It is written that to whom a sword is entrusted you also entrust your life. Culufinnel held the gleaming sword up to the cold morning sunlight – it had a plain and unenriched blade, but it was well balanced. Even if the scholar Talkale were ready for such a weapon, not from his unworthy hands would he give it to him.
Having due regard toward the safety of our people and this company thereof, you are required to take your oath upon your sword, and give your promise on your word of honour ere the sword may pass from us to you. Swear it.
I promise on and in the peril of my honour that I will never use my weapon in this world or the next against my brethren, and with it guide and guard them.
Witness the stars above that Culufinnel here gave his solemn oath. Nothing but Death or Resignation shall free him of it.
It was a bland Oath, compared to some others made rashly, for revenge or hatred, and it lacked the terrible grandeur of these, but it was customary of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood to recite this simple oath before admission to their troops. On being called up, a recruit would take the sword up in his right hand and lift it to the sky, so that the stars would witness and hear what was said. The soldier’s conscience was thereby bound to it, knowing that the stars were watching his deeds; and how the soldier kept this oath, and often paid the penalty with his life, lended gravity enough to the words, so that more were unneeded.
Culufinnel put the sword back into its simple scabbard and handed it back to the weaponsmith with a curt nod of thanks. Dúrvenel found the moody soldier sitting by his worktable when he arrived this morning, and he seemed even more glum and abstracted now, his bright red hair falling over his face, preoccupied with a tight-lipped inspection of the toes of his boots. Very well cleaned they were, polished and glossy, without a speck of dust upon them. Most people in the Valley went about as if they were afraid of a little mud on their clothing, and Culufinnel did not wish to stand apart.
He had been wrong about Talkale, Culufinnel told himself, and felt a twinge of guilt at the thought. He had been too quick to judge – but he could have sworn that Talkale had been mocking him, snidely poking fun at him, at his manners and speech. And then, unexpectedly, the little scholar came to him last night, and meekly expressed regret that he might have offended him, unintentionally of course, not knowing much about the soldierly way of life. Culufinnel looked upon him with suspicion, though he could not find anything threatening about Talkale’s thin limbs, sloping shoulders, and pigeon chest. The merchant traders eyed him with the hopeful respect due to a learned scholar with perfect manners – or perhaps it was his long, richly embroidered velvet robes. Well, Master Talkale was not such a very bad fellow after all! A little pale and skittish, but that was because he had no training. If he were his commander, Culufinnel would frogmarch him about the country, up and down the hills, and have him do at least three hours’ steady tramping on the road every day, and teach him how to go in a squadron, and how to walk with his sword drawn in front of him, and still keep pace; and how to hold his head to better hear commands shouted, all while wearing full armour. That would build up his stamina, and then he would train him with the use of the short sword and dagger first, and then the lance.
Yet, for all his wise talk, Master Talkale did not seem to understand the importance of learning martial combat. Did he think he could kill anyone with those soft white hands of his? Warfare is not simply killing – it is killing when you have to do it. There may come a time when all others have failed, and then he must fight, suffer and die to undo the errors and fulfill the will of his commanders. Soldiers understand this.
