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Khalad was awakened by the noise of his comrades. He opened his eyes and saw them strapping their armour on and buckling their swordbelts. He asked one nearby what was happening, and received a hasty reply: "The enemy is advancing towards us, and all soldiers are to be ready for battle. That is all I know with certainty, the rest is rumour." Aduchil stood up, slightly anxious. They had barely arrived to this place and already it seemed that combat was nigh. He arrayed himself in his armour and then reached for his scabbard, tying it around his waist.
He drew his sword and looked at the engravings, feeling the many years that lay in them. A noble blade, and wielded for a noble cause. That much he knew, though he hoped that this was not the day when the sword would be left without a wielder. He allowed the hilt to touch his forehead briefly before sheathing it again, feeling the blood flow quickly through his veins. With hasty steps he walked into the stables and checked on his stallion; it was possible that the Roqueni was told to fight mounted and if so he had to be ready.
He left the stables and hurried down the main street of the town; the grim faces that the townsfolk had told him that they had also heard, and he could faintly hear the sobbing of a child. His right hand grasped the hilt of his sword as he almost ran down the street, prepared to draw it at moment's notice. Around him he could see his comrades, those whom he would soon fight with and perhaps die with. He could feel the fear of death rising in him; yet he would not allow it to rise.
He silently began reciting the few words and phrases that his father had taught him of the High-Elven Speech. He knew almost nothing of that tongue, yet the alien words made him feel calm and lose his anxiety. He took a deep breath as he prepared himself to wait for whatever happened next.
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