As realisation set in, the men's look of doubt was replaced with something like hope, and the possibility of inflicting retribution.
Damond hefted a newly finished broadsword and breathed appreciatively, "What a thing of beauty!"
Palindor raised an eyebrow at this, and nodded. "Strike that old anvil on the horn."
"What? And ruin its edge?" Damond demanded, incensed by the suggestion.
"Do it," Palindor insisted. "We have many more, should it become damaged."
Damond gave Palindor a look, and swung. The horn fell clean away in a shower of sparks. The ring was so loud that they both winced. Disbelieving, Damond examined the sword's edge.
"What say you?" said Palindor, his expression neutral.
"I would say," Damond replied, a note of possessiveness in his voice, "that this one is now mine! I cannot imagine a finer!"
"I would caution you not to be overawed," Palindor told him. "That sword will cleave a Wight's soul from its body, just as it will sever a Demon from its Summoning, but it will not protect you from arrows or Dragon's fire, nor from the thrust of a spear or sword."
"Nor old age," Damond rejoined philosophically. "None of us will be looking any longer towards an uneventful dotage." Their attention was caught at once by the presence of a silhouetted figure as it stepped out of the sunlight at the entrance and approached them. "Niles of Astargoth," Damond said, feeling an uncomfortable knot in his belly as the figure stepped forward and bowed fractionally. "First cousin to Amrhost, if I remember correctly. What purpose brings you here?"