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This sword is built around an Albion type 15A2 blade. The blade is hardened and tempered high carbon steel. The cross is bronze and is peened to the tang. The pommel is bronze and is keyed and peened to the tang. The grip is red oak which is epoxied and pinned with a bronze pin to the tang. The grip is wrapped with linen cord and cotton cord risers and then covered in leather.



Overall length:

47 1/4 inches

Blade length:

35 1/4 inches

Blade width at widest point:

1 7/8 inches

Blade thickness at base:

3/8 inch

Cross width:

9 7/8 inches

Grip length:

7 7/8 inches

POB measured from end of grip:

4 1/2 inches from the grip


3 1/4 pounds


This prototype sword is not available owing to the damage to the blade. A new version could be made, the cost would be $2600.

The Violator

Jack checked the map again in the flickering torchlight; left here, then the second right. He had studied it thoroughly enough that he knew it by heart but it paid to be extra careful when in such a labyrinthine place. He had been winding through the catacombs for several hours and was finally approaching his objective. The last turn took him into a corridor so narrow that he had to step sideways to continue, his torch held high and behind him to light his way. The narrow passage opened into the corner of what looked like a short hallway, perhaps twice as long as a man and half as wide. A stone table, nearly as wide as the hall, stood in the middle of the floor. There was no other feature in the small room. Stooping for the low ceiling, Jack stepped into the room and inspected the table; one vertical section on either end as uprights with the top slightly overhanging them. The entire table was carved out of a single piece of stone and was reinforced with iron. There was just enough room between the side of it and the wall to slide his torch through and peer underneath. There was some kind of metal fittings set into the floor beneath the table near the end furthest from him. Hinges? Down on his knees, he slid his arm between the table and the wall and felt along the floor. Yes, the edges of a stone slab in the floor.

“Interesting”, Jack thought. The room was not long enough to push the table in either direction all the way off the slab in the floor. The room wasn’t wide enough to allow the table to be turned on its side, nor tall enough to allow it to be stood on its end. Chipping it apart might be an option, but would take a considerable amount of time, required tools he hadn’t brought with him, and might create enough noise to echo up to the higher levels and alert unwanted company. Crouching, he put his shoulder against the near end of the table and with his feet against the wall, pushed. It slid. He strained and it slid some more. It was nearly touching the back wall but several inches of the slab in the floor were now exposed. From his pack he retrieved a stout pry bar, nearly as long as his arm, along with a smaller jimmy bar half that size. He pushed up on the end of the table and slid the jimmy bar under the upright with his foot. Crouching again, he leaned the larger pry bar against the wall next to the table and slid his fingers under the leg next to the jimmy. With one hand underneath the upright and one hand under the top edge, he pushed up on the table again, this time much farther. He slid his knee under the upright and with his now free hand quickly grabbed the pry bar and wedged it long ways under the table leg. Jack stepped back and gave the whole thing a slight push. Nothing calamitous happened. Not the most secure arrangement, but stable enough.

Jack worked the jimmy bar along the edge of the slab in the floor. Once he had it open, he propped it up with the smaller bar as he had done with the larger bar and table. He withdrew the remaining contents of his pack, a length of rope and a second torch. He lit the torch and held it under the slab. It illuminated very little of the much larger room beneath him. He let the torch fall to the floor below. The light didn’t reach to the walls but he could see various objects glittering and shinning in the light. It appeared the story was true, the tomb of an ancient king. A cursed tomb he had been told, but then, they’re all supposedly cursed.
It was too far down to jump, and with no visible way to get back up, it was good that he had brought the rope. Jack took a few deep breaths, now came the tricky part. He held the slab open and removed the jimmy bar and set it aside. With his back and shoulder against the table and one hand holding the slab, he pushed them both up while grabbing the large pry bar. He strained and his legs shook with the effort as he struggled to lift the heavy stones and reposition the pry bar underneath the slab. Pushing aside thoughts of how unpleasantly he could be crushed at any moment, he managed the maneuver. The heavy bar now held the slab up, which in turn, held up the table. He tied the rope around the jimmy and set it across the corner of the opening in the floor. Very cautiously, he slid under the slab and began to slowly lower himself.

When he reached the floor, he picked up his torch and surveyed the room. It was large with several stone pillars holding up the roof. Moving around the center of the room, he ran his hand along the edge of the sepulcher which had the likeness of the dead king carved in the stone of its lid. He walked around the room and saw metal worked items of copper and silver, lavishly decorated pottery, carved wooden chests, sculpted animals in marble and ivory… His eyes were wide, “I’ll have to make several trips” he thought. He continued around the room. An ornate wooden chair held the remains of some long dead man, preserved by the dry air, perhaps a trusted servant of the tombs principal occupant. He stopped at the stone table he came to next. On a stand atop the table was a remarkably well preserved sword. Though the long, slender blade showed clear signs of severe use, it appeared to have been well cared for. The cross and pommel were intricately carved with some tiny images and the grip was intact. He ran his finger lightly across the edge, still sharp. This prize would definitely be part of the first trip. Continuing, he inspected boxes set with precious stones, vessels made of bronze or plated in gold, and small figurines made in onyx and jade. He stopped again when he came to a large jug that smelled of oil. He tapped on the side and gave it a shake; it seemed to be about half full. Next to it was a small lamp which still contained oil. He held it to his nose and sniffed the wick—a noise behind him—

Jack spun, his dagger in his hand. It felt like a feather had brushed through his midsection, and then a searing pain. Directly in front of him stood the man from the chair, not dead after all, but impossibly old. Jack looked down to see that the old man had run him through with the sword. For a moment he could only stare at the man’s eyes, two damp sunken orbs in a desiccated face. Jack felt faint and his dagger clattered to the floor. The old man put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, leaning close as he did so. “You who would violate this place” he rasped, slowly sliding the blade deeper as he spoke, “have now been violated.” The old man pushed Jack aside and walked past him. Jack’s vision began to swim and the world swayed and reeled. He leaned against a pillar and sank to his knees. From above him, he heard the old man’s hoarse voice, “Don’t worry, you’re not dying yet. Not for a long, long while.” The old man was climbing Jack’s rope.

Jack grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled it forward, the pain was more intense than he had thought possible. He pulled again, and another, and then it was out. The room spun madly and Jack collapsed onto his side. He heard the old man speak again, “Oh, you’ll wish you could die soon enough, but you can’t. Not until you leave this room.”

Jack’s vision settled and he could see the opening above him. The old man tossed the rope down into the room along with the two pry bars. The slab door to the vault and the table were resting on his shoulder as he crouched in the opening, though he didn’t appear to be straining at the effort. “I say to you as was said to me, ’Remember the words’,” his voice like dried paper. “Make sure you say them right when the time comes, maybe in a few dozen years, or perhaps a couple hundred. And keep the sword clean.”
The old man seemed to smile slightly as his eyes closed and his head nodded back as if he were drifting to sleep. Then the table and slab shifted as his body began to break upon itself. They slammed down as he crumbled to dust. Jack blinked several times and looked down at his hands, then his wound. Though the pain persisted, he was not bleeding. In the dim light, there was no noise but the quite crackle of his torch.