Morak leads the way up more stairs to the attic. " 'Tis not what I need, but what you need, my lad. Those little daggers of yours are fine for eating with, but you need a real blade if you're going hunting prey on two legs."
His eyes grow soft as he continues, "Nilomli always did give me a hard time for keeping this, but I knew it would be needed again someday." He flexes hands grown gnarled with arthritis, "Only I can't use it anymore, so you'll have to carry it for me."
He turns and brings out a well-oiled box, several feet long, from under a dusty cloth. Opening it, Chanler finds a simple longsword, with a worn leather hilt. Lifting it up, he can see that its keen edge reflects no light - a sign that it is very sharp indeed. Morak smiles again, with more ferocity, "I sharpened it last night after we came back. Take it now, and make those little albrachtos pay for stealing our children. And for Nestor."