Blade of Erogrund

Chapter 40- Battle

The next morning the army was as quiet as the Grove. Those that had already awoken walked, faces downcast, among the trees to their respective tasks. Sounds of talking were rarer even than  grins among the soldiers as they went about their duties or fetched breakfast from the supply wagons. 

Even the wet stones and Dwarven smithy hammers had gone silent. The time for preparation has passed, Mira contemplated. 

It was not difficult to find Saracyir's tent in the jumble of marching feet as its silk shone purer than the coarse woven fabric of the tents of Men. Alone in grandeur, the elf's silken pavilion glowed in the morning light, casting sparkling beams onto the icy frost that covered the ground. 

Mira wrapped her knuckles lightly on the pail ash tent post on the outside of the silk panel that formed the walls of the tent. 

"Come in," Saracyir replied softly. "Ah, Iäneur, how fair you this morning?" 

"Well, I think," Mira answered. "I must confess that I was up much of the night thinking on all you've taught me. I pray I may remember it all." 

Saracyir smiled as she drew a shining white breastplate from her satchel. It was utterly unlike anything Mira had seen before - a metal bleached so white that it could hardly be called steel and emblazoned with silver leaves down the chest. "You are an intelligent girl; you will remember enough." 

"Are you certain that it is best I ride with you?" the girl questioned. "Never would I forgive myself if something happened to you trying to help me. If I would be a burden -" 

"None of that," the elf hushed as she fastened her armor. "You will ride on my very horse, provided that you still wish to. You have learned much - enough to be a great asset if you desire to risk it." 

Mira swallowed her fear. "Very well then." 

Saracyir smiled. "Then let us make our way to the king's command, shall we? It would not do to be late on a day such as this." 

                                                                            -            -            -

Godric woke early after a what had felt like a short night. The sun was barely above what he could see of the horizon, but enough of its golden beams broke the treeline for him to see the ash-grey storm clouds that shrouded the skies. 

Drawing back the flap of his tent, he lay back on his blanket to stare at the sky as Ennor's words traced through his mind. Your father was given the sword. Still the words sounded as though they had come from impossibly far away. So far that they could not possibly be true. 

Yet for the first time since he had sheered the leg off the dragon in Threst he felt like perhaps it might truly be his sword. His eyes traced the crystalline blade, wondering at the way it glistened in the crisp morning air and refracted the sunlight that had snuck through the dense trees. The crosspiece and handle almost welcomed his touch as his fingers glossed over their well-crafted surface. 

Godric rose eventually into the cold morning and stretched, letting the cool, fresh air fill his lungs. Around him many had already begun to make final preparations. Friends strapped each other's breastplates on with humorless smiles that fought to encourage one another. Spears were drawn from their tents and shields adjusted to their bearers one last time. Even the Dwarves had muted their forges, instead donning thick armor akin to Thain's and taking up wide, flat swords and solid, short pikes of steel. 

As Godric paced to the command tent he spied several banners already leading their divisions to their respective positions on the plain. Long trains of men and women followed his or her banner with countenances as iron as the impressive suits of armor that shielded them.