Orwick and his company rode steadily on for the remainder of the day, stopping only a handful of times to rest. Typically this was when they came to the odd pond or stream that dotted the central plains to allow their mounts a drink of water. It also provided a good opportunity for Miss Erisane a reprieve from the saddle to stretch her legs. That is the excuse Orwick thought of, but in truth, it had been some time since he had ridden at such length and was ill prepared himself. As Sirs Jonah and Barney grew silent with the passing hours, he at least knew that he was not the only one to be feeling the strain of the road.
Lady Erisane, much to Orwick's delight, had turned out to be both an entertaining conversationalist and riding partner. They passed through most of the afternoon and evening exchanging a variety of stories; Orwick of his time in knighthood, and Miss Erisane of her home and travels since departing it. By the time the world had plunged deep enough into twilight for it to be inadvisable to carry on, the party was nearly too exhausted to make camp. They wound up dismounting near a thin, babbling stream in a section of field where the grasses were shorter than their waist. After a brief deliberation, Orwick decided it was safe enough to hazard a fire.
Within minutes, the sparks struck upon the collection of dried brush had turned into a steady blaze that stove off the early chills of noct. It was one of the few opportunities they would have to eat provisions that weren't dried or otherwise preserved, and Orwick intended to make the most of it. Each of the knights, along with Lady Erisane, enjoyed their meals of salted beef and hard cheese with silent gratitude before lying upon their bedrolls and falling easily to sleep. Aside from the uneventful hours he had woken for in order to stand watch, Orwick passed the noct in restful slumber. As the trickling of water over stone from the brook mingled with the rustling of grasses in the gentle breeze, they formed a natural sort of tranquil lullaby.
He, being among the first to awaken the following morning, felt a reinforced zeal for the days ahead. Orwick was overcome by an overwhelming sense of refreshing peace as he cheerfully helped pack up their campsite. Though their time on the road was still young, it had been a holiday when compared to the routine as a knight of Rivengarde, which had grown exceedingly dull as of late. It being a crisp and quiet morning, and his thoughts occupied, Orwick almost did not notice that the plains had gradually begun to change. Vast, unbroken stretches of land were ever so slightly spotted with cautious hills, and speckled with cliquish patches of trees.
It wasn't until he was within a few feet of the first spear that Orwick began to realize where they were.
Its point was buried deeply in the soil askew of the road; its haft broken two-thirds of the way up and bearing the shredded and sun-bleached remains of an ancient crimson banner. It seemed as if everyone else in the retinue had noticed the sobering sight in unison, though Sir Barney was the first to break the silence.
"Now I haven't been through these parts in some time … isn't this-"
"Hold your tongue," Sir Lawrence hissed with an unusual gravity, silencing him, "show some respect for the fallen."
After their horses had passed the forlorn spear one by one, it was only a matter of time before other such armaments were spotted. First in twos and threes, the amount soon stretched into the dozens. Even Sir Lawrence himself could not help but gaze around at the sheer number of instruments spread about the landscape. They passed what felt like an hour in a grave-like silence. Eventually, after building enough courage, Miss Erisane rode up once more astride Orwick in order to hazard a question.
"Might I ask where we are? I have never passed through these parts." Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Sir Lawrence shot back a scalding glance all the same. Miss Erisane visibly shrunk back from his glare. Orwick matched his gaze as the senior knight was undoubtedly readying a harsh scolding. This silent battle lasted only a moment before Sir Lawrence, having apparently decided a verbal argument not worth the trouble of the slight, turned huffily around in the saddle.
"We're encroaching on the outskirts of Valor's Rest," Orwick explained softly, "a sacred place."
Miss Erisane's eyes widened. "A burial ground?" She gasped.
Orwick shook his head. "A battlefield."
Another long pause. From where he rode, Orwick could see Sir Lawrence as he nodded solemnly at a rusted polearm where it jutted out from the ground. His own halberd appearing to nod with him as it bounced upon his back.
"Why have there been so many arms left behind?" Lady Erisane asked at last.
"Tradition mostly, dating back to the Age of Alignment I believe. It was thought that when the sol was separated from the body suddenly, it could become confused. A warrior's weapon was set in place where they fell, in order for the Solvane to find them with their lantern and guide them to Eternium."
Orwick watched as the Lady observed her surroundings in new light, her countenance grim as each shattered spear and broken blade took on new meaning. He recalled that his first visit - just after he had reached knighthood - had been similar in that realization.
"How large a battle it must have been, for there to have been so many … "
Lady Erisane had been incorrect, if only partially. In fact, it had been a large battle - the largest that had ever taken place in the Kingdom - at least as far as recorded history was concerned. Though that was not the source of all that could be seen on the ancient battleground.
"It was the final battle of the Copper War," Orwick found himself explaining, "there were a few resistances afterwards but, this was the last real struggle before the rebel army stormed Rivengarde. Hundreds lost their lives in those days alone, but Valor's Rest is much older."
He waited to see if his monologuing would be viewed as disrespectful to the sanctity of the grounds, but he was met with no protest. Lady Erisane watched him expectantly.
"I know but a scant bit, truth be told. I wasn't much for the histories as a boy. Though there were many battles fought here long before, stretching back over a millen roats."
"King Aldairion's defeat of the Hasham tribes is widely believed to be the first battle to have taken place on this soil, though any arms from those days have been long since taken by the Ash." Sir Lawrence chimed in without taking his eyes from the road ahead.
Their explanation seemed to satisfy Lady Erisane's curiosity for the time being, and the conversation once again trickled out into a respectful hush. Though he had been through Valor's Rest twice before, yet seemed to have forgotten just how long the sacred grounds stretched on. Its somber fields seemed to form a forest of metal saplings planted in all directions. A heavy aura, not unlike what would be commonplace at the Rivengarde temple, hung in the air like a thick fog. It took them over an hour of riding before there was any sign that they were reaching the outer edge.
Orwick let out a breath he didn't know he was holding once it was clear that the number of surrounding totems was beginning to die down.
"If it's alright to do so, I would like to pause to have a look at our map. There is a break in the road not far ahead."
Orwick slowed Beau down to comply with Lady Erisane's request, signalling for the rest of his men to do the same. It would be good as well for him to have a gander at what their path would have in means of sites to make camp come dusk. He dismounted once they reached the crest of the largest hill they had come to since entering the plains. Making his way over to Miss Erisane, he held out a hand to help her down, which she took gratefully. She at once began to rummage through her satchel to fetch the map she had brought along.
It was as he let go of her hand that Orwick noticed the strange glinting of light on metal just over Miss Erisane's shoulder. Overcome by an almost supernatural compulsion to investigate, Orwick stepped tentatively to the side of the path towards the thin tangle of brush that masked the space between a thick elm tree and moss-ridden boulder. Wedged between the two was a longsword, standing erect where it had been driven despite its rust-marred countenance from roats of weathering in the elements. Instinctively, Orwick reached for his hip.
He was almost surprised to find that his sword was still within its scabbard. Stepping closer and stooping low, he examined the timeworn blade. It was uncanny just how similar it was to his own. Certainly the sword he wore was in a much finer condition given the near constant care it had been given, but he could tell even at a glance that they had been fashioned in quite a similar manner. Each end of the crossguard dipped at a slight angle toward the edge of the blade, with the same spiral-pattered langets extending along the center.
He and Alwyn had had very similar blades fashioned when they had decided to swear their oaths. What separated this particular blade was the clouded and cracked gemstone embedded within the tarnished hilt. Of the same shape and size, in the same location as on the longsword that had been customly forged for himself, lay a single crimson gemstone. Without even fully realizing it, Orwick found his hand reaching out to pull the blade free.
"I would advise against it, Captain."
Orwick's hand fell short of the hilt, his wrist arcing back as if it had been slapped away. He turned quickly to ascertain the identity of his follower. Sir Derich assessed him passively from only a few feet away where he leaned against his spear. His keen eyes analyzed Orwick, and he found himself looking away like a guilty child. He had not even heard his approach.
"It could be seen as a sign of irreverence." Sir Derich sluggishly pushed a tangled strand of unkempt hair from his face. Each monotone syllable did nothing to help derive the knight's mood.
"I was not planning on it," Orwick retorted stiffly, "I was merely admiring it."
He did not meet Sir Derich's gaze. It was frustrating to feel the need to defend himself, yet Orwick did not know why his cheeks flushed hotly with shame. He was suddenly reminded of a time as a boy when his mother had caught him sticking his finger into a tart that was set for cooling.
"It is very familiar is it not?" Sir Derich spoke suddenly, catching Orwick off-guard.
Orwick offered no reply, though he could hear Sir Derich's soft footfalls muffled under the nest of wild grass.
"Some things become too familiar. Familiar enough to forget they are foreign, to forget that they aren't yours."
Orwick could never tell to what end Sir Derich spoke with. This uncertainty was quick to breed frustration. Turning quickly to see whether Sir Derich was mocking him, all he found was the same impassive and unreadable expression. Sir Derich tilted his head slightly to one side.
"Captain?"
Orwick forced a smile and a quick nod. He was suddenly eager to be done with the odd interaction.
"Thank you, Sir Derich."
He pushed past the unflinching knight to rejoin the rest of the party where they awaited him to sort out the path ahead. All the while he felt Sir Derich's perceptive gaze follow him along.