She trailed the sword behind her, dragging its tip through the mud, stirring the mist that hung about her ankles as the blade passed through.

It felt heavy now. The sword. Far too heavy to lift, to wield properly. The whole of her right side ached, the weight of the weapon threatened to pull her arm from its socket. Even dragging it was difficult.

She turned, clasped the leather hand-grip with both her hands, and walked backwards, pulling the sword through the mud.

She raised her eyes. Nobody was following her. Or so it seemed. The mist hung low and heavy, covering the ground in a thick, grey blanket. The few trees she had passed were all thin and twisted; their naked branches, reaching like skeletal fingers, were stark against the pale sky.

Walking backwards was no good. She halted and took a few slow, deep breaths. Her eyes were restless, darting here and there, scanning the marsh for her pursuers. She knew they were there. Nobody stole a sword as fine as the one she had taken and got away with it. What had she been thinking?!

With an effort, she hefted the tip of the sword from the ground and held the weapon before her. The blade was beautiful; double-edged, cruelly sharp and shining with a brilliance all of its own.

Not for the first time she admired it and her eyes glittered. It was hers now!

She laughed. The sound cut through the silence, slicing it in two as easily as her blade had parted the mist. "If you want it," she called out in savage delight, "Come and reclaim it!"