He could still hear the wind howling outside. It hadn’t stopped all night and it wasn’t about to now. Some light found its way into his tent, heralding the coming of the morning. He blew out the dim candle inside his tent and rose from his chair. First he donned his black uniform. Then he took up his red cloak, embroidered with gold leaves and placed it on his shoulders. Then he put on his red and gold engraved shoulder guards and attached his cloak to them. He fastened his belt on his waist and took his sword along with the silver horn he’d made a habit to carry. He threw his hair back properly and setting aside the heavy leather that composed the door to his tent, he stepped outside.
As soon as he stepped out, the cold wind started tugging on his cloak. There was nothing left of the campfire but a large piece of blackened wood. It seemed like the wind blowing between the stone pillars had taken all the ashes away. The commander lazily stretched his arms. He had spent all night in his narrow tent, busying himself with scrolls and lists, scribbling in his journal and trying to repair a torn up flag of a white swan with little success. Expecting to see his people rising from their rests, he looked around but it was all but quiet. The land was painted in shades of gray still, for the morning light could not pierce the clouds above.
He saw one sentry, climbing the stone steps leading to the cliff above. He saw no other movement but a few torches burning dimly and some banners flying in the wind. Banners of different colors, of old symbols and new but few unknown to him. He saw the white star of the Mírdain, striking light and flames about it, which seemed similar to the Star of Feanor. Just below that one he noticed the banner of the Hammer, a black hammer and anvil on a red background. It flew alongside the flag of the Order of the Arrow, which depicted an arrowhead flying true. There were other flags of many colors, some depicting moon and stars or jewels and some of trees and leaves but none flew higher than the banner of the Mírdain. They did not give spirit however, they seemed as if they were struggling to break free from their poles. He imagined them fly away in the wind like free birds.
He pulled his cloak around him to ward off the cold and he walked around the stables, noticing changes overnight. Supplies were moved closer to the stables and piled along the cliff side, more torches were placed around, and hill paths leading to the ruins were fortified with sharpened stakes. They were arrayed in a manner that would force any attacker into a few bottlenecks, hopefully slowing down an attack. The bottlenecks were just wide enough for a horse-cart to pass, which the commander thought was wise. They were short of supplies already and slowing down supply carts was the last thing he wanted. Although the stakes were of uniform length and sharpness, they were insufficient in numbers to properly narrow the roads against infantry. The work there was not finished yet.
To watch these paths, there were sentry posts on the cliff, mostly halfway through the climb to the top. Hammer Lord looked up hoping to see a vigilant sentry there. There was no one. He meant to go up there himself. Crossing through the lower camp in the gray morning light, he climbed the old stone steps by twos and threes, leading up to the sentry post. There he found a hooded watchman, sitting low behind a rock and wrapped in a gray cloak. When the watchman saw the Hammer commander staring at him, he quickly stood up and straightened himself. ''He probably stood watch all night in the cold wind'' thought Veryacano. Offering no words but a silent salute to the watchman, he took off.
As he steered towards the old stairs again, the sound of hammer ringing on anvil came to his ears. A solid hit *TING* followed by smaller ones *ting*ting*ting* and again. ‘‘This must be Lord Sinor, working on those arrowheads..’’, he thought. Veryacano had heard the sound of the same hammer through the night but he could not recall when exactly it had stopped. He looked down but he could not see the forge from where he stood. It was small, nothing like the great forges in Imladris, but it was useful.
After listening to the sound of the smith for a moment, he continued up. The ruins on top were quiet and there weren’t many torches there. There was only one sentry, who wore a gray uniform. With torch in hand and bow on his back he walked back and forth gazing to the horizon. Saluting the sentry, Veryacano walked past him and stepped out to the balcony. Looking for a glimpse of movement, he gazed north and west and south. Nothing there was to see in the horizon, even for the keen eyes of the Eldar. After standing there for a while in thought, he stepped off to the other balcony overlooking the camp. Still seing no one rising from their rest, he took up his silver horn of command and sounded it. Clear voice of the horn echoed in the ruins of old Eregion. There was still work to do and there was little time…
