get banned for life. I drained my tankard, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and barged outside. The door swung shut behind me but opened a moment later.
I glanced backward. Dirk was following me with rage in his eyes.
Just the wrong kind of drunk. Too drunk to keep his hands to himself, and too sober not to stay put in the brewpub.
My hand closed over the hilt of my sword. Adrenaline jolted my blood. I darted into the alley behind the brewpub.
