Ralph and the Pixie

Gannet, who stood nearby to his right, three soldiers down the line, made a poor companion. He spoke seldom, and bore more than his usual perpetual grimness, if that were possible. Still, it was he who had supervised Ralph’s forge work where the swords were concerned, including the one he himself now bore. Every arrowhead, every glaive and spear point, every helmet and shield and piece of armour, had grudgingly passed his inspection, checked for heft, balance, and general workmanship.

When Ralph had mentioned some concern over Gannet’s appraisal to Birin, Birin had smiled grimly in response, and said, ‘Gannet won’t really respect you until you’ve actually tasted battle. Even then, don’t expect his attitude towards you to change dramatically. In his eyes, one skirmish does not make a soldier.’

Ralph heard a runner making his way down the line, an Elf boy of perhaps fourteen years. The runner stopped when he reached Gannet.

‘Ware. The scouts are returning with tidings. The enemy has been sighted.’

Gannet nodded, and the runner left.

‘Stand ready!’

Ralph started in surprise. He had not expected the fighting to begin so soon. As the others were doing, he got down on one knee and planted his shield upright before him, so that like the others, only his helm could be seen. Heart pounding, he reached over his shoulder and drew his sword from the harness at his back.