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Dark Rocks

The Dyrrhachium Arming Sword



This classic Norman style arming sword was created for use in reconstruction mounted combat. Featuring a long, broad type XIV blade, it has the strong forward balance and "bladey" feel typical of a cavalry weapon. The wide brazil nut pommel is canted for a right-handed wielder, nestling into the palm and offering an extra level of control in the cut. Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.



 

∴ Specs ∴



  • Weight: 1330g

  • Total length: 96cm

  • Blade length: 32"

  • Blade width at base: 6.5cm

  • Grip length: 10cm

  • Grip and pommel length: 13cm

  • Quillon span: 16.5cm

  • Point of Balance: 11.5cm

  • 2mm edges

  • Fencing flex

  • Rounded tip







 

∴ Notes ∴

The hardwood grip is wrapped first in linen twine, and then in royal blue leather. The crossguard and canted brazil nut pommel are polished to a satin finish. The blade features a broad central fuller.


 

∴ Gallery ∴



 

∴ A Rallying Cry ∴



Chaos. Pain. The screaming of horses. A sound you would never wish upon anyone, with all its panic and pathos - and yet in this moment it is all you can focus on. Your own mount surges beneath you, rushing pell-mell for the beach while your head swims with it all: the chaos. The pain. The screaming of horses.


It was supposed to be in and out again. A flanking feint to draw out their Varangian fighters. A cunning tactic, worthy of the commander they called the Weasel. As his pretty speech concluded, the thunder of hooves filled the air, and blades wheeled and flashed in a show of power.

Then the screams began. Screams of horses, screams of men. A shower of arrows, and another. Cursing, you tugged at the reins, pleading with the great grey mare not to lose her head - but then an arrow hit, and it was your sense that suddenly gave way. You sagged in the saddle, vision blurring, your will given over to the bolting beast beneath you.


Struggling to keep your eyes open, you search the tumultuous crowd for a banner. For a familiar face. And then a voice rises above the commotion. A woman's voice, calm and commanding, directing the scattered horsemen, reforming the line. With your waning strength, you wheel the mare around to follow the sound - and as the crowd parts you glimpse her. Clad in a maille hauberk, a gold-ringed helmet upon her head, the Weasel's Lombard princess rallies his men in his stead.


With a cry, she raises her broad-bladed sword toward the early evening sun - and sees her gesture mirrored by the ragged yet emboldened cavalry before her. There was a time you swore blind that you'd never do a woman's bidding - but here, with pain screaming in your shoulder and fear clouding your consciousness, you've never been more grateful for a direct order.

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