Blade of Erogrund

Chapter Sixteen- A Sword Gained and a Blade Lost

Morning, as always, came far too early.

Godric's body had adapted days ago though that did not stop him from struggling to rise from the scrawny bed. His brain told him with uncomfortable certainty that it was indeed time to get up despite the fact that his body craved sleep like a desert wanderer craves water. His eyelids fought to rise due to the overwhelming weight that seemed to pushed them closed.

Even with these trials he managed to get up. Throwing off the thin, scratchy blanket, he stood and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. As usual, a little more than half of the Men's beds were still occupied and a few of the multitude of candles still burned lazily.

Opening his wooden lockbox that still sat on the foot of his bed, he drew out a pair of clothes that looked and smelled to have a few more wears in them before being sent to the wash. Changing in the semi-darkness, he realized gradually that these were the clothes he had worn from Dunn. Wrapping the cloak Ennor had given him tightly around his shoulders in addition to his shirt as a fiercely cold draft wafted through the Hall. As he was leaving for the taverns he stuck his hands into his pockets in an attempt to keep them warm and found a piece of cloth sitting at the bottom of one.

Carefully drawing it out, he saw by the flickering candlelight that it was the fragment of tapestry he had taken from his father's house in Dunn. It was slightly faded and covered with bits of ash that failed the hide the runes written on it.

He had completely forgotten about it, but was gratefully that it was still there - a small memory of a life forgotten. Gingerly he put it in the lockbox and moved on to the tavern.

As always, the streets were hardly even conscious at this time of morning. The usually still scene was interrupted by the rows and rows of candles that now outlined the perimeter of Rae-Oiron and the streets branching off of it.

Taking the street that went to the tavern district, he got his small breakfast before heading through a side-street through the Blacksmiths' and into Greccus, where he followed the stairway down. Despite the deafening hammering, sparks, and gruff weaponsmasters, the Blacksmiths' was quite comfortable. Even this early in the morning the forges were burning brightly, heating the room comfortably until he was reluctant to leave it for the cold, wind-swept Arena.

Waiting was Theronin who was bundled in a thick, brown cloak and, in a break of protocol, wore two swords on his belt. Godric recognized the first, as it was Theronin's and he had seen it every morning while they sparred. The second was unfamiliar to him. It was simple and unadorned. Its pommel was polished brass attached to a leather-wrapped handle beneath the cross-guard, which was an ash-grey band of iron that fitted snugly over the top of its scabbard.

While walking across the training grounds to the Arena's edge, Godric fought bitterly against the freezing wind that blew constantly off the Sea. Judging by the ominous grey clouds that filled the sky casting a somber mood over the world, they were in for quite a storm.

"You're late," Theronin accused.

Godric knew very well that he was not but did not bother to protest.

"Where is Bor?" The boy asked. He had not seen him in the taverns or anywhere else, which was highly irregular.

"He's been given other duties besides babysitting you," snapped Theronin.

"And what might those be?"

"Not your mandate."

Godric glared coldly at the young lord, whose gaze revealed that he desperately wanted Godric to say something that might invite a beating. It took all he had not to, but eventually he only grunted.