The pelting rain showed no sign of stopping soon and would likely last through the entire night. It meant that the roads would be muddy in the morning, hardly a good start to their journey. For indeed, Cole had decided that he would embark on this quest, though he knew not where or even why they were going. Gweluon, the Elf, had given a brief explanation, uttering strange words and names as if they were common knowledge. Maybe they were, but certainly not to the likes of Cole.
His…friends, the two silent guards, escorted him to the stables, which took up most of the courtyard. One of them spoke with the harsh accent of his people and told Cole in no uncertain terms that he was free to go as long as he stayed clear of Eorl’s Hall. Then they departed, as silent as ever, and were soon lost from sight. Cole stood there, still in disbelief at the strange events that had occurred today, almost forgetting the raindrops running down his tired face. He shook himself from the stupor after a moment and looked around for his horse.
To his left, he noticed a curly-haired youth, no older than fourteen winters, brushing the chestnut mare’s haunches. As Cole drew nearer, he saw that the lad was whispering into the horse’s ear, speaking softly as if consoling an injured friend. The bond between Eorl’s folk and horses was evident, he’d heard some of them claim that they could talk to the animals as if talking with a Man or Dwarf - could there be any truth to that? Regardless, the horse looked much better than it had the day before, Cole had to admit. Its russet mane caught the last rays of the sunlight, giving it the colour of molten bronze, a far cry from the mangy creature he had stolen in Dunland.
The stablehand’s understanding of Westron was on par with Cole’s understanding of Rohirric, so their brief conversation consisted of a few nods and smiles, after which the young Bree-lander was on his way. As he passed through the gates of the keep, he paused for a moment and turned back, capturing the sight of Eorl’s Hall standing proud on the hilltop, the light radiating from within a stark contrast to the encroaching night. It was a sight he would remember for the rest of his days, he knew.
He walked down the road into Aldburg, holding the reins of his mare in hand. It wasn’t long before he had to halt again, this time wondering what his destination should be. Just how did one prepare for such a quest? Cole had never been on one to know and the songs he’d heard were not of much help. He neither had a loved one to say goodbye to, nor vows of vengeance to make before a companion’s resting place.
Well, he reasoned, a quest was in essence a very long journey. A very long journey that you might not see the end of. A grim thought, but he had to get used to it. He’d already prepared for one such journey, when he departed from Bree, so why should this be any different? In that case, he would need rations for the road and a place to rest his legs, both of which could be found in an inn. Cole checked his coin pouch – he had scarcely used what he’d brought from home, so he hoped it would be enough, though it now occurred to him that he wasn’t familiar with what currency the people of Aldburg used.
The streets had grown sleek with mud and the rain poured down even harder, few folk were out in this weather and the ones that were didn’t seem in the mood to answer his questions. Thus, Cole wandered aimlessly through the quiet town, trying to sift through the knowledge he had gleaned today.
Gweluon had spoken of an enemy…and of the Valar. He felt as if he should know of these things, but try as he might, he couldn’t recall anything. Had he read about it in old Appleby’s scrolls? When it came down to it, Cole’s interest in those writings had mainly been in reading stories of faraway lands and places, he had not paid much attention to history or legends, much to the old scholar’s chagrin. Yet, something tugged at his memory. He remembered reading of a battle, a last alliance of Men and Elves that had fought a great evil many ages ago. What stood out to him was the word “enemy”, the way the chroniclers had used it hinted they were speaking of someone in particular. This was much the same way in which Gweluon had used the word. All of this begged the question – just who was this “enemy”?
Cole’s musings were interrupted by the sounds of a blacksmith’s hammer, which reminded him that his sword needed sharpening. The blade had a few notches and its edge had dulled after Cole had tried to test his skills with it on some trees. He was still ashamed to admit that he thought the sword would cut through the branches as easily as an axe, but that had not been the case, of course. And so, he followed the hammering to its source, a smithy whose slanted roof leaned on a simple house on the side of the road.
A big, grey-haired man was examining something on his anvil, his back turned toward the entrance. Cole walked in and coughed slightly to announce his arrival.
“Well met,” he began as the man turned toward him, “Master…?”
The man drew closer, walking with a visible limp, his eyes squinting at Cole. Taller and much stronger than the Bree-lander, his arms were thick with muscle from swinging the heavy hammer and his leathery skin indicated a lifetime spent before the forge fires. A moment later, Cole realised that the man’s left leg was missing, replaced by a simple wooden peg. The smith’s face was fierce, crisscrossed by scars and heavily lined, his grey hair was tied in a loose ponytail that hung below his shoulders.
He said something in the tongue of the horse-lords and, of course, Cole understood nothing. It was frustrating, but not unexpected. After all, Eorl’s warriors met many travellers passing through the gates, so they knew some Westron words. However, what need did a craftsman, like this blacksmith, have of another language?
Cole reached for the sword at his hip slowly so as to not provoke, unsheathing the blade and turning it toward the blacksmith, hilt-first. He pointed at the notches, hoping that was enough to show his need. Apparently, it was, for the man took the sword in his big hands and walked over to the forge where he began examining it by the fire. After a while, the smith nodded to himself and approached his grindstone, then began working on the blade.
Meanwhile, Cole stood by the entrance, feeling uncomfortable at not being able to say or do anything. His eyes examined the smithy, noticing a lot of everyday tools and items – rakes, shovels, pickaxes and hoes. Strange, he had expected to see swords, spears, suits of mail and while there were a few of those here and there, it looked very much like any blacksmith’s forge in Bree. Eventually, he noticed a broom propped next to a nearby wall. For reasons unknown, Cole felt compelled to go over, take the broom and begin sweeping the smithy’s floor. The owner glanced at him, but said nothing, before turning back to the grindstone.
Cole had helped out at his uncle’s workshop in Bree and while he lacked the patience and deftness to be a craftsman, he had been a dutiful assistant at least. He moved between the anvil and workbenches methodically, sweeping the floor and cleaning their surface with a cloth rag he found. After that was done, he began returning the blacksmith’s tools to their place. His uncle was a cooper, not a smith, but one workshop was much like the other and it was easy to guess what went where.
As the two worked in silence, Cole felt a kinship with the older man. It was easy to close his eyes and imagine himself at home – the sounds, the smells and even the tools in his hands felt familiar. For the first time, the Bree-lander began thinking of Eorl’s folk not as fables, but as people. Aye, they stood tall and proud, with their gleaming helms and mail, they had a King and a large hall, but in the end, they lived and died as any Man in Bree. Was this forge any different than the ones at home? Or did they also not farm the land for nourishment? Did the Men of Aldburg not drink and laugh, cry and mourn as a Bree-lander did? For every grim-eyed warrior there was a farmer, a carpenter, a thatcher, whose lives differed little from those of their peers in Bree.
Despite some marked differences, Eorl’s folk and his people had far more in common than he had initially believed. For some reason, that realisation warmed his heart.
“Done.” A deep voice said behind him, the word was formed with difficulty and sounded more like a growl, but Cole understood it.
He turned and came face to face with the smith, who presented him with his newly-honed sword. Even to Cole’s untrained eye the difference was staggering, the notches were no longer there and the blade’s edge gleamed. The smith looked around his tidied forge and nodded in approval, though it was hard to say if he was scowling or smiling. Without saying anything, he walked over to a barrel and began rummaging through its contents.
A moment later he returned with a whetstone, a vial of oil and piece of cloth. He offered them to Cole and nodded firmly when he saw the Bree-lander’s confused expression. The smith pointed at the sword, then to the whetstone and looked at Cole expectantly. He spoke again in the tongue of Rohan, but Cole already knew what he had to do.
Cole had sharpened scythes and axes before, so this couldn’t be that different, could it? He applied a little oil on the whetstone and began sliding it across the blade. He winced in pain as the blacksmith slapped him hard across the hands. The greying man took the sword and whetstone and demonstrated the motions one should use – back and forth, not circular, turning the blade frequently so that both sides could be equally sharpened. He then offered them back to Cole.
After a few failures and a couple of more slaps, Cole got the hang of it. Finally, the blacksmith seemed reasonably satisfied and nodded, extending his meaty hand. Cole shook it firmly, then bowed his head in respect. He reached for his purse, but the man stopped him, shaking his head. Considering how painful his slaps had been, Cole had no intention of arguing with the man, so he bowed once more and walked out in the street.
Sometime later, Cole found himself before a tavern with an eight-legged foal as its sign. The warmth from inside beckoned to him and the smell of roast meat wet his mouth. It seemed as good a place to stay as any, so he made his way inside. The first leg of his journey was over, but another had just begun.
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Haven't read that many of the books, but I've participated in quite a few PnP sessions to have a grasp of the lore. 