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Dark Rocks

The Strathyre Broadsword

This stunning highland broadsword was based on Stirling-style originals, combining a shorter, broader blade with a complex basket. 

It is balanced with strong blade presence in mind, the broad base and strong triangular taper maintaining a wieldy rotation and an eagerness in the cut. 

The hilt is made up of individual flattened bars and plates, providing comprehensive hand coverage while keeping the overall weight down. This effect is heightened by the hollow mushroom-shaped pommel and the slim profile of the bars themselves.

The sword is named for a village in Stirling, home to Mary MacGregor, wife of the folk hero Robert Roy Macgregor.

Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.


∴ Specs ∴

  • Total length: 99cm

  • Blade length: 82cm

  • Blade width: 4.3cm

  • Blade stock: 6mm

  • Grip length: 12cm

  • Grip and pommel: 15cm

  • Grip to guard: 5.5cm

  • Quillon span: 15cm

  • Point of Balance: 7.5cm

  • Weight: 1270g

  • Right-handed

  • Blunt edges

  • Rounded tip

  • Fencing flex


∴ Notes ∴


The hand-forged and heat-treated basket and pommel are blackened to a matte finish. The basket features plates to the sides pierced with patterns of circles and diamonds, as well as detailed S-shaped barwork. The pommel is hemisphere-shaped with a carved cross over the top of it.

The blade features a central fuller to the forte of the blade, with two decorative fullers to either side extending a few inches down the blade. The oak grip is wrapped in braided steel wire with Turks head knots to top and bottom.


∴ Gallery ∴


∴ A Call to Arms ∴

You pull the rough blanket closer about your shoulders, scanning the horizon with sleep-fogged eyes. A pale sunrise is beginning to colour the clouds, like watered-down dye in roving.

This marks the eighth sunrise since he saddled his horse and rode for Stirling. He said he'd be home by the seventh.

You woke early this morning, before even the hens in the yard. You set a pot of water over the fire and cracked the door open as it boiled, leaning against the sturdy oak doorframe, watching for a white mare in the distance.

A sudden movement snatches your attention. Could it be? Your heart swells as you spy a distant horse and rider. You take a breath, ready to call for the children to come greet their father. But then you see a second rider. And a third. Blood runs cold. The blanket slides from your shoulders.

You slam the door behind you and rush for the bed, throwing yourself to your knees and scrambling beneath it. The sword is still there, wrapped in grey wool. Not his sword, but your own. The one your father left you. Pulling back the bindings, you take in the short, wide blade, the pierced black plates and the elaborate S-shapes of the guard.

You nod, satisfied. Then, lest you give fear time to supplant anger, you snatch at the steel-wire grip and rise to your feet.


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