This walloon sword is made with McBane's description of a "sheering sword" in mind, and its handling is informed by an antique walloon in Chris's own collection. Built with a low weight in mind, it features a hollow pommel and a nimble central balance.
It features an infrequently found detail in the thumb ring, in that the plate stands above the plane of the cross. This is modelled on an antique sword referenced by our client, and feels great in the hand.
The sword is named for the Old English root of the word "sheering", meaning simply "to cut". As such, it is fast and responsive in cutting actions, while remaining a fierce needle in the thrust.
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Weight: 864gg
Total length: 96.5cm
Blade length: 81.5cm
Blade width: 2.5cm
Blade stock: 6mm
Grip length: 10cm
Grip and pommel length: 14.5cm
Grip to side knucklebow: 4.5cm
Quillon span: 12.5cm
Point of Balance: 11cm
Left-handed
2mm edges
Swollen tip
Fencing flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are blackened to a matte finish. The guard features a pierced plate to the front, sweeping up into simple barwork with swellings to the centre.
These are affixed to the mushroom-shaped pommel with screws. The rear guard features a thumb ring, protected by a plate with heart-shaped piercing.
The oak grip is wrapped in twisted steel wire, with a longditudinal indent and Turks head knots to top and bottom.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Spur of the Moment ∴
"There's neither Swallow, Dove, or Dade
Can soar more high or deeper wade
Nor show a reason from the stars
What causeth peace or civil wars"
Your voice sounds out, high and wavering on the early morning air. Singing comes easy on a day like this, with sunlight dappling through the trees onto the stony road. You feel each stone through the rattling seat, peppering your song with jolted off-notes - but you don't mind. The rumbling wheels and clattering hooves mean you're on your way again.
Suddenly you halt your verse, and coax the dun mare to a standstill. Were you only imagining a shape in the bushes? Is the road getting to you already? Then in an instant the man is upon you, small and wiry in an oil-reeking coat and well-worn boots. Hardly the dandy highwayman of tavern songs, you think absurdly as the scene unfolds.
The mare rears and whinnies as the stranger rounds it, making for the driver's seat step.
That dappled sunlight you admired only moments ago now illuminates a sharp needle of steel in his hand. Something tells you he doesn't mean to bargain.
In an instant, the pistol is in your hand. The brigand's eyes widen. He wouldn't be the first to mistake you for a witless farmer's son. A bang. A jolt. Another whinny from the foaming mare, and the highwayman falls away from the carriage, his mouth agape and ghastly.
Staring through pistol-smoke in mute wonder, your attention is caught by the dead man's sword. Small, like the brigand himself, but much prettier you think. A pierced plate and swelling black bars; a raised thumb ring with a single cut-out heart.
Now there's a sword worth a ballad, you think, snatching it up into your hand. With a fresh tune on your lips, you turn back to the carriage.