《Blackthorn: Shadow of Windem》


 Chapter 1: A Journey North

    10 YEARS AGO


    The air was so cold it was suffocating. Snowflakes drifted through the glacial air like white bugs, twirling under the gentle push of an arctic wind. Icicles hung from tree branches like small, sharpened knives. The wind bit at the traveling men and wrapped around them like a cloak. One hundred men in their leathery animal skins and fur-lined brooches trod upon frozen ground. Long patches of ice collected along the path. They were in the cold¡¯s territory now anyways. They had known it would be like this. The men were a long way from home¨Cand had been for a very long time.


    The travelling men kept their heads down and eyes squinted as the gusty winds snapped at their eyes. Tears rolled down their rosy cheeks and threatened to freeze over before reaching their beards. Weariness was plastered across their soft faces, the men doing little to conceal their disdain for this faraway place. Many of the men had frozen snot where their beard met their nostrils.


    There was one man who embraced the wind¡¯s gnawing bite at his ashen red cheeks, actually enjoyed it. For those who knew him¨Cit came as no surprise.


    His name was Gareth Blackthorn, Lord Commander of the King¡¯s armies. The name Blackthorn preceded him. There were battles won under the name of Blackthorn. Wars were waged. Political uprisings were scaled and subdued. Famines and plagues were quelled. The name went back over a thousand years. It was a warrior¡¯s name. A leader¡¯s name. And now, as they traveled through the arctic blast of the northern reach, it was his time to put his own stamp on the lore of House Blackthorn. Gareth Blackthorn III would be especially noted in history as the Blackthorn who achieved the impossible.


    The men of the Kingdom of Windem were hunting the orc-eel of the north. The foul beast lurked deep beneath the unrelenting ice-lands of Northrock, a frozen tundra which spanned hundreds of miles. The orc-eel of Northrock was largely fable, only seen by the eyes of dying men who never lived to tell the tale. There were no valid sightings or reports to back up its existence, but the stories kept its existence ruminating. No sane man would have dared gamble on finding this creature, let alone killing it and bringing it home. But Gareth was not worried about what sane men did. He wanted to find it. And kill it.


    Hundreds of sticks and staves poked into the ice in a rhythmic sound. It made a series of thud sounds, which coalesced with boots scraping the ground. Weary bodies stumbled along the icy trail, exhausted. Spent. White spruce trees lined either side of the trail and scaled high into the frosty sky, which was a lazy mixture of purple and pink. It was as bright as it ever got this far north.


    ¡°Watch your step,¡± said a man, grimacing under the blanket of wind.


    ¡°Shallow ice there,¡± said another. A thin layer of ice cracked under the weight of a boot.


    Once the group ventured past the thin trail which had begun in Silverkeep, a long frozen tundra of eight-hundred miles awaited them. Beyond that was the Black Mountain, where no man dared journey unless they risked seeing the Shadow. Ominous things dwelled in the ice-lands--the orc-eel being one of them. The Shadow was another. The stories of the orc-eel¡¯s elusive nature and its legendary lore had drawn these men here under Blackthorn¡¯s contagious spirit. The goal was to have the creature baited to the surface of the frozen lake, and then harness the strength of one-hundred spearmen to hook the beast and capture it. Once the orc-eel was secured by hooks, Gareth Blackthorn planned to take the lethal shot with his crossbow. As the legend went, one singular shot to the weak point below its gills was enough to fatally wound it.


    Gareth carried his crossbow slung across his chest by a leather strap, the wooden beam slung across his back. It was a burdensome weapon and it made his back ache, but to him it was worth it. He visualized the lethal shot in his head every night before he slept. In his mind''s eye, he saw the bolt discharge with a powerful thunk, puncturing the orc-eel¡¯s weak spot. The beast would emit a mighty roar, sending the hairs on his neck straight up. In his dreams, it always ended horribly. The ice would crack underneath him and his body would slide into the deadly waters. That was when he would wake up shivering, the wind shrieking at him like a group of wraiths crying out in agony. But dreams were just that--dreams.


    The men had brought horses for their journey, but the horses had gone no further than the border of Silverkeep. Any further than Silverkeep and the numbing temperatures and frozen ground would have been too perilous for the horses. Vegetation was also scarce this far north, and not plentiful enough to keep the horses fed.


    It had been three days now without horses and their legs ached. None dared show it. Some men feared letting Blackthorn down more than the sight of the orc-eel itself. Blackthorn¡¯s approval was paramount to these men. Each man was hand-picked, and no one was about to make Blackthorn second guess his choice. The first man to complain of fatigue would have to be Blackthorn, and all men knew that wouldn¡¯t happen. He was the lord commander of the King¡¯s armies.


    Blackthorn¡¯s breath swirled like a busy vapor. Frost clung to his thick, unkempt locks of dark hair. Snowflakes and icicles decorated his beard. His second-in-command and good friend, Elric Drakonstone, staggered behind him. Like Gareth, Elric was a mammoth of a man, strong as an ox. Thick furs made him appear bulkier than he already was. He followed behind Gareth, who led the way and showed no sign of slowing. If men began falling behind, encouragement could be heard from the men beside them.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, we mustn¡¯t slow now,¡± said a man,


    ¡°Aye, don¡¯t slow. It¡¯ll be harder to catch up.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go! Keep up! Don¡¯t let our lord commander down.¡±


    A smirk spread across Gareth Blackthorn''s face. His hard-set features eased up and the lines of his drawn-up scowl disappeared. His scowl was not to do with the disappointment in his men, but rather it had to do with the nagging wind that tugged at his back and whipped his face. He let his mind wander. He thought about the families that awaited them back home. He was not the only one who had left his family behind. These were hard working men. Loyal and determined. Each man knew the prestige that awaited them back in Windem if they were successful. The kingdom had endured a golden era of ten years without famine, war, drought, or disease. Of course there were the unavoidable border disputes and skirmishes¡ªbut the King wanted something to be remembered as the crown jewel of his reign. He sought to be remembered as the king that brought prosperity to Windem, capping it off with the greatest capture of all time¨Cacross all kingdoms. That would certainly cement him in history and ensure a formidable legacy.


    If ever there was a man brave enough to go to Northrock and back in one piece, it was Gareth Blackthorn. However, King Tarren was not unrealistic. Finding the beast was one thing. Killing the beast was an entirely different prospect. Rumor of its existence was the most speculated aspect of the creature¡¯s lore. Reports always came through. The reports would be falsified and debunked by the royal court. The King would put forth a royal decree that outlawed such fear mongering discussion and all public discussion of the orc-eel would end for a time. Years would go by and then the rumors would inevitably return. Most men weren¡¯t believed simply because trekking that far north usually meant that you were facing your own death. It was too cold. It was too far. The land itself was disorienting. Eight-hundred miles of frozen waters, tundras, snowy mountains, and snowstorms. Forget returning to the Southlands. One would be lucky to make it back to Silverkeep without losing limbs or digits to frostbite.


    Glistening ice crushed underfoot as Blackthorn jammed his sharpened hiking sticks into the ground. He held a long, three foot stick in each hand. He had found nearly seventy miles back before all the sticks to be found along the side of the path were frozen into the ground. He spent nights by the warm glowing campfire sharpening the sticks point with his sax knife. As he pushed on, he couldn¡¯t feel his legs. His chest was tight. His limbs were numb. Frozen. But there were multiple things that kept him going. First, he thought of his little boy. Then, his lady. She was lovely. He could still see them waving together as Gareth set off with his hundred men. They were given a proper send off by King Tarren and the kingdom¡¯s citizens. They had climbed atop their mounts, round shields tied to their packs along with a bundle of blankets, food rations, warm furs, snow boots, swords, spears, bows and arrows. It was cool back then, because even though the temperatures back home couldn¡¯t compare to the frigid glacial climate of the northern reach, winters in Windem were still cold. As Gareth thought back to the winters of his homeland, it seemed mild comparatively. This was a different cold. This was a cold that chilled a man down to his bones. Gareth¡¯s heart fluttered as he imagined his wife¡¯s pretty smile. She had alluring bright brown eyes and a braided head of healthy brown hair. His son¡¯s face was etched into his mind as he threw his hiking sticks forward again. They ascended a slightly elevated slope. Groans echoed through the dry air. The miles they put on their legs were starting to wear them down. He heard some men slipping and some quiet cursing behind him. More encouragement was heard in response to the curses. A couple men drifted off to the side of the trail, tempted to take a quick rest. Gareth¡¯s good friend Elric paused, glancing back. Frost covered his eyebrows, turning them an arctic white. It made him look like a native of the cold.


    ¡°Up! On your feet! We won¡¯t stop now. Not while there is light still upon us,¡± Elric shouted. His words sounded slurred since his mouth was numb and tingly with the cold. He could hardly move his lips. He pulled a covering of wool cloth up over his nose. Only his eyes and frost-covered eyebrows were exposed.


    Elric Drakonstone did not have the same lore as Blackthorn did, but he had carved his own reputation through the years. He was fearsome, like Gareth, but more shrewd in his methods. When something needed to be done, he preferred the less graceful method. He was not a man of the people, as Gareth was. He despised Gareth for it, but he also loved him. They were close friends and more like brothers than anything. But, even still, there was spite towards Gareth because of the King¡¯s preference for the next Blackthorn in the family line. Gareth was the lord commander of the King¡¯s armies. And, as such, he had worked his way into a position where he was King Tarren¡¯s right-hand man and his closest advisor.


    Elric, feeling as though he was a worthy knight and equal to Gareth in his combat, felt hard done by. He wanted the position as Lord Commander of the King''s Armies. Not only that, he wanted Gareth¡¯s wife. He wanted Gareth¡¯s boy. He wanted the life that Gareth had. In fact, he had even gone as far as to spend quiet evenings with Gareth¡¯s wife when Gareth was away on business with the King. He knew Gareth could never know about this, and he guarded these secret desires like his life depended on it. In a way, his life did depend on it. If Gareth were to find out, or God forbid, the public were to learn of these quiet evenings spent with Gareth¡¯s wife¡­there would be hell to pay and his reputation would be diminished.


    Gareth and Elric marched side by side now. They had finally beaten the gradual ascent of the wooded trail and were now able to coast down a light hill. The trees and the woods on either side had begun to thin out. Downhill was not any easier than uphill. The challenge was preventing themselves from losing their footing. Gareth felt his quads burning as he restrained himself from sliding down the icy hill. The spikes on his boots hardly seemed to help.


    ¡°Take it slow. The ice is firm here and the slope tricky!¡± said Gareth. The wind cut off his shouts, preventing the men from hearing more than a muffled shout.


    Hours later, the sun had begun to set behind the horizon and the group stopped to set up camp. Flat land was found at the top of a hill to lay out blankets, get tents erected, and find some relief from the bitter wind. A few managed to get a fire going while others opted to sleep in the refuge of their tents. Those seated around a fire pulled their hoods close and warmed their hands until feeling returned. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Elric seated himself next to Gareth in front of a flickering fire. The stars cast a soft, yellow light upon the hill. The clouds had cleared, providing a beautiful sight for those who lay on their backs and stared upwards.


    ¡°Northern lights,¡± said Gareth softly. Elric muttered in acknowledgement, craning his neck upward. Soft swirls of pink, blue, and green had turned the night sky into a breathtaking display.


    ¡°I miss them,¡± started Gareth. ¡°My wife¡­my boy¨Cmy beautiful little boy. I can see their faces now, so clear...¡± Gareth let a slow smile crawl onto his face.


    ¡°That boy¡­he¡¯s going to be some warrior one day, just like his father,¡± said Elric.


    Gareth chuckled, nodding. ¡°He¡¯s always got a wooden sword in his hand. I¡¯ve got bruises all over my knuckles from him.¡± Gareth smiled at the thought, hands folded behind his head.


    Elric changed the subject after a few minutes of silence. ¡°You think we¡¯ll find it?¡±


    ¡°What, the orc-eel?¡± asked Gareth.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­we¡¯ll find it,¡± replied Gareth. He gazed at the shifting orange and green lights in the sky.


    ¡°We didn¡¯t train for a year for no reason, eh?¡± said Elric, his tone unnaturally soft. He was a crude man, but willing to subdue that part of his nature for Gareth¡¯s sake. He needed Gareth on his side, in case he should ever suspect. Keep your enemies close, thought Elric.


    ¡°We''re well trained. We¡¯re ready." Gareth withdrew a weathered looking map from the pocket of his fur coat. It was  a frail map with a million little wrinkles. The parchment was soft from being folded so many times. He rubbed his hands together over the fire, trying to regain some feeling.


    After pouring over the map, Gareth and Elric were the last ones to sleep. Gareth envisioned finding the orc-eel. He imagined the creature erupting from the ice, hooks and spears snagging its body and pulling from all directions and angles. He imagined himself lining up his crossbow, spotting its weak spot. The bolt of his crossbow setting in place with a loud click and the arrow releasing with a splitting sound. He could hear wails of the orc-eel, screeching out in agony, thrashing itself against the ice. He would etch himself into history. Gareth Blackthorn the¡­Slayer? Warrior? Hunter? He said each title to himself, even muttered them quietly, to see how they would sound. He settled on Gareth Blackthorn the Slayer. Shortly later, he drifted into a deep sleep. Light snoring filled his tent.


    The next morning was full of animated discussion. The men had been recharged from a full night¡¯s sleep and the sun had come out to offer a sliver of generous warmth upon their backs. The group set about packing up camp and gathering their things. Gareth was grateful for the temporary sunshine, humming peacefully as he gathered his things. Gareth Blackthorn III, Slayer of the Orc-eel, he thought to himself.


    ¡°We''re close,¡± said Gareth. He was talking to Elric. They were leading the pace of the group again. They were now on flat land now and ahead of them was a long and disorienting trek across a vast and daunting tundra. The sun had retreated back to its usual place behind dark clouds, its brief offer of warm sunshine retracted.


    Elric kept quiet, imagining Gareth missing his shot with the crossbow. He could see the creature wiggling its massive whale body, churning up bits of tundra and ice. With all hope quickly dwindling, Elric saw himself leap onto the back of the orc-eel with his spears and jamming the spearhead into its weak spot, causing it to release an agonizing squeal of pain before it went limp with death.


    He thought of the recognition that awaited him by the King¡¯s court. Gareth would be forced to award Elric with a medal, cementing that he would forever be remembered as the hero who killed the legendary creature of Northrock. That would turn heads. People would begin to wonder, should Elric be named lord commander of the King¡¯s armies? Is he more mighty than Gareth Blackthorn? Perhaps people would begin to question whether Gareth¡¯s appointment to lord commander was simply down to tradition.


    ¡°There,¡± said Gareth. Elric snapped out of his daze. Gareth was pointing. Elric and multiple others paused to see what he was pointing at. Gareth looked down at his map and up again. ¡°That is the rock formation that is on this map. Three jutting black rocks that point in three different directions. Beyond that rock formation, we are walking over frozen seas.¡±


    The men glanced at Gareth¡¯s map, and then back at the three rocks pointing in different directions. There was no mistaking it. It had an uncanny resemblance to the drawing on the map. Elric snatched the map from his hand.


    ¡°It can¡¯t be,¡± he whispered in disbelief. But it was, and Elric knew it.


    ¡°Watch your step,¡± shouted Gareth. There would be no surviving if someone were to fall through the ice. ¡°There is no ground below the ice here. The water is deadly. If you feel the ice start to crack¡­well, we¡¯re in trouble.¡± Gareth gave a hearty chuckle and then took the first step out onto the ice. He seemed careless as he did so, striding across the ice as if it were just another stroll down the aisle of the king¡¯s court.


    The men had rehearsed this part of the journey before leaving the kingdom. They would need to travel approximately five miles before they were standing above the area where the orc-eel had long been rumored to have been lurking. Its shadow would be visible through the ice, hovering near the surface like a bloodthirsty predator. If it was lucky, it would find a penguin or a polar bear. More commonly it would snap up through the ice to enclose its jaws around a small bird like a Snow petrel or an Arctic tern.


    All along the frozen layer of ice there were various shards of rock sticking up from underneath. Some rocks were tall as a mountain, but with the water levels being so high only a few feet of the mountain¡¯s highest peak was showing. Most men tried to stay near a rock or two if they could¡ªknowing that if the ice were to start cracking they would need to find a sturdy surface immediately.


    The King had asked them to bring back as many tusks, teeth, fins, and other parts of the creature as they could. It was already arranged that the blacksmiths of Windem would fashion weapons out of the tusks and the teeth. Many of the King¡¯s closest advisors had tried to warn him that bothering a creature from the northern reach was never a good idea. Fabled creatures like sea monsters and winged lizards were better left unbothered. The northern reach was a land where such things existed.


    The other danger had to do with the possibility of seeing the Shadow. If any man were to lay eyes on the Shadow, its influence would once again be relevant in Windem like it had been in the Dark Days. The Shadow¡¯s existence was not speculated. It was known. Any and all fears of the Shadow were scoffed at by the King. Too many years of peace had blinded him to such a possibility. Windem was flourishing now. It was difficult to imagine things becoming so perilous again.


    There was a shout heard coming from the back of the group. They were only three miles into their march across the ice. Gareth winced at the shout. Then he ran, Elric at his heels. The others were frozen in place as Gareth brushed past the others, somehow not slipping on the ice. He came sliding to a halt where the man claimed to have seen a shadow below him in the ice. Gareth and Elric waited a while, staring at the spot. No shadow was seen.


    ¡°Just hysteria,¡± said Elric.


    ¡°Onward then,¡± said Gareth after examining the ice for a while. A few moments later another man claimed to have seen a large creature dwelling below the ice.


    ¡°It was swimming just below my foot!¡± He exclaimed.


    ¡°Was it big?¡± asked Elric. His face was tight with apprehension.


    ¡°Bollocks yes,¡± replied the man. He held a defensive stance, ready to smash the tip of his spear at the ice at any moment.


    ¡°Let us journey forward slowly,¡± said Gareth. The group did just that, taking slow steps¨Cbut only after Gareth led them. The men had nearly forgotten the possibility that the creature did not actually exist after all. It had never been confirmed that the monster really did exist. This had factored into the protests from King Tarren¡¯s closest advisors. Why send some of the kingdom¡¯s finest men marching into an arctic blitz where few ever returned? Because it¡¯s Blackthorn. They will return, the King had simply replied.


    Gareth wielded his sword in his right hand, peering at the ice with each step. Gareth''s blade was a sight for sore eyes. With a sword in Gareth Blackthorn¡¯s hands, the others felt more assured. Elric gripped his spear tightly with two hands, keeping it angled down towards the ice.


    An unexpected thud startled the men. Everyone heard it, down to the last man out of the one-hundred. The sound of steel hissing in scabbards and spearheads hitting the ice clang together at once. Then it was eerily quiet.


    Their fears were diminished when one man finally confessed. ¡°It was just me. Sorry. I slipped.¡± Everyone sheathed their weapons again except for Gareth. He knew the confidence that his blade inspired. It had seen many battles and as many victories.


    The group continued on slowly over the ice. A few more slips occurred but by now the men were used to the thud that a man¡¯s body hitting the ice would make. The longer they walked, the lighter their footsteps became. Eventually Gareth had started putting his finger over his lips as if he did not want to wake the creature. No one questioned this decision. It felt right. It felt safe. Nobody wanted to alert the creature to their presence.


    Another twenty minutes passed. The air changed. A cold blast of wind nearly blew men back onto their backs. Elric had slammed his spear into the ice and held his shaft with all his might to keep from sliding back on the ice. Somehow it did not crack the ice. Gareth¡¯s hair was flailing wildly in the wind. A sudden feeling of dread overcame the group. The sky became darker, although it was afternoon when the sun should have been at its brightest. It seemed as though the sun was setting early.


    Gareth spotted it first. Whether it was the Orc-eel or not, no one knew just yet. But whatever it was, its shadow was immense. The thing swirled under the ice, just below the surface. It looked like a dragon, minus the wings. Gareth gestured hurriedly for his men to spread themselves around the creature. It became increasingly evident that this had to be the Orc-eel. Every man had a spear or harpoon in hand, scurrying to their stations just as they had trained.


    There were dozens of rocks, big and small, jutting up out of the ice. Men took their positions there now. Gareth took the tallest rock, lining up his crossbow and aiming it at the shadow as it moved. Elric had tied up the dummy they had brought to coax out the orc-eel. He coiled rope around the dummy¡¯s torso and tied a firm knot. Gareth gave him a nod and Elric slowly lowered it out onto the ice. He tossed the end of the rope to a man on a rock beside him who then passed it to the man next to him. The dummy was hoisted out onto the ice. The straw-filled dummy slid out across the ice, eventually coming to a halt in the open. The man who had the end of the rope began pulling and the dummy slid over the ice, mimicking a sizable piece of bait for the creature to stalk from below the surface.


    At first, the monster followed, stalking it slowly. It was difficult to make out any details about the creature besides the fact that it just looked like a very large shadow. But then there was a bang. The creature¡¯s teeth sank into the ice from the underside¨Cright where the dummy was laying. The ice was thick. It would take a long, momentous start even for the orc-eel to break the surface. The ice appeared to be at least two feet thick, and that was only because they were still at the outskirts of this long icy tundra. Further ¡°inland¡±, the ice would be nearly a thousand feet thick. The creature¡¯s shadow disappeared from view, presumably dropping deeper into the water. But it wasn¡¯t long before it returned.


    ¡°It¡¯s coming!¡± shouted Gareth. Elric and Gareth exchanged excited looks.


    But the creature did not surface again for a long time. It had been nearly an hour and the sun was low in the sky. Too much later and it would be too dark. Things would get complicated at night.


    ¡°What now?¡± mouthed Elric, perched on his rock. Gareth pursed his lips. He thought for a while and then looked back to Elric when he came to a decision.


    ¡°I¡¯m going out there,¡± mouthed Gareth. Elric¡¯s eyes opened wide in disbelief. Before he could motion for Gareth to reconsider this crazy idea, it was too late.


    Gareth dropped gently to the ice, sauntering over to Elric and tossing his crossbow up to him. He carried only his sword now. Gareth examined his shiny, beautiful blade. It was pristine. It was one of Windem¡¯s finest swords ever created. King Tarren had their finest blacksmith in all of Windem craft it for Gareth as a gift after being named Lord Commander of the King¡¯s armies. Gareth preferred it to the spear, and had always preferred his sword. It was shorter than a spear, and less awkward to wield. To Gareth, his sword was like an extension of his arm.


    Elric thought Gareth¡¯s decision foolish. But, then again, Gareth had done foolish things before and it had paid off. Gareth Blackthorn had a way of doing that. If Gareth¡¯s idea of becoming the bait himself worked, and the orc-eel broke the surface to go for the prey, then Gareth would risk falling in and dying within minutes due to the freezing temperatures. If Gareth managed to stay on the ice, or even climb onto the orc-eel, Elric did not see how Gareth could survive either of those possibilities.


    Let him do the dangerous part, thought Elric. I¡¯ll be here to take the lethal shot if he does manage to bait it to the surface. He thought of the glory that awaited him if he were to return as the hero. The man who took down the fabled Orc-eel. He lined up his crossbow to where Gareth was standing. He wanted to be ready with the perfect shot.

 Chapter 2: Disaster on the Ice

    A long crack formed along the ice, rumbling like a peel of thunder. The ice shattered, breaking off into large plates. Icy water sprayed up into the air. The creature beneath the surface sounded a war-cry. The men stood paralyzed, quaking in fear. The Orc-eel was two times larger than a normal whales. Elric¡¯s eyes darted all over the ice. He couldn''t find Gareth. Elric clutched his chest, his heart skipping a beat. Had Gareth fallen in?


    Elric¡¯s exhaled a sudden breathe. Gareth had appeared--hidden beneath the belly of the giant slimy eel and shimmying his way out. Somehow the plates of ice were holding despite the dangerous cracks had appeared from the creature¡¯s emphatic rise from the depths.


    Gareth was frantic, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the roaring Orc-eel. He needed time to plan his approach before he could gut the beast with his sword. He was surprised to see that it had four stubby legs. The old legends always said that the Orc-eel was a long slimy eel with a thick body the size of a whale. The legends were not far off, but the stubby legs on the creature were surprising. One feature that was told correctly from the stories was the set of razor-sharp teeth. Each tooth was about three feet in length and sharpened to a point like a sword. The creature thrashed around, slobber covering the ice around it. Its teeth chomped down hungrily as it reared its head and tried to figure out who was going to be its next meal. Its eyes were small and black. All considered, its appearance was terrifying.


    Gareth found refuge behind a rock climbing to the top to shout orders at the top of his lungs. The men were determined to hear Gareth¡¯s orders despite the chaos around them.


    ¡°Spears! Hooks!¡± shouted Gareth. He busied himself getting his crossbow situated around his chest, which had been conveniently slid across the ice to him by Elric.


    ¡°Tie the ropes!¡± shouted Gareth. Men busied themselves tying coil ropes around the ends of their spears, harpoons, and hooks. The idea was to have one hundred men on all sides of the creature, latching their spears into the creature and pulling as hard as they could. That would ensure the creature could not move in any direction. Gareth wondered if they should have tied the ropes around the rocks that rose above the ice, but there were simply not enough rocks. They had planned this for months ahead of time and they would have to stick to that plan down to the finest detail if they were to succeed.


    Men finished tying the ropes. Gareth glanced around. All eyes were on him. He locked eyes with Elric, who gave him a nod. Elric also had a crossbow in hand. They had agreed beforehand that whoever had the best shot would take it. Elric leapt down from his rock to land on the ice. He nearly slipped, but quickly steadied himself. Other men doubled up on the rocks, desperate to be off of the cracking ice. Elric and Gareth were the only ones on the ice now.


    ¡°Hold¡­steady!¡± shouted Gareth. He sidestepped toward the beast. It released a mighty roar, spittle spraying Gareth. The wind of its breath blew his shaggy hair back. Gareth squinted his eyes, holding a forearm up to protect his face. Elric took the rear position, prepared to distract the beast if needed. Even better, he might be able to find the chink in its scales and take the fatal shot. Gareth edged slowly towards the creature.


    Gareth raised his hand to the air, fingers counting down from three, two, one. When the last finger went down he waved his hand.


    ¡°Now!¡± He followed it up with a shout, ¡°Release!¡±


    Gareth''s men, inspired by his brazen approach, launched their spears and hooks. Most latched on. Some didn¡¯t. The beast''s scales were thick and jutted up from its body so that if the men got their hooks to catch just right, it would stay. The Orc-eel thrashed and flailed, greatly irritated by the hooks and spears that were piercing its body. A few men were yanked from their rocks¨Cscrambling to recover their position.


    The creature let out another roar. This time, the sheer volume of its spine-chilling scream caused another crack to appear all throughout the ice. The sound set all men on alert.


    ¡°The ice is cracking!¡± someone shouted.


    ¡°It¡¯ll hold,¡± muttered Gareth.


    The orc-eel was large and menacing, but it was also slow. It began to slowly crawl along the ice towards Gareth, aligning perfectly with Gareth¡¯s plan.


    ¡°Yeah¡ªcome here you big stupid beast!¡± shouted Gareth. He waved his sword around as he would to an opponent on the battlefield. The Orc-eel screeched another shrill scream. Men pulled on the hooks. The Orc-eel was yanked back a yard. Another screech filled the frosty air.


    Elric lined up his crossbow. He could see a small chink in its scales by its underbelly. The scales were lined up in a consistent pattern except for one little spot where there was some soft pink skin showing. Elric squinted his eyes. He could hardly see. Flurries were coming down and a cold wind blew into his eyes, causing them to water. Thud! The steel bolt slammed into the orc-eel¡¯s side. It missed the weak spot. He lined up another bolt. Gareth continued taunting the creature. It turned its head. The bolt had annoyed Orc-eel enough to give Elric its full attention. Thud! Another miss. Elric had brought five bolts with him and he was now down to three left. The Orc-eel started to turn. The men with spears and hooks struggled to keep it contained, but it was working. The creature found itself bound by the strength of ninety-eight men pulling from all directions.


    Just as Elric was lining up his third shot, he froze. Gareth froze as well. The Orc-eel was preparing to shake its entire body like a cat. There was a layer of ice and frost still coating the creature submerged underneath the ice. Now it was going to shake and contort its body until all the hooks, spears, and frost was off of its scales.


    Gareth and Elric lined up shots as fast as they could. The creature shook and flailed. Thirty men from the far side were launched overhead. They still had their ropes tied at the waist so they were at the mercy of the creature. Their hooks were still firmly embedded in its scales. The creature shook again. More men were flung through the air like dolls. The creature suddenly stopped. It stopped its neck low to the surface of the ice, appearing as though it might vomit. But then, a far worse realization dawned on them. This was not an Orc-eel¡­¡°Draaaagooonnnn!¡± shouted Gareth. ¡°It¡¯s a bloody dragon!¡±


    The dragon unsheathed its wings, fluttering them to shake off all of the ice. The black scales had blended the wings right in, allowing them to remain unnoticed. The dragon was thawing now. It was only a matter of time before it was able to huff out fire or ice. Gareth did not know. Dragons weren¡¯t supposed to exist. At least, not anymore. They were old myths. Stories. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Gareth broke into a sprint, going straight toward the dragon. The dragon was preoccupied. The hooks and spears were still clinging to its side, irritating it. Gareth ran up the side of the dragon, losing his crossbow in the process, and using the protruding scales as footholds. He ran along its back and then found himself at its neck with his sword in hand. Elric cued in, realizing now was the time to go for it. He ran closer, coming from the dragon¡¯s blindside. The weak spot was right there¡ªhe saw it. He placed the bolt in its spot on the crossbow and came to a halt on the ice, three yards away.


    ¡°Forget this,¡± muttered Elric. The crossbow was taking long to set. He put the crossbow down. He was going to pierce the dragon with the tip of his sword. Before he could do so, he felt a jolt of sharp pain and the wind was knocked out of him. The dragon had reared its wing back and slammed it into Elric from behind. He went flying. He slid along the ice, landing right where Gareth had been moments prior.


    Gareth was on top of the dragon¡¯s neck and head, struggling to stay balanced. He lifted his sword high into the air, preparing for the deadly blow. The dragon shook its head angrily. Gareth nearly fell off, one of his hands grabbing at one of the protruding scales from its neck. He pulled himself back up.


    The dragon had charged up a deep-bellied blast of ice. Ice dragon. It turned its head at the largest cluster of men and fired an icy charge of arctic blast. Thirty men were frozen in an instant. Gareth watched on in horror, his men frozen inside like a fossil. He must kill this beast before he lost more men. Adrenaline took over. He got on top of the dragon¡¯s head. It shook and yanked its head around like a rope but Gareth was secured tightly with both hands, his belly low to the beast¡¯s neck. He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and brought it down in a ferocious drive. The blade sunk deep into the dragon¡¯s head, piercing its head with a deadly blow. Its body went limp and crashed down onto the ice. The lurch of its dead body was enough to yank Gareth from the dragon and down onto the ice with his sword still embedded in its head.


    The weight of the dragon¡¯s dead body plunged into the ice, breaking it into a hundred different pieces. The icy waters charged up around the beast. Gareth felt himself go numb as he slammed into the hard ice, sliding down into the cold waters below. He caught the edge of a plate of ice but his body was already submerged. He couldn¡¯t breathe. His lungs were frozen.


    Elric was there in a flash, having just recovered from the blow by the dragon¡¯s wing.


    ¡°Save me, brother,¡± muttered Gareth desperately. All around them men were screaming, fighting for their lives to stay above the ice.


    Elric stammered over to Gareth, standing just above him.


    ¡°Save me,¡± Gareth managed. His grip was slipping. Elric got onto his knees, preparing to pull him from the deadly waters. A million thoughts flashed through his mind. Nobody would ever know what happened here. He could try to save him. But why? Gareth would receive all the glory. He would cement himself as one of the great legends of Windem and endear himself further to the King. He imagined them arriving home in victory¡ªGareth¡¯s sword being hung in the king¡¯s hall in a glorious display case. And him? Elric? He would be an after-thought. The loyal friend that accompanied Gareth. That was all. He looked down at Gareth. His head was about to go under. He clasped Gareth¡¯s hand, prepared to pull him from the water. A glimmer of hope filled Gareth¡¯s eyes. His will to fight and survive was there, although dim. He was quicky losing all body heat and his mind was beginning to slip consciousness.


    Elric let go of his grip, allowing Gareth to slip down into the icy waters. He saw Gareth¡¯s eyes glaze over as he dipped into the water and disappeared below the ice. As he released Gareth¡¯s hand he said, ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have made it anyways.¡±


    Elric wasted no time moving on. He leapt up onto the sinking dragon. He grabbed both hands around the hilt of the sword. The sword would go home with them, he knew. It would be a symbol of their victory. He yanked and, with much force and strength, he barely managed to free it from the dragon¡¯s head. He leapt off of the dragon, doing a tuck and roll on the ice to cushion his fall.


    A loud crack! Whipped out across the tundra. The ice was cracking, and it was a big one. The sound was deafening and the ripple of the crack was reverberating across the entire tundra. Some men had sunk into the water and disappeared to their deaths. Some were knocked unconscious by the chaos that had just occurred.


    ¡°Come on!¡± shouted Elric. ¡°We must go, now!¡±


    A few hesitantly began to make for safety. There were four mile to run on the ice before they were safely off of the frozen waters. Others were staring confused at Elric. Where had Gareth gone? They had just seen him pierce the dragon with his sword.


    ¡°What about the Gareth?¡± one man shouted. Others seemed to murmur their agreement.


    ¡°There¡¯s no time,¡± replied Elric. The ice began to crack like a web. ¡°Come on, go now if you want to survive. If you want to wait then you can join Gareth in the abyss below the ice.¡±


    ¡°But the dragon¡­no one will see the proof that we killed the fabled creature of Northrock,¡± said another knight. His lips were blue and his eyebrows were frozen.


    Elric ignored him and turned to run. Others followed suit. It was no use. The dragon¡¯s body was already quickly submerging. The wind was starting to howl and the ice was going to break soon. And now, to make matters worse, a storm was brewing overhead. Lightning flashed and then a peal of thunder jolted the land. The vibration was felt underfoot as the men scrambled to make it to land. There were about fifty men who had survived the bout with the dragon. A few were slowly dropping off as they ran.


    Some collapsed. Some were beginning to freeze to death. Others could not feel their legs or feet and simply felt their bodies stiffen up and stop working. Half an hour later, twenty-five men made it to land. The ground was still frozen over and the conditions were still freezing.


    ¡°We can¡¯t stop now,¡± said Elric. ¡°We must find somewhere to make a fire, but now here. We¡¯ll never survive this far north.¡±


    Men reluctantly followed after Elric. After another couple hours of dragging their feet, they finally made it to a spot that had trees and light underbrush that was growing over the ice. It was enough to make a fire. The men huddled together, first warming their hands to prevent frostbite, and then their toes. Others warmed their faces first and suffered the consequences. Many men lost their toes, fingers, and even feet on the expedition back.


    Nearly a month later, the host was back within a mile of Windem. The final count of men that had made it home was twelve. Two were laid across horseback with loss of limbs or taken by serious illness. The other ten hung their hungs as they came within sight of Hilltop, where the Kingdom¡¯s Castle awaited their heroes. Women and children stood along either side of the path leading to the front gates. Smiles and excited waves quickly disappeared as the score of men returning was realized.


    They had killed the fabled orc-eel and Gareth had been the hero. But there was no proof the creature¡¯s killing and there was no Gareth in that host of twelve men that made it back. Amidst the group of waiting women and children was Gareth¡¯s wife Mildred and Gareth¡¯s six-year-old son, Tristan. Elric was the first to greet Mildred. Her eyes were already watering. Her lips quivered and her body convulsed. Mildred gave one last look into Elric¡¯s downcast eyes, hoping beyond hope that there was a chance. Maybe he was just behind¡­


    Elric lifted his head, taking grabbing Mildred¡¯s arms with his hands to steady her. He pursed his lips and gave a curt shake of the head. Mildred released a loud sob and then felt her breath become caught in her chest. She nearly collapsed but Elric caught her and held her. Tristan looked to Elric and his mother, slowly figuring out the situation. He turned to run but the King had seen the situation and anticipated the boy¡¯s dismay. Tristan looked up at the King with a blank look. He did not know what to feel.


    ¡°Tristan,¡± said the King. ¡°Do not be afraid. Everything is going to be okay.¡± The King hoisted Tristian up into his arms. Tristan threw his arms around the King and squeezed him in a big hug. Tristan was scared. He just wanted to see his father, but he was gone. A small part of him still expected to see his father, Gareth Blackthorn the Great coming over that hill like he always did, a big smile on his face. But he never did.

 Chapter 3: Tristan Blackthorn

    PRESENT DAY


    Tristian Blackthorn was fourteen years old with a moody head of curly brown hair. Tristan went about tidying up the outside of his mother¡¯s home. He was busy stalking after a groundhog, a dagger in his right hand. He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly, the blade jutted out behind him so that he could bring it down in a harsh stroke when he got close enough. He never was quick enough to catch those groundhogs. He came mighty close a few times. He had caught a few rabbits before, but those had been away from the house and over the hills. He often took the liberty of wandering about the land of Sesten, sometimes going missing for half a day at a time but always returning before the sun went down. He knew his mother would be waiting for him then. She always stood leaning against the door frame to their small, cubed house. A thin but tired grin would be spread over her beautiful face, her eyes twinkling a bright blue. Her eyes were dazzling, even in the dimmest of light.


    Tristan¡¯s eyes were dark, like his fathers. He still had a thin frame but he was starting to lengthen out. He had grown nearly four inches in the past six months, bringing him to five feet, ten inches. He always told his mother that he would be taller than his father ever was. She would nod her head and say, ¡°okay, Tristan.¡± Usually she would be prompted to take another sip of stew, as these conversations always happened at the dinner table.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to be tall as a giant and have thick, strong arms just like Uncle Bodry!¡± Tristan would say enthusiastically. Mildred would chuckle--in that tired way that many mothers do after a long day of worrying about her child, cleaning the house, preparing supper, and also getting the breeches and linen shirts clean that Tristian would dirty up. Those white linen shirts would get so stained with green grass and brown dirt that Mildred tried to imagine what had to have occurred for his clothes to get such a way. She imagined him standing at the top of the Twin Hills (a pair of hills that had become a trademark for the town of Sesten) and gliding down on his stomach as torrential rain drenched the grasses and made for a natural slide.


    ¡°Uncle Bodry hasn¡¯t been by in a while. I hope all is well with him,¡± Mildred would say.


    ¡°Do you want to go find him? I can go look for him!¡± Tristan would shout. He was already halfway out of his seat, only two spoonfuls of stew to account for.


    ¡°No Tristian. Today¡¯s adventures are over. It¡¯s getting dark and we don¡¯t go out alone when it¡¯s dark.¡± Mildred had a soothing way of speaking that would bring Tristan down from his wide-eyed grin and near-explosive energy levels. ¡°Eat your stew before it''s cold. I spent a long time on it.¡± Mildred waited until Tristan had taken his seat again and brought a spoonful to his lips before she brought her own spoon to her mouth. ¡°See?¡± she¡¯d say. ¡°Good, huh?¡±


    ¡°Eh¡­I¡¯m getting tired of stew,¡± Tristan would say. He was still young and naive, unaware of the effort that went into the daily supper preparations.


    ¡°You¡¯re not hungry?¡± Mildred asked.


    ¡°No, I am. But not for stew. I want to go out and catch you something, Ma. I¡¯ll ask Uncle Bodry if I can borrow his bow next time he¡¯s here. I bet I could kill something big with that thing.¡± Tristan looked down at his stew. Steam no longer simmered from his bowl.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that bow is for hunting, honey. That bow is for other¡­things,¡± Mildred said.


    ¡°Like what? Killing¡­people?¡± Tristan had an innocent curiosity spread across his face. His dark eyes caught a glint of the dimly-lit candle on the table. Mildred smiled at him, a mixture of apprehension at the topic but also a deeply-devoted love for that face which reminded her so much of Gareth. Their resemblance was uncanny sometimes.


    ¡°Yes, like killing the bad guys,¡± replied Mildred.


    ¡°Was father killed by bad guys?¡± asked Tristan. Mildred was bringing a spoonful of stew to her mouth but now she paused. She lowered the spoonful slowly. Her eyes dropped to the wooden-planked floor, formulating her thoughts. She fought back tears. Tristan shouldn¡¯t see this¡­couldn¡¯t see the tears. Those could wait for tonight when Tristan was sleeping.


    She lifted her head, finding her strength.


    ¡°No, he wasn¡¯t killed, sweetie. He left our world attempting something¡­amazing,¡± she said. Tristan had heard bits and pieces before, but his curiosity was always begging for more of the story.


    ¡°Like what?¡± asked Tristan. Mildred took another spoonful of stew. The warmth was a welcome feeling, warming her chest like a hot flame.


    ¡°That¡¯s a story for another time. Eat your sup.¡± Her face quickly grew tight and Tristan knew that would be the end of it. Sometimes she would indulge him. This was not one of those times.


    Tristan finished his stew, finishing off the last few sips by tilting his bowl back and letting the liquid drain into his mouth. He had eaten so quickly that he hardly tasted it. Supper was hard. While all of his friends sat around the table with their fathers and mothers together, Tristan only had his Ma. He didn¡¯t even have any siblings. No brothers and no sisters. He wished he could have at least had a brother. An older brother. That would be nice. Instead, he looked forward to visits by Uncle Bodry.


    The next day was a typical early spring day. The weather was still chilly. There was some ugly weather pushing through. Cold winds and spitting rain made for a dreary and depressing day. It didn¡¯t stop Tristan from going outside. Their modest home was on its own, away from most of the other townsfolk. They were just on the other side of the Twin Hills. The foot of those hills were just an acre from the front door to their home, and behind them was half an acre of green, rich grass followed by a thin stretch of trees that eventually turned into woods. On rainy days such as these, Tristan knew he was not allowed to wander past the Twin Hills, nor past the point where the thin trees turned into thicketed forest.


    He pulled out his wooden sword from the lean-to that was behind their house. It was a lean-to that was old and rickety. Its wooden pegs threatened to crumble under the stresses of the cold winds. It was built by Gareth many years ago. The wood rotted now and held a dull gray coloring. It had once been a rich brown. The wood was cut, chopped, and assembled into a shed using the trees that were already there on the land. The house was built by Gareth as well. Although, they had not lived here until Gareth¡¯s death. Mildred preferred the term ¡°absence,¡± which sounded far less gruesome and grief-inducing than ¡°death.¡±


    The wooden sword was a gift from Uncle Bodry, unsurprisingly. Tristan twirled and thrusted his sword. He danced around log stumps and tree trunks that laid around the house. He imagined he was ducking and evading other knights in battle. He imagined that he wore the silver-plate armor of Windem. He imagined a billowing cloak that color of Claret. It was Windem¡¯s colors. He dreamed that one day he would fight for Windem, possibly even as Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies, just like his father had. In his mind, the position had never been filled. They were waiting for someone¡­anyone.


    He spun around a tree, flailing his sword as if someone were exchanging a flurry of blows with him. He put his back against the tree again and then spun out the other direction. The rain added to the drama of his imaginary battle. Men were being slain all around him. The hopes of Windem rested on this one man. Their Lord Commander, Tristan Blackthorn.


    He leaped up onto a fall tree, walking along the base of the trunk and balancing with one arm out and the other with his sword held out with the tip pointed. Two more imaginary parries and a thrust. His mind envisioned dancing along the parapets of Castle Rarington. The rain slashed down. His hair was matted to his forehead. His main enemy would not die. Not without a grueling fight. His slashes came out extremely clumsy, but it didn¡¯t matter to Tristan. To Tristan, he was the greatest warrior Windem had ever seen. He was a prolific fighter and leader, just like his father.


    ¡°You cannot best me, Dark One!¡± shouted Tristan over the sound of the rain. The rain was coming down now in heavy sheets. Tristan enjoyed it. It was adding to the atmosphere of his made-up story. Dark One was an imaginary foe that Uncle Bodry had told him about.


    Tristan¡¯s foot slipped on the side of the tree trunk. The bark had become weak and damp from the rain and so it had chipped off right as Tristan stepped. He tumbled to the ground. The sword fell first but his side landed on the wooden crossbeam where the hilt met the blade. He grimaced, wincing. Sharp pain shot up his side. He allowed himself to roll around in pain but quickly took up his sword again, staggering to his feet and imagining the Dark One slowly approaching him. It pleased Tristan that he had taken a tumble. It fit the storyline.


    He kept his left hand clutched to his right side. His right hand maintained a steady grip on the hilt of his wooden sword. The duel continued for some time. Eventually, an hour had passed. And then two. And finally, after Tristan was so winded and fatigued from all of his play-pretend sword fighting, he dropped his sword to the ground and sat on a tree stump with his head hung while he caught his breath. He remembered the words of Uncle Bodry. If you want to be a knight someday, you¡¯ll have to become strong. Do you know how to become strong, Tristan?


    Tristan had nodded yes with some enthusiasm. He had gotten down onto the ground and began hammering out pushups. He chanced a couple of glances up at Uncle Bodry, unwilling to stop until he saw some note of approval on his face. Wasn¡¯t this what he¡¯d meant?


    ¡°Physical strength is important, Tristan. But I¡¯m talking about a different kind of strength.¡± Uncle Bodry was holding a thick, smoothly sanded staff. It was made of oak. He put it down, leaning it against a tree trunk. They were in the same part of the back lawn that Tristan sat in now. ¡°I am speaking of strength from within.¡± Bodry slowly raised a bony finger to his heart. He tapped twice. ¡°And here,¡± Bodry raised his finger to his head and held his finger against his head. Then he tapped it twice. ¡°You must have both to be a Knight.¡± Bodry¡¯s serious manner disappear and a warm, safe smile crossed his face. Tristan¡¯s mouth was open in an ¡°O¡± shape. His eyes were studying Uncle Bodry¡¯s. There was a deepness to those dark brown eyes. He had crow¡¯s feet at either corner of his eyes. His neatly trimmed white beard was slightly longer than it usually was. He still maintained a healthy crop of white hair, although it was thinning towards the back.


    ¡°Is that what being smart is?¡± asked Tristan. He was only ten at the time.


    Bodry brought his thumb and his finger to his beard. He stroked a time or two. ¡°Yes, you could say that.¡± Uncle Bodry was smiling again in that way that he often did. It was a smile of amusement. Tristan liked it. It felt warm and happy. His Ma never smiled like that. Not anymore.


    ¡°But you will see as you grow older. Being strong is in the mind,¡± Bodry tapped his head again. ¡°It is here. But, do not stop with the pushups. Physical strength is of importance too. In order to carry out the will of the mind, the body must be willing and able.¡± Uncle Bodry pulled back his oversized brown robes. He reached inside and grabbed something that was hung at his hip where his sword usually was. Tristan noticed that his sword was tethered to his other hip today.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got something here for ya, Tristan.¡± Bodry began to withdraw a long wooden stick. It had a crossbeam hammered where the hilt was. Tristan, thought the boy. He loved hearing his name spoken by Uncle Bodry. His voice was deep and rich. His name felt so powerful and important when it came out of his Uncle¡¯s mouth. He wasn¡¯t truly his Uncle, not by blood. But he was as much family to Tristan as his own Ma.


    ¡°What is it?¡± asked Tristan. He thought he knew, but he asked anyway. He wanted to hear the words.


    ¡°It¡¯s a sword. It''s for you, Tristan.¡± There it was again. Tristan. Spoken so cleanly and richly. His Ma always said it with an exasperated pitch to it. A sigh often followed his name. But this was a man¡¯s voice. It was Uncle Bodry¡¯s voice. Father had known him, and apparently they were close (according to what little of Uncle Bodry¡¯s background had been told to Tristan by his Ma).


    Uncle Bodry held the sword in both hands, as if he were handling a real, sharp-bladed sword. Tristan received it the way he¡¯d seen other knights do it. He took it by the hilt, testing its balance and swinging it a couple of times. He had acted that part out the way he¡¯d seen. The look on his face, however, was not acted at all. He held a mesmerized look.


    Just then, Ma poked her head out of the front door, craning her neck around the corner. She smiled softly. ¡°Whatcha got there?¡± she asked. She wasn¡¯t truly interested. She was glad Bodry had stopped by. She could hear his voice from inside. It was a comforting voice to hear.


    ¡°Look Ma! A sword! It¡¯s just like dad¡¯s sword!¡± Tristan twirled the sword in the pattern of an X, putting on a face of bravado that kids so often do when holding a weapon. He turned to Uncle Bodry, imagining he was a foe and hoping his Uncle would grab his wooden walking stick and play with him.


    ¡°Now be careful with that,¡± yelled his Ma. ¡°Don¡¯t go hitting Uncle Bodry.¡±


    Tristan paid his Ma no mind. He didn¡¯t even hear her.


    Uncle Bodry grabbed his stick, much to Tristan¡¯s delight. The two played for a good while, laughing often and exchanging cheap dialogue that fit with whatever storyline Tristan had picked out for this particular scene. Bodry played the role of the Dark One¡¯s henchman. His walking staff was a magical staff that doubled as a spear (without the spearhead--Tristan¡¯s insistence) and Tristan was the last remaining warrior from the Kingsguard that must prevent this evil henchmen from advancing past Tristan and into King Tarren¡¯s ¡°Tower of Terrors¡±. That tower did exist, and Bodry had many (far too many) real-life memories in that tower. Some of those memories were honorable. Others he would rather have forgotten and never remembered again. But, for Tristan¡¯s sake, he played along. The boy¡¯s innocence was a breath of fresh air. He felt a twinge of guilt as they played, thinking that perhaps he ought to stop by more often.


    By the end of the scene, Bodry pretended to have dropped his staff and allowed Tristan, the loyal member of the Kingsguard, to plunge his sword into Bodry¡¯s stomach. With a great roar of laughter, Bodry had broken character and yanked Tristan off his feet, hoisting him onto his shoulder and parading him around the yard and shouting like a mad man. Tristan laughed so hard that he couldn¡¯t even get the words out to say that ¡°this isn¡¯t how the story was supposed to end.¡± Mildred watched from inside, still smiling that soft smile of hers. Her eyes were deep in thought, and lost. She missed her husband.


    After the laughter and goofiness had worn off, Uncle Bodry sat Tristan down before he left. Bodry leaned over, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were near to Tristan¡¯s. ¡°At the end of your story there, Tristan of the Kingsguard earned victory. Why do you think he won, dear Tristian?¡±


    Tristan gave a quick response, hardly thinking. ¡°Because I was a better fighter and I had a sword.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°I want you to think about it, Tristan. What led to you slaying the Dark One with your sword?¡± asked Bodry.


    ¡°You dropped your staff.¡±


    ¡°Not me, the Dark One!¡± said Bodry, redirecting the conversation back to the story. ¡°He lacked the strength in here,¡± Bodry tapped his head again with his long, bony finger. ¡°One lapse in concentration¡­and POOF!¡± Bodry¡¯s eyes had grown so wide and so serious that Tristan felt himself tremble. ¡°And just like that, Tristan Blackthorn of Sesten was victorious. The victory came from the mind. From the mind comes strength, young Tristan. Don¡¯t you forget that.¡±


    ¡°But--¡±


    ¡°What?¡± asked Bodry.


    ¡°I thought he dropped his staff because he was just tired?¡± Tristan held a deeply concerned look on his face. Bodry let his own face soften a bit. He didn¡¯t want to concern the boy. He was only ten.


    ¡°He was tired, Tristan. You¡¯re right. But where the mind goes, the body will follow. You remember that.¡±


    *   *   *   *


    That was nearly four years ago, but to Tristan it felt like yesterday. Every encounter he had with Bodry stuck with him for a long time. He loved his Uncle.


    ¡°I must become strong,¡± said Tristan to himself. He hopped back up onto a narrow tree trunk that was laying in the woods and continued his sword practice. He spun, jabbed, slashed, and thrusted his wooden sword until he thought he would faint from hunger. And then he kept on going. Again, and again.


    Some days Uncle Bodry would show up unexpectedly for supper. Mildred would quickly switch from her monotonous low-energy routine to a chipper, more lively version of herself. It always bugged Tristan when she did that, although he could not say why. But he loved it when Uncle Bodry showed up for supper. He would sprint to him, leaping into his arms and giving him a big bear hug. Those bear hugs turned into smaller hugs as he got older. But the excitement was still the same.


    Uncle Bodry had known Gareth Blackthorn very well. In fact, he often told Mildred and Tristan that he knew Gareth better than his own brother.


    ¡°Many moons ago, I served as the King¡¯s Hand while your father was filling the role as Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Army,¡± Bodry would say. ¡°It was a marvelous time. I hardly had anything to do--and was paid a pretty coin for it!¡± As the King¡¯s Hand, Bodry was essentially the king¡¯s closest advisor. King Tarren was young in his reign at the time, and could use all the help he could get. But Bodry was not the man he sought for wisdom and advice. Gareth had been that man.


    ¡°He essentially held two positions at the same time,¡± Bodry said. He would place a heavy emphasis over the word ¡°two¡±, his eyebrows going high on his forehead. Tristan did not understand how tiresome that must have been until he was older.


    It had been true. Bodry had been asked by Gareth to go with him on his expedition north to Northrock to hunt the Orc-eel, but it was King Tarren who had denied the motion. He could not be without both of his closest advisors. Gareth was the great warrior of the two, and King Tarren had personally requested that Gareth oversaw the trip.


    ¡°Take any man with you but Bodry, my Yeomen, and my Kingsguard. Those stay here in Windem for my security. The Knights of Windem are here at your disposal, Gareth,¡± said King Tarren.


    There were other visitors that came around once and again, but most not as well received by Mildred. There was one visitor in particular that incited strong emotions within Mildred whenever he paid a visit. Thankfully, since Tristan had turned fourteen, those visits had been rare to the point where he couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d seen him.


    That man was Elric Drakonstone.


    Perhaps it was guilt from before Gareth had died. Perhaps it was that he simply reminded Mildred too much of her dead husband. After all, Elric had been Gareth¡¯s right-hand-man the same way that Gareth was the closest man to the King. Elric had been with Gareth at Northrock and seen him die¡­had played a direct role in Gareth¡¯s death. That, of course, was unknown to anyone besides a small handful of men who had been there that day.


    There were only seven men still alive from the fateful day in Northrock. Only one of them had been able to unravel the horrid memories of that day and remember that Elric had decided not to save Gareth. His story on the matter is yet to come. For now, he serves quietly in the King¡¯s armies as a Knight of Windem.


    There was one visit in particular that had spelled the end of the arbitrary visits from Elric. It was a warm, summer day. The season¡¯s flowers were in full bloom and everything was green. The Twin Hills stood proud with their flourishing grasses and the woods behind Mildred¡¯s small square house were thick with brush and teeming with wildlife and small critters. Tristan was in the back chopping up wood. The summer wouldn¡¯t last forever and Mildred planned to have piles of firewood stacked so high and so wide that she wouldn¡¯t have to fear her house running cold during the harsh winter that was surely to come.


    Done from the steep side of one of the Twin Hills came Elric. A usual smug look was spread across his face. Usually these visits resulted in Elric welcoming his way inside, pushing himself upon Mildred with flirtatious behavior until she could not stand it anymore and she was forced to do the deed in the bed with Elric just so that he would be done with it and get out of her home. She put it with it, but just barely.


    There was a harsh rapping on the door. He slammed his fists hard, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. Mildred opened the door, a startled look on her face.


    ¡°Everything okay?¡± she asked. Usually a knock of such force came from someone within the Kingsguard, and they would be demanding some form of tax or payment. That was not common but it did happen. Mildred did not have much by way of coin besides the small bits of copper she made off selling her bonnets, cloaks, dresses, and brooches.


    ¡°Everything is okay now!¡± shouted Elric. She could smell ale in his breath.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been drinking,¡± said Mildred.


    ¡°Yes, so?¡± said Elric. He was hanging halfway into the doorframe. Mildred had not backed up from the door. She was not in the mood for visitors. ¡°Loosen up, visit for a bit. It''s hard work out there rounding up the King¡¯s cattle and sending men out to chase the wild tribes that sprawl across our lands.¡± When Elric saw that Mildred¡¯s eyes merely flickered stubbornly and without expression he added, ¡°It¡¯s hard work.¡±


    ¡°Why are you rounding up cattle? That¡¯s a farmer¡¯s work.¡±


    ¡°I was speakin¡¯ in riddles,¡± said Elric. ¡°The cattle are my men. The king¡¯s men¡­the Knights of Windem.¡± Elric pushed past Mildred, allowing himself inside the small home. His horse was left outside to crop the horse and soak in the sunshine.


    Elric¡¯s boots were dirty, and they were loud on the wooden floors. He was suited up in armor from the waist down. Sweat gleamed off Elric¡¯s face. His half-helm was still in his hand. He held it like a baby. His features were dark but his skin was fair. His jaw was quite chiseled, but he was gaunt and thin. Being six-and-a-half feet, he towered over Mildred. He paced the small house, but looking for nothing in particular. He picked up a husk of corn, turned it over, in his hand, and then placed it back where he found it.


    Mildred never asked Elric a question, but he continued anyway. ¡°Took Gareth¡¯s place as Lord Commander. Busy spot to be in, I¡¯m learning. And Gareth was quite good at it. He sure had the citizen¡¯s approval. Never been a Lord Commander respected like him before¡­but I¡¯m trying.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re¡­Lord Commander¡­of the¡­King¡¯s Armies?¡± asked Mildred. This had snapped her out of her disinterested mood. That had gotten her attention.


    ¡°Yeh. I figured you hadn¡¯t heard. I knew you would¡¯ve been happy for me if word got to you all the way out here,¡± said Elric. He was facing Mildred now. He put his half-helm down on a table. His cloth shirt was Clarit, the color of Windem. The emblem of a lion with a sword in hand was across his chest. It was the emblem of the land.


    ¡°Well, good for you.¡± Mildred kept her response short and her eyes down.


    ¡°Yes¡­good for me.¡± There was an awkward silence. Mildred wanted him out, but Elric had other plans.


    ¡°You oughta get out a bit more, eh?¡± Elric lifted Mildred¡¯s face by her chin. He did it delicately with two fingers, which looked odd coming from a man as tall as Elric. ¡°Visit the Citadel. Browse the shops. Come celebrate with the kingdom when there¡¯s parades and such. It¡¯d be good for you¡­and that one out there,¡± Elric gestured his head toward out back where Tristan was chopping wood.


    ¡°I think I know what¡¯s best for us, thank you very much,¡± said Mildred. She jerked her head away from Elric¡¯s two delicate fingers. His jaw tightened. He didn¡¯t like that.


    ¡°You need to show some respect for the new Lord Commander. I made time out of my day to ride all the way out here to Sesten,¡± said Elric. His teeth were grit tightly and his face was now inches from Mildred. The smell of ale was really strong now. She could see veins sticking out in his neck and his forehead. He was drunk.


    ¡°Okay,¡± replied Mildred, backing off. Elric came closer. He put both hands around her waist.


    ¡°That¡¯s ¡®Lord Commander¡¯ to you, lady Mildred. You¡¯d be lucky to have me inside you--¡±


    A loud slap disrupted Elric¡¯s sexual advances. He let his face fall away from hers, bringing a hand to his cheek slowly. Mildred noticed one of his fingers was a nub. There was hardly a finger on his left hand where his index finger should have been.


    ¡°You WITCH!¡± Elric returned a left handed slap. Mildred had seen it coming and put up both hands to shield her face. Instead of the slap striking her cheek, it simply knocked her to the ground. She slammed her head on the wall behind her. She let a few sullen sobs escape before she decided enough was enough. She would not give Elric the satisfaction.


    ¡°This visit has gone to hell a lot quicker than I would have liked. Gareth would¡¯ve been ashamed of this¡­ashamed of you,¡± said Elric. Mildred thought he would leave then. He didn¡¯t. ¡°Get up. Now.¡±


    Mildred rose to her feet, still shielding her face.


    ¡°What happened to us, huh? What happened to you and me? Now I¡¯ve tried to give you your space, but it¡¯s been ten years! I¡¯ve had women falling on top of me and begging me--no, pleading me--to just give them one night in a bed together. But I¡¯ve said no. I¡¯ve waited. And I''ve waited.¡± Elric paused, making sure Mildred was listening. She knew that was a lie. Elric slept around with anything that breathed, especially since Gareth had died. ¡°And I¡¯ve paused for what? For this?¡± He paused again. Mildred had nothing to say. Elric continued on, ¡°Even with Gareth around, you still preferred me. He was tied up. He was never home. I was the one who kept you company and kept you warm. It was me. He could never--¡±


    ¡°--no. Stop right there,¡± said Mildred. Now she had had enough. ¡°You keep his name out of your mouth. You¡¯re lucky I¡¯ve let it go this far.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, you witch--¡±


    ¡°You manipulated me. You went behind your friend¡¯s back. Gareth was a loyal, and truthful friend who gave his life to defend Windem and serve the King. And what were you doing during that time? Seducing his wife? I don¡¯t see a man who keeps women warm there. I see a man who leads a woman toward the dark, towards the cold.¡±


    Elric let that soak in. Mildred was emboldened by his calm reception to her fiery words. Her voice had risen to a strict tone as she went on. Elric seemed to respect that more than when she cowered away.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got bite, I¡¯ll give you that Mildred. But I¡¯m the Lord Commander now. I can send men to take this home from you whenever I want. I can burn the place down, if I want. I can have you brought before the King for treason, if I want. Then what would Tristan do? Hm?¡± Elric had shrugged his shoulders, and he kept them there. His eyes were wide and his face smug.


    Mildred stared back at him, fire and hatred burning in those bright blue eyes. There was a liveliness there that had been around in years. It was not a healthy life that dwelled in her eyes. It was anger.


    ¡°Now,¡± began Elric as he locked the door. ¡°Shall we get this over with? Now that you¡¯re done with your tantrum?¡± Elric began to slide his heavy armor off his legs and kicked his boots off to the side. His feet stunk up the house immediately. Mildred felt herself become light-headed. In the past, it had been consensual (ashamedly). But they had kept their distance physically since Gareth had passed.


    Tristan waited outside the door, unsure. He had heard raised voices and a few loud noises. There was only one hole from which one could look into the house, and that had been covered with cloth. Besides, it was too high up on the wall of the house for Tristan to look through. But he knew. Even at the tender age of fourteen, he could sense it. Something was wrong. His Ma did not want Lord Drakonstone here, Commander of the King¡¯s Armies.


    Tristan went and gathered his wooden sword, practicing a few strokes. It had been quiet inside the house for nearly ten minutes now. He figured he¡¯d prepare himself in case he needed to defend his Ma when Elric came out. His floppy, curly hair popped up and down as he twirled and thrusted. Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, the door handle turned. The front door opened. He heard the hushed sobs immediately, but the first face he saw was Elric¡¯s. He did not look upset. In fact, he looked quite content with himself. This confused Tristan. Hadn¡¯t he been cross with his Ma moments ago when they were shouting?


    ¡°What did you do to my Ma?¡± asked Tristan, mustering up as much bravado in his voice as he could. He held his sword out in front of him, point first, like he had seen the Knights of Windem do in the arena during tournaments. He had only been to one before, but it had made quite an impression on him (along with all young boys who get a chance to witness such an event). He imagined a claret cloak billowing out behind him, hemmed down into place but big metal shoulder plates that made him look buff and strong. Elric¡¯s armor had been sloppily pulled back on. His face snarled into a lousy smile that made Tristan feel uneasy.


    ¡°I did her every bit of good that your father used to.¡± That made Elric laugh to himself. He laughed hard. ¡°She needed that, but she¡¯ll be sore for the next few days. That¡¯s normal, so don¡¯t worry if she seems a bit slower movin¡¯ than usual.¡± Elric said these words as if it were the most casual thing to have happened that day. It reminded Tristan of when Bodry assured him the weather would turn warmer soon but he¡¯d have to brave a few more weeks of the bitterness of winter.


    ¡°How¡¯s that, lord Drakonstone?¡± Tristan¡¯s head was tilted curiously, his sword slowly lowered as he contemplated whether he was being fooled or not. He didn¡¯t know for sure and he did not want to make a fool of himself. After all, he was standing before the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies.


    ¡°Me and your Ma¡­¡± Elric paused, getting ready to settle himself back in the seat of his horse. He hoisted his scabbard and sword belt up onto it. ¡°We¡¯ve always been close. She misses your father so I just helped her calm down a bit, that¡¯s all.¡± He gave an artificial smile that last half a second, and then hoisted himself up onto his horse. It gave a neigh and lifted it¡¯s head from the grass that it had been cropping.


    ¡°You did something wrong in there, and I know it.¡± Tristan¡¯s face tightened and he took a step toward Elric. ¡°Ma¡¯s cryin¡¯, and she never cry unless she really mean it.¡± Tristan now stood a couple paces in front of Elric¡¯s horse, not intending to let him get away.


    ¡°Now now, Tristan. That is no way to address your Lord Commander. You¡¯re soon to be sixteen, and then you¡¯re eligible to fight in the king¡¯s armies if the borders start to get ugly. I want you to see me as¡­¡± Elric brought a hand to his chin, staring off into the sky as if waiting for the words to appear to him up in the clouds, ¡°Ah, I¡¯ve got it! Your Lord Commander!¡± Irritation was visible in his voice for the first time. He yanked on the reins. ¡°Like I said son, take care of your Ma, she won¡¯t be movin¡¯ around too easy for some time.¡±


    Before he could send his horse into a trot, Tristan charged at Elric. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. He didn¡¯t know which of those he felt strongest but he felt the urge to fight. ¡°Bastard!¡± he shouted as he charged. He¡¯d heard a boy on the other side of the Twin Hills use that word before. He liked it.


    Elric lifted a hefty boot from his seat upon his horse and smashed into Tristan¡¯s chest, knocking the wind from him and sending him sprawling onto the ground. Tristan gasped for breath. He felt like he was paralyzed. His back was seized up. His lungs were tight. Tears blurred his vision.


    ¡°Take care! Your father would be proud.¡± Elric spurred his horse on and trotted away. He went up and up, over the steep side of Twin Hill where he then disappeared shortly on the other side. Those last words had come out so casually, but they hurt the worst. It had not even made sense. What was there for Tristan¡¯s father to be proud of? His clumsy efforts to protect his Ma? He had failed there. It was a simple insult, but it cut deep like broken glass.


    Tristan lay in the grass, unmoving. His vision started to return as the tears died away. His back pain remained, and shortly later a headache plagued him until he was seeing spots. His Ma stayed inside, in too much agony to check on Tristan. He wondered if she had heard any of their interaction. The door was still open from when Elric had opened it to leave.


    As Tristan lay in the grass, looking at the sky, he made a decision. Not only a decision, a promise. A promise to himself. If he ever saw Elric Drakonstone at his front door again, he would kill him. Plain and simple. He would be as dead as his father. But first thing was first, he needed a better weapon. A wooden sword wouldn¡¯t do much against¡­against what? Elric¡¯s boot? Elric was just stronger. And Tristan had come on far too obvious. He would wait for him. Prepare for him. He would hide in the woods or behind a tree with his wooden sword sharpened. He would find a rock and use it as a chisel until the tip of his wooden sword but no longer a square, blunt end but a sharp and deadly spear-tip, like the Knights of Windem sometimes used in tournaments.


    Tristan lay there in the grass. A light breeze shook his hair gently. A soft smile spread over his face. At least he had a plan now. He would worry about the consequences later. Perhaps he could flee the country. Brantly was neighboring Windem and they had a lot of land. He imagined himself speaking to someone with the thick, impossible-to-understand accents of the Brantish folk. ¡°Yeah, that would work,¡± he whispered to himself. He had almost forgotten about the shooting pain that shot up his back.


    That was the last time Elric visited Mildred for quite some time. The next time he visited, Tristan and Mildred were long gone.

 Chapter 4: Growing Up

    By age fifteen, there were a few things that were clear to Tristan. First, he would get his vengeance on Elric Drakonstone for what he did to his Ma. Secondly, his Ma was declining rapidly. Physically, her health was fine, although she did appear a bit malnourished. She never ate. But the biggest change that Tristan noticed was that she did not seem to care to live. She was stoic as a rock. No longer did she care if he was out past dark. Supper was no longer cooked most nights. If it was, it was something sloppily prepared that Tristan did not care for. Because of these things, Tristan realized it was time to take matters into his own hands.


    He day dreamed often of the Knights of Windem. It was his dream since boyhood to become prolific, just like his father. It did not burden him because he knew no one expected that of him. In fact, many did not know he existed. He was living in a remote town as it was, far away from the Capital and the Citadel. Their humble house and property were tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk, wedged between the forest and the Twin Hills. The forest went back quite a ways, and on the other side was their uncontested border with Windem¡¯s neighbors, Brantley.


    Tristan had aged a year and matured considerably since Elric assaulted his Ma. He had put behind the make-believe story lines in that backyard and converted it into more practical methods of fitness and strength. He could still hear Uncle Bodry¡¯s words, ¡°In order to carry out the will of the mind, the body must be willing and able.¡± He wanted his body to be able to do what his mind willed. He thought often of his encounter with Elric (who had no doubt thought little about that moment since it occurred) and how weak he was. That kick to the chest had ruined him. He had felt hopeless. He remembered laying there in the swaying grass, almost lifeless. He had made a promise to himself if Elric returned. He intended to follow through with that promise.


    His days followed a simple, but repetitive routine. He knew that he ought to start his mornings off with training, since he would be too tired come the evening from chopping wood and catching dinner. He would wake up and immediately head to the creek out back, where the brush met the woods, and fill up half a dozen pails of water. Those would be stored inside for himself and Ma. Then, he got to work. His arms were lanky, his body scrawny. He was still growing but he wanted to be in peak physical shape by the time he was the size his father had been. As of now, he was already an inch away from being six-feet tall.


    First, he fashioned a heavy log out of a fallen tree, useful for lifting above his head repetitively and pacing around the yard. Chopping the tree had not been easy itself. But that had simply become a part of the workout. Driving that ax above his head and down onto the wood until it was cut into a suitable size--that had been serious work. He did this for multiple fallen trees until he had multiple logs of varying sizes and weights that could be used to suit his strength training purposes.


    Next, he found a strong tree limb in the part of the woods that was not quite a full-fledged forest. There were lots of pine and leaves underfoot but for the most part, this area lacked the thick brush and vines that poked at his shins and left them bloody and torn up. He would leap up and grab the limb with his hands, trying his hardest to hoist himself up until his chin was level with the branch, and then slowly lower himself down--nice and controlled. At first, he was only able to do one. Then, with time, he managed to do five. That had taken at least a month, but it was progress and it felt good. Another month went by and he was soon able to do fifteen without much rest in between. His shoulders were beginning to broaden and his back felt strong.


    Then, there was the simplest of maneuvers. Pushups. He would complete them in waves, fifty at a time. He would vary his speed, sometimes going at a hundred miles and hour cranking them out as quickly as possible. Other times he would slow it down, allowing that slow burn to build up his arms and into his chest. Sweat beadlets would drip down his forehead and off the tip of his nose. His white top became drenched until one day he realized it was foolish to dirty his shirts every day. He left his top inside before coming outside to build his strength.


    Within six months of this routine, he noticed extreme changes in his body. His pectorals were much more defined, although he still planned to strengthen them as much as he could. His arms had veins running through them, especially after he completed his exercises. He physically felt much better and he knew there was a silent confidence running through him. He hardly needed motivation. If he ever felt tempted into succumbing to his fatigue, he remembered the feeling of that boot on his chest. His Ma¡¯s sobs from inside. That nasty tone of voice from Elric Drakonstone, the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies. He wondered if that was still the case. News from the Capital never made it down this far to the remote town of Sesten.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    There were other things that began to change in Tristan¡¯s routine as well. Supper did not make itself, and his Ma was more and more willing to sleep through her hunger to avoid leaving the house. Her eyes had bags under them and her blue eyes no longer held that same glimmer they used. She was frail and entirely too thin. She was nearing fifty years of life, and she still held that same youthful beauty, but her malnourished look made her a pity to look upon. Tristan did little to motivate her. He had his own struggles inside. He even felt a contempt for his mother creeping into him. What had she done to help them move past the incident with Elric? Nothing. He was a young boy without a father. Was he to figure it all out on his own without a mother now too? His contempt grew for her by the day until the point where they no longer spoke with another. She sat in silence, gnawing disinterested into the meat that Tristan would catch for the two of them. No ¡°thank you honey¡± or ¡°I love you, dear Tristan¡±. Those times had gone.


    There were times he hoped desperately that she would ask how his day had gone--as many of them had been full of adventure. She never asked. She just sat, hunched over like an old lady and munched on the meat in front of her. A dead look gleamed in her eye. If it was stew, she would blow on it. She would blow, and blow, and blow until Tristan was sure it was cooler than room temperature and likely void of some of the flavor he had worked so hard to infuse in it.


    Tracking down dinner for the two of them had to be learned as well. The game that dwelled in the woods was fast, alert, and ultimately smarter than he was. That is until Tristan began to learn. He realized he would have to go deeper into the woods than just the point where the wood met the forest. He would have to go and be a part of nature--sit in the environment of his prey and become part of the forest. He learned to become as still as the trees. He had to control his breathing, take steps that would not crumple the leaves underfoot. He even fashioned a type of soft, moccasin boot that hardly made noise as he tip-toed over the dead leaves that coated the forest floor.


    Then came the weapon of choice for hunting down his prey. He had started out with (what else) his wooden sword from Bodry. It had dulled significantly over time, despite the sharpened end that he had chiseled onto it. The rain and weather had made the wood begin to rot and turn green. It felt soft like it would rip in half like paper. Besides, he never came close enough to his prey to actually stab at it with a wooden sword. That hunting weapon had lasted one outing before he knew it would be of no use.


    After that realization, Tristan realized he would have to do one of two things. First, he could fashion his own weapon. He could collect rocks, chisel them into an arrowhead, and then tether them to a craft wooden arrow and use that ammunition for a bow he didn¡¯t have. Or, second option, he could journey into town on the other side of the Twin Hills and see what he could find. The only problem was that he didn¡¯t have any coins. Most bows would cost a handful of silver, and that was if he were looking for the cheapest options that would undoubtedly have cheap twine and a cheap bowstring that would snap easily, rendering his weapon useless after a couple of hunting outings.


    He made the decision that he would have to journey over the Twin Hills no matter what. He didn¡¯t have the expertise to make a bow. He did consider making a spear and or a sharp stave and hunting for fish in the creek, but he wanted real meat. There was a plethora of wild game in the thick of the forest. He had seen it. Deer, rabbits, squirrels, wild dogs, even boar. He didn¡¯t plan to adventure that far into the forest. The boars were dangerous--far more dangerous than a kick to the chest from Elric Drakonstone. They stayed back a ways, closer to where Brantley¡¯s flowing acres of unoccupied land met the woods line of Windem.


    Before setting off across the Twin Hills, Tristan found himself a pair of warm breeches, a clean white tunic, and one of his father¡¯s old forest green cloaks that covered him more like a poncho. He grabbed a long walking stick, which had been one of Uncle Bodry¡¯s old ones that he gifted to Tristan, and then he tucked his sharpened wooden sword between his hip and a piece of string that he had tied around his waist to serve as a make-shift sword belt. He also carried a canteen that contained crisp, cold water from the creek behind the house.


    He took one last glance at the house, pictured Ma huddled up in her bed with animal furs draped over her like a sick child that couldn¡¯t move, and then took his first steps toward the busy streets of downtown Sesten. He could make his own spear later. But for now, he wanted a bow. He would barter for one, earn one through labor, or steal one. He wasn¡¯t sure which option sounded best. The one thing he did know was that he wouldn¡¯t be able to buy one outright. They were broke. Tristan and his Ma had nothing besides whatever Tristan had killed that day and brought home.


    Tristan was getting tired of carrots, trout, and cabbage. It wasn¡¯t a diet that fuelled a future warrior. If Tristan was to be a warrior someday, he would need to start eating like one. Once he was a warrior, he knew exactly who his first kill would be.

 Chapter 5: The Other Side of Twin Hills

    Tristan was nervous. It was not his first time over Twin Hills before but he still felt something stirring in the pit of stomach. He was trudging up the steep slope of the east side of the Twin Hills. Tristian took a glance back as he walked. He knew somewhere inside Ma was sitting in bed with hers furs pulled up to her neck with that blank, dull stare. Or, she was sleeping. Either way, Tristan figured she wouldn¡¯t ever know (nor would she care) if he ventured out beyond the Twin Hills on his own.


    Tristan didn''t care if he wandered off and got lost. He yearned for something new, eager to put the pain of his childhood behind him. Getting lost would be exciting, at least. He was neglected, and that was Ma''s fault. That was Uncle Bodry¡¯s fault. That was Elric Drakonstone¡¯s fault. It was his father¡¯s fault. It was anyone but his own fault. He had not asked to grow up fatherless. It wasn¡¯t fair. The world was not fair.


    He quickly batted those thoughts away. Ma needed him. He couldn¡¯t abandon her, despite the growing contempt he had for her, and bitterness for the world that was growing within him. He realized that his fists were clenched and his nails were digging into the palm of his hand. His teeth were also clenched tight. He relaxed his jaw and released his fists, continuing his slow trudge up the Twin Hills.


    He wondered what it would be like to talk to someone. It felt an odd thing to wonder about, but he and Ma had been isolated ever since the incident with Elric, which was nearly a year ago now. The people of Sesten mostly kept to themselves. This far from the Citadel had the people far removed from a busy, bustling life. There was more land here. There were pastures for horses and crops for growing vegetables. Rows of wheat and corn dominated the landscapes beyond the rows of homes that lined the busiest road in Sesten.


    Tristan stood atop the Twin Hills, overlooking the town of Sesten. He felt like a hero from some ancient story, overlooking the land of his people. His hand went to the wooden sword at his waist. A gentle breeze brushed his hair across his face. It had grown long over the past year and kept some of its waviness. The curls had started to vanish and it was no longer a mop on his head. It made him feel strong, reminding him of someone from the Kingsguard--who were the King¡¯s fiercest warriors.


    Tristan¡¯s father had been one of the Kingsguard before he was promoted to Lord Commander. Tristan remembered very little of those days, but he¡¯d heard the stories. Uncle Bodry told them to him whenever he visited. Some days, he was able to convince Uncle Bodry to stay with him until he fell asleep. Bodry would give a knowing glance to Mildred. It was a look that said I¡¯ll do it, but only if you¡¯re okay with it. She would nod with a warm smile. Tristan knew she liked it when Bodry did that. It was what a father was supposed to do only--Tristan didn¡¯t have a father anymore.


    ¡°If they are the King¡¯s guards, then how come they go all over the kingdom to find the bad guys? Aren¡¯t they supposed to guard the king?¡± Tristan would ask, his face a mess of confusion. Bodry¡¯s body would shake with a deep belly chuckle before replying. His gray hair made him look like a wise old man.


    ¡°Well, they do guard the King!" exclaimed Bodry one night as he sat by Tristan''s bedside. "They guard the King by taking care of the trouble before the trouble finds the King.¡±


    ¡°Then how does¡­¡± Tristan would trail off, deep in ponder. Bodry would smile, seeing the wheels turn.


    ¡°Then how does the King stay safe if someone breaks into the Castle and gets past the guards?¡± asked Tristian.


    ¡°Well, hopefully that never happens!¡±


    ¡°But¡­but what if it did?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°That is why the King has an escort of men called yoemen.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a yeoman?¡± Tristan was far from sleepy now. The topic was everything a young boy desired to learn about.


    ¡°A King¡¯s yeoman is a more personal bodyguard. The Yeomen of Windem carry a lethal weapon at all times, in case something goes bad. For instance, if someone were to try to assassinate the King.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I see,¡± said Tristan. ¡°What weapons do they use?¡±


    Bodry chuckled. ¡°Full of questions tonight, are ye? Sleep will never find you if you keep this up, boy.¡±


    ¡°I want to know. Maybe I¡¯ll be a yeomen someday," replied Tristan.


    ¡°If you are one of the King¡¯s Yeomen, you¡¯ll either carry a crossbow or a spear. Twelve of them use a bow, the other twelve use a spear.¡± Bodry could see Tristan¡¯s eyes widen with excitement. ¡°Which type of yeomen would you be, Tristan?¡±


    Tristan weighed it up for a long time before answering, ¡°I think I¡¯d use both.¡±


    The view from the top of Twin Hills was one that made Tristan wonder why he didn¡¯t come to this high point more often. There was a lot that could be seen from here. The narrow road of Sesten split the middle of the town in half. The road itself was yellow and old. Cracks appeared along its dirt surface from decades of moving carts, carriages, and horses. The first row of buildings on either side of the road were shops and taverns. Behind that, rows of buildings included other places such as forges, weavers, butchers, bakers, and drapers.


    Beyond that strip of houses were people¡¯s homes. They were packed so close together that Tristan wondered how anyone ever found any privacy. The labyrinths of houses went back at least six or seven rows. Beyond that was the open countryside where the pastures and crop fields were. If one followed the yellow road past the three mile stretch of shops, taverns, and houses, there were two mountains that mirrored the Twin Hills. The two mountains reached high and came to a tall peak in the clouds where snowcaps painted the mountain tops.


    ¡°Right then,¡± mumbled Tristan. He said it two times more, listening to the sound of his voice. It dawned on him that he would actually have to use his voice today. Then again, there was always the option of stealing and running off. If he was quick enough, he wouldn¡¯t have to speak with anyone. He decided to keep that option in the back of his mind, just in case.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get a hunting bow.¡± said Tristan as he started down the hill.


    It was three hours past noon when Tristan arrived in downtown Sesten. The smell of smoking salmon and baked potato drifted through the air. One of the local food places called ¡°Seafood of Sesten¡± was offering a special on its salmon. Tristan walked past the rickety sign that hung outside its door. The door opened and out came a man with a large belly and a mouth of crowded, yellow teeth. The patron of the restaurant shut the door behind him. The sign that read ¡°Seafood of Sesten¡± nearly fell off its hinges. On the other side of the road was a tavern that was also bustling with patrons. Someone was in town to entertain. Tristan could pick out the sound of someone inside speaking in a high voice. Every ten seconds there would be a roar of laughter followed by a second, even louder wave of laughter as the entertainer continued to make jests.


    Tristan¡¯s curiosity pulled him toward the rowdy tavern with the entertainer. He peered inside the tavern¡¯s entrance. There was no door. He decided to step inside, but only barely. His eyes were wide and his posture was unsure. This wasn¡¯t a place that he belonged. Swordbelts and cloaks hung from hooks by Tristan¡¯s head. The ground was dirt and the walls were made of worn-down wood. People sat along long benches facing a circular pit-like area at the front of the tavern. He could see all the way to the left, past the bathrooms, was a long hallway with rooms for people to stay the night.


    An entertainer was running through his routine at the center of the circular pit at the front of the tavern. Tristan listened briefly before deciding he had been right to assume this was not his crowd.


    ¡°I thought to myself¡­I am STIFLED with this smell of sin outside my door. Something fouler than the King¡¯s justice. It must be the King himself!¡±


    Laughter erupted. Such humor would not have gone unpunished closer to the Capital. But this was Sesten, and no town could be farther geographically from the Capital.


    ¡°If truly the King stands outside my door, then truly there is not so ugly a fiend of hell as thou!¡±


    Tristan left the tavern and continued down the old yellow road. He ignored the dozens of restaurants, taverns, and shops that lined either side of the road and he swept down a narrow alley that was hardly wide enough for his shoulders. He knew that he was more apt to find a weapon for purchase in the second row of buildings. There were blacksmiths, forges, and other weapons manufacturers here.


    Something caught Tristan¡¯s eye along the right side of the street that gave him pause. It was a rather chilling sight that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The man standing outside the blacksmith¡¯s shop was staring at him with small, beady eyes. They were completely black where his brown, green, or blue eyes should have been. His hairline began at the top of his head, where wavy hair ran down the back of his head. He had a beak of a nose and pointed teeth that stuck over the top of his bottom lip. His staring did not cease, despite Tristan¡¯s acknowledgement of him. Tristan noted his longsword that hung at his hip, partly concealed by his draping black cape. His clothes were mostly gray with dark green trim.


    Tristan looked above the creep to see that the high-ceilinged shop was a forge. There were blacksmiths inside hammering away fiercely at red hot metal. Sparks flew. The lighting was orange-red inside. Loud curses and barking orders could heard. Men hammered away at their steel, permanent scowls upon their face.


    Unsettled by the stare of mysterious-looking man, Tristan walked so fast that he nearly broke into a sprint. He felt the man¡¯s eyes follow him as he moved past. Tristan suddenly felt like he was hundreds of miles away from his home. He sheepishly found himself missing the safe, remote shelter of his home. He had made trips this side of the Twin Hills before, but that was to the north or south of downtown Sesten. This was a place where busy merchants and tradesmen bought, sold, or traded their goods.


    After browsing his options, Tristan spotted a small forgery that appeared quaint and underwhelming. There was only one blacksmith at work here, and he appeared short and thin. He was hammering away at a thin-bladed sword with a razor sharp point at the end. The man was hunched naturally, as if his body had morphed into a permanent hunch after years of blacksmith work.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    The hunched man lifted his goggles, pausing to admire his work. The sight of Tristan turned his attention.


    ¡°Can I help you lad?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­sir,¡± said Tristian, unsure of himself. ¡°I am looking to buy a¡­¡± What was he looking to buy? A sword? A bow? ¡°A bow. I¡¯m looking to buy a bow.¡±


    ¡°A Bow? This is a forgery, lad. We¡¯ve got swords, daggers, knives, spearheads, halberds¡­that¡¯s about it. Besides, yer¡¯ a bit young to be browsin¡¯ ¡®round here.¡± His accent was thick and milky.


    ¡°Could you point me in the right direction? I am in desperate need of a bow. My Ma sent me to buy one,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Yes boy¡­erm, you¡¯ll want to make your way across the street there to find yourself a bow from the fletcher. He won¡¯t string it fer ye though. For that, you¡¯ll need to go back to the main road to find the only stringer in town. From there, he¡¯ll send you to someone else to buy your shafts and arrowheads from. Got that boy?¡±


    Tristan¡¯s mouth hung open, a daft look spread across his face. ¡°Yes, erm¡­I¡¯ll just be going then.¡±


    Tristan fled the town shops. If he was going to get a bow for himself, he wasn¡¯t going to get it here. He had no coin and the men here weren¡¯t friendly. They weren¡¯t like Uncle Bodry. Not one bit.


    Tristan made his way out of that strange town with its busy merchants, blacksmiths, entertainers, and beady eyed men with billowing capes.


    Before he could completely exit the town, his attention was caught by a young boy and a father. The man looked incredibly familiar, and Tristan soon understood why. It looked like his own father. The young boy was around ten years old, reminding Tristan of a younger version of himself. A terrible sadness built up inside him. A coldness gnawed at him and tore all strength from his body. He was only a young boy when his father died in the northern reach. Most of his memories of him were stories told by Ma or Uncle Bodry.


    There was a pile of hay sitting outside one of the shops at the far end of the old yellow road. Tristan allowed himself a seat, carefully withdrawing his wooden sword and laying it beside him.


    ¡°You craft that yourself?¡±


    Tristan flicked his head to the right with a start. A girl about his age was staring back at him.


    ¡°Well, did you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Oh, um, this?¡± Tristan held up his wooden sword, suddenly feeling impish.


    ¡°Why yes, of course, that! I wasn¡¯t asking about your massive cloak.¡± Her voice was shrill but strong. Her eyes were green and enchanting and her hair was in a sloppy pony-tail that sat high on her head.


    ¡°I crafted it myself, yes.¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Man of few words. I¡¯d hardly call you a man, though, if I¡¯m honest.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? And why¡¯s that?¡± Tristan rose from his seat on the hay bale, his shoulders were pulled back and chest puffed out. The girl giggled.


    ¡°Apparently he¡¯s got a massive pair of hairless balls on him as well.¡± The girl was half-laughing as she said it. ¡°Where¡¯re you from, sword-maker?¡± Her face grew serious. She turned her head this way and that, waiting for his answer impatiently.


    ¡°I don¡¯t answer those sorts of questions. I don¡¯t hang around downtown Sesten often¡­I¡¯m kind of new here, I suppose, and I¡¯d rather not give away any information that¡¯s best held close to my chest,¡± said Tristan. He realized he was holding his wooden sword rather foolishly, and he tucked it into his string-made sword belt.


    ¡°Suit yourself then. I¡¯ll just call you Sword Maker then. Pleasure to meet ya, my name is Loren. Loren Bjornsfear.¡± Loren held her hand out. Tristan looked at her hand doubtfully.


    ¡°Bjornsfear? Isn¡¯t that a--¡±


    ¡°--a Denderrikan name? Yes, it is,¡± Loren stared at Tristan with unwavering stare. ¡°My father was from Denderrika before he found himself here in Windem. We were much closer to the Capitol when I was child. We lived in Rarington, just outside the castle walls. Now I¡¯m here, as far as Windem¡¯s borders will allow.¡± She gave a light shrug and then pretended to be preoccupied with a couple of coins she held in her hand.


    ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡± asked Tristan, eyeing the coins in her hand.


    ¡°You asked, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I only asked about the name Bjornsfear. It doesn¡¯t sound like a name from Windem,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Well, it is now. Anyways, it¡¯s nice to meet you. Have a good day Sword Maker,¡± she turned to leave. ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ll see you around,¡± she said curtly. She spun on her heel and took a step¡­two steps¡­


    ¡°Wait, Loren?¡±


    Loren paused mid-stride. ¡°Yes, Sword Maker?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Tristan. Tristan Blackthorn, if it please you.¡± Tristan held his mouth agape. He did not know whether that would bring Loren back or send her off quicker. Either way, he wanted her to stay. He was still thinking about the coins in her hand. She¡¯s bound to have more than that in her pockets, thought Tristan.


    ¡°I just thought that perhaps you could show me around¡­help me get familiar with the area,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you from Sesten? You don¡¯t strike me as much of a traveler,¡± replied Loren.


    ¡°What makes you say that, Loren Bjornsfear of Dendarrika?¡± Tristan smiled. It felt good to say someone else¡¯s name that he wasn¡¯t familiar with. Loren was a breath of fresh air. He had completely forgotten about the heavy darkness that had been tugging at his heart. He couldn¡¯t help noticing Loren¡¯s beauty. It was a beauty that came without trying. She also seemed to know or care that she appeared beautiful. But then again, she had no lack of confidence. Tristan wondered if that merely had to do with his own lack of wit and charm.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got your father¡¯s cloak, a piece of string holding your breeches up, and sword made of wood that might leave me a splinter in my midriff If I was somehow caught unaware by your loud breathing and heavy footsteps.¡±


    ¡°My boots are quiet. I made them for hunting in the forest where the leaves are crunchy underfoot. See, look,¡± Tristan slipped off a soft boot and held it out for Loren.


    ¡°Are you really showing a girl your smelly, dirty boots?¡± Loren gave him a long look before snatching the boots from his hand. She examined it, flexed it, and then tried it on. The boot was massive on her small foot. Tristan smiled. It was cute. ¡°So not only does Tristan Blackthorn make his own swords, he also makes his own shoes,¡± said Loren in a curious tone.


    ¡°Yes, I do,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Now what¡¯re you doing here then? Are you looking to sell those items? No one is going to buy that wooden sword of yours, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re hoping.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± replied Tristan, ¡°I¡¯m not selling. I¡¯m hoping to buy a bow so I can hunt. I¡¯ve got to make supper for myself and my Ma and I¡¯m getting sick of cabbage and carrots. I need a bow,¡± Tristan trailed off at that, hoping Loren could somehow help him. Or perhaps, he could make her help him. He agreed to himself that he wouldn¡¯t harm, wouldn¡¯t touch her. She looked more than competent at defending herself. He might be able to snatch those coins from her though. He could see the bulge of her coins sitting in one of the low pockets of her leather and fur coat. There were nearly six pockets running up and down her coat, each one lined with a thin layer of white fur. It was an expensive looking jacket.


    ¡°What¡¯s your price range? I can help you find something that fits your budget,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°Really? You would do that?¡± asked Tristan. He had genuine excitement in his voice, he didn¡¯t have to fake that. If he could get her in a crowded store and ¡°bump into her¡± by accident, he might be able to get his hand in and out of that pocket unnoticed.


    ¡°I suppose I could. I¡¯ll want something in exchange, of course.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡± asked Tristan.


    Loren eyed him up and down. She tilted her head thoughtfully, pursing her lips. ¡°If I find you a bow, you have to kill for me.¡±


    Tristan felt a lump form in his throat. ¡°Kill? Who?¡± His voice was watery and thin.


    ¡°You really do have small balls, don¡¯t you Sword Maker?¡± said Loren.


    ¡°Tristan,¡± he corrected. ¡°Its Tristan, and who would I be killing for you?¡±


    ¡°Not who, what. You¡¯re going to find me my next meal with the bow that I help you find.¡± Loren stared at him with those sharp green eyes she had. The sun was setting and leaving a burning orangish-red in the sky. The reflection on the red tiled housing of Sesten was quite the sight for sore eyes.


    Tristan let out a deep breath. This was going to become too much for obtaining a bow. He didn¡¯t have a copper coin to speak of and now he was going to burden himself with the responsibility of catching dinner for this stranger he just met. He didn¡¯t even know if he¡¯d be able to properly use a bow.


    ¡°Look, Loren. I¡¯ve got to be completely honest with you. The sun is starting to lower in the sky which means I¡¯ll have to be getting home soon to tend to my Ma. She doesn¡¯t like being alone past sundown and--¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re more broke than a lame farmhand. You¡¯ve not got a single copper coin, do yeh?¡± Loren tended to end her sentences with a thick accent. Tristan couldn¡¯t make up his mind as to whether he liked it or not. He decided he didn¡¯t, and then the next second he already changed his mind. It was different, and he was starting to like ¡°different¡± if it meant he could finally get his hands on a bow.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got this,¡± Tristan held up his wooden sword, which now seemed pathetic compared to all of the real-life swords that were being hammered into existence all around him. ¡°And I¡¯ve got this,¡± Tristan held his water canteen out with his left hand, a smirk on his face that suggested he¡¯d take the pity. He had just put his cards down on the table. He had nothing.


    ¡°Are you a strong hand?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°What¡¯d you mean? If you¡¯re asking if I¡¯ve got strong hands, then yes, I suppose I do,¡± replied Tristan. Loren smiled, preparing an offer, ¡°If you¡¯re willing to put those strong hands to work and commit to a bit of labor, I supposed I could buy you a longbow today. I¡¯ll even buy you a few feathered arrows with razor-sharp blade-tips, if your heart desires, Tristan.¡±


    Tristan couldn¡¯t tell if he was imagining it. His name had come out of her mouth somewhat seductively. He put it down to the accent and then weighed up the offer. He realized that this may be his safest, easiest way to obtain a hunting bow. Besides, it was all for his Ma at the end of the day. She had raised him on her own, and now that she was slowing down it was time for him to take care of her.


    ¡°I¡¯m in, as long as I can return to my Ma today and fulfill my labor another day. I won¡¯t leave her worried and alone past dark,¡± said Tristan. He knew she wouldn¡¯t be missing him, but he wanted to close this deal before the day ended anyways.


    ¡°How about this, Sword Maker, I¡¯ll buy the bow today, but I''ll take it home with me. You¡¯ll go home empty handed tonight and go see your Ma. Meet me at this same spot tomorrow at first sun, and I¡¯ll have you follow me back to my place and help me out with a few things. Then, once you¡¯ve done all that I ask, you can have your bow and be on your way¡­deal?¡±


    Tristan was nodding his head, replaying all that she had said in his head. ¡°Okay, deal.¡±


    They shook hands. Her fingers were delicate and thin, but her grasp was firm.


    ¡°See you tomorrow, Sword Maker.¡±


    Tristan opened his mouth to respond, but Loren had already started walking away. He was left staring after her, hoping she might turn around so that he could wave goodbye. She didn¡¯t turn back.


    He prepared to make his way home, back to the other side of the Twin Hills. Tomorrow, he would make quick work of whatever Loren wanted him to help her with. Once done, he could hardly wait to take his bow hunting. He was sick and tired of cabbage and carrots for supper.

 Chapter 6: A Deal with a Denderrikan

    When Tristan had returned to the other side of the Twin Hills after heading back down the old yellow road through the heart of downtown Sesten, it only took him a few minutes to find the spot that he''d met Loren the day before. Thankfully, he did not see the unsettling man with black, beady eyes from yesterday. Had that been usual in the busy downtown of Sesten? Or was that odd man just as sinister as he had perceived? Tristan pushed those thoughts aside, and decided it was just his naivety. He had hardly adventured outside his home before and everything was bound to look new and even frightful at times.


    The clanging of mallets and hammers filled the morning air. It was a warm, sticky morning. Thick black bugs buzzed through the air, attracted to all the scents and smells. Tristan looked around. Loren was not here yet. There was hardly anyone here yet. It was the first day of a new week, which meant everyone would be slowly settling into their weekly routines. The streets wouldn¡¯t be bustling like they were yesterday until three past noon, when folk crowded in for an ale and some supper. As far as Tristan knew, Sesten was the only town in Windem that combined their midday meal and supper.


    An hour passed. Still no Loren. Tristan took a deep breath and looked around, desperate for anything to get a hold of his attention and distract him from his angst. It wasn¡¯t that Loren made him nervous, but she did make him feel¡­different. He had never been close with a woman besides his Ma--not that he felt close with Loren. He didn¡¯t even know if they were considered friends yet.


    The deal he had bartered with Loren entered his mind, refusing to leave like some sort of pestering presence that wouldn''t leave until he addressed it. Tristan gave in, confronting the worries that plagued his mind. What did he have to fulfill on his end of the bargain? Loren hadn¡¯t said. The possibility that she was leading him into some sort of trap crossed his mind, but he batted the idea away. She seemed trustworthy enough. He tried to think of what Uncle Bodry would say. In his mind''s eye, he saw Uncle Bodry--his big blue eyes, receding gray hair, and that assured smile that told Tristan everything would work out.


    ¡°What¡¯re you smiling at eh, Sword Maker?¡±


    Tristan jumped, startled by Loren''s sudden appearance. ¡°Oh...hey,¡± said Tristan, trying to seem casual.


    ¡°Are you that excited to see me, Sword Maker? You can¡¯t keep that smile off your face huh?¡± Loren was smiling now, which meant that Tristan couldn¡¯t wipe the smile from his own face either. Her voice was unique, coated with a thick Denderrikan accent. He remembered her father was from there. The only thing he knew from what Uncle Bodry had told him was that Denderrika was a huge land with dangerous outlaws. ¡°Warbands,¡± he had called them. ¡°Don¡¯t mess with a Dendarrikan,¡± Uncle Bodry would say.


    Tristan came to, realizing he had just been staring blankly at Loren.


    ¡°I said, are you ready?¡± said Loren impatiently.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m ready,¡± Tristan replied stiffly.


    ¡°Then let¡¯s go. You look like you¡¯ve just seen the Shadow,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°The Shadow?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°You¡¯ve never heard of the Shadow?" asked Loren, incredulous that Tristan hadn''t heard of it. "That¡¯s a classic tavern tale, the former Lord Commander of Windem took one hundred men to Northrock,¡± Loren paused, waiting to see if some recognition would dawn on Tristan''s face. ¡°Some balls, they had¡­" Loren trailed off, trying to think of something new to fill conversation. She frowned, furrowing her brow and wondering if Tristan intended on sharing any thoughts of his own. Loren''s face brightened, making a startling realization.


    "Hey--isn''t your name the same as--"


    ¡°Blackthorn," interrupted Tristan. "Yeah, you¡¯re right.¡± Tristan was white as a sheet, his gaze downward. An awkward silence passed between them. ¡°Let¡¯s get moving then. Lead the way.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean to ruin your morning," said Loren dully.


    ¡°It¡¯s no bother. Let¡¯s hurry then, I mean to test my bow today before sundown. I¡¯d rather get this over with.¡± said Tristan, putting his head down and starting to walk.


    Loren got over her concern, deciding against pressing the issue any further. She¡¯d only just then made the connection about the last name, Blackthorn. The story of the journey into Northrock was so legendary and so well told that she never would have actually thought she was talking to the son of Gareth Blackthorn. After all, Blackthorn was not an uncommon surname in Windem.


    Once they had left the busy town of Sesten, Loren led the way with a quickened pace. They had turned left off the old yellow road, trudging between rows of crops and eventually cornstalks. Once they came through the crops, they maneuvered through a heavily wooded forest. It opened up into a small clearing that went onwards for many miles to the west past swooping hills and giant rocks before continuing straight and coming into another long stretch of forest. They continued on for two miles in silence before Tristan spoke.


    ¡°You said I looked like I¡¯d just seen the Shadow earlier¡­what did you mean by that?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°You¡¯ve never heard of the Shadow?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°No, I guess I haven¡¯t,¡± replied Tristan. He felt himself suppressing his anger. It angered him the way that she acted so shocked that he didn¡¯t know about the Shadow. He wished she would just answer his question and be done with it the way Uncle Bodry did.


    ¡°The Shadow is an evil spirit," began Loren, pausing as she racked her brain, " It was contained years ago by an old hero named...erm, I forget his name now..." Loren frowned, trying to remember. She continued anyways.


    "The hero of the old days bound the evil spirit''s influence to the faraway land of Northrock," said Loren. The two walked side by side, ducking beneath a low hanging tree branch before Loren continued.


    "What do you mean by bound?" asked Tristan.


    "He sent it there, using the help of an old Sorcerer. If I''m remembering correctly, the Sorcerer cast a spell that contained the evil being in Northrock for a hundred years," said Loren.


    "Has it been a hundred years yet?" asked Tristan, brows furrowed in distress.


    Cascading laughter escaped Loren, who was amused by Tristan''s sudden concern. She finally composed herself before replying. "Yes, its been a long time."


    Tristan was smiling now. Loren''s laugh was intoxicating. Tristan couldn''t remember the last time he''d heard laughter. They walked in a brief silence before Loren continued her story.


    "When my father was still alive, he used to take me to the taverns in Denderrika where men sat around with their ales and their pipes and talked about old legends...dark things that are best left unspoken. The story of the Shadow always stuck with me--the way he was depicted as this spirit who took the form of a man, desperate to gain power so he could rule with his bride."


    "Who was supposed to be his bride?" asked Tristan, falling into his old pattern of asking questions.


    "His bride was a Sorceress--who sought to bring him a sword as a gift. The sword contained great power. And if I am remembering this correctly, when the The Shadow was banished to Northrock, his bride was scattered to the other end of the realm where she put behind her powers and decided to live out the rest of her life as a normal citizen of that land.¡±


    "Oh, wow..." said Tristan.


    "You following?" asked Loren.


    "I think so."


    Loren smiled, as she so often did, pushing the loose, stray hairs out of her face which brought a rush of color to Tristan''s cheeks--who had only realized in that moment just how beautiful Loren was.


    "Some say that The Shadow is just a spirit--a mindless force bent on unleashing chaos into the world. Others argue that he was once a man who became darkness itself. And so now he seeks someone to devour and use as his pawn--like a chess player moving his pieces into place. But he cannot leave Northrock unless someone is there for him to inhabit and take hold of.¡±


    ¡°You said this evil being dwells in Northrock?¡± asked Tristan, thinking of his father and their trek to Northrock to hunt the Orc-eel.


    ¡°I believe so..." Loren trailed off, looking at Tristan cautiously. "Hey--I''m no expert on my folklore and tall tales. I could be wrong."


    Tristan furrowed his brows, perplexed. ¡°Is the Shadow¡­real? I mean, the stories and all?¡±


    ¡°I believe the Shadow is real. I think he¡¯s out there¡­somewhere.¡± said Loren, chewing her lip. They had paused their walk to consider this frightening possibility.


    ¡°And what of the sword?¡± asked Tristan. "You said the The Shadow was given a sword of some kind...by his bride?"


    Loren laughed. ¡°And wouldn¡¯t you like to know, Tristan Sword Maker! Knight and Protector of the realm in your crimson cape and bright armor, letting your sword gleam in the light for all to see.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not that," said Tristan flatly. "Look, I just want to get what I came here for so I can get back home again. My ma will be missing me soon."


    ¡°We¡¯re almost there, Sword Maker," said Loren. "You¡¯ll have your bow before you know it, and then you can be rid of me.¡±


    --


    Tristan and Loren stood at the top of a steep wooded hill. Thin crooked trees painted the downwards slope and then flattened out into a clearing that sprawled wide in all directions. A crackling bonfire was set up in the middle of the clearing, hungry orange flames reaching into the spring air. The smoke rose high into the sky, partly concealed by the treetops. A wooden building with a large, oak door sat to the side of the clearing. Tristan could see men in gray cloaks and high-legged boots entering and leaving the open building, which looked like it was a farmhouse that had been turned into a lodge.


    The borders of the land was enclosed by gates to keep livestock inside. Goats, sheep, chickens, and pigs roamed the property in peaceful harmony. There was a stable where Tristan counted at least six horses, and there were a further seven or eight horses grazing on hay just outside the lodge. The grass on the property was beaten down, most of it beaten down to dirt.


    Tristan shuttered. These men weren¡¯t supposed to be here. He didn¡¯t know how he knew that, but he did. The cloaks and the boots that they wore were not of Sesten, he knew that. They didn¡¯t even look like men from Windem.


    ¡°What are we doing here?¡± asked Tristan skeptically.


    ¡°This is my home.¡±


    ¡°Who are those people?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°My people--Denderrikans," said Loren. "We¡¯re outlaws in Windem. If the King found us, he would have us killed.¡± Loren looked at Tristan, her face neutral. Tristan couldn¡¯t help noticing her delicate cheeks and beautiful green eyes. It brought an awful mix of feelings into the pit of his stomach.


    He had come all this way to do a favor for Loren, not to meet her outlawed Denderrikan family. Windem had been at odds with Denderrika since the old days before there were wagons, forgeries, and other advanced technologies. Uncle Bodry had told him about legendary battles of old that had occurred between Denderrika and Windem in the dividing land of Brantley.


    ¡°I assume your family isn¡¯t¡­down there,¡± said Tristan awkwardly. He remembered she had mentioned her father had died.


    ¡°No, we''re not related by blood but that''s my family now," said Loren. "We stick together for now until the war is over.¡±


    Tristan frowned. ¡°War? What war?¡±


    ¡°The war between Windem and Denderrika. It¡¯s only just getting started now. King Tarren is too worried about his borders with Solaria and Brantley to notice us for now, but we¡¯ve got warbands spread all over Windem, hiding...patiently for our chance.¡±


    Tristan noticed a man carrying a pile of brush and branches towards the pile of burning wood. He paused briefly, glancing to the top of the wooded hill that Tristan and Loren stood upon. He stared for a while. Tristan was unsettled by his cold, menacing stare. He couldn¡¯t make out any distinct features from this far away but it was enough to know that his presence was known now. He considered giving Loren a quick shove down the hill to give him a head start before he ran off. Or, maybe he could just tell Loren he was leaving and be done with it. Let her know that he didn¡¯t need a bow after all. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Why is there a war brewing? And why did you bring me here? I just want my bow and I¡¯ll be gone. I won¡¯t ever speak of this to anyone.¡± Tristan didn¡¯t know how true that actually was. He figured he would at least try to find Uncle Bodry and tell him.


    ¡°I brought you here because Lord Dalko needs an informant. Someone to keep an eye on things out there in Sesten. If you agree, I might be able to convince him to pay you for your services,¡± said Loren. ¡°You do need coin, right?¡±


    ¡°Who is Lord Dalko? Is he down there?¡± asked Tristan, ignoring Loren''s question. The man called Dalko was tethering a horse to a wooden post now. He stuffed some straw into the horse''s mouth, petting its snout gently.


    ¡°He¡¯s down there alright. He¡¯s feeding that horse right now. He¡¯s our leader, one of the Ascendians. They¡¯re a specially bred warrior that our High Lord in Denderrika began training thirty years ago. They¡¯re trained from birth to be emotionless, painless, cold-blooded killers. From what I¡¯ve seen of Dalko so far, there is not a weapon in this universe that he hasn¡¯t mastered. It¡¯s kind of scary.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s he like?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Cold. Distant.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all? Cold and distant?¡±


    Loren chuckled. ¡°If I gave away anything more than that, it would ruin the surprise. Come, you¡¯ll have to meet him and the rest of the group.¡± Loren grabbed Tristan¡¯s hand. ¡°Oh, and make sure you don¡¯t call them a ¡®warband¡¯. That¡¯s what the rest of Windem calls them. They don¡¯t like that term.¡±


    Tristan pulled his hand away from Loren¡¯s.


    ¡°Wait, I can¡¯t do this," said Tristan. "I think I¡¯ll just be going now. I¡¯m sure I can manage without a bow¨C¡±


    ¡°--not a good idea,¡± interrupted Loren. ¡°Lord Dalko already saw you. I would advise against leaving now.¡±


    ¡°What?" said Tristan in a panic, "I think I¡¯ll take my chances and just--¡±


    ¡°No," said Loren. She yanked his arm toward her. ¡°Let¡¯s go. You¡¯ll get your hunting bow if you play your cards right. And if you really play your cards right, you can set up a deal with Lord Dalko and start earning some coin for your services. You¡¯re going to need that, by the way. Taxes are being doubled because of the war. The King is sending a representative from the Kingsguard once a month to personally collect. You won¡¯t want to be empty handed when that happens.¡±


    Tristan had more than a few questions but no time to ask. Loren had pulled his arm so hard that he felt himself falling down the steep wooded hill. He was practically gliding as he ran down the steep side of the hill, narrowly missing trees that would have split his head in half. Loren seemed to have no trouble keeping her balance and avoiding trees, roots, and hidden brush.


    When Tristan and Loren arrived into the clearing down below, Dalko was staring coldly at Tristan. He had a sharp, chiseled jaw and a short nose that led up to piercing blue eyes. His ears were small, his hair was short and black, coming to a point in a widow¡¯s peak. Tristan guessed him to be five foot eight. He appeared dense and strong even beneath his long smokey gray cloak. He wore a light blue shirt that was tucked into black pants. His black boots came up to mid-shin height. It was unusual for Dalko Rivien to be wearing anything other than grays and blacks, but he was sporting his leisurely attire and hence the light blue shirt.


    ¡°Dalko,¡± shouted Loren as she approached with Tristan at her side. He was already staring at them. His eyes were not kind. In fact, he actually held a discrete scowl. He fed his horse another bit of hay. ¡°Dalko, this is Tristan¡­Tristan Blackthorn.¡±


    ¡°Hullo, lord.¡± Tristan sensed his coldness and had not the slightest incantation towards warmth. He didn¡¯t trust this mysterious figure. He found himself feeling distrusting of this whole place, even of Loren. This wasn¡¯t his home, and anywhere outside of his home was foreign. Alien.


    ¡°Dalko Rivien of Denderrika. Just Dalko will do.¡± Dalko held a tight face. Tristan thought he saw Dalko¡¯s jaw tighten. His cold stare did not relent. Tristan half expected a handshake of some sort, having already lifted his arm for it. He sheepishly lowered his arm. He was embarrassed, and that angered him. He hated feeling embarrassed. At home he never had to face embarrassment. Ma and Uncle Bodry would never make him feel that way.


    ¡°Dalko,¡± said Tristan, testing the name out loud. ¡°Fair enough. Right then, I¡¯m here for a longbow. Loren promised me back in town that I ought to follow her here for it¡­¡± Dalko just stared. Tristan shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s it really. Nothing else to say.¡± Dalko appeared to study Tristan¡¯s appearance. He stared at his wooden sword, a confused look spread over his face. Tristan pulled his oversized green cloak over it.


    ¡°Blackthorn,¡± said Dalko. ¡°I knew of a Blackthorn.¡± He let a long silence sit. Tristan¡¯s mouth was agape but nothing came out. He dared not interrupt. Dalko looked like a dangerous man. ¡°Mighty warrior, they say.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that was likely my father you are thinking of. He was Lord Commander of Windem.¡± Tristan¡¯s chest puffed out a bit at the thought. It gave him confidence that a man such as Dalko might credit him with some of his father¡¯s prestigious reputation.


    ¡°I hate Windem. We will go to war soon.¡± The words bit like frost coming from Dalko¡¯s lips. Tristan felt his own teeth clench tightly.


    ¡°What are you doing here? Hiding out in the woods like a coward and speaking ill of my father¡¯s lands? He fought for these lands¡­like a warrior and not a coward.¡± The temper had come from nowhere, and fast. Loren put a hand on his arm, trying to calm him discreetly.


    ¡°Let him speak.¡± Dalko was looking at Loren. His small nose was snarled upward at Tristan¡¯s words. ¡°What do you know of Windem¡¯s conspiracies?¡± His question was accusatory.


    ¡°Conspiracies? I do not know what that word means, lord. I only know that this is the greatest and noblest land in the realm. Denderrikans have been jealous of our land for generations, just like the Brantish and the Solarians. I¡¯m told that the Clendien Empire doesn¡¯t dare bring their southward expansion up north because of our armies.¡± Tristan spoke with a false confidence. He hoped he hadn¡¯t made up the part about the Clendien Empire. He recalled his Uncle Bodry saying something about them before.


    ¡°Still a child, I see.¡± That was all Dalko had to say. He turned, striding toward the open-mouthed lodge which was now visible to Tristan. There were half a dozen wooden round tables spaced evenly through the first half of the high-ceiling building and the other half (the far half) looked like a hastily put together version of a king¡¯s court. A long rectangular table was horizontally sat across the floor like a high dais. A large armchair sat behind, propped up on something to make it taller than the rest of the seats in the room. Along either side of the rectangular trestle were stairs that led up to a second level, which had formerly been the second story to a barn before the room had been converted to a banquet hall.


    Tristan noted there were at least eight men seated inside the building with tankards in hand, talking quietly in the dimly lit lodge. Outside there were two women (one dressed like a warrior) and two men, who were busy tending to the pigs which were squealing and squirming around in the mud.


    ¡°They¡¯ll be ready for butcherin¡¯ in a couple weeks time, I reckon.¡± The wind had carried the words to Tristan¡¯s ears.


    Tristan watched Dalko dissolve into a darkly-outlined shape as he entered the gloomy lighting of the lodge. He followed after Dalko before Loren could react.


    ¡°I¡¯m no child, you know. And you¡¯d do well not to get too comfortable here.¡± Tristan paused, still breathing heavily from the courage it took to raise his voice to this cold, hard man. Dalko had stopped in his tracks but was still facing away from Tristan. The group inside the lodge who were seated with tankards in hand had now taken an interest in the odd spectacle. ¡°This place won¡¯t remain a secret unless I keep my mouth shut. I am a Blackthorn, you know.¡± The last words from Tristan¡¯s mouth had come out involuntarily. He immediately regretted them, realizing he might have taken the sting out of his association to a Blackthorn. Suddenly, he did feel like a boy. A sixteen year old boy from the outskirts of a small town called Sesten.


    Dalko turned, gave a long neutral stare, and then briskly strode up to Tristan, bringing his face within inches of Tristan. He kept his face there, his eyes piercing Tristan and making him feel entirely ill. Up close, Tristan noted multiple faded scars. One ran over his lips. Another ran down his forehead and over his eye.


    ¡°I fear no man. Not even a Blackthorn.¡± Dalko held his face close to Tristan¡¯s. His features were dark and unfriendly in the dim lighting. ¡°You¡¯ll come with me. Now.¡±


    Tristan followed Dalko up the stairs to the second level of the converted barnhouse like a child following his father after he was in trouble. His hand went instinctively to the wooden sword at his hip. It would be no good against this man. Besides, he feared what would happen to him once he used it. He doubted Dalko would even flinch, let alone feel the pain if he were to bring the wood down over his head.


    They arrived at the second level. Dalko opened a latch and suddenly they were stooping their heads as they stepped in an attic space that was riddled with spider webs and dust. Tristan hadn¡¯t noticed that Loren was following them. She came in too, closing the latch behind her. Inside the attic was an array of weapons and wealth. There were goblets, gold, silver, gold and silver trinkets, treasures, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, jewelry. It was a dazzling collection.


    ¡°You¡¯re only seeing this because you¡¯ll never take another breath if you try to take anything. I¡¯ll see to that myself.¡±


    Tristan felt a lump in his throat. He suddenly feared his hands would betray him and he would snatch a piece of gold and then his legs would run without his consent. Dalko had properly instilled a fear in him.


    Dalko looked to Loren. ¡°Be done with it. Quickly.¡±


    Loren crossed the room, hardly able to find a spot to place her feet as she did. It was incredibly crowded. A wide variety of weapons lined the walls from halberds to spears to longbows and crossbows, to longswords, shortswords, daggers, maces, and clubs. Loren found a row of longbows that hung by their bowstring on a wall and grabbed one. It was a small recurve bow with polished bronze wood and a beautiful gray handle that had swirling white coloring painted onto it. She grabbed a quiver that was leaning against the wall. Tristan counted eight feathered arrows. She handed both to Tristan.


    ¡°Have a seat,¡± said Dalko. He gestured to an old snare drum that was presumably the farmer¡¯s who owned the place before the Denderrikans had moved in. ¡°You will be our eyes and ears. Up there,¡± he pointed. ¡°You will come here twice a week, Tuln and Dros, when the sun is low in the sky. Do not be seen coming here.¡± Dalko held up a golden coin. ¡°This can be yours, if you give us the intel that we want.¡± Dalko grabbed a silver dagger that was sitting amongst the rubble of riches. ¡°This will go here, if you betray us.¡± Dalko mimicked the dagger going into his heart. ¡°You work for the Dendarrikans now.¡±


    Tristan was speechless. He was given no choice, and he didn¡¯t feel brave enough to deny Dalko. Perhaps, If he went home and never came back they would never find him. He considered it and decided to revisit that idea later once he¡¯d finally gotten out of this mysterious place.


    Loren looked at Tristan with a smile. ¡°You won¡¯t have any problems getting your fair share over to the Kingsguard when they come knocking. Prices will be higher than before. The Shadow and his rot have come.¡±


    ¡°The Shadow¡­¡± whispered Tristan to himself. He felt like he was dreaming. His head was fuzzy and murky now.


    Dalko now talked more than Tristan ever thought possible. ¡°The Shadow is here in Windem. The King plans to do nothing about it. Perhaps because he is in league with the Shadow¡­someway, somehow.¡± His voice was like a low growl mixed with a forced whisper. ¡°All the more reason to move quickly on the kingdom. The Denderrikans don¡¯t stand a chance if the Shadow¡¯s power is rallied across all Windem.¡±


    ¡°I thought King Tarren was a noble King,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°He was.¡± Loren was standing with her arms crossed. ¡°He¡¯s lost his wits. Disease is returning to the land. Crops are dying. Food is becoming sparse. The Shadow¡¯s plague is spreading.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t noticed anything yet,¡± replied Tristan. In truth, he hadn¡¯t.


    ¡°That is why we¡¯re waiting,¡± said Loren--who seemed to have taken over from Dalko now. ¡°Sesten is clean for now. Other warbands have already started their raids. At the first sign of rot and stink, warbands are taking over villages and small towns all across the kingdom. Another reason why your taxes are doubling.¡±


    Tristan looked at Dalko, who was still standing before him with a cold, distant look. ¡°Why is disease spreading and crops failing? And isn¡¯t Windem fighting the Shadow? Does he even have an army?¡±


    ¡°The Shadow needs no army. He will spread from within, like a contagious illness. I have no doubt he may already be poisoning the mind of the King as we speak. His physical form is quite¡­repulsive.¡±


    ¡°How do you know this?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°He¡¯s an Ascendian. They¡¯re a secret guild of masterminds. They know a lot that normal people don¡¯t know. Some call it skill, others call it intuition. Every company has one.¡±


    ¡°You mean every warba--¡± Tristan stopped himself, remembering Loren had told him not to speak of warbands. Dalko either didn¡¯t notice or pretended not to.


    ¡°So¡­why me?¡± Tristan turned to Loren now. ¡°What makes you trust me? You could have picked anyone in Sesten to do this for you¡­and now that I think of it, why don¡¯t you do it, Loren? Just dress like the locals and go see what you can find.¡± Tristan¡¯s tone had turned whiny. He hadn¡¯t asked for all this. He suddenly wished he was back home in the yard with his logs and his branches doing his strength training. With more of that he might even be able to take on Dalko and walk away with all of the gold that was sitting in front of him.


    ¡°Because you¡¯re a Blackthorn.¡± Dalko¡¯s voice rattled like rusted steel escaping a scabbard. ¡°A Blackthorn started this mess with the Shadow, and with a Blackthorn this mess will end.¡±


    ¡°So you speak poetry too, huh?¡± Tristan¡¯s humor was two-fold. He was annoyed. It also amused him. This cold, emotionless Ascendia could spit a history of the Shadow at him and also give prophetic lines about his bloodline. ¡°What can¡¯t he do?¡± Tristan looked to Loren for answers. She wasn¡¯t smiling. Tristan leaned forward, hands out in front of him like he was holding an imaginary ball. ¡°Okay, answer me this. If you¡¯re trying to take down the Shadow, why are you warring against Windem? Shouldn¡¯t you be partnering with them to save the realm from this darkness that can diminish our food and spread disease? If you win this war, you¡¯ll inherit a desolate land.¡±


    Dalko smiled. It wasn¡¯t a warm smile, but one that sent a chill down Tristan¡¯s spine. ¡°That¡¯s the plan.¡±


    Tristan was surprised to find that it was only early afternoon by the time he arrived back at the top of the Twin Hills with a recurve bow in his hand and a quiver across his back. He also had four shekels of silver in his cloak pocket and a half loaf of cold bread in his other pocket. He felt a deep anger burn within him like hot embers. The sight of his house from this angle reminded him of Elric Drakonstone seated on his horse, a betraying smile on his face.


    He fingered the silver in his pocket. He wouldn¡¯t buy food with it, but he would start saving some of it for tax day. The rest of it he would save for a sword--a nice, long sword with a hilt like the warriors used. That was the first day that Tristan felt more like a Dendarrikan than a citizen of Windem.

 Chapter 7: The Tax Collector

    The tax collectors that Loren and Dalko had warned about came much sooner than Tristan had anticipated. He was finally back home with his Ma and it had been three days since he had gone the opposite direction from home and met Loren in downtown Sesten. The encounter with the warband from Denderrika felt like a dream. He hadn¡¯t seen Loren or Dalko since, and he didn¡¯t plan to. Once the excitement of a new experience worn off, he found that he quite liked being home. He talked himself into thinking that avoiding downtown Sesten and Loren altogether would spell an end to his dealings with the Graycloak Company, as they preferred to call themselves.


    They were one of the many companies spread across Windem. Each company was composed of a small host of mercenaries, warriors, and trained killers. At the head of each group was an Ascendian, who were cold-blooded killers trained from birth as part of a program created by the High Lord of Denderrika, Lord Maltor.


    Tristan shivered as he recalled what Dalko had told him about the Shadow. And why was he, of all people, selected to be their eyes and ears in Sesten? Loren could easily spend her days in Sesten doing his same work, and Tristan doubted anyone would bat an eye. Loren appeared more like a citizen of Windem than Denderrika, anyways.


    Dalko had said it was because he was a Blackthorn, and his father had started all of this. That had angered Tristan¡­confused him. What had his father started? As far as Tristan knew, he had been the one who had lost his life while embarking on a mission for the King. The Orc-eel, which had turned out to be a dragon, could have been left alone and no one would have ever cared.


    The discovery of Dalko¡¯s warband left Tristan conflicted. Part of him wanted to run away to Uncle Bodry and tell him all about his adventures and make sure that the information was in safe hands. But something about Dalko¡¯s nature left him afraid to even do that. Dalko would know. Tristan wasn¡¯t sure how, but he would. The last thing Tristan wanted was to be on Dalko¡¯s hit list. He wondered when (and if) Dalko planned on attacking Sesten. Sesten was rural and far from the societal and cultural influence of the Capital.


    Tristan was finishing up his strength work outside when he spotted something, someone, out of the corner of his eye. At the top of one of the Twin Hills sat a man upon his horse, a silhouette against the sun. Tristan shielded his eyes, knowing immediately who it must be once he was able to see. Tax collectors. The only thing that was surprising is that the man atop his horse was not a traditional tax collector. It was a member of the Kingsguard. Those were elite knights, Tristan knew. His father had served for two years before being promoted to Lord Commander.


    There were a few things that dignified the man as a Kingsguard; his claret cape, his scaly black armor, the emblazoned crest upon his breastplate that showed a lion holding a shield and a sword. The Knights of Windem had an emblem too, but it only had a lion with a sword, and no shield. Uncle Bodry had told Tristan during one of their many discussions about the Kingsguard and the Knights of Windem.


    Three more knights rallied up from the other side of the Twin Hills and pulled their horses in rank with the Kingsguard. They dismounted, removing their half helms and taking a seat in the plush grass while their horses grazed. They were resting, Tristan saw. They must have collected from everyone else already. I¡¯m the last stop.


    ¡°Hullo there!¡± came a shout. It was the Kingsguard. He was descending the hill with his half-helm tuck under his armpit. A black feather protruded from the top of his half-helm, another symbol of his prestigious position as a Kingsguard. ¡°I take it you didn¡¯t hear the trumpet blast earlier. We¡¯ve been collecting the King¡¯s taxes since first light this morning. Are you deaf, blind, or both?¡±


    Tristan struggled to find words, gulping anxiously. ¡°Not blind, nor deaf, sir. It¡¯s hard to hear from this side of the Twin Hills, sir. We¡¯re quite a ways from the town and its happenings¡­sir.¡±


    The man of the Kingsguard had a bushy gray mustache that was twirled upward at the ends. It was hard not to stare at. His face was flat and plump, although his build was strong and barrel-chested. He was about a head taller than Tristan. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Sir Crowley Begg,¡± said the man, extending a cordial hand. Tristan shook it.


    ¡°The King has doubled the tax that was collected once annually. We are now collecting that same amount monthly. The King had a notice sent to the town constables nearly a month ago by now. Is mother or father home?¡± He was looking past Tristan with a perplexed look about him. He seemed to raise his upper lip on purpose to increase the prominence of his bushy mustache.


    ¡°My father was killed long ago," said Tristan. "You can do your business with me.¡± He realized he sounded eerily similar to Dalko.


    ¡°Very well then," said Crowley, unmoved by Tristan''s cold tone. "Eighty grams of silver.¡± Crowley held his palm out flat.


    ¡°Eighty grams? Who has that laying around?¡± asked Tristan, fiddling around with his pockets.


    ¡°Eighty grams shouldn¡¯t be a problem for a citizen of Windem. Eighty grams of silver is equivalent to roughly forty percent of the average income for a citizen of Windem.¡± Crowley motioned for the payment to come forth.


    ¡°Don¡¯t have it, sir.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t have it. Are you blind, deaf, or both?¡± spat Tristan.


    Crowley¡¯s pleasant face turned into a scowl, reminding Tristan of a potato.


    ¡°Watch your tongue, boy. If you haven¡¯t got the payment then you¡¯ll face the wrath of the King.¡± Sir Crowley pushed Tristan aside with his beefy arm and walked down the hill to the small hut that Tristan called home. By the time Tristan regained his feet, Crowley was already opening the door. Tristan burst in behind Crowley, making for his secret corner where he hid his small hoard of four silver shekels.


    ¡°Misses¡­" Crowley waited for Mildred to introduce herself. "Do we have a name?¡± Crowley looked from Mildred to Tristan, and back to Mildred. ¡°Name, ma¡¯am?¡±


    ¡°Mildred, sir." Mildred looked to Tristan in an accusatory glance, as if Tristan had brought this trouble to their doorstep on his own. "Why is a Kingsguard coming around to collect taxes? What happened to the tax collectors?¡±


    ¡°This is serious business," said Crowley. "The King is collecting double than normal. Dark times are ahead, woman. Haven¡¯t you heard?¡± Crowley grabbed a piece of dried jerky from the counter, unwrapping it and taking a big bite. His mustache bounced up and down as he chewed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t pay attention to politics,¡± said Mildred.


    Tristan stepped between Crowley and his Ma. ¡°I¡¯ve got this. Here.¡± Tristan held out his hand, offering four silver shekels.


    ¡°Not enough," said Crowley, taking another bite. He stopped chewing, looking at Tristan long and hard. For a moment, Tristan¡¯s heart dropped. Dalko¡¯s face popped into his head. He shivered.


    ¡°Say--you look mighty familiar. Where¡¯s your father?¡± asked Crowley.


    ¡°Gone,¡± replied Tristan.


    ¡°Gone?" repeated Crowley. "What happened to him?¡±


    ¡°He was your Lord Commander,¡± said Mildred. Crowley''s face grew soft as understanding dawned.


    ¡°Blackthorn.¡± said Crowley with deep reverence, his lips disappearing under his curly mustache. He bowed his head. ¡°My condolences. He was one of the greats. Forgive me.¡±


    ¡°Forgiven," said Mildred quickly. "I only hope that you might forgive us our debts this once, until we have found a way to earn a wage. The old tax only came to Sesten once a year. It was an easy payment. This new tax¡­this is unheard of.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll see what I can do. For now, I¡¯ll let it slide. But I¡¯ll be back in a month¡¯s time and expecting the full amount. Eighty grams of silver.¡± Crowley was making his way out of the door slowly. He turned before leaving. ¡°Next time I¡¯ll have to bring you in before the King¡¯s Justice. That¡¯d be imprisonment or forced labor. I¡¯d hate to be the one to do that to you. ¡®Specially a Blackthorn. Some man, he was.¡± And with that, Crowley left.


    Crowley was halfway to the hill when Tristan¡¯s voice stopped him in his tracks.


    ¡°What are the dark times you spoke of¡­that are coming to Windem.¡± Tristan had decided to ask, spur of the moment. Crowley turned slowly, a pitiful look across his face.


    ¡°There¡¯s evil afoot. A few folk have they''ve seen men afoot with strange accents...Denderrikan accents." Crowley turned to go and then added one thing, ¡°You let me know if you see anything here in Sesten...anything at all.¡± He pursed his lips, his mustache covering his mouth. ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a month. Keep your eyes peeled.¡±


    And then he was gone.

 Chapter 8: Routines

    Tristan fell into a comfortable routine. He had grown greatly over the course of another year. He was eighteen now and his shoulders had broadened, he¡¯d grown a few inches, making him taller than his father had ever been. He also shot his first buck with the longbow that he''d gotten from Dalko nearly a year ago now. He hadn''t used the longbow for a week initially. Every time he saw it, all he could think about was Dalko¡¯s cold face and those piercing blue eyes.


    It had taken Tristan nearly a month before he had killed anything at all with the bow. The first week had resulted in a fruitless hunt every day of the week. He¡¯d settled for target practice to improve his aim--setting a target against a thin tree in the woods where the trees became forest. He put his strength training on hold that week to dedicate the hours between sunup and sundown to aiming and firing. The bow felt foreign in his hand at first and so did the arrow. Over time, the mechanics of holding a bow and releasing the arrow became more natural. More fluid. A week after his intensified, focused training he¡¯d killed a rabbit. Thinking it¡¯d get easier from there, he was mistaken. He didn¡¯t catch another thing for six days, despite long and patient hours in various hideouts deep in the forest behind his house. He had gone so far into the forest that he was close to Windem¡¯s far border with Solaria. There was no luck to be found. He¡¯d hardly seen as much as a toad jumping along the forest floor.


    Tristan had been prepared to work his out of a tall tree that he¡¯d climbed into six hours prior when an opportunity fell into his lap. A giant buck with antlers that could ram a house down had wandered right below him. His palms became sweaty, his breath shallow. He couldn¡¯t feel his feet. But despite the nerves, there was one thing he had learned--the fear of failure usually led to failure. He aimed, released, fired. It hit the buck in one of its hind legs and collapsed. Tristan had been elated, shouting in triumpth at the top of his lungs and scaring dozens of birds out of their trees. His training was paying off.


    From that point forward, Tristan became a marksman in his own woods. It took a while to learn how to skin and drain the animals he killed but once he had done it a few times he felt more confident in that as well. He had set up a cooking area outside with a circle of rocks and a roasting setup where he¡¯d hang his meat from a stick and let it roast over the fire until it was tender and juicy. He knew Ma enjoyed his cooking as well. She, too, was tired of carrots and cabbage.


    The best words that Tristan had heard in a long time came after one of his long days that had included hunting and strength training. The days were getting shorter and the weather colder. Fall was turning to winter. Tristan pulled open the door, a large draft following in behind him with a gust of dead leaves.


    ¡°You look strong,¡± said Ma. She smiled gently.


    Tristan broke down into tears. He cried like a child, and he did not understand why. He just wept, and wept. Old memories came flooding into his mind. His only memory of his father came first. It was the day he¡¯d left for Northrock. Ma had said there was no way he could possibly remember that, but Tristan did. His father had grabbed him under his armpits and hoisted him up into his arms with a roar like a great boar. It always made Tristan laugh when he did it. Tristan could remember the feeling of his coarse hair in between his fingers. His father had him sitting on his shoulders as he talked to Ma and exchanged kisses. Tristan grabbed his father¡¯s hair, holding and squeezing it until his Ma had to rip him away. And then there was the memory of their return. Thirteen men came stumbling back. Only seven survived out of the thirteen. There were no horses with them and no packs. And, of course, no Gareth Blackthorn.


    Ma rubbed Tristan¡¯s back.


    ¡°I love you.¡± Tristan gave her a hug. He¡¯d been cold to her for a while building up to this moment.


    ¡°I love you too.¡±


    It had been a month since Tristan had visited the Graycloaks, as Dalko¡¯s Company was called. By that time, he had nearly forgotten his duty to them as an informant when Loren came to find him. He was in the middle of chopping wood to keep himself and Ma warm. Winter was on its way and soon they would need a large reserve of wood to keep burning all the time. He raised his hatchet and let out blow after blow, chopping each piece of wood into a smaller block. He felt the heat rise through his body. It was a workout in and of itself--chopping wood. Earlier that day he had skinned a couple of rabbits that he¡¯d killed with his bow, brought five pails of water from the creek back home for drinking, and also danced around the yard with his sword. His focus with the sword had been on balance and coordination. He walked along thin logs and fallen trees, attempting to thrust and duck blows all whilst keeping his balance. It was tiresome work, and now he was letting off steam with his wood chopping.


    He thought of that day Elric had come and forced himself upon Ma. She still wasn¡¯t the same since then. He also knew that Elric had been an artificial presence in his life before that too. He¡¯d clung to Mildred after Gareth¡¯s death, and Tristan remembered the confusion he had felt by that. Elric was always cold toward Tristan. Wanted nothing to do with him. That¡¯s not how father¡¯s should be, Tristan would think. When he was young he used to think that Elric was supposed to be his new father since his old one never returned from Northrock. He was seven when he figured out that wasn¡¯t how it worked.


    He slammed his hatchet down, burying it into a striation of wood and sending the block of wood flying into two different directions. Next piece. The hatchet went up and then came down with strong force. Tristan¡¯s arms were strong and swollen. One large vein ran up his right arm. He was strong but he was also lean. He would eat berries for breakfast, skip lunch, and then eat whatever he caught for dinner. If he found some nuts then those would suffice as a snack. He didn¡¯t mind being hungry. The hunger pangs he felt seemed to comfort him, in some strange way. The longings for food in his stomach matched his emotional pain. He missed his father more than he ever had, and he couldn¡¯t place why. For some reason, his mind would come back to Elric. How do I get my vengeance on the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies? He would think. By becoming a warrior. His thoughts would drift to Uncle Bodry, in here¡­he could see Uncle Bodry tapping a finger to his temple. Mental strength was what Bodry had referred to, and Tristan figured his daily beatings of his own body would contribute to that source of strength. He didn¡¯t seek comfort and numbness like his Ma. He wanted to express his anger¡­his passion.


    Loren was upon him without him even noticing. ¡°Hello Sword Maker.¡±


    Tristan nearly pulled his back as he was coming down on a stroke with the hatchet. He was without a shirt and his long, thick hair was drenched with sweat. He tried to rub his eyes as he lifted his head but his fingers only rubbed more dirt and swear into his eyes.


    ¡°Ah..what are you¡­I¡¯ve got dirt in my¡­oh, man¡­¡± Tristan was too busy trying to clear his eyes to stand still. Loren approached him, a gentle smile spread across her face. She wore her blonde hair loose, flowing down her back in cascading waves. Her green eyes only added to her ethereal beauty. She was dressed in a leather cuirass that was adorned with intricate engravings and pauldrons that kept her shoulders looking buff. She had on leather leggings and knee high boots.


    ¡°Stand still, Sword Maker.¡± Loren grabbed him by the shoulder with one arm and used the other hand to wipe his eyes. She quickly doused her fingers with water from her canteen that hung around her chest.


    ¡°Ah, wow¡­thanks. I wasn¡¯t expecting m¡¯lady Loren Bjornsfear here today. What brings you to my home? How did you know I lived here?¡± Tristan¡¯s voice was both excited and yet anxious. He was happy to see Loren but her presence just reminded him of Dalko and the Graycloaks. They weren¡¯t supposed to be here in Sesten. His mind shifted to Crowley Begg¡¯s face and his swirling gray mustache.


    ¡°It¡¯s time. Besides, the tax collector will be back soon. Did you have enough last time?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Tristan grabbed his linen shirt and dried his body with it before sliding it on.


    ¡°You will this time if you can do something for us.¡± Loren was uppity, but objective. Tristan could tell she hadn¡¯t stopped by to chit chat.


    ¡°Do I have a choice? Because I¡¯d rather--¡±


    ¡°Not really. Dalko chose you because you¡¯re a Blackthorn. You must do as he says.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? And why is that? Because my father was killed in Northrock and now it¡¯s suddenly my fault?¡± Tristan was yelling now. His temper had come on without warning. ¡°While I sit here and try to provide for my widowed mother, all your warband is worried about getting the help of some dead warrior¡¯s son to do their peasant¡¯s work for them while they plot against Windem.


    Well, guess what Loren. Perhaps I¡¯ve wanted to fight for Windem since I was a child and I don¡¯t want to contribute towards your group¡¯s agenda. I¡¯ll fight for Windem, die for Windem someday as a warrior. I¡¯ll swear on it.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes were wild and his breath came ragged. He paused, realizing that Loren had caught him at a bad time. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was just thinking¡­through a lot of stuff. I wasn¡¯t expecting company.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± Loren replied. Loren wasn¡¯t taken aback or shocked by his temper, Tristan found. A new warmth towards her festered inside of him. ¡°Come. Let¡¯s walk a while.¡±


    Tristan found himself burying his hatchet in a tree stump and following after Loren. She didn¡¯t wait for him. She just went. Tristan looked at the skyline. The sun was already getting low in the sky. It would be dusk soon.


    As they walked, butterflies fluttered from their place among the tall grass and crickets sang their songs. Dragonflies were beginning to shine their little yellow lights as they danced amidst the dusky air.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Wait and see,¡± came the reply. Loren giggled, and then took off running through the tall grass. She was incredibly fast and light on her feet. Tristan felt sluggish. He was fatigued from his day and all of the muscle he¡¯d put on weighed him down. His dark, frazzled hair flowed behind him. His dark eyes were small almonds on his dirt-smeared face. He laughed as he ran. The way Loren had taken off running without warning had struck him funny. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Loren shouted behind her as she ran. ¡°If you¡¯re going to be a warrior one day you¡¯ll have to be faster than some girl from Denderrika. You¡¯re running awfully slow!¡± She giggled again.


    Tristan¡¯s amusement turned to determination as he fought the tangled weeds and grass. Why is it so hard to run through this? They were running parallel to the Twin Hills, having turned right. They were soon past the Twin Hills, through the long meadow of twisted weeds and tall grass, and then into a small groove of gnarled trees that twisted and looped in many directions. There were thousands of fireflies now. Tristan nearly swallowed one as he ran.


    Loren and Tristan emerged from the groove of trees and then made up a hill that was so steep that it was nearly a ravine at the bottom where they started from. Loren seemed to have no problem running straight up, but Tristan felt his weight start to drag him backward. He almost fell.


    ¡°Come on, Sword Maker! Almost there!¡± shouted Loren. Tristan pressed on, a stitch forming in his side. ¡°You need help, aye?¡± Loren¡¯s accent was thick.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m obviously fine,¡± wheezed Tristan. Loren descended back down the hillside anyways and grabbed hold of his heavily-calloused hand. She yanked him up the side of the hill, her strength surprising Tristan. Her touch was nice, he thought. Even if it was just some girl from Denderrika who was yanking him up a hill that he struggled to climb.


    ¡°Are we done sprinting and leaping and bounding yet?¡± Tristan had both his hands on his knees, hunched over.


    ¡°We can be, if that''s all you can handle, Sword Maker.¡± Loren laughed. ¡°Wait, I have a new name for you¡­¡±


    ¡°No more nicknames. Tristan is fine.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s so ordinary, and I don¡¯t find you to be ordinary. I¡¯m going to call you Wind Sucker. All you did that whole time was suck wind!¡±


    Tristan hit her on the arm playfully. A wry smile was spread over his face as he caught his breath. ¡°You know, I could have just stayed by my wood pile and watched you sprint away. That would have been nice too.¡±


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t help yourself. You¡¯d been away for too long,¡± said Loren. She instantly regretted those words. She had come on too strong. In truth, she didn¡¯t want anything other than a friendship, but her playful nature couldn¡¯t be suppressed. Not now, and not ever. She didn¡¯t get the chance to be so carefree around the Graycloaks.


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± replied Tristan. ¡°I could use a friend.¡± They both sank to the ground, knees up to their chest. They were at the top of a flat plain that overlooked a rural landscape. Trees and farmland were spread dottily down below. The sky was turning a dark purple and the moon looked like a ball of cheese. The stars were out tonight, glimmering beautifully overhead.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you bring me out here? I thought I had a task to complete?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°You do have a task to complete. I figured it¡¯d be best to start the task tomorrow and just relax for a bit first.¡± Loren¡¯s response was so genuine that it humbled Tristan. It also baffled him. He¡¯d never really had a friend, let alone a friend of the opposite sex. Is this what friends did? Is this what lovers did?


    ¡°That makes sense,¡± answered Tristan. They sat in silence for a minute. ¡°What''s the task?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about the tax man. Dalko wants to know what day of the week he comes, what time of day he arrives, and who else comes with him,¡± replied Loren.


    ¡°Well that¡¯s easy. I can tell you that right now.¡±


    ¡°He wants you to wait until he comes a second time to make sure he comes at the same time he did the first time. But there¡¯s another task he wants you to do for him. He¡¯ll pay you double for it,¡± said Loren. Tristan nodded for her to continue, staring at her cascading blonde hair. It was hard not to look at. Loren continued, ¡°He wants to know how many forgeries and how many blacksmiths are in Sesten.¡±


    ¡°In Sesten? All of Sesten?¡± asked Tristan. ¡°I can¡¯t cover every blade of grass in Sesten to find out. That¡¯d take a year, at least.¡±


    ¡°No, just downtown Sesten. He needs to know it for something that he¡¯s planning. It will take some time to plan.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just count them up on your way back to the Graycloaks?¡± asked Tristan.


    Loren put a finger over his lips. ¡°Sshhh¡­stop thinking too much. He¡¯ll pay you for it in gold. Don¡¯t you want to get paid?¡±


    Tristan did. But it still bothered him why they couldn¡¯t gather the intel themselves. Besides, what could they be planning that involves Sesten? Sesten was a small enough town as it was. Overpowering it wouldn¡¯t take too much moxy or guile. The people would likely flee at the first sight of attack.


    ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll do it. Let me ask the questions now,¡± said Tristan. He turned his head toward Loren. They locked eyes for a moment. Tristan¡¯s stomach did a flip. He noticed a scar that ran around the side of her neck and up behind her right ear.


    ¡°Ask away,¡± came Loren¡¯s reply. She glanced up at the stars. The sun was fully down now and the stars were a mesmerizing sight.


    ¡°Why are you with the Graycloaks? What¡¯s in it for you?¡± asked Tristan. He settled himself down onto his back, placing his hands underneath his head. Loren followed suit, but she lay the other way so that her head was backed up against Tristan¡¯s.


    ¡°I fled Denderrika when my father died. I was scared. Afraid. I had no family. I never knew my mother.¡± Loren paused. Tristan thought she was getting choked up, and maybe she was. He couldn¡¯t tell because she then continued as normal. ¡°The land is ruled by a powerful High Lord, and he will steal away any child that is without a father and mold them into his own slaves. I feared that life, so I just fled. And wound up in Brantley before I met a couple of Brantish folk, Jareth and Kieran.


    I had no direction, no place to go. Jareth and Kieran said they had heard of a rogue group of outlaws that could make us rich. I believed them. We went west into Windem and that¡¯s when we found Dalko and the Graycloaks.¡±


    ¡°Was it true, did they make you rich?¡± asked Tristan. He thought he knew the answer. He was picturing all of the gold he had seen in the attic of the lodge house.


    ¡°Yes and no. The wealth we have is a collective wealth. It belongs to the group--Dalko, really. He makes all the decisions. Once I got involved with the group, I was intoxicated by his vision¡­his plan. I could eventually have everything I ever wanted, and all in the name of Denderrika.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Tristan was beginning to feel uneasy. This group was definitely dangerous, and certainly no friend of Windem. What exactly was their end goal?


    ¡°There are thousands of warbands in Windem by now, all fighting under the same banner. It¡¯s Denderrika¡¯s war. The High Lord of Denderrika wants world domination. He¡¯s a twisted man. He¡¯s got a sorceress and everything. He likely knows who you are, Tristan Sword Maker.¡±


    A chill went down Tristan¡¯s spine. ¡°What? How?¡±


    Loren laughed. ¡°It¡¯s the same way Dalko knows a lot. He has a special intuition. He¡¯s an Ascendian. The High Lord is as well, and it all stems from a special magic that his sorceress weaves with her bright blue rubies and mystic spells.¡±


    ¡°How can you stand behind such vile methods? I always wanted to be a Knight of Windem someday so that I can find evil such as that. I want to be a warrior, even still.¡±


    ¡°Evil? It¡¯s not evil. If you¡¯ve got the magic in your hands, why not use it?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Just because you have the ability to use it, doesn¡¯t mean you should. Careful what you say, Denderrikan. I am Tristan Sword Maker, you know.¡± Tristan¡¯s tone had grown comedically menacing. Loren laughed harder than Tristan had ever heard her laugh in his short time with her. ¡°So then what? What happens after the Denderrikans dominate the world? You¡¯re going to take your share of gold and plunder and sail off into the sunset?¡± Tristan said wryly.


    ¡°Not quite, Wind Sucker.¡± Loren gave a harsh look. They back on their butts with their legs spread out in front of them. Their hands were stretched behind them, almost touching. ¡°Most Denderrikans are Hedonist, which means we believe whatever brings us pleasure is what we should pursue in life. I want my share of wealth, and I want someone to share it with. I want to find that person who I can live with forever and have children with.¡±


    ¡°How many children?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°As many as I can. Ten. Fifteen,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°What?¡± Tristan was incredulous. ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous¡­I mean, erm, there¡¯s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. I want children as well. Preferably more than one. Don¡¯t want my kid to end up like I did.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s that?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Alone.¡±


    And for the first time that night, Loren¡¯s hand moved, ever so slightly. Her finger brushed Tristan¡¯s pinky. He froze. Was he supposed to do it back? He wasn¡¯t sure, so he did nothing.


    ¡°If I die in battle someday, I want my children to have a mother who will fight for them. I want my children to have each other¡¯s back. All of that, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose our ideas aren¡¯t that different after all,¡± joked Loren.


    ¡°Can I ask an unrelated question? It¡¯s about Dalko¡­¡± Tristan couldn¡¯t help but ask about Dalko. He had far too many questions about the cold, blue-eyed Ascendian.


    Loren hesitated. Tristan thought it odd. He hadn¡¯t expected her to be reluctant to talk about Dalko Riven. ¡°Erm¡­yeh, why not?¡± Her accent was thick. Tristan wondered if it was because she was nervous.


    ¡°Is he human?¡±


    The silence was deafening. Tristan dared not breathe until she spoke.


    ¡°Are you being serious?¡± Loren¡¯s voice was high pitched.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have asked if I was joking.¡±


    Loren pursed her lips. She nodded. ¡°Yeah. He is.¡±


    ¡°Then what it is about him that seems a bit¡­powerful.¡± Tristan had no other word to describe him. He just had an aura about him. ¡°There¡¯s got to be something. I can sense it when I¡¯m near him.¡±


    Loren shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s how everyone is when they first meet him. He¡¯s not very friendly. As I said, he was trained at birth to be a cold blooded killer. Before he embarked on this quest in Windem, Dalko had already killed a lot of high profile nobles and politicans in Denderrika. He was the High Lord¡¯s sword. No one ever saw it happen. They just knew that unexplained deaths occurred when the High Lord was conspired against. Everyone feared him because of that. People still do.¡±


    ¡°And that is how the High Lord got so many people to swear allegiance to his cause, isn¡¯t it?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°There is that, yes. But there is another, darker, reason that people feel compelled to serve him without reserve.¡± Loren had grown very dark. Very serious. ¡°He has a Sorceress. I dare not speak of her lest her wrath come down upon me. Dalko¡¯s gets his intuition and his knowledge from her. That is likely what you are sensing.¡±


    ¡°A Sorceress? Like in the stories? What sort of magic does she wield?¡± Tristan was intrigued, wanting to stop at nothing to learn more about this Sorceress.


    ¡°We shall stop now before we¡¯ve spoken too much. She has great power. I reckon she can sense when we speak of her,¡± said Loren. She looked up at the stars.


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± replied Tristan. He joined Loren in staring at the dizzying display of glowing stars. ¡°The moon looks like a block of cheese.¡±


    Loren laughed. Tristan was made warm inside. He loved her laugh¨Cloved making her laugh. Loren spoke, ¡°I love cheese.¡±


    ¡°Oh, there it is!¡± said Tristan excitedly. ¡°Loren Cheese Lover! Now you¡¯ve got a nickname.¡± The two laughed together and then enjoyed some silence together. Their hands came together¨Cthough Tristan couldn¡¯t remember who had initiated it.


    When they awoke it was still dark out. A blade of grass had blown in the wind and tickled Tristan¡¯s nose, prompting him to sneeze. Loren jumped, gasping.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, I just sneezed,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°I was having a bad dream. I¡¯m glad you woke me up. Let¡¯s go home, Tristan. It¡¯s probably only a few hours until sunrise.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± replied Tristan, rising to his feet and flipping his long, tousled brown hair behind him.


    ¡°Do you remember what you need to do to earn your next paycheck?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Intel on the tax collectors and the number of forgeries and blacksmiths in Sesten.¡± Tristan hadn¡¯t forgotten. How could he? He needed the coin badly, and soon. Sir Crowley Begg would be back in a couple days time.


    ¡°You got it. Goodbye, Tristan. I¡¯ll see you sometime soon.¡± Loren smiled warmly, and then departed. Tristan turned left and made for home. He smiled the entire way home. He had a friend.

 Chapter 9: The High Lord of Denderrika

    ¡°Bleh! Bleh!¡± shouted the High Lord of Denderrika. He was unrecognizable from his former self. It had been half a decade since he¡¯d been able to walk on his own two feet without supports in place. His heavy belly hung over his legs as he sat in a chair, preparing to hosit himself up onto his two purple legs. They were bruised and full of itchy patches of dry skin. ¡°I cannot do it! I cannot!¡± he whined. The lady beside him maintained an endearing smile across her thin red lips. Her hair was silky and brown, running down either side of her breasts and down to her hip. It was straighter than straight and healthy.


    ¡°You can do it, my handsome lord.¡± The lady rubbed a gentle hand over his arm. It was full of boils and nasty scars. The High Lord needed to arise from his chair so that he could get into his herbal bath. It was the only thing that could sooth his scars and his rotten flesh. Two servants stood by his side, stressful looks spread over their thinly worn faces. If they tried to support the High Lord too early before he¡¯d given it a good effort, they¡¯d be chewed out and scolded by their High Lord. Besides, the lady who sat and watched over him could bring immense suffering to their minds without warning if they irritated the High Lord. Her demeanor would not change when she did this. It was unnerving, to say the least.


    ¡°BLEHHHH!¡± The High Lord gave a final heave of effort to lift his oversized rear side from the wide chair. He got up about half an inch and then collapsed back into his seat, spewing saliva and chunks of medicine up. The chunks lay on his chest now, over a dirty white robe that covered his entire body like an oversized cloak. ¡°I cannot do this, Lady Sapphira. I cannot and I will not!¡± he was fussing like a child and pounding his fists on the arm rests of his chair. There came a knock on the door. ¡°Bugger off!¡± shouted the High Lord. His lips were plump and swollen. His eyes were crusted over from swollen eyelids. He could hardly see.


    The servants knew that it was now acceptable for them to assist the High Lord. They moved to his side, each servant grabbing a flabby arm. The High Lord¡¯s shiny head gleamed beneath the dim lighting of the bathing room. The light was provided by the fingertips of Lady Saphira, who had the torches shining a bright blue light throughout the room.


    The High Lord hadn¡¯t always been this large and sickly. There was disease that had begun to spread throughout the realm, and Denderrika had been the first nation to suffer from its unruly symptoms. The High Lord was in an advanced state of the illness, but Lady Saphira¡¯s healing power was keeping him alive. Her mystical power was his strength, but it was also to his detriment. With the maintenance of his (limited) physical strength came a plaguing of his mind. He was unrecognizable from the state he had been in when he was young and healthy. It was the same man who had turned young boys from Denderrika¡¯s orphanage into cold-blood killers called the Ascendiens.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got half a mind to slit my own throat and be done with all this. It¡¯s too much for my weary bones,¡± cried the High Lord.


    ¡°Your complaints will be heard here, my lord. But you must remember, once we get you back to your High Seat you must portray strength and ruthlessness. The plan depends on it.¡± Saphira¡¯s words were so smooth and creamy that even the servants were feeling swayed by their power. They weren¡¯t sure what application her words had for them, but they felt an overwhelming sense of allegiance and attachment to this Sorceress.


    The plan had been instilled within the High Lord¡¯s armies over twelve years ago. It had taken a while to get all of the pieces moving in the right direction, but according to Saphira¡¯s mappings, everything was falling into place. The plan had started in King Tarren¡¯s High Court just mere days after Gareth Blackthorn¡¯s appointment as Lord Commander. His reputation preceded him across the realm, and King Tarren had decided to hold a tournament in his honor. The tournament brought visitors from across the realm to partake in the feasts, joustings, combat, wine-drinking, games, and other rallying celebrations which had kept the Citadel rocking with noise and chaos for weeks. Saphira was an unknown figure back then. She was the High Lord¡¯s best kept secret. In his mind, he had found her. It was a bleak, rainy day fourteen years ago when he saw her alone and shivering outside his mighty black towers. He sent men down to receive her, perceiving her undeniable beauty even from the distance from which he saw her. In reality, she had planted herself there and played the act well. She wasn¡¯t a suffering peasant. She was a witch. A Sorceress. No one knew how she came by her power or to who she swore her allegiance. There was no answer to that. Saphira, alone, knew the answer.


    After quickly becoming a lover and advisor to the High Lord, Saphira invented a plan to infiltrate King Tarren¡¯s High Court and put their plan into motion. She attended the High Court during the busyness of Gareth Blackthorn¡¯s appointment as Lord Commander. She dressed in beautiful swirling blue robes and with a jeweled tiara. She was a suitor from a faraway land¨Can obscure land that King Tarren had never heard of before but he didn¡¯t doubt existed. He was instantly smitten with her, her false beauty swaying the King like all helpless men.


    ¡°I bring a beautifully crafted sword from the faraways lands of Hilaria. This blade was made for the hands of Lord Commander Gareth Blackthorn. Please accept my gift as a token of my respect for your great warrior, Blackthorn.¡± Saphira kneeled before King Tarren, raising the sword to him as her head was bowed.


    Tarren¡¯s Queen, Adalisa, was furious but there was little for her to do when King Tarren demanded she stay for a week and spend her nights in his private quarters in place of his own wife, Queen Adalisa.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    By the end of that week, Saphira convinced King Tarren of his desperate need for a trophy to trademark his reign as King. ¡°What will set you apart, lord King, from all of the others who came before you? And who better to obtain this trophy, than Lord Commander Blackthorn? It would be a fitting way to honor both him and yourself.¡± King Tarren agreed, and within a year of her visit he had Blackthorn set to his task in the faraway icelands of Northrock. There was a year of training beforehand, of course. The rest, as they say, is history. That was the first plan of their multi-pronged plan.


    The High Lord had finally got himself lowered into the piping hot bath. The steam was billowing upward into the blue light of the bathing room. The servants gave a nod and Saphira bid them away. They waited outside the door, planning to return once the bath was done to lift the monstrously obese High Lord from the tub.


    ¡°I was¡­indoctrinated,¡± said the High Lord as he let out a deep breath. He had gotten over the initial shock of the scalding hot water. He tended to have these moments. He would state his thoughts aloud, many of them stemming from a place deep inside his mind that took Saphira more than a few seconds to pick up on where he had pulled it from.


    ¡°Indoctrinated, my lord? By whom?¡± asked Saphira in her sweetest voice.


    ¡°By my father and his forefathers before him.¡± A scowl was spread across his pudgy face. ¡°Windem¡­¡± was all he managed before the cobwebs of his mind¡¯s illness had scattered his thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. He was trying to remember why he had such a spite for Windem. The plan was centered around that hatred, after all.


    ¡°Let¡¯s do your memory exercises, Maltor, shall we?¡± asked Saphira. His face had snarled into a ball of anger. Snot and drool dripped from his face and into the tub of herbal water.


    ¡°If you insist¡­then we shall,¡± Maltor said, malice all too evident. It took some time for him to accept that it was question time. Saphira would ask him a series of questions to keep his mind sharp¨Cmaking sure he was aware of the plan. He still had to put a strong face forward for the rest of Denderrika. They were going to war out of allegiance to their High Lord.


    ¡°Let¡¯s begin.¡± Saphira placed a hand onto Maltor¡¯s meaty thigh. It was the one place on his body that was smooth and void of scars and boils besides his face. ¡°Who is the one prophesied by my signs and wisdom?¡±


    ¡°Blackthorn,¡± spat Maltor. His mouth was lazy and his lips hardly moved. Getting into the bath was exhausting work.


    ¡°Which Blackthorn?¡± asked Saphira.


    ¡°The kid.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s his name?¡±


    ¡°Bleeehh! Tristan¡­Blackthorn!¡± The thought of Blackthorn registered a dark malice with Maltor. ¡°I¡¯ve been indoctrinated!¡± he shouted, somewhat randomly.


    ¡°Very good, Maltor. Very good.¡± Saphira gave him a few moments before asking another pointed question, aimed at refreshing his memory and keeping him in line with the plan.


    ¡°Who is slated to tilt the balance of the war; the tide of the final battle?¡±


    ¡°Blackthorn. Tristan¡­BLACKTHORN!¡± His lips and tongue came together sloppily and spittle flung from his mouth.


    Saphira grabbed a bar of soap and some crushed plant leaves and rubbed them across his back. Maltor let out an ¡°ahhhh¡± as she rubbed the medicine across his scarred and pimple-ridden back.


    ¡°Name the nations of the realm,¡± instructed Saphira. Maltor appeared to go brain dead for half a minute. His eyes had rolled back but then came back.


    ¡°Denderrika, Windem¡­¡± he was stumped after naming the two most prominent nations. Then it came back to him. ¡°Brantley, Solaria¡­PREN!¡±


    ¡°Well done, my handsome lord.¡± Saphira stroked his thigh.


    ¡°Wesnia¡­Rittgeal¡­Benthicar¡­and¡­the Clan--CLENDIEN EMPIRE!¡± he shouted so loud that Saphira struggled to hold down a grin. His foolish babbling could take off into unpredictable directions at times.


    ¡°Who will rally the Graycloaks of Denderrika together, after we¡¯ve infiltrated every town, village, and city with fire and ashes?¡±


    Now Maltor¡¯s voice was calm and pleased. ¡°Dalko-o-o.¡± He let the ¡°o¡± echo into the bath chamber. ¡°Lord Dalko Rivien the Ascendian.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my lord. He is a product of your training. I am hearing reports from our eyes and ears that Dalko has found the boy. Tristan. He¡¯s been hidden away on the outskirts of a remote town called Sesten.¡± Saphira leaned forward, saying the words very deliberately into Maltor¡¯s ears. She ignored his sour smell, despite almost gagging.


    Maltor merely laughed. It sounded like a rumble. Fluid wetted his lungs. The disease was ruthless.


    ¡°Dalko will win Tristan Blackthorn to our side and train him in the same ways that you trained Dalko. With his power and the sword that I gifted to his father, Denderrika will win the final battle. It will be no contest.¡± Saphira paused. She wanted to see if Maltor was still listening. His heavy eyelids batted at her, his head turning slightly. He was listening. Saphira followed up with another question. ¡°Where is the sword? The sword that I gifted to his father, Gareth Blackthorn?¡±


    ¡°It¡­is with¡­¡± Maltor trailed off, too tired and out of breath.


    ¡°It is with Basidin, the Shadow of the North. I know what you meant to say, darling.¡± Saphira ran a finger along Maltor¡¯s cheek. ¡°And where is Basidin?¡± She looked him over, then ran the soap along his thighs. She then answered her own question. ¡°Basidin has already infiltrated the Castle. He guards the sword which dwells in waiting deep below the Castle, where the sewage and the rats rot with the rest of the filth. Tristan will find it, eventually. He will be drawn to it. But he will need help finding it.¡±


    ¡°Ahhhh,¡± said Maltor.


    ¡°That is the only snag in our plan,¡± replied Saphira. ¡°How do we get Tristan into the Castle and down into the tunnels? The forgotten corridors of Windem.¡± She pondered that thought, knowing Maltor¡¯s mind was already gone. Fatigued.


    ¡°Let¡¯s finish your bath and get you down to your High Seat, my Lord High.¡± Saphira called the two servants back in to hoist Maltor from the bath.

 Chapter 10: The Sword

    Tristan became very familiar with the streets of Sesten within a short period of time. Although he had grown up in Sesten, he hadn¡¯t explored the streets with the same sense of prudence. He fell into a routine of scouring the town for the latest details and happenings across the realm. It had only taken him two hours to come up with the information that Loren had tasked him with that night under the stars. The tax collectors and the Kingsguard who came with them would arrive on the second day of every month, which was on Tuln day. He also learned there were four forgeries in downtown Sesten and nine blacksmiths in total. Outside of the downtown area, there were two forgeries and one blacksmith at each of those. In all, that made eleven blacksmiths. What Dalko intended to do with that information, Tristan had no idea. He wondered if they had planned to contract the blacksmiths to start stockpiling weapons. Perhaps Sesten was going to become a base of operations for the warbands of Denderrika. Then again, Tristan had no way to be sure. It was all his own speculation, and he didn¡¯t dare ask questions to Dalko and his men whenever he delivered information. All he cared about was getting his reward and getting out.


    The reward for the information that first time around proved to be lucrative. Sir Crowley Begg returned, as expected, on Tuln Day. The second day of the week at the beginning of the month. This time, Tristan had no worries about failing to meet the heavy tax. He also had some money left over, which he decided should be hidden away and saved for something big. He thought often of buying his own sword. Or, perhaps Dalko would give him one from the attic of the lodge house. There were a plethora of weapons there.


    The talk of the town had turned quite sour against the King. Tristan would sit in the middle of any tavern he possibly could. He would pull his cloak tight and keep his hood raised to conceal his face as much as possible. He picked up on a lot of Sesten-related talk, but there was always talk of the King and of Windem intermixed within that sort of talk. Dalko had told Tristan that at the first mention of Denderrikan warbands, he was to report immediately to his camp to let him know. It hadn¡¯t taken long.


    ¡°Did they know of our position, here, in Sesten?¡± Dalko had asked. For once, Tristan saw a look of concern on his face. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was still there inside those bright blue eyes.


    ¡°No, I heard nothing of the sort. I only heard that there were warbands popping up all over Windem like some sort of virus. They also talked about a real virus that is beginning to spread--some disease. It sounds like it started with farmland and crops, and it''s starting to spread to the people of Windem. It hasn¡¯t made it this far south yet, it sounds like.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah? What else do they say?¡± asked Dalko.


    ¡°Of what? The disease?¡± asked Tristan. Dalko nodded. ¡°They say some have seen a black cloaked figure riding a horse blacker than pitch. Apparently the horse has been eating their crops at night and then the next morning¡­¡± Tristan trailed off.


    ¡°The crop is dead,¡± Dalko finished his sentence, nodding. ¡°Cropkillers. The Shadow is advancing its plan faster than I expected.¡±


    Tristan refrained from asking questions, but he did wonder what the Shadow¡¯s purpose was and who it or they were. Dalko seemed to phrase things in a way that made it seem that the Shadow was doing harm to Windem in favor of the King. To Tristan, it made no sense. That is, until he had another late night with Loren on the hill, overlooking the night sky.


    ¡°The King is a sick man,¡± said  Loren. ¡°He¡¯s changed. It¡¯s because of the Shadow. It¡¯s got a hold on him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard others in the taverns say that that¡¯s a myth. The King is fighting the Shadow, and Denderrika¡¯s invasion isn¡¯t helping. Brantley is still fighting at the border as well.¡± Tristan wasn¡¯t buying that so easily. He¡¯d come to appreciate the people of Sesten and enjoyed hearing their talk. There was always a distanced satisfaction from Sesten folk since they were always the last to feel the rippling effects of the King¡¯s business.


    ¡°It¡¯s no myth,¡± argued Loren. ¡°The King pretends that he¡¯s fighting the Shadow, but he¡¯s letting it happen. By allowing the crops and food production to die, the people are becoming more reliant on the Crown to provide food and clean water. His pockets have grown deep and his wealth unimaginable. The battle at the border with Brantley also allows him to hike taxes and no one will stand against that decision, however much people may disagree with it.¡±


    Tristan grew frustrated. ¡°And why is it that you care so much? You¡¯re not even from Windem. You¡¯re Denderrikan. You and your Company are part of the reason there is so much vileness taking hold in Windem. I don¡¯t know what Dalko¡¯s plan is for Sesten, but I sure hope that Sesten¡¯s way of life won¡¯t be affected. There are peaceful people here, and they are in no shape to defend themselves if you mean to attack them.¡± Tristan looked at Loren, anger dancing in his eyes. ¡°What? Nothing to say to that?¡±


    Loren shook her head. Tristan got up and stormed off, before turning and shouting, ¡°My father would have bled for this country. And yet, here I am, supplying intel to a group of bloodless mercenaries who call themselves a Company of Denderrika.¡± Tristan paused a moment to let that register with Loren. She kept her gaze down, toying with the tall grass. ¡°I will be a warrior someday. I¡¯ll be a Knight of Windem¡­maybe even a Kingsguard, or the Lord Commander. And when I am¡­mark my words, I will not let enemies like Dalko lurk in the shadows. My torch will be bright, my sword relentless, and your warbands will be snuffed out and destroyed like a flame to a nest of spider eggs.¡± And with that, Tristan marched off.


    Tristan did not regret his words after that incident, only his tone. If he could make Loren understand, perhaps she might start to see where Tristan was coming from. He was giving the enemy information, and he still was unsure as to why it needed to be him. He was almost certain that Dalko himself could come and sit in the taverns of Sesten and no one would bat an eye at him. Loren could also do it, or any of the other members of the Graycloaks Company. Tristan needed the coin, however. If he was ever to purchase a sword, he needed money. If he wanted to keep covering the cost of the high tax rate, he would need money. If he wanted to ever leave Sesten, and start his own life elsewhere, he would need money. If he wanted to buy a horse, in order to go places and travel, he would need money.


    If he wanted to track down the Lord Commander of the King Armies, and kill him, he needed money. So Tristan continued on the way he had been, reporting to Dalko as his little spy in the remote southern town of Sesten. The tasks built up almost daily, as Dalko wanted the complete picture of the state of Windem. He also had new visitors coming in and out of the compound where the lodge was. He¡¯d see them in town sometimes, too. Most of them were visiting the blacksmiths in the forgeries, and walking away with weapons. They only bought a little at a time, and it was stretched out over a long period so as not to raise suspicions. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    At one point, Tristan saw the same man he had seen on his first day walking down the old yellow road. It was the hideous looking man with a balding head of thin black strands of greasy hair and black, beady eyes. He stared at Tristan with a toothy grin and squinted eyes-- the way a man looks at a whore outside of a whorehouse (only, there were no whorehouses or brothels in Sesten). Tristan shivered, kept walking. The Denderrikans were usually good looking with a thin, but strong build and those piercing blue eyes. Tristan figured the man was likely a Brantish man working for the High Lord of Denderrika. That was becoming more and more common, which led Tristan to wonder if the border dispute with Brantley really was forced, just as a way to cripple and control Windem and play into King Tarren¡¯s corruption.


    King Tarren had never been a corrupt king before. Gareth Blackthorn held a deep admiration for the King, and Tristan knew that his Ma had met the king on several occasions with only nice things to say about him. Besides, all of the town talk always reverted to the ways that King Tarren has changed, which implied that some of his nonsensical decisions lately hadn¡¯t always been so.


    *   *   *   *


    Tristan finally earned himself a sword, and it was just as well he had because he had planned on going to the local blacksmith after his next payment if Dalko denied his request. Tristan had come to Dalko with news of an explosive battle that had taken place in the town of Aulfreta between a Denderrikan warband and a host of Windem¡¯s armies. Apparently, Elric had earned a heroic victory and the battle had even earned a name in history already as ¡°The Battle of the Beasts.¡± It was never explained why that battle had earned that name, and Tristan hadn¡¯t asked.


    ¡°Eight shekels of silver boy. Now go,¡± Dalko spoked in a whispered hush whenever he paid Tristan. It was one of his habits.


    ¡°I want a sword instead.¡± Tristan tried to sound confident. Dalko would turn down a weak man¡¯s request without any hesitation.


    ¡°That will replace today¡¯s payment. Are you sure you want a sword?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± affirmed Tristan.


    Dalko went to the attic and then returned with a shortsword. It was relatively short but it was a beautiful blade and the weight of it was perfect. A longsword would have felt clumsy in Tristan¡¯s inexperienced hands. The hilt had one singular piece of silver that was embedded into it like a jewel. Tristan twirled it in his hand, testing its weight and marveling at the blade¡¯s sparkle.


    ¡°Brilliant,¡± said Tristan, his mouth held agape.


    Tristan made his sixth tax payment to Sir Crowly Begg with his new sword hanging at his hip. It had been six months of reporting to Dalko. Dalko¡¯s Company had grown to thirty men and his arsenal of weapons was large enough to arm a troop of one hundred men. There was also a horse available for fifteen men. The compound was growing, and it was starting to look more like an army than a small team of assassins.


    Sir Crowley eyed the sword, a smile crawling over his face. He had shaved his mustache, much to Tristan¡¯s dismay. He had come to like the mustache, and he looked forward to Crowley¡¯s visits. Crowley was friendly now and had taken a liking to Tristan ever since he learned that Tristan was the son of the legendary Gareth Blackthorn.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you acquire a sword of such beauty?¡± asked Crowley. He held his arm out, wanting to inspect the sword for himself.


    ¡°I bought it. Blacksmith in town,¡± Tristan lied.


    ¡°Quite the money maker now, are you?¡± asked Crowley, suspiciously. One of his eyes remained on Tristan as he unsheathed the sword. ¡°What¡¯re you doing to earn your keep?¡±


    ¡°I sell things.¡± The less he said the better. He didn¡¯t need to dig himself a hole.


    ¡°Selling things? What things?¡± Crowley¡¯s tone had grown serious. He eyed Tristan warily.


    ¡°Boots. Wooden sword¡­for children, of course. Firewood for the elderly. I do what I can to earn a fair wage.¡± Tristan returned Crowley¡¯s stare, unflinchingly. ¡°Is there a problem, sir?¡±


    A long pause. Tristan¡¯s heart fluttered.


    ¡°There¡¯s no problem, Tristan. Although, I do have one thing I¡¯d like to ask you.¡± Crowley handed the sword back to Tristan, hilt first. Tristan gulped.


    ¡°Have you ever considered traveling to the Citadel and applying to be in the Kings¡¯ army? They¡¯re always needing more men at the border. Things with Brantley have gotten quite ugly lately.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± came Tristan¡¯s reply. ¡°I don¡¯t wish to, sir.¡±


    ¡°How about one of the traveling armies? It¡¯s a smaller group and they¡¯re usually led by a member of the Kingsguard, such as myself. Would you be interested?¡±


    At that moment, Tristan realized that did sound like something he¡¯d like. He wanted to be a warrior. ¡°You mean¡­like one of the Knight¡¯s of Windem?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Crowley paused, eyeing Tristan with a coy smile. ¡°You would have to earn the title and the rank. But yes, in time you would have the opportunity to become a Knight of Windem. How old are you now, anyways, boy?


    ¡°Nearly nineteen, sir.¡±


    Crowley gave a hmph. ¡°Ripe age to start fighting for your King. For Windem. Let¡¯s keep talking, Tristan.¡± And with that, Sir Crowley turned his horse around. ¡°Oh, and Tristan¡­one more thing. If you want to look like a knight, start wearing your sword across your back. That¡¯s what warriors do.¡± He gave Tristan a curt nod, and led his mount steadily up the Twin Hills. He shouted to Tristan from the top of the hill, with yet another last minute thought. ¡°And give it a name!¡±


    He disappeared down the other side of the hill.


    Tristan spent the remainder of the day training his muscles and becoming familiar with his sword. He swung it, thrusted it, jabbed, sliced, and parried imaginary enemies. By sundown, he was utterly spent. His tunic was soaked through. He put his sword away, lying it underneath his cot where he could still grab it quickly if someone were to invade his home. He tried thinking of a good name for his sword but sleep took him first. The last thing he heard before he drifted off into a deep sleep was his Ma¡¯s light snoring. She had been asleep for nearly three hours. She didn¡¯t do much else anyways.


    Tristan was a heavy sleeper, rarely waking up during the night unless there was substantial noise outside. He awoke in the dead of night, waiting for the sound that awoke him to happen again. No sound came. There was one thought that was swirling around in his head, like a fly buzzing around a light. The thought had come on so strong, that Tristan had no choice but to humor it before he drifted back off to sleep. It was the name of his sword. He knew what it would be.


    Tristan tested the name out loud. He smiled wide. The feeling on the sword¡¯s name on lips was pure ecstasy.


    ¡°Drakon-killer. Elric¡­Drakon-killer.¡±

 Chapter 11: Uncle Body Pays a Visit

    It had been over a year since Tristan had seen Uncle Bodry. Where he lived or what he did for a living, Tristan had no idea. He used to say he was a fisherman and that he lived up north in Wehadon, a larger town in central Windem. Looking back, Tristan knew that was most likely a lie. He was far too important a man to be a fisherman. He had that spark about him. Besides, every time he saw him he always had new scars and pains to tell of. Fisherman don''t get beat up that often.


    Uncle Bodry crested the Twin Hills and then let his mount canter down the hill gracefully. His horse was a pale white and gray with a beautiful mane of hair. Bodry¡¯s hair was longer than it had ever been¨Cand fuller somehow. A long scar ran down his cheek, which appeared old and healed. It looked a terrible injury, but Tristan realized it only reflected just how long Uncle Bodry had been away. Uncle Bodry reined in his horse, shouting a friendly greeting to Tristan.


    ¡°Hullo there, young Tristan! It has been far too long!¡± Bodry dismounted with some discomfort, pulling his walking stick from its place along the rump of his horse. It was secured by a leather harness, which also kept a satchel and a warm blanket strapped down. He had a horrible limp and his joints ached with every step.


    ¡°Uncle Bodry, how good to see you. It has been far too long indeed.¡± Tristan had been in the middle of chopping wood. His morning hunt had already been a success. Three dead animal carcasses hung from a line. The blood was draining and trickling onto the ground. The grass was stained crimson where the carcasses hung. The largest amongst the kills was a forest fowl, which wasn¡¯t much bigger than the rabbit and the squirrel that hung next to it. Tristan was planning a delicious stew that should last him and Ma the entire week.


    ¡°It looks like you¡¯ve gained some hunting skill since I¡¯ve last seen you¡­and some muscle!¡± Bodry looked Tristan up and down. His eyes were duller than Tristan remembered. And tired. The two embraced. Tristan was now equal in height with Bodry.


    ¡°I¡¯ve done what I can since you¡¯ve been away. Ma doesn''t move around much like she used to. She hasn¡¯t left home in years.¡±


    Bodry seemed to brood over that for a moment, curving his lip. He scratched his head, then ran a finger ponderously over his scar. The scar was raised and textured. ¡°Let¡¯s go and see her shall we?¡±


    Tristan led Bodry inside to find Mildred sitting coldly at their small two-chair round table. A cup of black coffee sat in front of her but it had been cold a long time. Her stare remained far off until Bodry spoke, startling her.


    ¡°Hello?¡± asked Bodry. Mildred turned slowly. Her mouth forming an ¡°o¡± at his sight.


    ¡°Did you not see two figures instead of one standing inside your door?¡± Bodry gave a deep bellied chuckle.


    ¡°I¡¯ve grown old and numb. I don¡¯t see as vividly as I once did,¡± replied Mildred. Her eyes were tearing up. Tristan hadn¡¯t seen as much emotion from his Ma in years.


    ¡°You¡¯re not old yet, lady Mildred. What¡¯s this I hear from Tristan about you not leaving home? You aren¡¯t sick, are you?¡±


    ¡°No, no. I am healthy¡­just sad, is all,¡± said Mildred. Tristan dropped his gaze, fists clenching and jaw tightening. It was more than she told Tristan all the times he¡¯d asked. Why couldn¡¯t she just talk? He was old enough to shoulder whatever burden weighed her down. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was the incident with Elric still, or just missing her husband¨Chis father. Perhaps it was both,  but Tristan did not feel entirely compassionate. He was available if she needed companionship or someone to talk to. Only, she never did talk to him. She was numb and distant. To Tristan, she was just as gone as his father was.


    ¡°What of you?¡± asked Mildred. A soft, gentle hand went to his scar. She touched it and then pulled away, as if the touch of his scar had shocked her hand.


    ¡°Ah, that,¡± said Bodry, referring to the scar. ¡°Roads aren¡¯t as friendly as they used to be, is all. Ran into some trouble on the road a while back. It''s been nearly seven months since. Worse than it looks, if truth be told.¡±


    Tristan wondered if that was the truth. He knew the roads were worse than they had been, but his body seemed beaten up, and that sort of wear on the body didn¡¯t just occur from a one-time beating. His body seemed battered, as if it had aged twenty years in the span of two years.


    Bodry looked back and forth between Tristan and Mildred, noting that further explanation was required. ¡°My transport was ransacked traveling through Eudenium. I was delivering a large order of fish to the lord of that city when my entire supply was ambushed and taken. Four  large  thugs. It was a nasty thievery. Left me for dead, they did. They wore gray cloaks. I believe they may have been Denderrikans. They were of Windem, that¡¯s for sure.¡±


    Tristan¡¯s skin went cold. It could have been any of the Denderrikan warbands that were roaming the lands. Something told Tristan that Bodry knew more than he was letting on. Of course, Bodry had no idea that Tristan was working for the Denderrikans, at least in part. Mildred seemed indifferent to the circumstances of Bodry¡¯s folly, only slightly concerned for his heavy limp and his ugly scar.


    ¡°On that topic,¡± said Bodry, lifting a bony finger, ¡°I wanted to warn you all of the trouble that is spreading across Windem. War is brewing, and, in fact, war may already be happening all around us.¡±


    ¡°War?¡± said Mildred, gasping.


    ¡°Yes, war.¡± Bodry looked forebodingly at Tristan. ¡°That is why I am warning you to keep a sharp eye out for trouble. The Denderrikans have adopted a pesky strategy. They have hundreds of warbands spread across the kingdom. They¡¯re planning to take Windem down, town by town, city by city. The King is trying to keep it quiet, for fear that all of Windem¡¯s citizens will fall into a panic. He doesn¡¯t want citizens to think he¡¯s lost control.¡±


    ¡°Has he?¡± asked Mildred.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say so. Not yet. He¡¯d better think of a better strategy soon though. He hasn¡¯t been able to keep up with the movements of these warbands. He dispatched a new batch of spies last month, but they¡¯ve churned up very limited intel. These warbands have intelligent leaders. Ascendiens, they¡¯re called. Trained to kill like an assassin and trained in tactics and strategy like a war general. They¡¯re the High Lord¡¯s project. One of the King¡¯s spies found out about the Ascendiens recently. They found a Denderrikan warrior and tortured him in King Tarren¡¯s Tower of Terrors until he spewed. Didn¡¯t take long.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°How do you know all of this, Uncle Bodry?¡± Tristan had a hand to his chin. His hair was still messy and sweaty from his morning endeavors. ¡°I thought you were a fisherman?¡± He wanted Bodry to spill whatever he¡¯d been up to lately. The look in Bodry¡¯s eyes told Tristan he had done anything but fishing lately.


    ¡°I am a temporarily displaced fisherman. In the meantime, I¡¯ve been taken on as a King¡¯s spy. The King needs as many eyes and ears as possible. One of the Kingsguard found me beaten and bruised after I was ambushed. He was kind enough to take me somewhere to get patched up and on the way there we took to talking and exchanging ideals and thoughts about the kingdom. He told me I ought to consider doing some spy work for the kingdom, and I said I would. After all, the ambush I endured spurred me to fight back¨Cand how better to fight back against these rogue invaders than to support the King in his efforts against them?¡±


    Bodry looked wearily to Tristan, lifting an eyebrow. ¡°You haven¡¯t seen anything odd in Sesten, have you?¡±


    Tristan scrambled for a response, stumbling over a few words that were hardly even words. ¡°I¨Cerm, yes, no¡­I have not. I mean, you know how I am Uncle Bodry. I hardly even leave the house. I¡¯ve only been over to the other side of Twin Hills a few times to buy things from downtown but even that is rare now that I am able to hunt game for me and Ma.¡±


    Bodry eyed him. He wasn¡¯t suspicious, Tristan knew, but he was searching him. ¡°I suppose that would make sense,¡± Bodry finally said. ¡°Well, if you see something that doesn¡¯t look right, make sure to let the Kingsguard know whenever they visit next.¡± Bodry pulled out a bag full of jingling coins. It had been tucked away in his cloak. ¡°This should tide you over for the next couple months with taxes. I am sorry I didn¡¯t come sooner with some coin.¡± Bodry tossed the bag down onto the small round table that Mildred had been sitting at.


    Mildred regarded the bag indifferently. Tristan could hardly keep his hands from ripping open the bag and counting up its contents. Tristan used as much restraint as he could muster, deciding the bag would be there when Uncle Bodry left. No sense in counting it up now while he was still there.


    ¡°Uncle Bodry, if you don¡¯t mind me asking,¡± Tristan paused thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes staring at a dark spot on the wooden floorboards. ¡°What is the cause of all of this conflict?¡±


    ¡°You mean between Windem and the Denderrikans? The war?¡± Bodry was waiting to spill his thoughts like a bloated wineskin. Tristan nodded. Bodry continued. ¡°Some say its just politics. It¡¯s no secret that there¡¯s been bad blood between Denderrika and Windem for centuries. Others say its a more pointed issue, related to the feud between Brantley and Windem. Its speculated that the Brantish and Denderrikans are working together. I believe it may be something darker¡­something more sinister.¡± Tristan leaned in. Even Mildred appeared mildly interested now.


    ¡°Something ominous seems to have gotten a hold in Windem¨Csomething from a different land entirely. There are reported incidents among the King¡¯s spies of creatures of a different species that wander the land spreading disease and nullifying the five senses. I¡¯m not sure of its relation to the war, but many think it is related somehow. It seems to be working against Windem, so I can only imagine that the High Lord of Denderrika has some sort of dark magic on its side. One can only speculate for now, but that is why I wanted to visit before too long had passed. It¡¯s best if you keep your doors locked and your eyes open. They are calling one of these creatures a Verasifer, which roughly translates to Chain Slinger, in our tongue.¡± Bodry¡¯s eyes were wide with fear, as if he was looking at one that very moment.


    ¡°What are they?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know if they are to be talked about so casually,¡± said Bodry. ¡°But if you hear the clanking of chains dragging, close your eyes¨Cor run. Whichever is more suitable, do it. One look at the eyes of Verasifer, and you¡¯ll lose all of your senses. They¡¯ve been seen wandering in the north closer to the Citadel, but I just wanted you to be aware if they should chance to make it this far south.¡±


    Tristan nodded his head. He didn¡¯t know what to say. He hoped he¡¯d never have to hear the sound of chains dragging and clanking, the thought of that sent a chill down his spine. Part of him wondered if that whole ¡°losing your senses¡± thing was just tall tales. He¡¯d now heard of a being that could kill your senses just by looking at it, a being that rode a black horse clad in all black that killed crops and spread disease, and a deadly force from the northern reach called ¡°The Shadow¡±.


    Tristan didn¡¯t dare mention any of those things to Bodry. He held a deep fear¨Calmost a guilt¨Cfor helping the Graycloaks. He needed the coin. But now that Bodry had dropped a fortune of wealth (in the form of a coin pouch) on their round table, Tristan considered that his time providing intel to the Graycloaks could be at an end. In the back of his mind, he knew that was not possible. Dalko had selected him to provide intel for a reason. He could have had Loren do it, or anyone else in that Company. If he stopped reporting to them now, they would become suspicious and he didn¡¯t want to face Dalko in that instance. He didn¡¯t seem like a forgiving man and Tristan had no plans of finding out what happened to men who were found to be unloyal.


    After another hour of visiting and catching up, which included Tristan telling Uncle Bodry all about his strength training and the new sword he had acquired (which he quickly informed Bodry that he had found abandoned in the bank of the creek in the forest) Bodry and Mildred got to talking about old memories and the ¡°days before Gareth¡¯s appointment¡±. Tristan assumed that referred to the days before he was busy as Lord Commander. Shortly thereafter, Uncle Bodry subtly asked Tristan to step outside so he could speak to Mildred alone. Tristan was happy to oblige, only disappointed to miss out on what was discussed. He knew that Bodry wasn¡¯t dumb. He could sense that Mildred was worse, much worse, than when he¡¯d last seen her. She was depressed, numb, and hardly alive. She was gaunt and paper thin.


    Tristan stood with his ear to the door. He could make out the gist of what was being said. Bodry did what he was best at¨Cmaking others feel heard and comfortable. Once Mildred started talking, Tristan heard, she opened up like water breaking from a dam. She told Bodry everything. The grief she still felt, the hole Gareth had left, and finally¨Cthe incident with Elric. That¡¯s when Tristan learned something new and equally terrifying to what he already knew. Elric hadn¡¯t actually physically harmed Mildred. It had been consensual, but there was something that Elric had told Mildred afterwards that had been haunting her since the day it happened. Now it was haunting Tristan as his ears listened.


    ¡°I watched Gareth die inches in front of me. He was slipping and sinking, his body helplessly sinking beneath the ice and into the deadly water. I could have pulled him out, could have saved, but he wouldn¡¯t have survived. It was too cold. He¡¯d have been lucky to have made it off the icy tundra we were on. Besides Mildred, I wanted him to die. He was married to the lady I love, and that lady is you. He deserved death, and if the water hadn''t killed him¨CI would have.¡± These were the words that Tristan heard Mildred relaying to Bodry. There was more too¨Ca host of nasty things that Elric said about Gareth. But the way that Mildred felt was that she had betrayed Gareth by laying with Elric, and she had done so moments before Elric expressed his disdain and utter jealousy of Gareth.


    ¡°So it''s guilt,¡± Tristan whispered quietly to himself. He walked away from the door, wanting to hear no more. He felt his anger slowly turn into despair. He felt sick. His stomach was in knots. He suddenly thought he might vomit. How could this be? Later that evening, Uncle Bodry was on his way¨Cleaving hastily so that he could arrive at his next outpost before sundown. The stars had grown dim in recent weeks and the nights would be extremely dark. The other night, Tristan was arriving home late from a report to Dalko and his men and it had gotten so dark that he could hardly see his own hand in front of him. Because of that, Tristan understood Bodry¡¯s haste to get going.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got something for you before I go,¡± said Uncle Bodry. He went over to his pale white horse and grabbed something that was tethered to its back. It looked like a long pole at first, but Tristan quickly realized it was not a pole, but a spear.


    ¡°Use this to protect yourself, Tristan. You should be strong enough to wield it now¡­take care.¡± Bodry gave him a tight embrace, and then he was off. His horse cantered over the Twin Hills and disappeared over the other side. Tristan stood and watched him go, still watching long after his horse had disappeared from view. The way the sun had shone on Bodry as he rode away reminded Tristan of a hero from a story.

 Chapter 12: A Kings Spy

    The day had started normal enough for Tristan. He awoke at first light, wolfed down some dried bread he¡¯d bought from the shops in downtown Sesten and washed it down with coffee and cold water from the creek. He went to work out in the yard with his new sword, and then incorporated some training with the spear that Bodry had given him. He found he was starting to like the spear. It made his arms heavy and tired, but it was a powerful weapon and Crowley had revealed to him during one of his prior visits that spears were actually used far more often in battle than a sword.


    ¡°A sword is a legendary weapon. All the heroes of the greatest stories seemed to have wielded one. But in truth, a warrior without a spear in battle will be one of the first to die. Swords are for close combat, but spears are for the open battlefield,¡± Sir Crowley had said during one of his visits.


    After finishing his paces with Drakiler, as he¡¯d named the sword, and the spear, he rested for half an hour before cleaning off in the creek in the woods behind his house and prepared to head into town. His next task for Dalko and the Graycloaks involved listening in on the latest talk of the town, which was usually found quite easily in the local taverns and bread shops. He decided to head to town around noon, as noon had recently been a hotspot for hardworking folk to take a pause from their labor and grab a strong ale or beer before returning to their jobs for the day.


    Tristan rinsed his body with cold water, taking a moment to note the veins running through his forearms and the firmness of his chest. His body was chiseled and lean. He was eating as much as he could kill, desperate to put on more weight. His strength training and swordplay was proving to be effective at converting the extra food to muscle. Pleased with his continual transformation, Tristan¡¯s mind wandered. He pictured himself in the black and crimson of the Kingsguard. The crimson cape fluttered behind him as he held his spear in his right hand like a mighty staff. His sword would be across his back (and not at the hip, as Crowley had told him). He also envisioned a quiver over his back with his bow secured on his horse¨Cwhich he contentedly pictured being a black destrier. They were big beasts and all of the Kingsguard rode them.


    The image of a black horse reminded him of the tales he¡¯d been hearing of the Cropkiller horses. There were fears that the Cropkillers were headed south toward Sesten, but that could just be the townsfolk fearing for the worst. Sesten were a large crop raising town, and an infestation of disease into their crop supply would be detrimental to the economy of the town, and of the Crown as well. Sesten sold large amounts of wheat and corn to King Tarren.


    Tristan¡¯s mental image of himself as a Kingsguard started to fade. He was working for the Denderrikans for now. That bothered him. How long until the warband at Dalko¡¯s secret lodge ambushed Sesten? Would they even bother to attack a town as small as Sesten? Tristan did not see how a town so small and uninfluential could pose a threat to the Denderrikans agenda to invade. Tristan knew it was in Dalko¡¯s plans though. He¡¯d heard whispers when he came to drop off intel that Sesten would serve as an effective outpost to guard the southern border once they had overtaken Windem. Each time Crowley visited, Tristan felt more and more compelled to spill everything he knew about the Graycloak Company and Dalko¡¯s location. Sir Crowley could surely protect Tristan and his Ma, and then he¡¯d be able to gather a force large enough to hunt down the Company and put an end to their plans. Tristan had nearly convinced himself on multiple occasions to go through with it¡­to tell Crowley everything. A couple things stopped him.


    The first thing that tugged at Tristan¡¯s mind was that he remembered who Crowley reported to. The Kingsguard reported ultimately to the King, but in matters of the king¡¯s army they reported to the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies. Elric Drakonstone. He hated Elric even more than he already had. Not only had he shared intimacy with his Ma, but he had delivered a truth so painful that it was actually worse than Tristan had previously known. He had watched his father die. He had wanted his father to die. To Tristan, Elric was to blame for his father¡¯s death¨Cnot the dragon that they had been hunting.


    The second thing that prevented Tristan from telling Sir Crowley about the Graycloak Company was the income he was building. He was hoarding a new stockpile of wealth. He kept it hidden underneath a loose floorboard of him and Ma¡¯s house. Ma knew about it, but she didn¡¯t ask questions. He had over ninety grams of gold, fifty grams of silver, and a handful of copper coins. He wanted to keep building his wealth until Dalko was rid of his services. Then, he would leave. The decision wasn¡¯t an easy one, but he was nearly twenty years old. It was time for him to become a warrior, and it wouldn¡¯t happen by living in the remote town of Sesten. Besides, war was apparently already happening in Windem, according to Uncle Bodry, and Tristan did not plan to sit by idly while war waged all over the country.


    He also thought of Loren, who was a friend. She was really his only friend, when he stopped to think about it. They had become less friendly, as of late. Tristan was busy. Between training on his own, hunting for him and Ma, and completing tasks for Dalko, there was little time to be had. The nightly escapes to the top of the hill with Loren still occurred every so often, but she had stopped by less and less as well. The Graycloak Company were getting close to executing whatever it is they had planned, and Loren was no doubt a part of the preparations.


    Tristan planned to ask a few questions of his own the next time he visited Dalko and the Company. He wanted assurances that he and Ma would be safe if Sesten was attacked. He also wanted to know what would happen if the Graycloaks attacked Sesten and moved forward with their agenda. Was Tristan to remain a contracted spy for Dalko? That¡¯s essentially what he was now, it had just never been called that. He was Dalko¡¯s eyes and ears within the town.


    His worst fear was that he¡¯d be left for dead once they were done with him, but Tristan found it unlikely. Dalko had chosen him for a reason. That reason was still unclear to Tristan, and the only thing that had prevented him from confronting Dalko was exactly that¨Cconfrontation. Dalko was not a man to be crossed and Tristan shivered at the prospect of making Dalko feel as though he couldn¡¯t trust Tristan wholeheartedly. Loren was the person he went to with most of his questions, although sometimes he wasn¡¯t sure how to find her. She always came to him, as he only visited the lodge when he was arriving with information for Dalko.


    Tristan made his way to downtown Sesten, seating himself in a high stool in a tavern called ¡°Arithea¡¯s Meads¡±. The sign above the door swung lightly from its nailed hinges. The lighting inside was dim but the day¡¯s light flooded the tavern in a pale pink light. It was an unusually warm day and a cool breeze blew softly. Tristan seated himself and ordered a drink with a couple of copper coins and sat with his back to the wall. He kept his hood down, seeming to appear inconspicuous. Most of the inns and taverns in town knew him as a regular now with how often he was in and out of the taverns, bars, and inns.


    Most of the talk that Tristan overheard was boring and non-related to the conflict in Windem. A tall, giraffe-like man to his right was talking about a stubborn family of deer that had taken to eating the plants in his yard on a nightly basis. His aim with a bow was so horrible that he managed to scare them off but he was never able to actually hit them. His neck was so long that Tristan had to use all of his might not to stare. The lady he talked to had plump red lips and a thin black mustache. Her hair was jet black and neatly tucked behind her ears, shoulder-length. The giraffe-like man started stroking her thigh while they talked, facing each other in the bar stool chairs.


    Tristan shifted his attention to the distant conversation taking place to his right. There were three men seated near the back wall. Two of them talked in hushed tones but the third man was talking especially loud. He reminded Tristan of those people who desperately wanted to be heard at all times, even if the topic was personal. Tristan rolled his eyes, slamming his tankard down. No one noticed, so he didn¡¯t care. The man¡¯s voice was high pitched and sounded more like a squeal than a normal speaking voice. Tristan was tempted to withdraw his sword from its scabbard and send the man a warning to quiet down. He clenched his teeth, staring blatantly at the loud mouthed man. Not only was his high pitched voice dreadful to listen to, he was also speaking outright blasphemous talk regarding King Tarren. Tristan wasn¡¯t sure of his stance on the king, but speaking that openly about a disdain for the King was risky¨Cand he felt a deep loyalty for King Tarren because of his close relationship with his father. If Tristan searched his heart deeply enough, he may have found that his anger was not truly aligned with the high pitched patron at Arithea¡¯s Meads, but rather at himself. By working for Dalko, he was directly opposing the King¡¯s efforts to dispel the rogue warbands from Windem. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Within an hour, Tristan did hear one thing from a new patron that he knew would be valued by Dalko. Tristan was relieved. One thing he knew from experience was that Dalko would not pay up if Tristan did not arrive with something worth hearing. He didn¡¯t dare lie either, if he didn¡¯t have any intel to offer. Dalko would know.


    ¡°Sesten is due for a reckoning soon¡± the man had said. ¡°I¡¯ve got neighbors who claim they¡¯ve seen fellows in gray cloaks stalking across their pastures, heading toward the east side of Sesten. Might be a secret alliance preparing an assault. That¡¯d be my guess¡­¡± He was with a larger group of six people. They all wore farmer¡¯s clothes and left their tools and coats by the door. ¡°It¡¯s happened most everywhere else in Windem besides Sesten. As I said, we¡¯re due a reckoning. Who else wears long gray cloaks and tries to remain out of sight? The folk my neighbor saw weren¡¯t particularly stealth though. They say stealth is one of the hallmarks of the Denderrikans.¡±


    A woman in the group replied, ¡°Could be that you saw some Solarians or some of the Brantish folk. They¡¯re in league with the Denderrikans¡­at least some of ¡®em are. Those folk aren¡¯t known for their stealth and yet I think the Denderrikans have them dressing in gray cloaks too.¡±


    ¡°Could be,¡± replied the first man. He took a deep swig of his tankard. ¡°For all we know, there could be Denderrikans or Brantish folk in this very place listening to us as we speak. We have no way to know.¡±


    ¡°Yeah we do,¡± replied a new voice. ¡°Sesten is a small town. We¡¯d know if a Denderrikan were among us.¡±


    The woman disagreed. ¡°Travelers do pass through from time to time. No way to know if they¡¯re Denderrikan or not. Besides, not all Denderrikans are in favor of invading. Some just come this way for business. Trade in Windem has always been fruitful. Denderrika is a wasteland, as far as fertile ground goes.¡±


    Tristan stayed and listened for a while. The group got to talking about some of the usual topics within the past couple months. They talked of the rumored Cropkillers and Veracifers, although they only referred to Veracifers as Chain Slingers. They discussed the High Lord of Denderrika and whether or not he was outwitting King Tarren. The group had a collective agreement on King Tarren¡¯s competencies and a unanimous agreement that King Tarren¡¯s armies would eventually squash the foolish warbands.


    ¡°They hide in the shadows like fools and then ambush towns and cities that are barren and without a defense. My only criticism of King Tarren is that he hasn¡¯t garrisoned every town and city with an army by now,¡± the first and the boldest man of the group was speaking again.


    The woman backed him on that. ¡°I agree, Seswayne. I would sure sleep a lot better knowing there was a troop of men defending Sesten. We do provide a lot of food for the Citadel. We ought to ask Sir Crowley next time he comes to collect taxes. Can¡¯t be collecting taxes from us if we¡¯re dead!¡± That comment was met by a roar of laughter. The group had gotten progressively rowdy now that the drinks had been flowing for well over an hour now.


    Tristan pushed in his chair and left Arithea¡¯s Meads. He left a silver coin at his seat as a tip and made his way out the door. The rickety sign shook noisily against the doorframe as the door slammed shut. Tristan began on his way down the old yellow road. He was headed to the compound where Loren would be waiting to lead him to Dalko.


    This time, however, it wasn¡¯t long before he noticed someone was following him. Tristan had been followed before, but never by a man in official king¡¯s garb. It was a King¡¯s spy, and he wasn¡¯t necessarily trying to be secretive about it. Tristan veered off the yellow road and meandered his way through some of the backstreets where there were small shops and a couple of forgeries. He disappeared into a few shops, pretending to browse and shop. The man followed, eyeing Tristan¡¯s every move from a distance. He wore a long black overcoat that came down to his knees. It was bordered with yellow fur and the cloth was of high quality. He was dressed like a wealthy noble mixed with King¡¯s garb.


    So he¡¯s a nobleman spy, thought Tristan. He wondered if that was actually a thing. Most spies weren¡¯t nobles. Spies were usually men who needed the extra coin and held expertise in combat or stealth. The man had a lean build and a thin, oval face. Tristan tried not to stare, so he couldn¡¯t make out any details without letting on that he knew he was being followed.


    Tristan waited it out until the sun was starting to set and then slipped quietly into the dark shadows of the Sesten alleys. The spy was nowhere to be seen. He¡¯d lost him. Careful not to leave himself too exposed, Tristan darted from shadow to shadow, until he was out of Sesten¡¯s busier settlements and shops and past the old yellow road. The forest was ahead, and within the forest he knew he¡¯d find the compound where over a hundred Graycloaks were waiting in hiding.


    Loren saw coming across the meadow before the clearing where there were sweeping hills for miles and miles to the west. She ran to meet him.


    ¡°Hey!¡± she said. She was friendly, but her eyes bore a new ferocity that caused Tristan to tense up.


    ¡°Hey¡­what are you¡­doing?¡± he asked.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Running out to meet me like this¡­and you like, angry. Vicious, I guess.¡±


    Loren frowned. ¡°That¡¯s a nice way to be greeted. Thank you, Tristan. You look frazzled, out of breath, and altogether insecure. How about that?¡±


    Tristan shook his head, pushing past Loren. ¡°Okay, I¡¯m sorry. Let¡¯s hurry up and do this. It¡¯s getting dark. I need to talk with Dalko and then be on my way.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s busy,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°I can wait,¡± replied Tristan.


    It was an hour before Dalko was available. He was sat in a meeting around a small fire with several important looking men. One had the bushiest set of eyebrows Tristan had ever seen. Another man looked well over seven feet with a set of arms that were thicker than his torso. Another man at the meeting was thin and had pointed features. His hair was short and well trimmed. He had similar eyes to Dalko. Must be the Denderrikan look, thought Tristan. He also saw a warrior-looking woman who he¡¯d seen here before. Asherin, Loren had told Tristan. Then she¡¯d teased him about taking a special liking to a warrior twice his strength. Tristan wouldn¡¯t have doubted it before, but he was feeling strong himself recently. He knew he wasn¡¯t battle tested, however, and this woman Asherin appeared well seasoned and well muscled. Nevermind approaching Asherin for love, he¡¯d hardly approach her with anything. He feared she¡¯d squash him like a bug with her massive battle ax if he didn¡¯t approach with care.


    Tristan finally had Dalko¡¯s attention. The glow of the small fire illuminated his face enough for Tristan to make out his small, tucked ears and his sharp jawline.


    Dalko nodded, using as few words as possible. Tristan told him about all that he had heard in Arithea¡¯s Meads earlier that day. ¡°The town seems to be aware of the impending war and also the darkness that is creeping into the land from Northrock. As you may have picked up on, my reports become more and more similar by the day. Word of recent happenings is well known within Sesten now.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Dalko stared coldly at Tristan. Tristan turned his head as if to go, hoping it would prompt his next steps from Dalko. ¡°What else?¡± That had stopped Tristan in his tracks. His skin went cold. He knows something is up.


    ¡°Someone has been following me. I wasn¡¯t certain about it, but today I was. It took me an hour to shake him. He doesn¡¯t know about this place but I¡¯m fearful he will soon,¡± Tristan looked anxiously at Dalko. Loren was standing a few paces away and Tristan was unsure if she could hear their conversation.


    ¡°Lead him here,¡± said Dalko.


    ¡°You mean¡­purposely have him follow me here?¡± Tristan was incredulous. ¡°He¡¯s a King¡¯s Spy, it¡¯ll blow your cover and any chance of an ambush.¡±


    ¡°I said bring him here.¡± Dalko¡¯s mouth was firm and tight. His brows were furrowed and his voice was a growl. ¡°We¡¯ll handle it from here. Make sure he doesn¡¯t get lost on his way.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to kill him¡­are you?¡± asked Tristan. The thought of being responsible for killing a King¡¯s Spy made him feel nauseous.


    ¡°What we do with him is of no concern to you. Make sure he follows you and you will be compensated,¡± Dalko said.


    Tristan nodded his head. ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± replied Dalko. ¡°Tomorrow, before dusk.¡±


    Tristan nodded again. ¡°And about today, will there be payment?¡±


    Dalko withdrew a pouch of coins from behind his back. He tossed it to Tristan. It was the usual amount, Tristan could tell by the weight.


    ¡°See you tomorrow,¡± said Dalko, his voice a low growl. He turned, walking towards the entrance to the lodge.


    Loren and Tristan looked at each other. Her voice was serious. ¡°Don¡¯t mess it up.¡± She turned and followed after Dalko. Tristan looked around the camp of one hundred and fifty men. One thing was apparent to him. They were preparing for war.

 Chapter 13: Spy

    Everything felt rushed the next day. Tristan had slept later than he¡¯d hoped. It was Tuln day. The tax collector, Sir Crowley Begg, would be here by noon. Crowley and Tristan had become accustomed to seeing each other before Crowley left with his heavily armed, heavily guarded carriage of silver and gold tax. Tristan rarely saw the carriage, only three accompanying knights who would sling their packs, cloaks, and weapons to the grass at the top of Twin Hill and lay on their backs, gazing up at the light blue sky with its fluffy clouds.


    Tristan figured he may have two hours, perhaps less. Beyond that, Crowlet Begg would at his front door demanding the high tax. Of course, the tax was no issue now. Dalko saw to it that Tristan was compensated well for his jobs. He had completed a few risky jobs recently, including stealing a piece of parchment from a forgery that detailed a weapons order that was being placed by a nearby outpost that was garrisoned by Knights of Windem. He had nearly been caught but Tristan was gone like the wind by the time that blacksmith who was hammering his sword had lifted his welding mask and turned to try and catch a glimpse of the blur that was swept past. He shrugged, returning to his work.


    Tristan hurried on his way, tugging his boots on as he stumbled out the door. He nearly fell face first into the door as he went.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong sweet boy?¡± asked Mildred.


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s wrong, Ma. I¡¯m late!¡± replied Tristan over his shoulder.


    ¡°Late for what?¡±


    ¡°Work.¡± Tristan was gone. He had his sword in its scabbard over his back with his cloak over top of that. He left his spear that Bodry had given him in the yard leaned up against a trunk. Only in Sesten could you leave your valuables outside without fear of losing them. The only thing Tristan feared in Sesten was Dalko and his men, but they were on his side.


    He figured he ought to name his spear, since he had already named his sword Drakiler, the Drakonstone killer. He pursed his lips, shaking his head. The name will come, he thought. The next thing he wished to acquire with his stockpile of wealth was a horse. A warrior without a horse was no warrior. He couldn¡¯t travel anywhere within one day farther than fifteen miles, and that was pushing it. As it was, traveling two miles to downtown Sesten was already becoming a chore. If he wanted to buy a horse, though, he¡¯d have to travel all over rural Sesten where the land was open and farmers kept stables of horses for folk just like Tristan. There was a whole trade to it, Tristan had learned.


    Tristan had settled himself down inside Arithea¡¯s Meads, the same place he had seen the spy follow him last. He¡¯d been sitting inside for nearly an hour before he started to become anxious about running out of time. He had to make sure the spy was there, ensure he was being followed, and then also lead the spy all the way to the compound without the spy becoming suspicious and leaving with a full report. Dalko had no intention of letting the spy survive. He would question him, Tristan knew. Dalko wanted to know what the Crown was thinking at all times. That¡¯s what Tristan had been for.


    Tristan had recently learned part of the reason for him being the one to go into town. Dalko and his inner circle were part of a creed. They were not to wear garb other than their rock-colored gray cloaks. It was how the identified each other from afar. Dalko was fiercely loyal to the creed that had raised him from a boy into a man, and he would not depart from those ways. It made Tristan wonder whether Dalko was under some sort of spell. Perhaps it was a contract he was bound to. Tristan was not sure. Dalko made decisions that seemed to stem from compulsion at times, but perhaps that was just his convictions.


    According to a local who was speaking with the bartender, Tristan learned it was noon. He rose from his chair, prepared to head back to Twin Hills until Crowley¡¯s visit had blown by. Just as he was halfway to the door, a familiar figure emerged into the tavern. It was the spy. He was wearing the same dark cloak and high-knee boots as the day prior. He had dark, searching eyes and his nose seemed to wag up and down as if he were always sniffing something. His eyes were darting around the tavern, seeming to graze over details but not fully focus on any one particular thing. Tristan sat abruptly, trying to appear casual and comfortable as if he¡¯d been in that seat for hours. A couple of patrons eyed him oddly, then turned their attention to the newcomer¨Cthe spy.


    Tristan waited thirty minutes, at which point he could no longer sit still. He didn¡¯t see why the spy would not follow him if he left. After all, the spy had no way of knowing how long he¡¯d been at Arithea¡¯s Meads. He chanced a quick glance in  the spy¡¯s direction. The spy sat cross legged with his back to the wall. Most of his body was cast in shadow. His hood was large and it swallowed most of his face in shadow. It looked like he was staring directly at Tristan, but he could not tell. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Suddenly, Tristan felt his heart begin to race. Was this a spy or an assassin? He felt sheepish for fearing the cloaked spy. He had evaded him a couple times already. The spy never came too close, but it had been to his detriment. Tristan had gotten away. Perhaps that is what had Tristan feeling anxious. Could this be the time that the spy decided Tristan would not get away? He wondered what was at the spy¡¯s hip beneath that cloak¡­daggers? A sword? Or, perhaps he had a quiver of arrows across his back but he concealed it beneath his cloak, like Tristan did with his own sword Drakiler.


    The sun¡¯s glow was warm despite the winter¡¯s chill. Lately, as soon as the sun had descended the temperatures had dropped significantly. Tristan darted out on the old yellow road. He walked briskly, but not too quickly. If the spy lost his trail, then he¡¯d never be able to lead him into Dalko¡¯s trap. He needed the spy to feel like he had the upper hand.


    He glanced over his right shoulder. A blur of moment caught his eye. He turned his head. Someone had certainly been there¨Cfifty yards away. He saw a head slowly peek around the side of a building. There you are, thought Tristan. The spy had slid between two buildings that were so close they formed an alleyway as wide as Tristan¡¯s shoulders. Terrible spy, thought Tristan. Terrible spy, but then again¨Cdo you care that I know you¡¯re there? Are you an assassin? A hired blade? Mercenary? Tristan shook the thoughts from his head. If he kept on his normal route to Dalko¡¯s compound, the man would follow without getting too close. He wasn¡¯t trying to catch Tristan, only find out what he was up to.


    As Tristan left downtown Sesten and traveled through the wooded forest, he felt his heart racing and his breathing coming in ragged gasps. This was a spy¡­the king¡¯s spy. What if he reported to Bodry? He also wondered whether Crowley had come to his Ma¡¯s house yet to collect tax. He¡¯d likely assume Tristan had simply forgotten the day and the time¡­young men like Tristan were active¨Calways hunting, dealing, or scavenging for something. He¡¯d be frustrated, but he¡¯d understand, thought Tristan. He¡¯d left a pouch of coins by the door just in case. He knew Crowley would approach the door and give a firm knock if he didn¡¯t see Tristan outside. He¡¯d surely find the payment, give a contented sigh, and then return to his horse and gallop up the hill to join his three comrades. The thought calmed Tristan as he lept over two fallen tree trunks and side stepped around a twisting, hanging branch. Thorns and thistles came dangerously close to his face. He could hear leaves and twigs snapping behind him. The spy had followed Tristan farther into the woods than he ever had before.


    Tristan smiled to himself, thinking of the pride that the spy was surely feeling at that moment. You haven¡¯t got me yet. This isn¡¯t what you think it is. Part of Tristan wanted to turn and face the man, withdrawing Drakiler and showing him that he wasn¡¯t to be crossed. In fact, he hated this pursuit. It went against everything his brain was telling him. He could slash and jab with his sword, and put his strong arms to use. That was the youth in Tristan thinking. He reconsidered that thought. This was a Spy of the King¨Cmaiming or killing a King¡¯s Spy would be a troublesome situation if it were ever found out. Or worse, Tristan was bested and the Spy dragged him back to Sesten to be held until Bodry or some other king¡¯s official could come and deal with him.


    Tristan arrived at the top of the wooded hill that overlooked the steep drop to where the compound sat down below. It appeared deserted. Tristan¡¯s first thought was that he¡¯d been betrayed. There had been over one hundred and fifty Denderrikans, mixed in which a few Solarians and Brantish, of course. Now there were none. It was silent. Eerily silent. The footsteps softened behind him. Tristan turned, pretending to be startled by the presence of someone following him.


    ¡°Stop there. That¡¯ll be enough running from you,¡± said the spy. Tristan saw those darting, uneasy eyes look him over. The spy withdrew a dual set of daggers from either hip. Tristan was surprised to realize his assumption back at the tavern had been right.


    Tristan paused, wondering when the trap would be laid. He wondered if he really had been fouled. Had the Denderrikans used me to drag him out of Sesten, whilst also disposing of me? There was no time to think about anything else. There was nowhere to go, unless he slid down the steep wooded hill like Loren always did with him. The spy was simply follow him, but he¡¯d have places to hide and evade the spy down at the compound. He considered making for the attic that was upstairs inside the lodge.


    Before Tristan had to make a decision, one was made for him. Two Denderrikans plopped to the ground from a tree on either side of the spy. He gave a sharp yell, holding a dagger pointed at either man. The Denderrikans both held short swords. They batted the daggers out of his hands with their blades, making the spy appear juvenile and weak.


    ¡°Well done, Sword Maker,¡± said a familiar voice. One of the Denderrikans removed a hood, revealing the face of Loren. The other Denderrikan was broad-shouldered with a sulky face. His hair was blond and grizzly. His beard was cut jagged, and more gray than blond. Tristan figured he was one of the more senior Denderrikans of Dalko¡¯s group.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here to start any trouble. Only to discover who this mysterious man is,¡± said the spy, gesturing at Tristan.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about him. Let¡¯s talk about you.¡± The grizzly Denderrikan prodded the pommel of the spy¡¯s fallen dagger into his back, leading him toward the compound below.


    Dalko emerged from the lodge, hands behind his back as he slowly sauntered out into the clearing. Two men followed behind, dark looks spread over their face. Dalko¡¯s face was neutral.


    ¡°Bring him down,¡± said Dalko firmly. His tone almost sounded¡­annoyed. His voice carried despite his calm manner. ¡°I¡¯ve got no patience for spies.¡±

 Chapter 14: The Veracifer

    Dalko¡¯s men dragged the spy by his arms and threw him to the ground. He coughed violently from the impact. His arms were bound. Coiled rope kept his arms secured by his side.


    ¡°So,¡± began the spy, allowing for a short pause. He lifted his head slowly. The Graycloaks had him on his knees. ¡°There is a secret stronghold in Sesten, and its forces are manned by none other than Dalko Rivien the Ascendian." The Spy''s face was curled into a smug look. "We thought your existence was Denderrikan propaganda.¡±


    The spy emitted a dry laugh, then coughed. Tristan studied him, standing with his arms crossed. The spy didn¡¯t seem upset that he¡¯d been caught. He looked content, like finding out about the secret compound was enough to satisfy his deepest longings.


    ¡°I live. And I am no myth.¡± said Dalko. His face was narrow and sharp as a sword. "King Tarren station you here?"


    Dalko''s most trusted warrior pulled rank beside him, his face heavily scarred and discolored. He was of average height with a strong, lean build and Denderrikan blue eyes. His hair was not gray yet, like Dalko¡¯s, but it was a silvery blonde that ran down to his shoulders. He held a sword in his right hand that was longer than any sword Tristan had ever seen. His name was Kenton, Tristan had learned.


    ¡°Is it true?" said Kenton, edging closer to the spy. "King Tarren sent you to Sesten?¡±


    ¡°Yes and no,¡± replied the spy.


    ¡°Why no?¡± asked Kenton. He came close to the spy now, sword held across his throat. ¡°We¡¯ll take a name as well.¡±


    The spy gulped, some of his original bravado was wearing off. The sword seemed to have done the trick. He knew the Denderrika¡¯s never feigned a threat.


    ¡°My name¡¯s Skorja. I was stationed by the Chief of Spies, who works closely with the King.¡± Skorja reared his head back, desperate to avoid Kenton''s blade which was cutting into the soft flesh of his neck.


    ¡°Skorja?¡± questioned Dalko, pacing slowly. The rest of the Denderrikan force were gathering in a semi-circle around the spy. Tristan found himself at the front of the semi-circle with Loren to his right and Kenton to his left. On the other side of Loren stood the warrior woman, Asherin Unsworth. She wore black war gear and an amber pommeled sword across her back.


    ¡°Skorja isn¡¯t a name of Windem descent.¡± said Kenton. His tone was accusatory. ¡°Where are you from, Skorja? Why do you serve King Tarren of Windem?¡±


    ¡°Father was Denderrikan, mother was Brantish¡­moved to Windem before I was born. That¡¯s all.¡± stammered Skorja.


    ¡°A traitor then,¡± said Kenton, looking at Dalko. Dalko¡¯s scowled, then clicked his tongue.


    ¡°A traitor to his lineage, to his ancestry," said Kenton. "This man¡¯s life is an insult to Denderrikan lineage." Kenton looked at Dalko, preparing to kill the man whom he deemed a traitor. ¡°May I?¡±


    Dalko nodded, placing his hands behind his back. Kenton lifted his sword high into the air, coming down with a precise cut. His blade sliced Skorja¡¯s right ear from his head, blood squirting like a fountain. Skorja screamed, crying out in shock and agony. He knew what came next.


    ¡°I will give you all that you want to know!¡± he shouted. A few Denderrikans exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably at such weakness. Denderrikans were trained from birth never to show pain.


    ¡°Then tell me,¡± began Dalko, ¡°who is the Chief of Spies?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s an older man¡­with a walking staff!¡± Skorja shouted. Kenton was cleaning the blood from his sword, eyeing Skorja as he did so.


    ¡°A name, please,¡± said Dalko.


    ¡°Bodry,¡± said Skorja. ¡°Bodry Tenthill.¡±


    Tristan felt his body go numb. He had no idea Uncle Bodry was the Chief of Spies. He¡¯d made it seem like he had picked up a gig as a King¡¯s Spy because he needed extra coin.


    ¡°Bodry, huh?¡± said Dalko. ¡°Does Bodry know that we are here, in Sesten? Does the King know?¡±


    Skorja hesitated, unsure as to what the right answer was. ¡°Um¡­he¡­¡±


    ¡°Do they know? Or do they not?¡± growled Dalko.


    Skorja gulped. ¡°Bodry knows of my suspicions. The King has no clue.¡±


    Dalko nodded, pursing his lips and keeping his eyes downcast as he paced.


    ¡°He will know soon enough, but it will be too late by then.¡± Dalko walked to Skorja, crouching so that his eyes were level with Skorja. ¡°And do you know why we are going to set up a garrison in Sesten, of all places?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± murmured Skorja, his voice shaky with fear.


    He knows he¡¯s going to die, thought Tristan, a blanket of guilt covering him. This was Bodry¡¯s man, and he had led him here to his death. He looked around. He was surrounded by invaders of Windem, and he was working for them. He couldn¡¯t imagine choosing to leave now. Dalko was too dangerous, too cunning. He¡¯d see right through it--would never allow him to walk out of here alive if he were to turn back on their agreement.


    ¡°For one," began Dalko. "We have fertile land in our possession now. Not only is it good land, but it is land that the Crown relies on. Windem is already running low on food as it is. That shortage will worsen. Cropkillers will be upon this land, rotting all of the corn and all of the wheat. No one will stop them.¡± Dalko let that soak in while Skorja sat with his head hung.


    Dalko leaned in, ¡°And you know why else?¡± He put a finger to Skorja¡¯s chin, lifting it up so that he was at eye level.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Skorja, fearfully indulging the Ascendian.


    ¡°We have found something¡­something that Windem have long neglected. Rather, we have found him.¡± Dalko turned, staring at Tristan now. The blood rushed from Tristan¡¯s face, his legs began to tingle and then go numb.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°Windem¡¯s Lord Ruler, Wielder of the One Sword. And he was right here in Sesten the whole time-- an unguarded, unheeded secret.¡± Dalko let a low grumble of chuckling rasp through his throat like a rusty sword leaving a scabbard.


    ¡°The prophecy was given by a Seer. Seer¡¯s have false power,¡± managed Skorja. Tristan was stunned by his boldness to disagree with Dalko. Tristan hadn¡¯t fully processed what Dalko had said. He didn¡¯t try to. He felt like he was in a dream. This moment didn¡¯t feel real to him.


    ¡°Let¡¯s test your theory then, shall we?¡± Dalko¡¯s question was directed to Kenton, who sheathed his sword and turned. He gave Asherin a nod. She understood whatever the nod meant, turning to go get something or someone from behind the lodge.


    When Asherin returned, there was still something slowly emerging from behind the lodge. Tristan heard the sound of chains rattling, dragging in the dirt. There was also a low whirring noise that was slowly getting closer.


    It¡¯s a Veracifer, realized Tristan. He¡¯s bringing out a Veracifer. Tristan instantly became nervous, wondering what the ramifications would be for him. The Lord Ruler of Windem? The Wielder of the One Sword? The only sword he wanted was his own sword, Drakiler.


    The creature turned the corner and the Denderrikan host made way for it. It seemed to know where to go. Men shielded their eyes. Tristan did as well. He had heard the stories in the taverns of Sesten. Men lost all senses but their touch when they made eye contact with a Veracifer. It was built like a man with a horrible hunch in its back. It had swirling black and white eyes that were hypnotic. Its tongue was long and terrible. A sloppy, wagging pink limb thrashed wildly from its mouth where its tongue should have been. Each arm had been amputated at the elbow. Instead, a cupped piece of metal armor was screwed into place and long chains ran down to the ground with a spiked ball tethered to the end of either limb made of chain.


    Skorja closed his eyes, unable to shield them with his arms. ¡°I will not look at that beast! I will not!¡±


    ¡°You will,¡± replied Dalko. Kenton turned away from the creature, moving aside so that he did not block its path. It dragged its long chains slowly. The low whirring sound slowly grew louder. Its tongue made sloppy, saliva-like noises. Dalko stared at the creature, allowing his eyes to gaze upon every aspect of the creature.


    Tristan¡¯s gaze was away from the creature, but he watched Dalko. He needed to find out what Dalko had in mind so that he could be prepared. Then, the thought hit him. He¡¯s immune, he thought. He figured it had to do with his training as an Ascendian. Dalko was the only one out of the whole group to lay eyes on the beast.


    The beast stopped short of Skorja, letting a foul, inhumane roar escape its huge mouth. A jagged set of a hundred miniature teeth that were sharpened like mini staves lined its mouth around the oversized limb-like tongue. The creature had no hair, but rather a pink, leathery head looked like baby skin. Its head appeared as though it had too much skin so it bunched up at the top.


    Dalko stood behind Skorja. He withdrew a dagger, holding the blade to the nape of his neck. ¡°Open your eyes, or I will carve them open for you.¡± Skorja didn¡¯t doubt Dalko, but the thought of facing the creature and losing his sense was demoralizing. Finally, after Dalko had begun to dig his dagger tip into Skorja¡¯s eyelid, Skorja opened his eyes, screaming.


    His eyes burned up almost immediately as if they were on fire. His throat began to burn, as if it were being cauterized. His left ear began to bleed. His right ear, which was mostly just a hole by now since Kenton had chopped it off, began spurting profusely.


    The creature¡¯s limb-like tongue ran all over Skorja¡¯s face, wetting him in slopper. Dalko untied the ropes from Skorja, kicking him in the back. He sprawled onto the ground. His legs hardly obeyed him as he stood up. He took two steps and then fell. He had no balance.


    Dalko didn¡¯t seem to care what happened to Skorja next. He turned to Tristan. ¡°Your turn, Tristan. Face the Veracifer.¡± He instructed Tristan as if he were completing another simple task in the streets of Sesten. Tristan¡¯s face paled, his arms sweat. He was unable to speak. He felt no special powers, no hidden strength. He significantly doubted Dalko¡¯s claim that he was some sort of special prophesied warrior-king. There were whispers of such when he was a baby due to his father¡¯s almost god-like status as a warrior. People of Windem knew such talk was foolish. Seers and Sorceresses¡¯ had mysterious ways and hidden power, but no man was born with a destiny that he didn¡¯t create on his own. At least, that¡¯s what Tristan had grown up believing.


    The creature turned on its heels, slowly dragging its Chain Slinger¡¯s arms along the ground. The spiked balls kicked up dirt, spreading a cloud of particles behind it as it approached. Tristan still had his head turned to the side. Loren nudged his side, whispering for him to hurry up and do it. He looked at her. Her eyes were closed, and tightly.


    Tristan felt a braveness start to rise up inside of him. He knew not whether it was true courage, or pure folly from hearing Dalko Riven speak so highly of his destiny. Tristan let out a fierce shout, raising Drakiler to the sky. He didn¡¯t intend to use his sword, but it gave him strength to feel its hilt in his hand.


    The Veracifer stood before him, its tongue working in all different directions like a starving dog. The livestock on the compound were mightily disturbed. The horses neighed, the chickens clucked, the cows mooed.


    Tristan opened his eyes. He met those swirling, hypnotic eyes that weren¡¯t even eyes. They had no sockets, just two swirling circles like miniature portals into another world. The Veracifer took a step back. Then another. It stopped its whirring sound, then gave a mighty roar like an angered mother bear when its cubs were threatened.


    Tristan raised his sword again, shouting with might. He did not know why he shouted, but it felt good. He could feel the awe of those around him, unable to watch but knowing that Tristan was not blind, mute, or deaf.


    ¡°So it is true,¡± muttered Kenton to himself. Two Denderrikan warriors came up behind the Veracifer and placed a metal collar around its neck and slipped a bandana over its eyes. They yanked at its neck, pulling it away from Tristan and leading it back behind the lodge.


    All went quiet amongst the Denderrikans. Kenton was the first to speak.


    ¡°To the Lord Ruler of this land, and the Wielder of the One Sword!¡± Kenton raised his sword high into the air. The rest of the Denderrika¡¯s did the same. Steel hissed from their scabbards and rallied into the air. Some raised scythes, pikes, or spears. All was quiet for another few seconds. A cold wind blew through the land. Capes and cloaks fluttered. Dark clouds were rolling overhead.


    ¡°We will not bend the knee just yet,¡± said Dalko. There was no hint of a smile on his face, not even a shred of amusement or awe. Just those cold, blue eyes staring into Tristan¡¯s soul. ¡°Any man can become immune to those swirling eyes of the Veracifer, it is not a sure proof, but a subtle sign. His loyalties may still be tested.¡± Dalko¡¯s eyes narrowed and his jaw was set firm. The wind whistled. The air had grown bitter and wintery.


    Skorja had collapsed one hundred yards away. He lay face down in the dirt, unmoving. Neither Kenton or Dalko regarded him.


    ¡°Today is Tuln day,¡± announced Dalko. ¡°It is the day we have been waiting for. Bring the Veracifer. We will need to clear the town of its citizens.¡± Men hurried back behind the lodge to grab the Veracifer again. Tristan could hear irritated noises coming from the creature at being beckoned yet again. Denderrikans grabbed their weapons and their war gear. It was time for the invasion.


    ¡°Today, we will take the town of Sesten. Do not kill unless you are met with resistance. These citizens have nothing to do with the Crown¡¯s treachery.¡± Dalko started up the steep wooded hill, towards Sesten. His gray cloak fluttered behind him. He had a quiver slung over his shoulder and a scabbard across the other shoulder. One of his Graycloaks carried his longbow.


    Dalko turned, seeing Tristan. It seemed like an afterthought. ¡°Hey Tristan, make sure you¡¯ve decided who your loyalties lie with. You¡¯re either with Windem, or you¡¯re with us.¡±


    Dalko turned, starting up the hill. Tristan stood still, letting Loren and Asherin pass by him. The sound of chains dragging was drowned out by the loud volume of his thoughts.


    He came to a startling realization. He would have to make a decision.


    He would take over the town he grew up in with foreign invaders, or he would align his loyalty with Windem, the land of his father and the Crown that he served. One thought kept returning when he thought of Windem.


    Betrayal. And then Elric¡¯s face appeared in his mind. Tristan¡¯s hand went to the hilt of his sword. He whispered, ¡°Drakiler.¡±

 Chapter 15: Invading Sesten

    It was a little after midday and the sun was hidden behind dull gray clouds. It showed its face only in small glimpses, but soon it was no longer visible at all. The air had a bite to it. There was a brisk feeling that only comes when snow is not far from falling. Men and women of Sesten had no idea that the Graycloak Company would be marching onto the old yellow road and into the heart of Sesten shortly, nor did they have any reason to.


    Some could feel it. It is an odd feeling that some claim to have before a phenomenon happens. The hairs on the back of your neck stick straight. A natural disaster strikes. A thief breaks in with a stave or a dagger. Your crop has been stolen, trampled, or cherry picked--a farmer may know before they even step out of bed in the morning.


    This day was like that for the citizens of Sesten. They paid their taxes to Sir Crowley Begg and his men. Their hands felt extra heavy as they dropped their coins in his pouch. Crowley felt it too. He frowned, collecting from the final citizen of the town. He looked around. There was nothing to see. The sign for Arithea¡¯s Meads swung lightly on its hinges. A single crow settled down on one of the trademark flat rooftops of a shop lining the old yellow road. The road didn¡¯t seem as yellow as it had in the past. It was more gray and gravelly. A horse limped, pulling a small carriage down the road. Its owner tipped his hat, giving a curt nod of the head. Crowley only stared. He set his jaw, turned, and strode over to his own horse. He was only a mile out from town when he heard the commotion. It was a chilling sound. He was on his way past Tristan¡¯s house at the bottom of Twin Hills to see if he had just missed Tristan by coincidence when Crowley and his host of twelve men reined their horses to a halt and listened. The twelve men slowly laid their eyes on Crowley after looking back at the town. The buildings were small shapes from this distance. There was no fire, no smoke.


    Crowley returned a worried look to his men. He twirled an end of his mustache and then ran a hand through his slicked back gray hair. ¡°Shall we?¡± he asked finally. His question needed no response. This wasn¡¯t about taxes anymore. Crowley was a member of the Kingsguard and this was Kingly business.


    The invasion of Sesten didn¡¯t begin with a stampede of warriors, a looting of the town, or even by putting the entire town to the torch and trapping the citizens within. It began with the Chain Slinger. The Veracifer. The end of the old yellow road sloped down slightly where the downtown area ended and the more rural part of the road began. It was at that rest that one hundred and fifty-one men were laying on their bellies and waiting. The Chain Slinger would go first, flushing anyone who had any sense about them out of the town so that the Denderrikans would be met with the least resistance. Dalko was accomplishing a task, securing an outpost. He wouldn¡¯t achieve anything by brutally attacking the locals and potentially suffering casualties.


    However, he didn¡¯t intend to let everyone get away. There were some that he would need for the rebuild of the town. Sesten was to become a city. A beacon of hope and strength. His garrison of men would hold down Sesten as a stronghold in the south, solidifying Denderrika¡¯s southern entry into the kingdom. There was also immense strategic value to its location and its crop yield, of course.


    Tristan watched as the Chain Slinger¡¯s whirring noises filled the town. No one had peaked out from their shops and buildings yet. The sounds of blacksmiths working their craft and loud, rambunxious taverns still tuned it out. Because the Chain Slinger was walking away from them, the Graycloaks were able to watch. It walked with a heavy limp. The chains weighed it down, burdened it. Its tongue could be seen, even from their vantage point behind it, wagging side to side. It was busily searching, flailing, with no particular purpose.


    The spiked balls that were attached to the end of the dragging chains were churning up dirt and the Chain Slinger went. It let out a few new shrieks that Tristan had not heard from it down by the compound. That hard surely broke through the townsfolk.


    Tavern doors flung open. Hammering smithies paused their strokes. The bustle of trade shops and street beggars became null. The town had heard it, and now they were seeing it. A horror that was only talked about in stories had come to the small town of Sesten, and it was dragging its way down the old yellow road.


    Bodry was riding atop his magnificent, well-muscled horse. His staff was tucked underneath his packs and rope on the rump of the horse. He yanked on the reins, giving a shout. The horse made no noise besides the snorting of its snout. It pressed on, hard as it could go. It knew that its master was in a hurry.


    He patted his horse¡¯s mane, leaning forward in the saddle. He groaned. He wasn¡¯t as limber as he once was. The horse was coming from the west. The west side of Sesten was in plain view to Bodry as his horse carried them onward across the cropland. It was winter, and so the corn was still just seeds in the ground, although the dirt was already tilled in preparation for the spring.


    He had awoken with a start this morning, assuming it had just been a troublesome dream. His instincts told him otherwise. He had been midway into a journey to the King to report all that his spies had compiled for him. At the top of the list had been,


    Suspicions at small town of Sesten.


    Curious routine by a young Windem boy, no older than 21 years.


    Possible that the boy is in league with someone -- Denderrikans.


    The report sounded mild, but Bodry knew how the pattern went. There had been dozens of similar reports across Windem within the past few months. All of them had turned out the same. Bodry had ignored the threat on account of the King¡¯s disregard, and apparent lack of concern. As it had turned out in twelve out of fourteen cases, there had indeed been Denderrikan warbands camped out in secret. Windem had lost four towns, three cities, and four villages to these occupations. The Denderrikans were gaining a foothold, and this one concerned Bodry the most.


    He knew of Tristan¡¯s bloodline, knew of Gareth Blackthorn¡¯s secrets. He¡¯d been entrusted by Gareth with secrets--the most important one involving Tristan. It had prompted his frequent check-ins during Tristan¡¯s upbringing, and now he was losing his grasp.


    Should¡¯ve known something was up. Should¡¯ve seen it coming, thought Bodry. He bit his chapped lip, peeling a piece of skin so hard that it began bleeding. The wind dried it out quickly. The cold air was slapping at his face as his horse charged on.


    ¡°Go on, Snowsphere! Be gallant!¡± shouted Bodry. If he could make up for lost time, he might be able to catch Crowley Begg in time before he made a stupid decision. A decision about Tristan, Bodry thought, not about Sesten. They can have Sesten, but we can¡¯t let them have the boy. Crowley won¡¯t believe me. He never knew Gareth¡¯s secrets, but he knows Tristan¡¯s different than the others. That¡¯s why he requested to be stationed in the south¡­for taxes. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    One man had scampered clumsily out of a tavern. His balance was already poor, likely from drinking, but the sight of a Chain Slinger with the eyes of a demon certainly didn¡¯t help. It also didn¡¯t help that the man made eye contact with the Chain Slinger. His eyes instantly locked. They were burned, charred, and then melted into the ground. His eye sockets curled up and swelled, like they had been cauterized. He dropped to the ground, squealing.


    Two others, a man and a woman who were presumably married, came running out of Ivan¡¯s Ales with the most naive escape method imaginable. They came out of the front door holding hands, their bodies turned sideways so that they could get a good look at the beast, then immediately lost all sight, hearing, and smell. Tristan felt his heart sink. They looked like good, well-meaning. He was surprised to realize that not everyone sat around taverns all day listening to the realm¡¯s stories and latest happenings.


    After the first three people who escaped were melted to the ground and devoid of all sense besides touch, the townsfolk seemed to wisen up beside the odd man or woman here and there who seemed to have completely lost touch with reality. Doors were boarded up and barricaded with all the furniture that places could possibly think of.


    It was no use. The Chain Slinger did something Tristan did not know it was capable of. It swung its chains. The spiked balls gained some momentum after a few spins, and then it released the chain to its right, allowing the spiked ball to carry its entire weight and momentum through the wall of Artihea¡¯s Meads. The building shook with trembling and terror. If it was possible for the air to become thick and suffocating with fear, it did just that. Tristan felt himself struggle to swallow. His throat was dry and his body was shaking.


    He looked to his right where Loren lay beside him with her belly to the ground. She grabbed his forearm, rubbed it twice, and urged Tristan to fight back his emotions.


    ¡°This is war, Tristan!¡± said Loren. ¡°Don¡¯t let your nerves consume you now, we haven¡¯t even taken the town yet.¡±


    ¡°Yes, exactly!¡± Tristan whispered and shouted simultaneously. Kenton elbowed him. He was lying to Tristan¡¯s left.


    Dalko slowly rose to his feet before anyone else did. His eyes glazed over his Company. He gave a slow, intentional nod. A row of twenty men along either outskirt of the group got up with their bows and their quivers. Tristan watched as they appeared to flank the town. When they arrived at the buildings they scurried up the sides of the rectangular, flat-roofed buildings and spread themselves along the roofs. Dalko had grabbed his longbow from his servant and slung it over his shoulder. His head angled to the right. He lowered his hand discreetly, then signaled us forward with two fingers.


    The entire group rose to their feet quietly. Tristan was amazed at how little noise they made. The only sound he heard was the minimal sounds of clanging as swords, spears, pykes, and scythes were gathered up. The remaining one hundred and nine men lined either side of the old yellow road. Dalko walked down the middle of the road, slowly and assuredly. Kenton followed shortly behind him. They stopped where the road met the shops and taverns.


    Kenton took a deep inhalation of breath and then made an announcement to whomever might be listening. As he spoke, people were spilling out of Arithea¡¯s Meads and sprinting away from the town as fast as their legs would allow. Tristan could hear the creature¡¯s chains dragging over stools and tables. He could hear the stunned swallows, grunts, and despairing pleads of people losing their senses.


    ¡°Listen here, town of Sesten! This town sits upon a rich plot of land--a plot of land that is important to us and our High Lord, lord Maltor of Denderrika. Come forth, citizens of Sesten, and show face.¡± Kenton paused, looking around at the buildings. A few people crept out cautiously. Dalko signaled for a small host of men to start filing through the town to weed out those who might stick around or plan a small rebellion. He didn¡¯t need useless casualties.


    ¡°We ask that all blacksmiths remain in the town. We have the name of every blacksmith in Sesten and a map of your homes. Do not evade us. We will find you if you choose to run.¡± Kenton paused, letting that sink in. He repeated it once more. A few men with soot-stained faces and burly arms crept out from the local forgery. A few more came out from narrow alleyways that were connected to the adjacent streets. Denderrikan Graycloaks followed them from behind, spears and pikes dug into their backs.


    ¡°We will need a small host of men, preferably those with experience out in the fields with crop land and vegetation.¡± Kenton waited. A few men voluntarily emerged from local shops and alleyways.


    Once all farmers and blacksmiths were rounded up, Kenton escorted them through an alleyway and out of sight. A host of twenty Graycloaks followed. They would be used to grow vegetation and keep the new stronghold fresh with crop supply. The blacksmiths¡¯ skills would be utilized to build fortified walls and weapons for the defense of Sesten, should King Tarren decide to send an army this far south.


    Dalko walked with his hands behind his back, sharp eyes darting along the ground. He stopped, raised his head. His men stood eagerly, awaiting the next orders. ¡°Now,¡± shouted Dalko. ¡°We must find the spot and dig. The sword of Gareth Blackthorn is buried somewhere¡­here, beneath the town.¡±


    The Veracifer had finished its bout inside Arithea¡¯s Meads. It emerged from the entrance of the tavern, blinding an unfortunate Graycloak who had been standing with his back to the door. He turned, oblivious to the obvious sounds of its whirring and chains dragging. He was blinded and disoriented, having made the mistake of looking into its eyes.


    ¡°Shoot him,¡± ordered Dalko. An archer from a rooftop took aim and fired. The arrow thudded into the back of the Graycloak¡¯s neck. One hundred and forty-nine men now.


    Most of the Graycloaks had dispersed down various alleyways and streets of Sesten, desperate to find a spot in the ground where, according to Dalko, there should be a low humming sound and a blue aura. The magical sword would be there, according to his visions. The sorceress Saphira had planted the vision there in one of his verrings. He could see it still, as vivid as if it had actually happened. The humming was quieter than the soft footstep of a leather boot, but it was there--had been audible. And the dirt was a tinge of blue. It was easy to miss, but still blue.


    Dalko stood beside Loren, Asherin, Tristan, and the rest of his inner circle who had originally come to the Sesten before the rest of the Denderrikan warriors had shown up at the compound. Two things happened at once. A man came bursting around the corner, a wild look in his eyes. ¡°We¡¯ve found it, lord Dalko,¡± he said. Dalko¡¯s attention was diverted. He pushed the Graycloak aside, squinting his bright blue eyes. In the distance were thirteen men on horseback with claret cloaks flapping in the wind behind them. Orange dust kicked up around the hooves of their horses. Their swords were drawn and held out at an angle, ready to strike.


    ¡°Ahhh¡­¡± said Dalko. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth raised. ¡°I thought they might have already been here, hiding. I was wrong.¡±


    Sir Crowley Begg reared his horse. His men pulled rank just behind him. They had their half-helms on and their visors down. Only Sir Crowley was without a helm. He wore a dark scowl instead.


    ¡°Release the boy and you can have the town. King¡¯s orders,¡± said Crowley.


    ¡°No,¡± replied Dalko. ¡°We¡¯ll have both the town and the boy. You, on the other hand, won¡¯t be leaving.¡± Dalko directed their glances up to the rooftops, where several archers had their bowstrings knocked and pointed. ¡°Where is our other guest?¡± asked Dalko.


    Crowley looked at his guard, confused. The confusion was lifted a moment later. Bodry was tossed from an alleyway and into the middle of the old yellow road between Dalko and Crowley. He kicked up a cloud of dirt and dust, coughing and sputtering blood. Three Graycloaks shouted abuse at him. They tossed his staff at him in spite. It was split in two.


    Tristan gasped. ¡°Uncle Bodry!¡±


    Dalko¡¯s taunting smile faded. It had only lasted a second. At the sight of Bodry, he bared steel for the first time since entering the town. His sword was magnificent and horrible. ¡°The Chief of Spies¡­welcome to Sesten.¡±

 Chapter 16: An Impossible Decision

    The archers of the Graycloak army stood atop the flat rooftops of Sesten¡¯s busiest street, the old yellow road. Their bows were strung, arrows knocked. Most of them aimed at Sir Crowley, who had dismounted and drawn his sword. The members of the Kingsguard was mightily outnumbered, but everyone knew that the Kingsguard were more than just a guard. They were elite knights, selected personally by King Tarren to carry out his will and mete justice against those who had done wrong to others or to the Crown.


    Flurries came showering down in gentle waves like ash from a burning building. The gloomy weather casted a pale blue hue on the town. A cold front was pushing air in between alleyways in chilling gusts.


    Bodry was on his knees, blood running down both sides of his head. His hands were chained and he was grimacing. He raised his head with a great strain. His eyes met Tristan¡¯s. ¡°My boy,¡± he said in a forced whisper. He grimaced again, then forced a smile.


    ¡°Uncle Bodry¡­¡± was all Tristan could manage. His voice trailed off, looking to Dalko. ¡°You cannot harm this man. He¡¯s taken care of me my whole life. He¡¯s as good a man as any. If anything, he can be a valuable asset to whatever you¡¯re planning here--¡±


    ¡°--he¡¯s the Chief of Spies, Tristan. He¡¯s more dangerous than he looks.¡± Dalko¡¯s voice was icy. ¡°His allegiance will not be so easily swayed. Let us not be naive in our thinking.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not yours. He¡¯s ours. We¡¯ve claimed him,¡± said Dalko.


    ¡°Let the boy speak for himself then,¡± replied Bodry. Tristan couldn¡¯t quite believe the situation he had found himself in. Standing on the wrong side of Bodry¡¯s forces. Sir Crowley stood there as well, a firm look plastered across his face. His bushy mustache with twirled ends had grown back. His hair was matted back with a thick paste.


    ¡°The boy will do no speaking, lest his foolish, youthful wishes emerge ahead of common sense. He knows what he wants, and he¡¯s found it here--with us.¡± Dalko looked to Crowley, and then to Bodry. ¡°You can¡¯t give him what he wants, can you?¡± asked Dalko. ¡°Because¡­what he wants, would put you at odds with the King, with the kingdom¡­It would be treasonous.¡±


    Tristan knew what he was referring to. He was talking about Elric. How did Dalko know about that? He didn¡¯t recall ever speaking more than a few sentences to Dalko, about anything.


    ¡°Besides,¡± continued Dalko, ¡°There are other things that Tristan wants¡­things he needs. I¡¯ve seen it with my own eyes--things that not even Tristan himself has seen. He¡¯s a Blackthorn, but he¡¯s also more than that. He¡¯s been chosen by powers greater than us.¡± Dalko returned a firm stare to Crowley, who had set his jaw and was getting a rather firm grip on the hilt of his sword.


    Crowley spoke now, ¡°You mettle with a witch¡­a sorceress! Her words are poison and her illusions are deceitful. It¡¯s not a prophecy. It¡¯s all lies. The lady Saphira is a leech and she¡¯s become spoiled with blood from the High Lord¡¯s power.¡± Sir Crowley¡¯s voice was wise and rich. Crowley looked at Tristan, ¡°Don¡¯t remain with this man and his warband. Whatever they¡¯ve promised you, it¡¯s all folly.¡±


    Dalko shook his head. ¡°She speaks prophecy. She¡¯s a Seer. You wouldn¡¯t know of the power she possesses. Your conservative politics blind you, Knight.¡± Dalko was unnerving. His eyes stared with a menace. He was colder than the flurries that filled the air. ¡°He¡¯s the boy King, the blood of the Blackthorn. His father carried that same blood, but your own man left him to die¡­Elric Drakonstone!¡± shouted Dalko. ¡°That is a man you could never kill, your station will not allow you. But die, he must.¡±


    Crowley took a step forward. Bowstrings were tightened by the archers who stood upon the rooftops. ¡°I was there that day. He didn¡¯t kill him! Blackthorn died of his own accord, his own lack of caution!¡± Sir Crowley was indignant, his face flushing red. Tristan was angry now too. He remembered what Elric had said. He¡¯d watched his father die. Could¡¯ve saved him. But he didn¡¯t. Whose side was Crowley on? Surely he knew that Elric had bad blood.


    The sounds of townspeople screaming and swords puncturing bodies sounded dully from behind a nearby alleyway. A few distant shouts could be heard. The town was being emptied and some still refused to leave. There were homes in Sesten, entire livelihoods built here.


    Dalko replied, ¡°Tell yourself whatever it is that you must. The young Blackthorn remains with us, where his true potential will be utilized and appreciated. Tristan is to become a High Ruler in Windem. The days of the Crown are coming to an end.¡± Dalko looked at Tristan. ¡°These men will turn you into an average man¡ªa dull Knight who labors in the battle yards just like every other man in Windem¡¯s armies. Do you want to be an average foot soldier for King Tarren, or do you want to gain the title that¡¯s always been mean to be? The choice is yours, young ruler.¡± The title of Ruler had sent an adrenaline coursing through Tristan¡¯s body. He had always wanted to be a warrior, a prolific warrior. What Dalko was saying made sense. If Windem took him in, he wouldn¡¯t be propelled to a high position immediately. His bloodline meant little to King Tarren. After all, they¡¯d left him and his Ma in Sesten all alone after his father¡¯s death--hadn¡¯t even arranged anything to support them financially or physically. They lived without protection and without much at all.


    Tristan¡¯s thoughts were still mulling around his father¡¯s death. The spite that resided in his heart for Windem¡¯s leadership was bursting at the seams. How could they hire a man like Elric as Lord Commander after what he did? Surely Crowley had seen the truth before his very eyes. And now he was lying about it?


    ¡°You deny the power of the Blackthorn bloodline,¡± said Tristan, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. He was shouting at Crowley, refusing to meet Bodry¡¯s eyes. ¡°You deny my father was betrayed. I heard Elric say it himself. He said it to my mother¡¯s face, right after he forced himself on her. He¡¯s a filthy man who deserves nothing other than death!¡±


    ¡°His words ring true,¡± affirmed Dalko. ¡°We will not relinquish this town. We will not give up the invasion. Windem is corrupt. This land will soon belong to the High Lord, and we will stop at nothing until that happens.¡±


    Bodry spoke, ¡°Well, nevermind the boy.  He will choose his own path, the right path, I am sure.¡± Bodry¡¯s voice brought Tristan¡¯s glaring temper back down to a dying ember. It was the voice of his home, of comfort. ¡°There is a better way to end this conflict than with sword and spear. Let us end this with diplomacy.¡±


    Crowley chimed in. ¡°This town has already suffered far more than it had any right to endure. Let¡¯s end this now, civilly. There¡¯s plenty of open fields to occupy for a proper battle. Your army against mine, and may the better side win. There are citizens in this town, and homes and livelihoods that can be salvaged from this terrible calamity that you Denderrikans have brought.¡± Crowley took a step forward. Tristan heard bowstrings tighten from the rooftops again. ¡°No further!¡± shouted a man from a rooftop. It was one of the captains of the host of one-hundred men who had come to garrison the town. The sound of swords rising in their scabbards was clearly audible. Men lowered into crouching positions, spears held outright.


    ¡°Easy,¡± said Crowley, trying to use his hands to signal the men to lower their weapons. ¡°Let us come closer so that we might cease our shouting, and talk until we can come to an agreement.¡±


    ¡°There will be no agreement today,¡± replied Dalko. His face was lowering into a scowl. His gray cloak was billowing in the freezing wind that swept through the alleyways of the town. The flurries were still light, but the skies had only darkened. ¡°If you want to spare lives, Sir Crowley, then duel me yourself. The winner takes the town.¡±


    Crowley waited a while. All was silent for nearly a minute--the longest minute of Tristan¡¯s life. ¡°Suit yourself then,¡± replied Crowley, ¡°if that is how it must be.¡± He let his sword rattle from its scabbard. The end was blunt so that it would not break easily, but its edges were razor sharp and the cold metal gleamed shinily even in the flurries and the dim lighting.


    A clearing formed in the middle of the old yellow road. The archers put their longbows down, watching. The Denderrikans crowded behind Dalko and the twelve knights of Windem did the same behind Crowley. Bodry hobbled off to the side, leaning back against a building. Two Denderrikans stood close by him, grabbing the chains that his hands were clasped to.


    The two circled each other wearily, swords in hand. Dalko¡¯s was longer and thinner. Crowley¡¯s sword was blunted and thick with a beautiful double edge. It was a true warrior¡¯s sword. He had removed his helm and his bulkier armor. He wore a wide belt made of leather at the waist over his black tunic.


    ¡°So what do we fight for? Sesten, or Tristan?¡± asked Crowley.


    ¡°Both,¡± replied Dalko. ¡°If you defeat me, we will vacate the town and leave you and your guard to retake the town.


    ¡°I suppose we have different reasons for claiming the boy,¡± said Crowley, making small talk while he studied Dalko¡¯s stances and positioning. He needed as much time as possible to figure out the Ascendian, who was fifteen years younger and much more agile. He was trained to kill since he was a child, Crowley knew, but Crowley had seen his share of single combat, skirmishes, battles, and practice yard duels. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    He¡¯d earned a ceremonial award for defending the king at Battle of the Border five years prior. The Brantish were trying to surge across the border with an army thrice the size of the squad that garrisoned the border. It had even earned him the honor of serving as a Knights of the Kingsguard--the opportunity most men dreamed of. The chance to wear the famous Claret cape was far more than any Knight dared to dream of achieving in their career as a Knight.


    Tristan suddenly felt foolish. Why must one lose their life over his loyalty? Could he not swear to serve both men? Could they not agree to a truce until diplomacy reigned over the situation. No, diplomacy was not something Dalko was interested in. As Tristan thought about it, he realized that Dalko relished this moment. It was an opportunity to fight a competent warrior--Sir Crowley. Dalko craved these moments, and was raised to be a killer--an assassin. He¡¯d used self-control not to ravage the town and kill its occupants. Perhaps he knew it would only turn Tristan against him.


    One thing did bother Tristan. He was not an object to be fought over. He was a person, and no matter how much Dalko talked up his destiny and his future, Tristan did not fully believe all of it was true. Bodry and Crowley were not convinced, and he knew Bodry genuinely cared for him. But the way that they had made the effort to come and stop Dalko proved that something inside of them did know that Tristan was worth fighting for.


    The smart play would have been to relinquish Sesten until reinforcements arrived. The Denderrikans outnumber them more than ten to one. Because of those odds, Tristan supposed it made sense that Crowley was eager to commit to a single combat challenge. Those odds were better than taking on Dalko¡¯s Company, especially with the archers on the rooftops.


    Loren came and stood beside Tristan. They exchanged knowing glances. ¡°It will be okay,¡± whispered Loren. ¡°If you choose to stay with us, you will win more land and wealth than you can ever imagine. Lord Dalko is a mastermind, and he will train you to become the greatest warrior that Windem has ever seen.¡± She rubbed his shoulder kindly, but her eyes looked murderous. She¡¯s no angel, thought Tristan. He knew she was more of a warrior than a mere woman, but now her killing senses were on. She wanted victory and she wanted to fight for Sesten.


    Dalko was clearly more agile and springy than Crowely, who sidestepped cautiously with his sword held in front of him with two hands. Crowley¡¯s strategy would no doubt involve waiting for Dalko to get tired and make a mistake. Crowley¡¯s defense was stingy, and he wouldn¡¯t leave many gaps.


    Dalko lunged at Crowley, swiping his blade at the Kingsguard knight in three different types of strokes, all within a few seconds. The blades rang against each other. Their heaves and grunts were loud and strong. Sweat pulsated down the sides of Crowley¡¯s face. He deflected a hard side-stroke from Dalko and then returned his own powerful stroke that nearly knocked Dalko¡¯s blade to the ground. The Ascendian recovered his position, scowling. He twirled his sword around in his right hand, resetting himself and locking eyes with his opponent.


    The two met in the middle of the clearing. Crowley surprised Dalko by choosing to take the offensive at the same time. Therefore, they both had to shorten their stride significantly and take some power off of their sword strokes. Both of them spun out and away from each other after their blades kissed, backing off and waiting for the other to take the initiative.


    Then, Dalko displayed his deadliness. He sprinted at Crowley, fainting a side-stroke to the left and then fainting his body to the right. He slid along the ground, kicking up orange dirt and slicing his blade against Crowley¡¯s calf. Crowley wore no armor on his legs, leaving him exposed and in poor shape to receive such a cut. Blood spurted busily from his calf. He grunted, shouting and cursing. Dalko had immediately rolled himself as far from Crowley as he could. His risky move had left him on the ground for a moment, exposed if Crowley had been able to move quickly to attack him.


    Dalko reset himself, stalking to Crowley¡¯s left side. His right calf was the one bleeding, but Dalko had noticed that Crowley appeared to favor one side, and he was weaker on the left. He had partial lameness in his left shoulder, Dalko had noted.


    Dalko lunged to the left, his blade clanging off of Crowley¡¯s. Crowley spun away and swung his blade around in an arc to strike at Dalko¡¯s back. He was nearly blindsided by the swinging arc of Crowley¡¯s sword but his instincts were sharp. He ducked, backing off to give himself time to adjust his position.


    ¡°A strong warrior¡­I sense experience,¡± said Dalko.


    ¡°Do not flatter me with your words, Ascendian. With your training, you¡¯ve no reason not to have finished an old man like myself yet,¡± said Crowley.


    Crowley and Dalko danced now. Despite his terrible cut to his leg, Crowley seemed to have forgotten the severity and now danced with his blade like he was young again. Tristan gaped and awed. Crowley had the upper hand, hacking and chopping at Dalko and sending him back towards the line of Windem Knights who stood watching. They held the tips of their swords out. Dalko backed dangerously close to one until it prodded him in the back.


    With an act of incredible flexibility, Dalko swung his leg up and kicked at Crowley¡¯s wrist. Crowly held firm to his sword but his arm momentarily went numb, dropping a few inches. It was enough. Dalko swung his sword and struck Crowley in the chest with the flat of his blade, knocking the wind from him. Crowley stumbled, trying to regain his balance. Dalko advanced, landing another kick with the flat of his boot into Crowley¡¯s chest, which sent him sprawling to the ground.


    Dalko jumped onto him. His knees drove into Crowley¡¯s arm just above the elbow, breaking his arms and sending his tendons and ligaments into all sorts of agony. Dalko had dropped his sword and quickly drawn his dagger from his hip. He jammed the blade down into Crowley¡¯s neck, twisting and turning. Crowley¡¯s eyes went large, blood pooled in his mouth. His face turned purple, choking on his own blood. Dalko rose to his feet, sheathing his dagger and picking up his sword from the ground.


    He looked to Tristan, and then to the twelve knights who stood with stunned faces--swords held hesitantly by their sides. Dalko glanced up to his archers and gave a curt nod, as if it were the most casual thing he¡¯d done the entire day. A dozen arrows rained down from the rooftops, puncturing each of the twelve knights in the neck region. The accuracy of the archers was pinpoint, lethal.


    Dalko looked at Bodry, who sat with a look of utter grief and shock. ¡°Bring him to me so that I may kill him,¡± said Dalko. Two Denderrikans hoisted him to his feet, pulling him roughly by the armpit. Bodry was wincing and grunting. His body had been beaten badly before he¡¯d been dragged to the clearing.


    ¡°No,¡± said Tristan, emerging into the clearing. The simple word had drawn a silence across the old yellow road. ¡°You will not kill him. If he dies, I walk.¡±


    A subtle smirk came over Dalko¡¯s face. It was the first time Tristan had ever seen him not serious or scowling.


    ¡°And why should I spare this man, the Chief of Spies?¡± asked Dalko.


    ¡°He made me into the man I am. I owe everything to him. Let him go, he¡¯s a good man.¡± Tristan stood hopeful for a moment, wishing that his words would hold a great weight now that he was such a commodity in the eyes of the Ascendian. Dalko brought back a fist, aiming it for Bodry¡¯s face. Tristan grabbed his forearm, twisted it and yanked it back.


    ¡°Do you have a death wish?¡± exclaimed Dalko, rising to his feet and bringing his face within inches of Tristan. Tristan, who was taller, did not back down. Instead he rose to the challenge, glaring at Dalko through stubborn dark eyes.


    ¡°You can kill me all you want, but I¡¯ll die defending this man, happily.¡± Tristan and Dalko stood with their faces close to each other, unwavering, for a long time. Finally, Dalko turned away, looking at Bodry. ¡°We can¡¯t let him go. He has seen too much, knows too much. He¡¯s the Chief of Spies. Losing him will prove a big blow to King Tarren. Our movements will go largely undetected across the kingdom with the loss of this one.¡±


    Dalko thought for a moment, fingers to his chin. He hardly appeared winded from his plight with Sir Crowlry. Tristan tried not to look at his mangled neck and bloodied face. His body was still lying in the street. Dead.


    ¡°He remains alive but as a prisoner. Perhaps he can be of assistance to us. After all, he knows more secrets than any other man in Windem.¡± Dalko gestured to Bodry, looking at his henchmen. ¡°Bag him, muzzle him, tie him up with rope instead of chains, and see to it that he goes nowhere. He¡¯s our prisoner from now on.¡± Two big men came and took Bodry away. A tear ran down Tristan¡¯s face.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be okay,¡± croaked Bodry. He smiled softly, a trickle of blood dried at the corner of his mouth.


    ¡°What now?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°We set up a garrison here,¡± replied Dalko. ¡°For now we¡¯ll set a perimeter until we know that the King didn¡¯t get any distress signals. There could be scouts and spies in the area who saw our takeover of the town. Tomorrow we begin to build a wall. This place is going to be a Denderrikan stronghold¡­¡± He paused, thinking. ¡°Our stronghold in the south,¡± he mused.


    Tristan stared at the ground, emotion welling up inside of him. He pushed away his tears. He wanted to go home. He needed to see his Ma, make sure he was okay. She would need to leave. Flee Sesten. This was no longer safe for her. Tristan turned to Dalko, interrupting his talk with Asherin the mighty warrior. ¡°I need to return home for a moment to say bye to my Ma. She¡¯s likely alone and worried about me.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± denied Dalko. ¡°You are with us now. We¡¯re leaving soon. Only the garrison of Denderrikans will stay behind with Sesten. I¡¯ll send my men to check on your Ma. They¡¯ll bring a report to make sure she¡¯s okay.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going, and you cannot stop me,¡± said Tristan. He pushed past Dalko and Asherin, making a point to barge into them with his shoulders. The two men who had taken Bodry away grabbed Tristan, constraining him.


    ¡°You¡¯re a Denderrikan now, Tristan,¡± said Dalko. ¡°If you want to become a warrior, then you¡¯ll have to make sacrifices. This is your first one. Go on, rest. Loren can find a place for you to sleep.¡± Dalko nodded to Loren, who took Tristan by the arm and escorted him away.


    Tristan let tears flow down his cheeks, but he wouldn¡¯t sob. He was devastated. His own town of Sesten was invaded--Sir Crowley killed. His Uncle Bodry was now a prisoner of the camp that he pledged allegiance to. He had no idea how his Ma would handle it if he didn¡¯t return home.

 Chapter 17: The Vision of Dalko Rivien

    ¡°Your Ma was seen leaving on horseback from Sesten late last night. There was a man of high ranking on the horse in front of her. Appeared to be either a member of the Kingsguard or even Lord Commander himself.¡± It was one of Dalko¡¯s men who had returned from his scout to see how Tristan¡¯s mother, Mildred, was doing.


    ¡°See,¡± said Dalko. ¡°Nothing to worry about. Your Ma has been rescued and taken out of Sesten.¡±


    Tristan clenched his jaw tight. Elric, he thought. If there was anyone who had known Mildred was here and in danger, it would be Elric. The thought further infuriated Tristan when he realized that the implications would indicate that Elric knew of the Denderrikan takeover of Sesten, but he had not pursued the matter. Instead, he had left Crowley and Bodry out to dry.


    ¡°It was too late. Nothing to be done about it.¡± Tristan could imagine Elric¡¯s words on the matter. Tristan knew his father would never have abandoned the town. He would have rallied any men he could have and led a charge on the invaders, driving them out or dying in the attempt. Gareth Blackthorn would have given his life to protect and serve the citizens of Windem.


    Tristan was also upset about Bodry. Did Bodry think that Tristan had betrayed him? Tristan had not had a chance to properly speak to Bodry. He was now being held in a designated make-shift prison area in the back portion of the downtown area. A host of Denderrikan warriors (some Brantish, some Solarian) had gone and quartered off that section of the town. They stood by idly with spears in hand. Some stood atop the rooftops, scanning the horizon and the open fields surrounding Sesten for any sign of the King¡¯s armies.


    Dalko had made quick work of setting a perimeter, sending messengers to Denderrikan to signal for more men to cross the border, getting a new wall put up between Sesten and the rest of Windem (which lay to the north), and also, most importantly, finding the fabled sword of Blackthorn--which Tristan was still confused about. In fact, the entire past few days confused him. He felt like a fraud. He was no King, no Lord Ruler, no prophesied savior¡­he was none of those things. All he had wanted since his childhood was to be a mighty warrior like his father, to become a Knight of Windem, and to get vengeance on Elric Drakonstone. If the vengeance he sought erased him from the King¡¯s armies, then so be it. Tristan understood that it wouldn¡¯t exactly sit well with the kingdom if a Knight murdered his own superior--the Lord Commander himself. Tristan wasn¡¯t sure how well received Elric was in all of Windem, but from what he¡¯d heard in the taverns locally, Elric was just another mindless commander who worried only about the things of war and glory, and nothing of the citizens of Windem and how his troop movements and crusades across the kingdom might be affecting the people.


    The first part of Dalko¡¯s plan went into effect within two days of the takeover. Firstly, a gigantic war chest was created. It was an arsenal large enough to supply an army of a few thousand. Before Tristan could figure out where these men would come from to take up that many arms, the answer presented itself.


    A host of five hundred Denderrikans arrived from the rear of Sesten--a side to the downtown metropolis that Tristan had never bothered to investigate. They were led by two men of ominous appearance. They wore cloaks that seemed gray in darker lighting, but they turned a dull purple when light reflected off of them. Their eyes were a mixed hue of purple and blue--unlike any eye color that Tristan had ever seen.


    Both of the two imposing figures were Ascendiens. They were of similar stature to Dalko. They weren¡¯t very tall men, but close to six foot and with a strong, lean build. The first man, named Xenotho, had dark, smooth skin. His eyes showed more purple than the other Ascendian. His face bore menace, more so than Dalko, and he carried a double-sided pike that looked like a glorified spear to Tristan. Most pikes that Tristan had seen were one-sided and more sophisticated than the usual--a simple staff with a short blade fastened to one end. There were purple markings all along the wooded part of the pike. If he looked closely, the markings appeared to glow and swirl, almost coming to life in a sense. Xenotho spoke in a deep, rich voice and he had a shiny bald head that he kept hidden beneath the hood of his cloak often.


    The second Ascendian held a less menacing face. His eyes were mostly blue, but sometimes they would grow in size and turn a bright purple. Whenever his eyes turned purple, Tristan found it was hard to look away, and he couldn¡¯t tell if it was due to intrigue or if there was some mysticism behind the attraction he felt. He saw it in others as well. Loren stared openly, unashamedly watching this man and his intriguing purple eyes. His name was Enfallio, Tristan had learned. He wielded two short swords, which were longer than daggers but quite a bit shorter than most swords Tristan had seen. The hilts were beautifully crafted--made of a fine laden wood with leather grips secured round the handle. His hair was shaggy and blonde, which reminded Tristan of a pony. He didn¡¯t dare share that with anyone. He figured no Asendian ought to be attributed to a pony.


    With the new men arriving and over one hundred men kept as slaves (these were men who refused to leave the town after it was invaded by Dalko) the wall was built within a few days, but it was difficult labor. The wall was only three feet high and it had parapets for men to lodge their crossbows and longbows. The blacksmiths were set to work to help with arming men with their weapon of choice.


    Thousands of arrowheads were built and stockpiled by the women who had been captured. These were the women who decided to resist the Denderrikan takeover and fight for what they had rightly owned. Dalko had insisted on their well-treatment, providing ample clean water and two meals per day. The meals were nothing to snuff at. Dalko nearly depleted every tavern, inn, pub, and food shop within the constraints of the downtown area in order to accommodate the slaves. After that, he had hunting parties gathering what meat they could on a daily basis.


    Tristan¡¯s questions of late were swept aside, and a couple Denderrikans were to keep an eye on him at all times. One of these guards was Asherin Unsworth, the mighty woman warrior. She wore all black and kept her hair up in a scraggly bun. Her shoulders were twice as broad as Tristans, and she was a good head taller than him. Her arms were also beefy, and she kept shoulder pads on during most times of the day. The other guard was less imposing, but he kept his crossbow loaded and ready in case Tristan tried to make a break for it and run. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He wasn¡¯t sure whether he was actually being held captive or not. Dalko made it clear that it was his choice whether he was to stay with them or offer himself to Windem and the King. It all seemed a part of an illusion. Although he still doubted his special part in the sorceress¡¯ prophecy, he didn¡¯t want to be controlled and used by Dalko if he truly did have a calling to be some sort of savior. It felt like silly-talk even thinking about it, but there had to be a reason that Dalko believed in him so firmly. Crowley Begg seemed to disagree before he was killed. He wanted Tristan with him because he thought Tristan would be mistreated and possibly killed. As the son of the legendary Gareth Blackthorn, that would never fly with the people of Windem.


    Eventually, three days after the invasion, Tristan was allowed to peer in on a sacred moment within the Denderrikan invasion plan. Loren had come and found him, assuring Asherin Unsworth that she was here to collect Tristan on account of the leadership. The leadership involved the three Ascendiens who were now occupying the stronghold.


    Tristan followed Loren into a dimly lit building. It was a former vendor¡¯s shop that had been completely cleared and emptied besides a small bed-like structure in the middle of the room. The base of the bed was simply made of stacks of hay and wheat. The middle of the bed, which Dalko laid upon, his hands folded over his sword, was a long, smooth plank of wood. Lanterns lay at each corner of the bed. Three men in dark brown robes with hoods drawn stood around Dalko, muttering something that Tristan could not hear.


    This was the day that Tristan¡¯s eyes were opened into the sort of power that Dalko was involved in. He was tapping into a connection with the sorceress, Saphira. His eyes were closed and his face was whiter than a sheet. Sweat rolled down either side of his temples, and his face quivered. Every little muscle in Dalko¡¯s face seemed to twitch. All his features shrunk an inch. His limbs, his face, his ears, his nose¡­everything shrunk and he became wrinkly and ill-looking. He was shaking his head, his eyes had rolled back.


    ¡°Is he okay? Is he dreaming?¡± asked Tristan, perplexed.


    ¡°He is in Verr Seeing. It¡¯s a form of magic,¡± said Loren calmly. She maintained a composed look upon Dalko. They stood at the edge of the room, along with others who were in Dalko¡¯s inner circle. It was mostly the people who had been a part of Dalko¡¯s original company of twelve to twenty people. Asherin shuffled inside the door just then, being the last one who was not present.


    ¡°What¡¯s Verr Seeing? I don¡¯t trust magic. Its evil,¡± said Tristan. Loren looked at Tristan, an annoyed look on her face.


    ¡°If you can¡¯t handle it, then get out, Tristan.¡± Then she lifted a finger, ¡°Or, you can be a man about it and just watch. He is in a dream-like state but what he is seeing is real. Saphira is controlling his visions.¡±


    ¡°How does he know the visions are real,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Since he¡¯s known Saphira the Sorceress, her visions have never proven false. He¡¯s known her since he was a boy.¡±


    Tristan nodded his head, and then quieted. He wanted to see what would happen next.


    Dalko found himself in a palace room, standing before the High Throne. His Lord Ruler sat in his golden throne seat. He was as plump as ever. His skin was putrid and smelly. His lips were more red than the reddest rose. Dalko shifted his gaze. Walking off of the throne and around Dalko was Saphira, the most beautiful woman he¡¯d ever seen. He¡¯d always thought it, but he knew the looks of a sorceress were deceiving. She could appear as she chose to appear. He¡¯d known her since he was a boy, and he¡¯d been taught strictly to suppress all feelings of attraction. Women were not to get in the way of an Ascendien¡¯s main target--become the deadly sword of the High Lord. Become invincible.


    ¡°I seek¡­¡± Dalko paused, inhaling deeply and seeming to appear troubled and out of breath. ¡°I seek¡­the sword. The sword of Blackthorn¡­the sword of Tristan Blackthorn¡¯s destiny. I know it is here¡­I can feel it.¡± Dalko shuttered, gasping. Saphira circled him, smiling. She was zapping him of his strength, depleting him. She needed him weak when he approached her, lest he grow akin to his own power and defer from her wisdom.


    ¡°You are right, Lord Dalko Rivien. The sword is near, and your men are searching. They have claimed to have found it numerous times. Is this correct, Lord Dalko?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± stammered Dalko. His vision field was growing smaller. High Lord Maltor stared at him feebly, tapping a finger on the arm of his golden throne.


    ¡°I will show you where it is. But I will caution you--do not be too quick to assume control of this weapon. This is a sword unlike any other¡­it has power that would be best left¡­alone.¡±


    Saphira and the High Lord faded from Dalko¡¯s vision. The room swirled, turning into a blurry, spinning room. He screamed, cried out. It felt as though his limbs were being ripped off. It felt like an eternity, but it had only been seconds. Finally, it stopped. He was floating in the red skies of Sesten. It was blood-red, even more so than a burning sunset. He was slowly zooming in on the location of the sword. He coveted it greatly, and he could feel its power drawing him in like a drug.


    The zooming stopped. His body hovered over a small courtyard. A fountain had been dug up and removed. Men stood in a pit, digging with backs hunched and skin soaked with sweat.


    ¡°I think we¡¯ve got something!¡± shouted a man. Asherin and Kenton approached the spot where the man¡¯s shovel was stabbing it. It clanged like metal on metal.


    Asherin and Kenton peered into the hole. He gave it another stab to demonstrate that he¡¯d hit something solid. He stabbed it. He went flying. He slammed into a building at the other end of the courtyard and a blue hue filled the hole. The other workers who had been digging quickly scampered off, terrified.


    The vision ended, Dalko sat up on the wooden bed that he lay on. He was gasping. Perspiration clung to his body in small beads. He groaned and strained. He was dying.


    ¡°Quick,¡± he managed. ¡°Before¡­too¡­late.¡± Asherin and another man, presumably a Brantish man based on his features, dug through a small pouch at the foot of the bed and found a small vial with a blue-tinted potion. It became purple when the lid was opened. They strained a drop into Dalko¡¯s mouth. His body grew. His limbs returned to normal size, as did his nose and his ears. His skin gained its color back. There were black spots all over his skin that took a few minutes to go away. When he was finally recovered, he lept down off the side of the bed. The liquid in the vial had evidently tasted foul.


    ¡°It¡¯s here,¡± said Dalko. Those who were in the room looked at him, puzzled. ¡°The sword,¡± exclaimed Dalko, ¡°It¡¯s here. I know where it is.¡±

 Chapter 18: Tristans Plan

    Tristan yearned to go and see Bodry. He had tried on numerous occasions to sneak over to the far side of town, but the guards would not allow it. Dalko refused to allow it. Tristan was still pained by Bodry¡¯s imprisonment. He felt responsible. It felt wrong. Bodry as Chief of Spies? How was it possible? It had already felt odd and wrong that he had learned long ago that Bodry was working as a spy at all¡­but Chief of Spies?


    The plan that Tristan had decided upon was to remain with the Denderrikans for now, as there was no other choice, and then to try and free Bodry and escape together. He knew it would be difficult, but he would do whatever it takes to try to make it happen. In the meantime, Bodry could heal from his wounds that he had received when he first entered the town and was beaten by Denderrikan warriors. Tristan would use the time to try to figure out what power he had and become strong enough to make the escape. He wanted to find out about this fabled sword Dalko seemed to be fascinated with. He also knew that Dalko planned to train him to be a warrior. He didn¡¯t know how long it would take, or if Dalko even had time to do that. Dalko seemed to be spearheading things as part of the Denderrikan invasion. Scouts were constantly going out and coming back into Sesten with word on how the war was going.


    Things had intensified. Apparently the scattered warbands were starting to crumble. A rendezvous point was being organized by an Ascendian named Vitarko, where the warbands were to meet up amongst the remote and desolate crags of eastern Windem and regroup from there. Windem would be convinced that the warbands were retreating, but it was only to reorganize and redouble their efforts. Windem was taking the war seriously enough now that they had recruited all men over the age of sixteen and garrisoned every town, city, and village that was not already ransacked or invaded with at least two hundred men.


    The next phase in the war involved the Denderrikan take over of Windem¡¯s busiest, most significant city. It was the white-walled city of Feynram. It sat strategically in the heart of Windem. It was the busiest trade center in all the land, the wealthiest land and its suburbs and settlements spread beyond the city walls in a fifty mile radius in all directions.


    ¡°To kill a multi-headed dragon, go for the heart and not one of its heads,¡± Xenotho had said. Xenotho, Enfallio, and Dalko met often--and was most commonly referred to as ¡°the meeting of the minds.¡± Tristan was occasionally allowed permission to sit in on those meetings, but Tristan had learned that this had only cemented the fact that he was to be monitored closely and never allowed to leave Sesten or that of the Denderrikan cause.


    ¡°If you take up a position of power someday,¡± Dalko had said, ¡°which you will, if the Verr Seeing is correct, then you ought to know some of these things with which we speak.¡±


    Tristan had merely nodded, a blank look spread over his face. That¡¯s good and well, but when will I get to see Bodry? He wondered. He also was beginning to question why this war needed to happen at all. Why did the High Lord in Denderrika need more land? Denderrika was huge, and this war was costly. Besides, Windem hadn¡¯t done anything to provoke Denderrika. Tristan only knew why Dalko and the Ascendiens led the fight. The answer was that they wanted their freedom. They were slaves to Saphira¡¯s potion. Without it, they would shrivel up and die, literally. Only once the takeover of Windem was complete would they be freed from the curse. Tristan never bothered to ask Dalko what he¡¯d do once he was free, but he wondered about it occasionally.


    After the Verr Seeing vision of the whereabouts of the fabled sword, Dalko had set about collecting men to dig up the sword. The location was exactly as Dalko had envisioned it. The giant fountain of a flute player with fairy wings had to be dug up and removed in order to dig beneath it. Dalko failed to warn his men about what would happen if they hit something hard and metal, which they did, and the same scene played out that Dalko had witnessed in his vision. He believed it would ruin the vision if he were to interrupt the way it went down.


    The blade was brought forth to the Ascendiens, who admired the blade with greed in their eyes. None dared touch it. They knew it was a sacred blade and they did not wish to invoke a curse of bout of misfortune upon themselves. The Ascendiens were always in fear of such a thing.


    Dalko had ordered the enslaved blacksmiths to try and fashion a hilt to the blade. When they found it, it had no hilt. The hilt that had formerly been attached appeared to have been removed.


    ¡°Why did they remove the hilt, I wonder¡­¡± said Dalko, ponderously.


    ¡°Let us attach our own hilt and find out,¡± replied Xenotho. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Two blacksmiths died mysteriously in the crafting of a hilt that fit the blade. They simply collapsed and never awoke. Once the sword was completed, Dalko made one of the Sesten slavesman wield the sword. He became green in the face, retching, collapsing, and then seizing before barely surviving the fit.


    ¡°Remove the hilt,¡± ordered Dalko. ¡°The hilt is somewhere in Windem, likely with the King. In this case, the blade cannot be wielded without the correct hilt.¡±


    ¡°The sword is a living, breathing power. It will not be corrupted by a hilt of a lesser degree, it seems.¡± Zenotho had his thumb grazing over his chin thoughtfully.


    Dalko nodded. Enfallio had his hands gripped over the rubied pommels of his dual short swords at his hips. He started, pointing to the hiltless sword. ¡°I wonder¡­¡± he trailed off, thinking.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Dalko.


    ¡°If that blade was meant for the Blackthorn boy, and the legend says that the sword belonged to his father¡­can he wield the sword, even with the incorrect hilt?¡±


    ¡°I will not risk it,¡± replied Dalko.


    ¡°I agree,¡± chimed Xenotho.


    Tristan had been standing with them, listening. He spoke little around these men. Their kind made Tristan uneasy and the talk of him as some sort of powerful being was beginning to turn him sick.


    ¡°I have another idea then,¡± said Enfallio, his purple eyes beginning to glow. He was looking at Xenotho¡¯s two-sided pike. ¡°Have the blacksmiths attach the blade to Tristan¡¯s spear. Leather bound most of the blade to the wood of his spear, and leave just enough of the blade showing at the end so that it''s a proper spear.¡±


    This consideration led to a slew of debate and arguing amongst the three men. Finally, Tristan spoke.


    ¡°Do it.¡± At first, the men slowly stopped arguing. Their heads slowly turned toward Tristan. ¡°Do it,¡± repeated Tristan. ¡°It¡¯s my blade and it was my father¡¯s sword. I already have a sword for now but my spear is weak. Let us fashion it into a spear for now.¡±


    The three Ascendiens gave thoughtful looks. It appeared as if they had somehow come to an agreement by speaking with their minds and not their mouths.


    ¡°Fair,¡± said Dalko.


    The blade was attached to Tristan¡¯s spear that same day. He wielded it, and it somehow felt lighter in his grasp than it ever had. It felt as if it were humming, radiating some sort of unseen strength. The blade itself glowed a cool blue. It was dim, and low. But it was there--its power filled Tristan with confidence and awe. He tested it out a few times, sparring and stabbing. Xenotho and Enfallio stood with arms crossed, smiles spread across their faces. Dalko¡¯s face still held a scowl, as always.


    Loren turned a corner, then stood and watched. Tristan paused a moment, catching her staring. She smiled. He smiled back, dropping his eyes to the ground, suddenly feeling embarrassed.


    ¡°Tristan Sword Maker¡­¡± began Loren. ¡°Shall I call you Spear Master now?¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± interjected Dalko. ¡°He¡¯s got a lot of training with that spear to do.¡± He lifted his voice toward Tristan. ¡°We¡¯ll begin tomorrow and train here in Sesten for two weeks. Beyond that, my Company is moving out and leaving Xenotho and Enfallio here to man this base.¡±


    Dalko unfolded his arms, striding out into the clearing where Tristan wielded his spear under a red sunset sky. ¡°This weapon will become an extension of your arms. It will become closer and more familiar to you than anyone you¡¯ve ever loved.¡±


    ¡°Where are we going? You know, after the two weeks?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°The White-Wall City of Feynram. But first, we will establish a camp in the rock-lands a few miles outside the city. It is there that we will continue your training until you are ready.¡±


    Tristan frowned. ¡°How long will that take? This is a war, right? The war can¡¯t simply be put on hold until I¡¯m ready.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes it can,¡± replied Dalko. ¡°Our other forces will continue to invade, create skirmishes and distract King Tarren¡¯s armies. But our main weapon, our secret weapon, will be us.¡±


    ¡°Us?¡± asked Tristan. ¡°The company?¡± He thought of Loren, Asherin, and the others.


    ¡°By us, I mean you,¡± replied Dalko. ¡°You are the Wielder of the One-Sword, the High Ruler of the seat of Windem. Whether you seat the throne as a Denderrikan or not, that part is up to you. But if the prophecy remains true, the fate of Windem lies in your hands.¡±


    Tristan set his jaw, looking down at the spear in his hands. ¡°Well then,¡± began Tristan. ¡°I guess a great weapon like this one ought to have a name. After all, you told me yourself that this spear will need to be the closest family I¡¯ve got.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± agreed Dalko. ¡°Got any ideas?¡±


    Tristan paused a while, thinking.  ¡°What is the Denderrikan word for spearmaster?¡±


    Dalko set his cold, blue eyes on Tristan, pursing his lips firmly. ¡°Myroniad.¡±


    ¡°Myroniad,¡± said Tristan softly, testing it out. ¡°I like it.¡±


    End of Part 1

 Chapter 19: An Unexpected Twist

    Part 2:


    Rain pattered lightly on the leaves. Green leaves swelled with the rain and periodically dumped to the forest floor. It was a light rain, but it was enough to keep the birds quiet. The sounds of the forest were dull and sleepy. It was midday and it was a gloomy, gray day. Tristan¡¯s boots crushed soft piles of leaves underfoot, his gray cloak brushing against tree branches and brush. He held his hunting bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. His sword, Drakiler, was tethered at his hip. He was not a warrior today, but a hunter.


    Sir Crowley¡¯s face surfaced into Tristan¡¯s mind. He could see his jolly, plump face and his bushy mustache. The ends were curled upward. He carried himself mightily, like a warrior. Tristan had admired that. Warriors wear their swords across their back, not at their hip, Crowley had said. It¡¯s slower to draw your sword from the hip than from the back. His words echoed in Tristan¡¯s mind as he ducked and side shuffled through thick brush and wet trees. His cloak was thick enough to keep him dry and prevent the water from seeping through.


    He grimaced, suppressing a short sob. It was hardly even a sob. Rather, it was a gasp. The scene played through his head in short, repeated flashes. Sir Crowley had died at the hands of Dalko. It was a duel, fair and to the death. But somehow it hadn¡¯t felt fair. The Kingsguard had all been watching. They surrounded Sir Crowley Begg, shouting encouragement and pronouncing bravery and courage unto their seasoned leader. Then they died. They were slaughtered. Slaughtered by arrows from the rooftops of Sesten¡¯s downtown. That part wasn¡¯t fair. They weren¡¯t supposed to die. The arrow in Tristan¡¯s left hand snagged on a thin branch. He tugged at it viciously, yanking the arrow free. He grit his teeth as he did it. Rainwater and sweat dripped from his hair. It was getting long. The front hung over his eyes, and large strands stuck together due to the wet but also the thickness of his dark hair. The back and the sides were down to his shoulders. His master, Dalko Rivien, had suggested multiple times that it was time for a cut. He even handed Tristan his own personal saxe knife. Tristan would thank him with hardly a word. It was more of a grunt. But he shrugged it away. He wasn¡¯t neat and kept. He wasn¡¯t tidy and sharp. He was indifferent, and lost. Besides, Loren liked it long. At least, that¡¯s how it seemed. She still found him sometimes. When he was alone. But there wasn¡¯t the same spark like there used to be. They were just friends¡­companions. Somehow ¡°companion¡± felt like the right word. They kept each other company. They maintained their sanity in this crazy world simply by checking in on each other.


    A twig snapped to Tristan¡¯s right. His reflexes brought his longbow before him in a flash, an arrow knocked. It sounded like dashing feet. Whether it was a person or an animal, it didn¡¯t matter, Either one would need to be taken care of, unless the person was Denderrikan. There weren¡¯t supposed to be Denderrikans out this far. Not on their own. Tristan was wandering into dangerous territory. It was east of Sesten, and east of their new outpost--Feynram. These lands were still fertile and untouched, unlike most of Windem. It was fertile land that bordered with Solaria. The Solarians were uncertain folks. Some were loyal to Windem, some were loyal to Denderrika. The ones loyal to Denderrika would be largely considered rebels. Outlaws. Solaria was originally in treaty with Windem. That was before all of this. Before Denderrika had begun invading and Brantley had began a border war in the west.


    Tristan heard another snap. It sounded like a twig snapped in half. More rustling. He angled his longbow, string drawn back to the right side of his cheek. He was proficient with a bow, but he was no expert. Tristan had no illusions about that. But that wasn¡¯t a concern of his. He was good enough with a bow to hunt for food, and that¡¯s what was most important. Most of the food supply in Windem was dwindling. The capital had most of it. The rest was rotted over and spoiled by Cropkillers. One sniff, one lick from the tongue of those foul creatures, and the crop was infected. It spread like wildfire. Within days, an entire acre would be dead.


    Tristan had just lowered his bow when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. It was a blur, but he saw it. Then he heard it. He jerked to his right, made the calculation and released. He maintained his posture, hand still drawn back to his cheek, bow held firmly in front of him. The arrow whizzed through the moist air and clipped a tree. It clattered harmlessly and the chance was gone.


    ¡°Buck,¡± whispered Tristan. He watched the buck leave his field of vision. It was too late now. He¡¯d alerted the buck to the threat. Tristan picked out another arrow, felt the birch of the arrow and ran his finger along the iron tip. The moist air had dampened the arrow and added extra weight that Tristan hadn¡¯t accounted for.


    Tristan¡¯s stomach growled. It was midday but he hadn¡¯t eaten in over a day. It wasn¡¯t that he didn¡¯t have food available to him. He refused to take from the stash back at Feynram. That was for the less competent. He could hunt his own food. He wouldn¡¯t be reliant on anyone else for food. Dalko was heading things at Feynram, along with the other three Ascendiens who had arrived to help take over the white-walled castle. Xenotho, Enfallio, and Vitarko. They had a council who ruled over the castle and made decisions for the good of the group. Tristan didn¡¯t know how to feel about their authoritative grip. He didn¡¯t know how to feel about a lot of things. That was why he chose to be indifferent about most things. Politics were a game for those in power and those who wanted to see things change. Tristan wanted change too, but by seizing power and leading masses of people. He could fight. He could be a warrior. He could win battles, and take over lands and castles. That would make a difference. He didn¡¯t have to say a word to do that, besides his ugly battle cries and strained grunting when he was swinging Drakiler or his spear, Myroniad.


    He was without Myroniad now and he cursed himself for it. He had decided against bringing it, since it was just a hunting trip. But now he felt naked without it. It had become a part of him now. It was like family to him, just as Dalko had suggested it should be. It was not merely a spear. It had power. He¡¯d felt the warmth that radiated through it when he held. And when he unwrapped the tightly bound black leather and held the blade in his hand, he felt close to his father. Gareth Blackthorn. It had been his blade. A gift from a faraway Sorceress. Her name eluded Tristan. But the hilt was missing when Dalko finally found it, so they had decided to bind it to his spear.


    For this trip, Drakiler would do it if he were caught in a bind. His longbow could work as well, but he always felt more comfortable in close combat with his sword or his spear. Swords or spears didn¡¯t lose accuray in the rain. Not like his arrows did. Besides, his size was his strength now. He had grown into a man. He had filled out and no longer needed to do strength training outside his Ma¡¯s house like he used to. He felt a sharp pang of nostalgia course through him. Remembered that small house on the far side of Twin Hills. Uncle Bodry¡¯s visits. Sir Crowley cresting the hill with a gentle smile on his face, awaiting Tristan¡¯s tax payment. He ran a hand over his face, then ruffled his hair. Rain sprayed from his head in all directions. One distant bird floated a symphony from a faraway tree. It gave another hum. There was no response.


    Tristan continued trudging through the forest, recognizing every tree, bush, and log along the way. He had come this way before. It was peaceful here. There were markings on the trees made by a blade. They were Tristan¡¯s. The markings led him to a clearing. It almost a perfect circle. The grass with gentle and soft here. He laid down, spreading his cloak beneath him. He laid down his longbow beside him, clasping his hands together with his fingers interwoven. A strand of wet hair tickled his nose and he blew it out of his face without touching it. His face was prickly and cut in some places where he had begun to shave his facial hair. It bothered him when it started to grow. It was itchy. One of Dalko¡¯s Graycloaks and trusted men, Kenton, had assured Tristan it would get softer if he let it grow. He couldn¡¯t wait that long.


    Tristan allowed himself to fade into a light sleep. It was the kind of sleep where you aren¡¯t sure whether you truly dozed off or just daydreamed. He would awake for short spurts and then drift off again. He didn¡¯t sleep much at night. He only dreamed of the same horrible things over and over. Sir Crowley¡¯s death and then the arrows going into the neck and chest of the Kingsguard. His Uncle Bodry being bound in chains after being beaten, and then dragged into a desolate room and treated like a dog. And then the dream that came most often¡­his father¡¯s death. He wasn¡¯t sure whether the dream was true to reality or not, but it came more often than the others and it was slightly different each time, but the general premise remained the same. The most vivid part was his father drowning in icy waters, hardly able to keep himself above water. His arms had a slipping grip on the plates of ice that he had fallen through. He saw the fear in his father¡¯s eyes, followed by a burst of hope. Trust. Faith. A hand reached out to grab him and save him. It would slowly reach down, but for some reason it just could never quite reach him. Gareth¡¯s face would turn blue, his mouth sat open, and his eyes turned a milky white. The hand would withdraw, leaving him to drown and fall through the freezing waters. Tristan knew whose hand it was. Elric Drakonstone. His father¡¯s traitor.


    Elric claimed he couldn¡¯t have saved him anyways. His body¡¯s temperature would never have recovered. He would freeze to death. Tristan didn¡¯t know what to make of that part. It didn¡¯t matter to him. He was indifferent. He still hated Elric, although Dalko had tried to work that hate out of him. Dalko thought he had succeeded in that, but deep down Tristan knew it was still there. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Tristan stirred from his position, suddenly sitting upright on his right forearm. He yanked his gray cloak out from under him. He heard the sound of blades scratching against each other. A few muffled shouts followed it. It was far off, but close enough that it piqued Tristan¡¯s interest. Denderrikans? Solarians? Knights of Windem? There were multiple possibilities. But whoever it was, they were fighting. Tristan was up and trotting further beyond the clearing and beyond where he had left markings on the trees. He didn¡¯t usually go out this far, but then he usually didn¡¯t have reason to.


    He nearly lost his sense of direction twice. The sounds seemed like they could have been coming from the east or the west. He decided on heading southeast, and his instincts turned out to be correct. He had assumed the struggle was between a few men, but it turned out to be a small skirmish. It wasn¡¯t exactly in a clearing either, although the trees were well spaced and there was very little brush and bushes along the forest floor in this area. The rain had intensified as Tristan scurried along to this scene of battle and the trees overhead made it darker in the forest than it typically was during this time of day.


    Tristan could see right away that there were Denderrikans fighting. They wore their distinctive gray cloaks and carried their own unique swords. The hilts of a Denderrikan¡¯s sword was extremely important to them, as it carried a unique and personal significance to them. Tristan saw they were extremely outnumbered. Close to six Denderrikans were laying on the forest floor, their blood dulled and diluted by the rainfall. There were five more still standing, although two of them looked severely injured and close to feinting.


    The other men wore a mix of colors. Most wore beat up, dinged gray armor that was missing in some places. Those men also wore tattered scarlet capes. Knights of Windem, thought Tristan. There were about twelve of them, two of which were scattered on the ground. One of them lay with his limbs splayed wildly and a dagger running through the back of his head and out the other side of his mouth. The other men who were mixed in were in random garb that Tristan couldn¡¯t identify, which usually meant they were Brantish men. If they were Solarian, they usually wore bright white clothing and had jet black hair. There were about four of them, which meant it was fourteen Windem men and Brantish men against five Denderrikans.


    Tristan knocked an arrow to his longbow, pulled the arrow back to his cheek and released two separate arrows in the span of six seconds. The first one struck home through the neck of a Brantish man, sending him squealing and sprawling to his death. The next arrow scudded harmlessly off the shoulder piece of a Windem Knight. Tristan¡¯s presence was registered now, and the leader of the group shouted for two men to go and handle Tristan. Tristan threw down his longbow and withdrew Drakiler. The two Knights of Windem carried large battle axes that looked awkward in their grasp. Tristan knew they were likely much more comfortable with their spears, but close combat in a crowded forest made the axe a more viable option. Tristan smiled at the grip they had on their axe. Drakiler felt delightful in his grasp, like it weighed no more than one of his own arms.


    Tristan darted in and out of thick tree trunks, yanking branches as he went and sending buckets of rain down overhead as soon as he was within a few yards of the attackers. The first attacker brought his axe up overhead far too slowly, allowing Tristan to anticipate his downswing and dodge harmlessly to the side of his assailant. He used Drakiler like a pike to disarm the knight. His blade clanked against the axe¡¯s head and sent it noiselessly to the ground. He followed up that swing by viciously driving his blade in an upward arc, catching the knight right beneath the jaw with his blade. The other attacker wasted less than two seconds in shock at the speed and might of Tristan¡¯s swing. He took a step back, realizing two late that he needed to raise his own axe to fend off Tristan¡¯s next swing. Tristan¡¯s swung Drakiler, narrowly missing the knight¡¯s face by less than an inch. Tristan advanced another two steps faster than the knight could register his near-death experience, and then finally did meet his end when Tristan came over the top of the knight and slashed at his scalp. He was one of the few knights who was without a helm. Tristan chuckled inwardly at his ill fortune of missing a piece to his armor.


    Emboldened by Tristan¡¯s attacks, the other Denderrikans took up a cry of war and made advances on the knights. Three of the Brantish men were taken down quickly by a combination of Tristan emerging from their right and the Denderrikans from the middle. The fourth Brantish man proved to be formidable, parrying Tristan¡¯s every stroke and simultaneously fending off two Denderrikans.


    Tristan moved swiftly past the Brantish man, eyeing up the remaining Knights of Windem. He approached them calmly now, swinging his sword around at hip level with frightening hand coordination. His skill with a sword but pit in the stomach of the cowarding knights.


    ¡°We weren¡¯t here to harm your men,¡± one of them quivered. ¡°Please, have mercy on us and we¡¯ll be on our way.¡± He was lowering his sword to show he meant no aggression towards this larger-than-life warrior who had seemingly appeared from the shadows of the forest. ¡°We are short on food--¡±


    The man beside him echoed his sentiment, ¡°Desperately low on food, sire. We know we ought to stay in away from your crop, but¡­¡±


    ¡°But what?¡± asked Tristan. There was no hint of friendliness to be found in his tone.


    ¡°But you are actually in¡­our¡­¡± He trailed off seeing malice form in Tristan¡¯s eyes. Most of his face was covered in deep shadow.


    ¡°You¡¯re in our land, you bastard.¡± The third of the knights had stepped forward boldly, his axe held in front of him confidently. He was older than the other two with prickly stubble and a stubborn scowl. ¡°I don¡¯t fear any man. I¡¯ve won my share of duels during this war. This is a war that you Denderrikans started!¡± He shouted quite angrily and Tristan was tempted just then to wipe his head clean off.


    ¡°For your boldness,¡± began Tristan, ¡°you will die.¡± Tristan looked at the other two men. ¡°As for you two, I will spare you. I wouldn¡¯t fear you if were weaponless and without my two legs. Cowards.¡± The two returned blank, confused looks.


    ¡°Go,¡± said Tristan. The two turned and ran. The third knight evidently lost his boldness and turned to run with the other two knights, but immediately tripped over a tree root hidden in the darkness. Tristan came up behind him and buried his sword in the man¡¯s back. Blood pooled over top of his scarlet cape turning it a darker shade than the rest of the cloth.


    When Tristan turned around, he saw that the only man remaining was the Brantish man who put up a strong effort and fended Tristan off and also two Denderrikans. Tristan watched as his crude pike of a weapon was swept from his hands. He backed off a pace and found his back to a tree. The Denderrikan who had led the advance on him beckoned two men to either side of the Brantish man, flanking him and cutting off all escape.


    Tristan watched with intrigue, as the man seemed to accept his fate. He had kind, dark eyes and his hair was trimmed neatly and he had an extremely straight scar that ran across his forehead. He put his hads up. ¡°All I ask is that you make it quick and easy. I mean your kind no harm, I was simply following my party out here to find food.¡±


    The Denderrikan brought the tip of his sword to the man¡¯s neck, pushing it gently against the soft skin so that a small stream of blood ran down the side of his neck. ¡°In these times, these dark times, there is no mercy. We kill, and we survive.¡± The Denderrikan set his jaw, pursed his lips and prepared to kill the man.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± said Tristan. He didn¡¯t know why, but he said it.


    ¡°Huh?¡± asked Kayo, the Denderrikan. ¡°Tristan, he¡¯s an enemy. He was trying to steal our crop.¡±


    ¡°We are on their land,¡± replied Tristan.


    ¡°This is our land now,¡± replied Kayo. His glance shifted from Tristan to the man at sword point, and back to Tristan.


    Tristan approached Kayo slowly, his boots scuffing the leaves softly underfoot. He raised a hand slowly, gently bringing Kayo¡¯s blade down. ¡°I said don¡¯t.¡± Tristan stared at Kayo, his eyes unblinking. Kayo turned away, scoffing.


    ¡°He killed some of our men.¡± The man beside Kayo spoke now.


    Tristan withdrew rope from his hip and tied it around the man¡¯s wrists, binding them. ¡°What is your name?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Nothelm,¡± he replied. His face was full of disbelief, but it quickly turned to anxiety. ¡°If you mean to kill me, please do it now. I¡¯d rather not be subject to torture or mutilation at the hands of your men.¡±


    Tristan stared into Nothelm¡¯s eyes, measuring him. His lips slowly formed a satisfied grin. He opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped. ¡°He¡¯s coming with us,¡± said Tristan, to no one in particular. Then he turned, slowly walking back towards the clearing he had dozed off in earlier. The Denderrikans followed, bringing Nothelm along as they went. Nothelm trudged behind wearily, receiving contemptuous looks from his captors as they went.


    When they arrived back at Feyndram, Tristan had Nothelm tied to a post in the stable with the horses. ¡°Here,¡± said Tristan. He brought a bowl of cool water to Nothelm¡¯s lips. He drank thirstily. Blood was crusted around his lips and purple bruises had started to form around his face. Tristan scanned his face with narrowed eyes. ¡°Our men do this to you?¡±


    Nothelm shook his head, gasping for air in between deep draws on water. I tried to mount one of the horses when you first tied me up here. I fell and dinged my face up real bad. Quite embarrassing really. I won¡¯t lie to you lord, I don¡¯t mean to stay a while if you¡¯ve got no use for me here besides a slow death.¡±


    Tristan chuckled. Nothelm had an easy going nature about him. The way he spoke of his fall from the horse had been so casual. Tristan spoke briefly before turning and leaving him. ¡°You won¡¯t die here. Not if it¡¯s up to me. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    Nothelm watched Tristan walk away. He saw a lowly spirit in Tristan. His shoulders were slumped. His eyes were dim. But he carried himself with a hidden strength. It was a strength Nothelm knew well, and that only he could truly see. Nothelm had had that same strength once, long ago. He¡¯s after something¡­or someone. Perhaps he¡¯s been hurt. Nothelm smiled to himself, thinking about the time he¡¯d lost someone dear to him. He never had gotten vengeance on the man at fault, but he¡¯d come to peace about it after many years of suffering. But that had been long ago, and that hidden strength had since left him.

 Chapter 20: A New Companion

    The white walled city of Feynram stood majestic and imposing under the midday sun. Its towering alabaster walls gleamed brilliantly, casting a blinding reflection that could be seen for miles. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings and odd artwork, although it wasn¡¯t in color so that one could not depict much from the art work unless standing directly in front of it. The carvings and art depicted tales of past glories and long forgotten battles.


    The streets were paved with polished white stone, and elegant arches connected buildings of pristine marble. Tall spires and domes pierced the soft blue sky, each structure more grandiose than the last. The scent of blooming flowers and meticulously maintained gardens had once graced these streets, but no longer. No longer did the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread drift the nostrils of those who entered its walls. No longer were vendors and bakers selling their goods along the streets as merchants, citizens, and newcomers approached the citadel down the cobblestone path. Crystal-clear fountains had turned to murky water fountains. No longer did the water from those fountains sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. Instead, the water churned and gave off a dull and discontent brown and yellow. The food supply was low, and the crops were diseased. Most were, anyways. That¡¯s how it was now--with the Cropkillers roaming the country. Windem had never known a famine so perilous and unforgiving.


    At the heart of Feynram stood the grand and imperious citadel. Its walls were whiter than the rest of the city. Surprisingly, they were well maintained, even still. No hunger pangs could prevent the city¡¯s servants from earning a fair wage by polishing the stone and marble daily. The walls seemed to almost glow with an ethereal light. The citadel¡¯s guard towers reached skyward, crowned with golden roofs that shimmered in the light. At night, a faint blue glow was emitted form the pointed tops of the citadel¡¯s towers. Inside, the halls were vast and echoing, with floors of smooth, polished stone and walls adorned with tapestries that depicted the city¡¯s rich and storied history. The past year had been a new chapter in its history with the takeover of the Denderrikans. Citizens of Feynram had remained, for the most part, with those who did not submit to the takeover being exiled, imprisoned, or even killed.


    As Tristan walked down the center of the city¡¯s streets and towards the looming citadel gate, people stopped what they were doing and stared. They did not know his name, but they knew his face. They knew what he was capable of, and had witnessed his abilities with a spear and a sword on many occasions. At first, they had feared him with such a might that many became sick at the sight of him. But that contempt and deadly fear had changed to an awe and an admiration when they had learned that this man was someone who would stand at the defense of the city (should anyone try to breach their walls and bang down their gates).


    Tristan¡¯s sword, Drakiler, hung across his back in its scabbard. His spear was clutched in his hand, his thumb running back and forth over the smoothed black leather which held the legendary, magical blade that Dalko had seen in a vision a while ago. The vision was a part of Verr Seeing, which came from a sorceress far to the west and across seas. Tristan had heard stories of her power and influence, but had never met her. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure if she existed, but if the stories were believed, the blade that Dalko had discovered underneath Sesten had belonged to his father, Gareth, when he was Lord Commander of King Tarren¡¯s armies. The hilt was still missing. Without the hilt, the sword was not complete. The finest blacksmiths in the land had tried to attach hilts of all kinds, but the blade had rejected every one with an eerie green aura that blew men off their feet. Some had failed to conceal a smirk at the story, whenever Tristan tried to explain it. Some outright laughed. It sounded ridiculous. But it was true.


    Tristan had gotten used to the stares. He ignored them now as he paced through the streets. His head was forward and his eyes glued to the big marbled gate up ahead. He hoped they would open it as soon as he arrived. He couldn¡¯t stand for one more person to approach him and beg for either food or for some service to avenge some tragic loss that had occurred due to the war efforts. War was still raging across Windem between the Denderrikans and the Crown.


    ¡°I can spare no food. The city will have your share for you tomorrow at the same time as they do every day,¡± Tristan would say. He had to shrug multiple people off at times. Citizens would grab at him pitifully, a dull light in their sunken eyes and poverty-stricken faces.


    Someone jumped into line beside Tristan as he was walking. He jumped. He pulled his spear back and tensed his body. He relaxed. It was just Loren. Loren Bjornsfear. Beautiful as always, thought Tristan. He was no longer afraid to admit it. He was older now and beauty was something that ought to be recognized. Especially in these trying times.


    ¡°You¡¯re jumpy today,¡± said Loren with a chuckle. ¡°Where you headed Sword Maker?¡±


    Tristan smirked. ¡°To the citadel.¡±


    Loren pursed her lips, furrowed her brows. ¡°Okay, that could mean a lot of things. What is in store for you in the citadel that has you walking so quickly?¡±


    ¡°My man. Found him yesterday. Tied him up at the stables and forgot I left him there.¡±


    Loren gasped. ¡°You left him there? How?¡±


    Tristan and Loren arrived at the gates. To Tristan¡¯s delight, the guards manning the gate were aware of his arrival and heaved on the crank to open the gates. Tristan and Lorens slipped through, making their way toward the Great Hall. It was midday and whatever food could be prepared would be served. The Citadel was privileged in that way. Ever since the takeover, Dalko had allowed fewer and fewer people beyond the high gate and into the citadel. Some were even displaced from their normal homes.


    ¡°I had other things to attend to,¡± replied Tristan.


    ¡°Such as?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°You know how Dalko is. There¡¯s an endless list for me to take care of.¡±


    ¡°Of course I know. He keeps me busy too,¡± replied Loren defensively.


    ¡°Not like he does with me,¡± replied Tristan sullenly.


    ¡°Well I¡¯m not the one he calls ¡®Wielder of the One-Sword¡¯, am I?¡± The corners of Loren¡¯s mouth lifted and her eyes narrowed. She was looking up at Tristan¡¯s face in hopes that he might return a smile but he didn¡¯t.


    ¡°It¡¯s all about the sword. It¡¯s not about me,¡± said Tristan. ¡°I¡¯m happy to serve Dalko. He¡¯s my lord and my mentor. But I just hope he doesn¡¯t get too set on whatever that sorceress shows him in those visions he has. They¡¯re not always correct, you know.¡±


    Loren pursed her lips. He was right.


    The two sat in the Great Hall at long trestles with benches for seats. Kenton, one of Dalko¡¯s most trusted men and fiercest warriors, joined them with a hefty mug of ale. He hardly ever spoke and this time was no exception. Asherin Unsworth found them as well, but she, too, had few words to speak. She was one of the few people in the citadel that made Tristan uneasy.


    ¡°I¡¯m off to see the man I found yesterday. I reckon he¡¯s being held down below with the rest of the prisoners?¡± Tristan posed the statement as a question. Loren shrugged.


    ¡°How would I know? Best we¡¯d find out.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going alone,¡± siad Tristan. ¡°I¡¯ll bring him to meet you some other time.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± asked Loren.


    Tristan turned his back to her, heaving his long legs over the oak bench and making sure Drakiler was secured in its place on his back.


    Tristan wound his way down a long spiral stairwell, coughing on multiple spider webs and cobwebs as he did so. The air was thick and the smells unpleasant, as one might expect. Rat feces littered the floor. Tristan¡¯s face was covered in shadow as he approached the two guards on duty. The one who reacted to Tristan¡¯s presence first was overweight and sloppily dressed. He wore a half helm that was crooked on his head and far too big for him.


    ¡°How can I help you, sir?...lord?¡± The guard couldn¡¯t tell who it was that stood before him but he began to feel uneasy.


    ¡°It¡¯s me, you dunce.¡± Tristan yanked the half helm off his head and tossed it to the floor. It clattered loudly. The sound echoed down the long hall of barred cells. ¡°Keys.¡± Tristan held out his hand.


    The other guard, who was stick skinny and dreadfully unprotected in regard to his armor, raised a finger. Tristan saw he hardly had two teeth in his mouth. ¡°But¡­we aren¡¯t supposed to¡­¡±


    ¡°Keys.¡± Tristan repeated himself, his right hand slowly inching toward Drakiler. The sword rattled coldly in its scabbard. The guard gulped audibly. He exchanged an uneasy look with his partner. He jangled the keys from their position by a hook on the wall and tossed them to Tristan. He shouldered past them, peering into each cell as he went. He recognized a few faces from the day they had overtaken the city. Most of them were new faces, though. One cell was hosting a dead man. His body was slouched over in the back corner and covered in blood. His face was eaten alive by rats and flesh hung off it like cheese.


    ¡°Over here,¡± came a voice. Tristan turned. Someone sat in the back corner of their cell. It was too dark to make out who it was.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± called Tristan.


    The man gave no reply. Instead, he heaved himself up onto his face. He came slowly forward until his hands rested on the bars of his cell. Eventually his cheeks were pushed against the bars and Tristan could finally see who it was.


    ¡°Nothelm,¡± whispered Tristan to himself. He gave Nothelm a long, studied look. In this lighting he appeared as an entirely different man to the one he remembered from the day before. Oddly, he reminded Tristan of his Uncle Bodry. Bodry Tenthill, Chief of Spies. Tristan shuddered. He felt a gnawing at the back of his throat. He thought he might vomit.


    ¡°Are you here to free me? It¡¯s quite cold down here,¡± said Nothelm.


    ¡°Yes. Come on, we¡¯re going.¡± Tristan spoke without expression. Nothelm noted that Tristan was looking right through him like he was some sort of ghost. He brought the key to the lock, turning it and emitting a soft click. Tristan opened the cell door and it squeaked loudly. A few muffled moans and groans filled the dungeon. Most of the people down here were malnourished or starved. There was hardly enough food to go around the city, let alone the dungeons. The rats were what fed the living. The dead were what fed the rats. The ecosystem of a dungeon, thought Tristan.


    He led Nothelm past the guards and up the winding stairway. Their boots clicked with each step. It was eerily quiet. Far too quiet.


    ¡°That place is a graveyard,¡± said Nothelm. ¡°Can almost hear everyone¡¯s bones wasting away. Those rats¡­they get loud at night when they¡¯re hungry. The lad across me hadn¡¯t even died yet when they got into his cell. He was too lifeless to move a muscle, his mouth too dry to talk.¡± Nothelm and Tristan paused as they got to the top of the stairs and stepped back into the long corridor which led from the common room of the North Tower to the dungeon. ¡°Thanks for getting me out of there, by the way. I much prefer the company of the horses in the stables. The smell of horse dung don¡¯t sound so awful anymore.¡± Nothelm chuckled.


    ¡°North Tower,¡± said Tristan softly. He was staring down the long corridor at nothing in particular. Nothelm suddenly felt that unsettling feeling returning.


    ¡°North Tower,¡± said Nothelm, unsure as to why Tristan had said it at all. ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°You know why the city put the dungeon below the North Tower?¡±


    ¡°No, why?¡± asked Nothelm. He wasn¡¯t actually curious as to why. In fact, he didn¡¯t care at all. All he knew was that he was so hungry that one of those rats didn¡¯t sound too bad after all.


    ¡°There¡¯s four towers. If someone were on a rescue mission to get someone out from the dungeons, they would have to guess correctly between the four towers.¡±


    Nothelm nodded thoughtfully for a moment, wondering if Tristan had a specific point he intended on making. ¡°Shall we continue down this corridor then?¡±


    Tristan began walking and Nothelm followed. He continued his train of thought eventually. ¡°That is--if the person seeking to rescue a captive even thinks to search underneath one of the towers.¡±


    ¡°Excellent point, erm¡­lord? Sir? What shall I call you again?¡±


    ¡°Tristan. Tristan is fine.¡± He held out his hand. Nothelm shook it.


    Tristan led him up the North Tower stairwell and all the way to the top where a window that was taller than Tristan sat wide open. Cold air brushed the soft velvet curtains back from their place at the edges of the window. Tristan stepped through. On the other side was a long rampart with tall parapets that lapped the perimeter of the citadel¡¯s main palace. The ramparts connected all four of the towers in one big square perimeter.


    Tristan came to rest at the edge of the parapet, resting his elbows on the cool, damp stone. ¡°Quite a magnificent view. Beautiful city,¡± said Tristan. Nothelm murmured his agreement. ¡°I¡¯m still getting used to it, you know. All the people. The busyness of the place. I grew up in a remote town. Much quieter there.¡±


    Nothelm nodded, although he stood a step behind Tristan so that he did not see Nothelm. ¡°Where did you grow up?¡± asked Nothelm.


    ¡°Sesten. Beyond the Twin Hills¡­I suppose you aren¡¯t familiar.¡± Tristan¡¯s tone was gentle and lowly.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of Sesten. Travelled through there a few times before. I¡¯m from Brantley, of course, which is by the coast on the other side of Windem. Naturally, my travels that far south were fairly limited. Although, the Brantish army had me visiting a lot of locations across Windem. Especially before the border war began.¡±


    ¡°You fought in the border war?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Sure did. That¡¯s where I learned which end of the sword was the pointy end. Found my way around an axe and spear as well.¡± Nothlem edged his way up to the parapet, resting his elbows beside Tristan. ¡°Before that, I was just like any other Brantish farmer. Minded my own business. Loved my family. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Tristan gave a harumph. ¡°I¡¯ve seen many skirmishes over the past year or so. But a battle? That¡¯s uncharted territory for me.¡±


    ¡°You seem quite the warrior to me, if yesterday was anything to go by,¡± remarked Nothelm.


    ¡°Yes, well¡­¡± Tristan paused, scanning the horizon beyond the tall white walls of the city. ¡°It didn¡¯t happen overnight. I¡¯ve still got a ways to go. I was trained by an Ascendian.¡±


    ¡°An Ascendian?¡± asked Nothlem, astounded. ¡°Is it the same one who holds this city now?¡±


    Tristan nodded slowly. ¡°Lord Dalko Rivien.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard that name before,¡± said Nothelm. ¡°You know, being apart of the opposition army and all. Names get around. Dalko¡¯s being one of those names. Say--come to think of it--I do hear talks about the former Lord Commander of Windem¡¯s armies. He had the same last name as yours.¡± Nothelm looked into Tristan¡¯s face, which was cold and distant. ¡°Gareth Blackthorn. He was your father¡­wasn¡¯t he?¡±


    Tristan pursed his lips. He nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard the story. Of course, there¡¯s multiple iterations of that same story. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sure his loss was hard on you.¡± Nothelm paused, slowly realizing the situation he had found himself in. He was now talking to the son of one of Windem¡¯s most legendary figures in its history. Not only was Gareth Blackthorn formidable, but so was every other Blackthorn who came before him.


    ¡°You¡¯re just another Blackthorn in the making, aren¡¯t ye?¡± Nothelm said, a coy smile spread across his face. ¡°It¡¯s in your blood. To be fierce. Brave. Ambitious. I must say, and I mean no offense by this, but I didn¡¯t know another Blackthorn existed.¡±


    ¡°Most don¡¯t.¡±


    Nothelm waited, presuming that Tristan would continue. He didn¡¯t.


    ¡°I get it,¡± replied Nothelm. ¡°Difficult legacy to live up to. I wouldn¡¯t want that burden either.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that.¡± Tristan had ripped himself from his casual position along the ramparts with blinding speed. Nothelm backed off a step. A look of angst was clear in Tristan¡¯s eyes. Nothelm cowered away, holding his hands up in an apologetic position.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I just assumed that you maybe¡­had felt that way.¡±


    ¡°I was raised away from everything by design. But I¡¯m still as much a Blackthorn as any of my ancestors before me. And you are sorely mistaken if you think I don¡¯t have ambition beyond the taking of this city. Feynram is Dalko¡¯s victory. This war? This campaign that you and your sorry, little men were taking part in? It¡¯s not my war. Never was. This war belongs to the Denderrikens.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re a part of it. I mean, hell, you took this city. You killed my friends. You killed Brantish men, and Knights of Windem. There have doubtless been others. What makes you think you¡¯re not a part of this?¡± Nothelm appeared genuinely perplexed. Tristan wasn¡¯t sure why, but it only added to his frustration. This man is not worthy of an explanation. I only met him recently, and meant to kill him had it not been for that odd feeling that overcame me.


    ¡°I have some things I need to take care of, let¡¯s just leave it at that.¡±


    ¡°Why have you brought me here, to Feynram?¡± asked Nothelm. That had been what he had truly wondered from the moment he was brought here. He had been patient in entertaining Tristan up to this point, hoping it might spare him from some devious reason that Tristan had in mind. He didn¡¯t trust Tristan and his volatile emotions.


    ¡°Why did I bring you here?¡± repeated Tristan. Nothelm¡¯s brows were furrowed. ¡°That part is up to you. I don¡¯t know you well, not yet anyways. I have a vision for what I want, and I need men at my side. Men like you, who know their way around a weapon.¡±


    ¡°How do you know you can trust me?¡± asked Nothelm.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can. But I can also just kill you if you give me reason not to trust you. It''s that simple.¡± Tristan slowly walked along the ramparts, moving to the right of where they had been standing.


    ¡°Well¡­an unknown Blackthorn lurking in the shadows of the Denderriken war efforts. How unlikely that I, Nothelm Eseloor, should have the chance to join him in his ambitions for vengeance.¡±


    ¡°Who said anything about vengeance?¡± Tristan stopped cold in his tracks, not looking back at the trailing Nothelm.


    ¡°I assume that is what you¡¯re after, is it not?¡±


    ¡°You would be correct,¡± confirmed Tristan.


    ¡°And if the stories that I have heard are true, you are seeking vengeance on the Shadow. Which, if you ask me, is like being upset at world evil and trying to stop the sun from setting every night.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not seeking vengeance on the Shadow. My father didn¡¯t die from the Shadow. They were hunting the Orc-eel, and Elric Drakonstone betayed him. He left him to do. I heard this from his own mouth.¡±


    ¡°Elric? As in, the lord commander of King Tarren¡¯s armies?¡± Nothelm looked like he was about to burst.


    ¡°Yes. Him.¡±


    Nothelm¡¯s let out a short chuckle. Then another. Then he was shaking with silent giggles that made his shoulders jump up and down. He finally composed himself, and then continued walking along the ramparts when he realized Tristan had left him. Tristan turned the corner and escaped down some dark, cold stone steps. They were entering a small courtyard down below that was nothing more than a small clearing with more dirt than grass and a few small apple trees.


    When Nothelm finally caught up to Tristan, he had finally finished chuckling. He wasn¡¯t sure why it was funny. It just was. Tristan, an unknown man from Sesten, son of legendary warrior Gareth Blackthorn, had ambitions to get vengeance against one of the realm¡¯s most seasoned warriors--Elric Drakonstone. There were too many dimensions to what he had just heard. In addition, he couldn¡¯t begin to imagine how he fit into this story. Nothelm Eseloor of Brantley, a lowly farmer turned warrior.


    ¡°Answer me this,¡± said Tristan. He took a seat on a bench beneath one of the trees in the courtyard. ¡°Why is it that your people are now partnered with Windem? Because, the last time I checked, your men had been engaged in a bloody war at the border for close to a year. What changed?¡±


    Nothelm¡¯s face became grim. ¡°What changed was that your men started coming. If your men take Windem, then Brantley is next. And then Pren. Solaria. Benthicar. Rattgeal. The continent will be Denderriken.¡± Nothelm stared into Tristan¡¯s cold, dark eyes. They were like small black almonds. Nothelm leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. ¡°And I¡¯m not sure where you¡¯ve been or what you¡¯ve heard, but you could find yourself on the wrong side if you stay here. With the Denderrikens.¡±


    Tristan furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes. His look told Nothelm to go on.


    ¡°King Tarren--he¡¯s changed. He¡¯s found something¡­or someone. Nobody knows except for his inner circle. Men like Elric Drakonstone¡­they know what it is. It¡¯s dark, is all I¡¯ll say. It¡¯s dark and it''s powerful and, no offense to the Denderrikens and the Ascendiens, but you¡¯ve got no chance of making a stand.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the Shadow, isn¡¯t it? My father¡¯s expedition to Northrock¡­they found the Shadow didn¡¯t they?¡± Tristan¡¯s face had contorted into a look of some deep anguish. A deep emotional agony was held there, and it gave Nothelm some pause. Did he need to tread carefully here? He didn¡¯t want to be the bearer of damning news. Tristan had just spared his life, drawn him into his inner circle. He didn¡¯t want to squash that now.


    ¡°It¡¯s not the Shadow, although it could be a being that is of the Shadow, if you know what I mean. I know the tales always speak of the Shadow, but the Shadow lies deep within the farthest reaches of Northrock where no man can live. It''s too cold.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not true. My father could have made it that far.¡±


    ¡°He may have gone far. But not that far. Tristan, this isn¡¯t cold like you or I have ever known. This is a cold that only the ice dragons of ages past can survive in. It¡¯s colder than snow, or ice. It¡¯s just¡­darkness. An absence of light, entirely. Without light, there is no warmth for the body nor for the soul.¡±


    Tristan nodded his head, suddenly realizing they had shifted topics entirely from where they had started. He hadn¡¯t taken Nothelm for such a knowledgeable person, but it was clear now. This was just the sort of person he needed by his side. Loren was too loyal to Dalko. Dalko was too loyal to his own cause. Tristan had to start anew. Find others who were like him. The Denderrikans would not fit that role.


    ¡°You mentioned that King Tarren had changed. My father knew him well, and so did my Ma. How has he changed?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°The Shadow has many loyal servants. Some are powerful, others are as harmless as the next vile man you¡¯ve ever met. But one of them has come to Windem, and I don¡¯t think this servant is a mere man. He¡¯s a being.¡±


    ¡°How do you know this? Did you work closely with Elric?¡±


    ¡°People talk,¡± said Nothelm. ¡°When the Brantish agreed to come together with Windem to fight the Denderrikans, we congregated in Windem¡¯s capital to become united under one banner. I met some people there who were close to the King. They had noted he was much different. He lost his focus on justice, on righteousness, on protecting his own people.¡±


    ¡°What about Elric? Did you ever see him?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°I saw him once. Maybe twice. But I never spoke with him. He is high up in King Tarren¡¯s chain of command obviously, as his Lord Commander. We took our orders from him though. That was about it.¡±


    ¡°Mhm.¡± Tristan checked the position of the sun and gave a small sigh. ¡°I have to attend the council shortly. Here, come with me and I¡¯ll find you somewhere to stay. We can find you a warm chamber and a comfortable bed. You¡¯ll have my stamp upon your name now and no one will bother you.¡±


    ¡°You still don¡¯t even know me,¡± came Nothelm¡¯s reply. ¡°Before we go, I would like to know what your goal is here. What are we doing?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°I¡¯m a defector from Brantish now. A defector from the crown. I¡¯m essentially a traitor--and you¡¯ve got no way to know you can truly trust me. I need to know what your plan is, or else I will find a way out of here. I am no Denderriken, and I will not kill my own people--the Brantish.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need you to kill Brantish men. I need your brain and I need your sword. You either serve me, or you die. There is no alternative. As for my goal, I¡¯ve told you. I will personally see to it that Elric Drakonstone dies. But before I can do that, I have to get to him first. You know where he is.¡±


    A cold wind swept through the courtyard as they walked, emerging through a wooden door and then down a high-ceilinged hallway. Their boots made soft clack sounds on the marble floor. Paintings hung on the walls over heroes from the past.


    ¡°So you want to kill the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies? Congratulations, so are four thousand other Denderrikans. You¡¯ve officially joined the war.¡± Nothelm¡¯s tone was cold. His words sarcastic.


    ¡°That is not all I want,¡± replied Tristan. He drew close to Nothelm, lowering his neck to stare coolly into Nothelm¡¯s eyes. Nothelm suddenly felt very small and regretted taking Tristan¡¯s mercy for granted.


    ¡°The weapon that will help me do that is at Castle Rarington.¡± Tristan¡¯s weapons, Drakiler ad Myroniad, had been criss-crossed along his back. He held Myroniad now. ¡°This is Myroniad. And this,¡± Tristan pointed at the menacing blade which was attached to the end of the spear by black leather bindings, ¡°is the sword that is going to do it. As you may have noticed, it¡¯s not a sword yet.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s the hilt?¡± asked Nothelm, still cowering under Tristan¡¯s harsh glare.


    ¡°Castle Rarington. It was my father¡¯s sword¡­a gift given to him by a powerful sorceress many years ago. King Tarren should remember. In fact, he may be hiding it at this very moment. If he thinks he can prevent me from finding that hilt, then you can add him to the same list as Elric Drakonstone.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not called Castle Rarington anymore, by the way.¡± Nothelm had one finger wagging in front of Tristan¡¯s face. Tristan lowered the finger with the butt of Myroniad.


    ¡°Don¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°My apologies.¡±


    ¡°What do they call it?¡±


    ¡°They call it Stormhold. It was renamed after the Kingsguard were slain by the Denderrikens. After the Kingsguard were slain, a lot began to change in Windem. There was no more accountability.¡±


    ¡°Stormhold,¡± said Tristan slowly.


    The two men finally came to a point where they were to split off. Tristan found a guard standing by himself in corridors, right at the split where the rooms for the guests of Feynram split off from the long hall that led toward the courtyard that Tristan and Nothelm had just come from.


    ¡°Marn can show you to your room. Don¡¯t be alarmed when the door is locked. It is just a precaution. As you said yourself, we¡¯ve got no reason to trust you just yet. Trust takes time.¡±


    Nothelm nodded, his eyes cast down at the floor. ¡°We should continue talking, young Blackthorn.¡±


    ¡°We will,¡± replied Tristan. He gestured for the guard to lead Nothelm away. Tristan frowned. His memory had required him to draw back upon that fateful day in Sesten. Sir Crowley Begg¡¯s death. The death of the Kingsguard. The way the arrows had all been sent into their necks simultaneously. There was no negotiation. Just death. Tristan shook his head, hoping to clear his head before he was to attend the council.


    Dalko always required Tristan to attend, even though he would have nothing to contribute to the conversation. It was part of his training, and Dalko had been sure to emphasize how crucial it was that he sit in on this. In truth, Tristan enjoyed the council. He learned more about the Denderrikans and about the war every time he attended.


    Tristan knocked on the two large oak doors of the Great Room. Two guards from inside yanked on the handle, allowing Tristan to enter the room. The first thing he saw nearly made him wretch. Tristan¡¯s stomach did a flip. He felt vomit catch in his throat, but he swallowed, forcing the acidic chunks of breakfast back down his throat.


    In the middle of the room was Dalko Rivien, standing amidst a larger council than usual. He had been in the middle of talking, but he paused when Tristan had arrived. He was holding the head of a Cropkiller rider. His gray, coarse hair was held in a tight grasp, the mouth hanging wide open and blood dripping into a crimson puddle in the middle of the floor.


    ¡°This Cropkiller¡¯s horse found our last remnant of uncontaminated cropland between here and Sesten. Kenton managed to find him before he did too much damage and sweep his head clean from his shoulders.¡± Gasps escaped the mouths of a few around the table. Tristan noted that Loren had been invited to this council. She sat beside a few other familiar faces including Asherin Unsworth and Kenton.


    ¡°The disease will spread. Soon, we will not have a clean food supply besides what our hunters can catch with their bows. Even then, we won¡¯t have enough to feed our people once our storage runs out.¡±


    Dalko spent several minutes trying to calm down the room. Everyone wanted to speak at once. Finally, it was Kenton who quieted everyone with an angry shout and a furious fist upon the oak table.


    ¡°Enough! Let us listen to Lord Dalko.¡±


    Dalko scanned the room with his cold, menacing eyes. ¡°Vitarko has just recently returned with a scouting party. He lost many men to gain this intel, but here it is. There are more coming. King Tarren is sending a large host of evil filth toward Feynram. There are more Cropkillers, Veracifers, and warriors. They are led by a Servant of Basidin.¡±


    ¡°--who is Basidin?¡± Kenton interrupted.


    ¡°He is who we initially referred to as the Shadow. He is an offspring of Northrock¡¯s vilest corner. A spawn of the Shadow, if you will. Anyways, Basidin maintains residence inside the walls of the Capitol, exerting his influence over the King. He has sent one of his servants to lead this pack toward us. They will decimate all further fertile land within a hundred miles of this city and look to starve us out.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t let that happen,¡± said Kenton. ¡°We¡¯ve got to do something.¡± Kenton was speaking to no one in particular. He had his head in his hands.


    ¡°We will, Kenton. Patience.¡± Dalko held out a calming hand. Tristan became startled at the sight of a faint, blue mist radiating out of Dalko¡¯s palm. He watched it waft up into the air like a stream of mist and float right into Kenton¡¯s nostrils. He breathed contentedly, relaxing back in his seat. No one else had seemed to notice it. Just another one of the mysteries of their kind, thought Tristan. Or had he learned that from the sorceress? Her name slipped Tristan¡¯s mind. His thoughts then wandered, and suddenly he was thinking about the sword that was rightfully his, which was gifted to his father by the same sorceress.


    Dalko continued, assuring the council that a plan was already set in place. ¡°I have spoken with Xenotho, Enfallio, and Vitarko. Upon our conversations and the guidance that we have gotten from the High Lord Maltor, we will put together a team to go and take down this party of Cropkillers and Veracifers before they can get to us.¡±


    ¡°Who will go?¡± This time it was Asherin who asked. She was garbed in her black war gear.


    Dalko¡¯s gaze shifted to Tristan for the first time. ¡°Tristan Blackthorn will lead the group. He will pick his companions.¡± All eyes shifted to Tristan, who stood with his shoulder leaned against the wall and his face partly shrouded in shadow by the hood of his cloak.


    ¡°Tristan, you have ten days,¡± said Dalko. Tristan smirked under his hood, although no one in the council could see his little smirk. He already knew about the trip. Dalko had told him privately days ago.

 Chapter 21: Forged in Shadows

    Region of Aigoo, twenty miles west of Feynram


    7 months ago


    The air was crisp and biting in the rocky region of Aigoo. Wind howled through jagged peaks and the ground was littered with sharp stones and hazardous footing. The clearing where Tristan stood was a stark contrast to the lush forests and rolling hills of his former life. Here, the landscape was bleak and foreboding, much like the man who was training him now. Lord Dalko Rivien, Lead Ascendian of the Denderriken army. Tristan was a long way from home. He could hardly even imagine that a place like Twin Hills existed..that Sesten even existed.


    Tristan¡¯s breath came in visible puffs as he faced his master. Dalko was not a towering figure, his aura and mystique gave off enough menace to cause Tristan great concern when the blood-thristy battle look came into Dalko¡¯s eyes. It wasn¡¯t a lively, fiery look that most men held. No. It was much more sinister than that. It was cold, almost metallic, like a metal blade that has been sitting in the cold for months. His eyes¡­their blue gaze was entrancing. Dalko was cloaked in gray, weathered robes that seemed to absorb the color of the white and gray rocks all around them. He was hard to spot at times, blending in with his background. It felt like magic to Tristan, who stood only a few paces in front of him.


    ¡°Focus, Tristan,¡± Dalko¡¯s voice was a low growl, echoing off the surrounding rocks. ¡°An Ascendian must be more than a warrior. You must be a weapon, devoid of weakness.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m no Ascendian. You know that,¡± Tristan growled back. His teeth were bared, his arms shaking. He was battered with bruises up and down his arms from Dalko¡¯s stick. His hips were bruised and sensitive to the touch from falling. Tristan¡¯s muscles ached from hours of relentless training. His hands, raw and bloodied, gripped the hilt of his sword, Drakiler, tightly. Each movement felt like a battle against his own body. He pushed on. Fear and determination drove him, desperate to make the most of each moment. The memory of Sir Crowley Begg¡¯s lifeless eyes haunted him. Those lifeless eyes, the limp body¡­laying in the streets of Sesten. The Kingsguard lay in a semi-circle around him, helpless. The image had been burned into his brain, and the man in front of him had been responsible. Dalko, the merciless killer. Dalko, the slave to the Denderriken cause. Dalko, the Ascendian who would not be freed of his duty to the High Lord Maltor until they won the war. That was when the sorceress, Saphira (her name always escaped Tristan), would free him of his obligation to the Denderriken cause.


    Dalko moved with a fluid motion, demonstrating a series of lethal maneuevers. Tristan struggled to emulate them. Every time he thought he had done it seamlessly, Dalko always had another piece of critique for him. His footwork. His turns. His hip movement. Where he looked with his eyes. His speed. All wrong.


    Dalko¡¯s blade cut through the air cleanly. Each stroke had such precision and perfect weight to it. He had put down his large stick and switched to a real blade. The stick was more of a spear without the blade at the end.


    ¡°Again!¡± Dalko barked, and Tristan launched into sequence. His movements were clumsy and unrefined. A million small pebbles underfoot threatened to throw him off balance. He stumbled a moment, cursed, and quickly regained his footing.


    ¡°Better discipline. You cursed. The best warriors do not show emotion. That gives the enemy hope.¡± Dalko was defending Tristan¡¯s blows with relative ease, although it required more effort than it had at the start of their training. Tristan¡¯s strength had improved. There was no doubt about his frame and the size of his muscles, but having grip strength and sword strength was another type of strength entirely. Dalko was relatively small-framed, but none could match the power he put behind his strokes with a sword.


    ¡°Your emotions are your enemy,¡± Dalko continued, circling Tristan like a predator. ¡°They cloud your judgment and make you vulnerable. You must learn to silence them.¡±


    Tristan¡¯s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The faces of the Kingsguard, his Ma, Uncle Bodry, flashed before him. He could hear their voices, feel his mother¡¯s embrace, and then the crushing isolation and despair that accompanied their absence. He tried to push it away. Tried to forget that Sir Crowley and the Kingsguard were dead at Dalko¡¯s command. Tried to forget that Elric had taken his Ma. Uncle Bodry was kept a prisoner by Dalko, and who knew who was handling Bodry now, with him still being kept away in a dingy room somewhere in Sesten. He tried to bury these thoughts deep within, but it lingered. It was like an anchor, tethering a ship to the ocean floor. No matter how hard he tried to push away from that anchor, it would not budge.


    The sun dipped below the horizon. Long shadows were cast over the clearing. Tristan began to feel a shift within himself. With the setting of the sun came the casting of his cares and worries. The pain, the fear, the sorrow, the anger--they began to dull, replaced by a cold, steely resolve. A steely determination. He met Dalko¡¯s gaze, and for the first time, saw a flicker of approval.


    ¡°Good,¡± said Dalko. His voice was a low rumble. ¡°You¡¯re beginning to understand. But this is just the beginning. The path of an elite warrior, of an Ascendian, is one of solitude and sacrifice. It¡¯s a lonely path. Are you prepared for that?¡±


    Tristan nodded, though a part of him still clung to the remnants of his former self. The journey ahead under Dalko¡¯s lead was uncertain, but he knew one thing. He would not fail to see through his ultimate goal. He was to become a lethal warrior. A formidable warrior. If he could control that, everything else would fall into place. He didn¡¯t need to become lord commander to take back Windem from the grasp of the Shadow. He didn¡¯t need to join Windem¡¯s ranks to take down Elric Drakonstone. That could be planned. It could be a planned, meticulous kill. An assassin¡¯s job. But it had to be him--Tristan Blackthorn. He would do it for his father, and for his Ma. And so it all made sense to him in that moment- the training and the suffering. He could do it, so long as he kept that vision within his sights.


    Night came on quickly, and with it came the cold. Swirls of chilly gusts swept through the clearing and whistled between the gaps in the rocks. They had left Sesten earlier than the rest of the group to train alone. The rest of the group would come forty days later. Dalko had insisted that his training must happen now, and it must happen here in Aigoo.


    ¡°Why me?¡± asked Tristan a warm cloak wrapped around him. The fire provided significant warmth, but his backside was still cold.


    Dalko spoke, but kept his gaze on the flames in front of them. ¡°I have been shown things in my visions. The Verr-Seeing. The Sorceress Saphira has shown me. You are a Blackthorn, and the rightful heir to your father¡¯s sword.¡± Tristan nodded, but said nothing. Dalko continued, ¡°Our interests align, almost perfectly. Neither of us are Denderriken by blood, but by every right and interest, we are aligned with this campaign. I want my freedom from Saphira¡¯s grasp, and you want your peace.¡± Dalko paused, and Tristan could have sworn he saw the faintest trace of a smile. As soon as he saw it, it was gone. ¡°You can have your peace, but first you must understand your destiny lies with us. Your spear, Myroniad, is only at a small fraction of its true power. If you find the hilt, which is somewhere within the depths of Castle Rarington¡¯s stronghold, there will be no one to stop you from avenging your father.¡±


    ¡°How can you be so sure of these visions? The Verr-Seeing, or whatever it''s called?¡± asked Tristan. The shadows of the fire¡¯s hungry flames danced wildly against the rocks like exotic dancers.


    ¡°The sorceress Saphira has seen many things. She saw my existence before I was born. Same with the other Ascendiens, Xenotho, Enfallio, Vitarko¡­when Maltor was still youthful and full of might, he sent out men to find us and strip us from our parents when we were only a few weeks old.¡± Dalko paused. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees. Tristan watched him reflect on his past, planning his next words carefully as he so often did. He was never in a rush to speak. ¡°I tell you to prepare for a life of isolation and sacrifice, because that is the life I have lived. It is a dreadful way to live, but I have known no other way.¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Tristan, surprised that Dalko was opening up to him.


    ¡°I was raised without the freedom to feel things, to express myself. I had to suppress those emotions until they didn¡¯t exist. Saphira was the closest person that I had in my life.¡±


    ¡°There were just the four of you?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°No. Many more. There are more Ascendiens across Windem even now, gathering their companies and bringing them here to Sesten and eventually, Feynram. But in Denderrika, most don¡¯t survive it.¡±


    Tristan looked at him with his head tilted, eyes narrowed.


    ¡°The Ascendiens¡­most die or lose their mind before they are fully grown. It is a cruel way to raise a child,¡± said Dalko. ¡°But to achieve what Saphira had seen in her visions, it had to be done. Some of us managed to make it out alive.¡±


    ¡°Like you,¡± said Tristan. ¡°What was it like, I mean¡­growing up like that?¡±


    Dalko paused, exhaling a long breath. ¡°Isolation and sacrifice. That is all.¡±


    Tristan nodded, eyes still on the flickering flames.


    ¡°We should rest. Tomorrow, we¡¯ll go again¡± Dalko put out the fire and wrapped himself in his cloak. Tristan had first watch tonight. After all, there was still a war raging across Windem, and they weren¡¯t immune to an ambush.


    After forty days had passed, Dalko had completed his training of Tristan. Nearly five hundred members of the Denderrikan army who were camped at Sesten had come to join Tristan and Dalko in the remote rocky region of Aigoo. They would soon march on Feynram and overtake the white walled city. First came Loren, her swirling gray-green cape swirling in the light breeze. She wore shining silver armor, as did many of those who had marched from Sesten. The armies of Windem had united with a large number of Solarians, who were notorious for their poisoned arrows.


    ¡°Where is he?¡± asked Loren. Dalko said nothing, sharpening a small saxe knife with one leg propped up on a large rock. ¡°Tristan, where is he?¡± repeated Loren. Finally, Dalko nodded in the direction of a small rock outcropping that said just below the clearing and overlooked a steep drop to a vast landscape of cliffs, rocks, and freefall. They were at altitude here.


    Tristan sat on the ledge, staring out in the early morning mist. Loren came up beside, taking a seat next to him. ¡°We made it!¡± she exclaimed. She gave him a bump in the side with her elbow, a wide smile spread across her pretty face. ¡°How¡¯d it go?¡± Tristan did not lift his gaze from the mist. He pressed his lips firmly together and gave a stiff no. ¡°It went well.¡±


    Loren furrowed her brows. ¡°Is something wrong? What did he do to you?¡± Loren glanced back toward the direction of Dalko, a scowl spread across her face. ¡°I¡¯ll go talk to him. This isn¡¯t you.¡± Before she could move from her seat, Tristan¡¯s arm shot up and grabbed her.


    ¡°No. Nothing happened. I¡¯m fine.¡± Tristan maintained his gaze out into the crisp, morning air. A bird soared in front of them, gawking and swooning in large circles before another bird, which looked like a large hawk, joined him.


    ¡°Why are you so serious? You¡¯re scaring me.¡± When Loren didn¡¯t receive an answer, she lifted herself from her seat and left him there. She approached Kenton, frowning. ¡°He¡¯s not himself.¡±


    Kenton laughed heartily. It was the first time Loren had seen Kenton laugh. He patted Loren on the shoulder with a bit more aggression than Loren would have liked. She moved away from him so that he could no longer pat her in the patronizing fashion that he had. He swept his long hair off of his face, grinning still. ¡°Are you surprised?¡± Loren walked away, equally disgusted with Kenton''s lack of concern. ¡°It¡¯s Dalko!¡± shouted Kenton, as if that would alleviate all confusion.


    Kenton approached Dalko, who was still sharpening his saxe knife. Dalko paused from sharpening his knife, ¡°Any trouble on the road?¡±


    ¡°None,¡± replied Kenton. He re-thought the statement, recalling a few blips in their journey. Dalko waited patiently, disbelieving that there could be no trouble.


    ¡°Had to be something,¡± said Dalko.


    ¡°One internal problem, two external.¡±


    ¡°Were they dealt with?¡± asked Dalko, mildly interested in the same way someone might want to know if a menial task had been completed.


    ¡°The internal issue was handled. Xenotho saw to that. It was one of the Veracifers we brought. Their minds are changing. The enemy is winning them over from Saphira. Our Veracifer went rogue and attacked one of our own.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°We killed it--I mean, I killed it. But it was one of our archers. Now he¡¯s blind.¡±


    ¡°Useless now,¡± replied Dalko. He began at his saxe again now, more aggressive this time before quickly checking his emotions and calming himself down to a more controlled chisel.


    ¡°That was one of the internal issues, as he didn¡¯t want to continue after that. His name was Teri.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯d you do with him?¡± asked Dalko. At the moment, Asherin Unsworth had just approached them, her sword unsheathed and hanging over her shoulder.


    ¡°I took care of him. Made an example out of him. Even the blind can find a way to serve our purposes. Teri couldn¡¯t understand that.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± said Dalko. ¡°And the other internal issue?¡±


    Asherin and Kenton looked at each other apprehensively.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Dalko.


    Asherin nodded at Kenton, gesturing for him to explain the situation. Kenton heaved a deep sigh, and then figured he¡¯d better get on with it.


    ¡°One of our men¡­one of our more vile men who is known for his crude tongue and twisted ways, he defected.¡±


    ¡°Defected? To whom?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the evil that¡¯s enshrouded King Tarren, it has a travelling servant. He lures and tempts those who they deem worthy to serve Basidin. They got one of ours.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Dalko¡¯s interest was piqued now. He lowered his voice, realizing that eyes were watching now that many of the travelling Denderrikans were pouring in now.¡±


    ¡°Kael. Kael Voryn,¡± said Asherin.


    ¡°Should¡¯ve never trusted him from the start. Saphira said she had visions of him. He has the potential for great power. She must¡¯ve been convinced he¡¯d serve our cause and not that of the enemy. Didn¡¯t I send Vitarko to deal with Basidin¡¯s messenger months ago?¡±


    ¡°He never did find him,¡± said Kenton, wincing as he delivered the news. He kept his gaze downward at his boots.


    Asherin glanced over at Tristan who was still sitting alone, brooding. ¡°How¡¯d he do?¡±


    Dalko stood for a while. He took a deep breath in through his nose, pursing his lips. A crease appeared on his forehead. The blue glow of his eyes intensified. ¡°He did very well, although he doesn¡¯t know it now. For now, he feels broken.¡±


    ¡°How soon will he heal?¡± asked Kenton. ¡°Will he be ready for the siege on Feynram?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± replied Dalko. Dalko, Kenton, and Asherin were all staring in Tristan¡¯s direction now. Tristan¡¯s back was to them, his legs dangling over the edge of the boulder on which he sat. ¡°Saphira¡¯s visions were quite accurate with him. My Verr-Seeing confirmed it. He¡¯s acclimated much quicker than I thought he would¡­¡± Dalko trailed off, then made one more remark before withdrawing from the newly arriving group of Denderrikens. He wasn¡¯t one for crowds. ¡°As for the siege on Feynram, Tristan will be our main weapon.¡± Dalko took his leg off of the large rock, sheathed his saxe at his hip, and withdrew from the clearing. He climbed atop a rocky foothold in the mountain which stood at their backs, and disappeared into a gap in the rocks that most didn¡¯t know existed without accidentally falling through it.


    Kenton turned to Asherin, a look of amusement spread over his face.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Asherin, her tone jaded with disgust. Her and Kenton were occasional lovers, but it never became more than a physical relationship. His uncalled for enthusiasm was one of the things she had come to dislike. She wished he was more like an Ascendian.


    ¡°Him,¡± said Kenton pointing toward Tristan with a thick, beefy finger. ¡°He¡¯s a Blackthorn, just like his father.¡±

 Chapter 22: The Siege of Feynram

    5 months earlier


    The Denderrikans had re-grouped and set up a camp in the region of Agoo for nearly two months. Time was up. A plan had been made. Dalko was the lead, of course, but everyone had a part to play if they were to take over Feynram. Its tall, white walls were imperious. Mesmerizing. But the city itself was not impenetrable. It was located in a good position, with its back to the mountains and a long spread of rocky ground stretching before it. The guards atop the gates could see out for many miles before an army could catch them unaware.


    However, clusters of boulders and rocks left blind spots leading up to the front gate. In addition, thick forest surrounded the city on both sides. The forest had not been there when the city was first built, but over time the underbrush had grown to thin trees, which had turned to strong trees, which had grown to woods with animals and bugs, which had eventually become a mighty forest that was thick with pine.


    The plan would go as follows: Kenton would take a small group of men and light a fire in the woods to the east of Feynram. The party of Denderrikans were camped in Aigoo, which was to the west of the city. The fire was merely a distraction, but it was also intended to be more than that. They would set multiple fires, evenly spaced throughout the forest. The train of thought that would burden the city¡¯s leadership would surely be whether or not the fires were set intentionally or not. Feynram was generally a dry land. Fires happened. But these were trying times. Windem was in the middle of war, and what were the odds that multiple fires started within several evenly spaced positions? This part of the plan would sow doubt and uncertainty.


    The four Ascendians had their own jobs to attend to. They had been spying on the city of Feynram for two months now. They knew their every coming-and-going. With the scarce supply of food in the land, they had to venture out quite far to trade with neighboring city-states for crops, medicine, and food. The routes of their caravans and wagons had been sketched in detail by Enfallio, who had been stalking their different food search parties for some time now. The Ascendians would collude together and hide themselves within one of the food wagons during one of the wagon¡¯s stops in the region of Menadyr. They always made this stop at night, and the guards who stood watch over the wagons had gotten sloppy lately. The late hour brought on tired eyes and low attention levels. Slipping past the guards and into the wagons would be an easy feat for the nimble and soundless Ascendians.


    This was their route to get inside the walls of Feynram. Once inside, they would be offloaded with the rest of the food (cramming themselves into a ball to fit inside one of the larger food crates. The crops inside would be squashed, undoubtedly). That would place them at the heart of the citadel with the rest of the food. It was the perfect location¨Cthe center and heart of Feynram was the food supply room in the middle of the Citadel. They had no intel of how well guarded this room was, but they had hoped to manage to squeak by without being seen and work their way to the tunnels. Every major city had tunnels. From the tunnels, one of the routes always led to the bed chamber of the most important man in the city¡­the Overlord of the city. From there, three Ascendians could wreak plenty of havoc. But ultimately, they planned to keep everything relatively quiet. If the city were to break into chaos, the plan could fall apart. Holding the Overload hostage and in danger¡¯s arms, they planned to coerce the City Guard into opening the main gates (or else watch their master and overload be slit at the throat).


    That¡¯s where Tristan and the rest of the Denderrikans came into play. The Denderrikans had come prepared with four hundred men. Each man had brought their preferred weapon in addition to a spear, a shield, and one of the infamous Graycloaks that the Ascendians preferred. Having them shipped across seas from Denderrika had been expensive, but the High Lord Maltor had made it happen at the request of Dalko. Dalko had managed to express this wish to Saphira during one of his visions in Verr-Seeing.


    Tristan would approach the gates with a small army at his back. Fifty people at most, with Asherin and Loren at either side of him. The rest of the army would blend into the rocks and boulders of the landscape better than a toad in moss. The cloaks were almost magic in their ability to blend in with surrounding landscapes. Windem would come to rue those gray cloaks as the war waged on.


    The plan had depended on the Ascendians having their way with the Overlord and the City Guard. However, if they failed to coerce them into opening the main gates, Tristan would try to coax out the army of Feynram and meet them in battle. They would assume they outnumbered the Denderrikans by four to one, having a force of nearly two hundred men-at-arms behind the walls. That¡¯s where the hidden army would come into play. Three hundred and fifty Graycloaked Denderrikan warriors would rise up from their places among the rocks, like the rocks of Feynram themselves had come to life to slaughter the army of Feynram.


    Furthermore, if that didn¡¯t work, the next idea had been put in place by Kenton. Since the second day they had arrived in Aigoo, Kenton¡¯s idea to build a catapult had been approved. They had plenty of rocks at their disposal, and a catapult would allow them to begin crumbling Feynram¡¯s walls if they decided they wouldn¡¯t meet Tristan in battle. After all, no intelligent army would leave their fortress walls if they didn¡¯t have to. Eventually, Asherin had suggested collecting their waste as well, to which many had tried to draw the line for fear of sickness spreading amongst their own camp before they could even move forward with the siege. Dalko had approved it, and ensured they kept that supply far from their main camp.


    The catapult was the biggest hold up for the attack. Dalko had put a strain on those who were actively working to build the war machine, causing two men to pass out from the heat and another woman to strain her back so badly that she was immobile for three weeks. Another man had died, falling from atop of a small cliff when he was trying to cut down a tree limb to serve as a wood for the body of the catapult.


    Grimlor Eyowen stood tall, his figure both imposing and frail. His overgrown, silver hair cascaded down his back, contrasting sharply with his dark, brooding eyes. Deep lines etched across his forehead, evidence of long years spent in relentless pursuit of perfection. On this day, the top concern had been the layout of the books and scrolls which sat on his top shelves along the perimeter of his bed chambers. Not that they were noticeably crooked, but to Grimlor eyes they were crooked. Not perfect. It had put a great strain on the start to his day.


    Grimlor¡¯s robes were a deep emerald green, adorned with intricate gold embroidery. He wore a fanciful ring upon his finger. The bright purple ruby glistened happily atop his ring. Grimlor now shifted his gaze from his bookshelves. He cocked his head, his lips plumped in a permanent frown. He grimaced, grabbed a cloth from his desk, and went about shining the purple ruby until he felt his efforts had been sufficient. He scoffed silently to himself, despairing in the fact that he had no company to commiserate with over the lack of shine in his ruby. Years had removed its original twinkle. To the ordinary eye, however, it was a beautiful ruby and a splendid ring that looked like it had hardly changed in appearance since the day it was created.


    The chamber that Grimlor occupied was the same office as the dozens of city masters and overlords who had come before him. He was the City Overlord. High, arched windows allowed streams of gleeful morning light to pour in, casting a warm glow on the polished marble floors. Grimlor scrambled along the marble floor like an animal, groaning over a few new spots that could use scrubbing. He checked the bottom of his soft boots, desperate to find the culprit behind the small smudge of dirt that had blended in to the floor by his bedside.


    ¡°Not mine¡­not mine!¡± Grimlor muttered to himself. He was shaking¡­nearly convulsing. Who could have done this? And how are my servants still not here to do their daily clean! He checked the position of the sun. It was still early morning. He calmed himself, realizing that perhaps he was early in his estimate of when they should be arriving. He had awoke earlier than normal when a damning thought had protruded his dreams. He had been in the middle of throwing loaves of fresh bread to the people of Feynram, allowing himself to be covered in glory and praise. Grimlor Eyowen¨Creliever and savior of the city¡¯s food scarcity. But a simple thought had interrupted this delightful dream. I¡¯ve overslept. He had awoken with a start, leaping from his bed and dashing to the arched window. The sun had not yet crept up from under the horizon. It was a false alarm, but there was no way he¡¯d be able to get back to sleep. Not now. And that was a problem. Grimlor followed a strict sleep schedule, and without adhering to his specific sleep schedule, he might not be fully rested. He cursed himself, figuring he had awoken fifteen minutes too early. He cursed his servant, Marion Otto, who had advised him to put out his candles before bed. ¡°They could start a fire, m¡¯lord,¡± she had said. Grimlor had cursed loudly, pouting like a child.


    ¡°Why must you always be right,¡± Grimlor pouted. He crossed his arms, his face twisting into a snarl. Without his candles, he wouldn¡¯t have an accurate measurement of the time. How would he accurately maintain a perfect sleep schedule? This had troubled Grimlor greatly as of late, and this morning was no different.


    A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling of Grimlor¡¯s bed chambers, its crystals shimmering like stars. A large oak desk, meticulously organized, stood at the center of the room, covered with maps, scrolls, and various documents. Despite the neat organization and articulation, the room was permeated with tension and unease. The ever watchful eyes of the portraits on the walls seemed to flinch with Grimlor¡¯s every movement. The faint scent of incense drifted through the air. Grimlor Eyowen, despite his position as City Overlord, was a prisoner in his own domain.


    One of Grimlor¡¯s guards rapped on the door. Grimlor¡¯s head snapped toward the door. His palms began to perspire, curling into his fists. Sweat rolled down the side of his face.


    ¡°Come in immediately and be done with it!¡± shouted Grimlor. Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled.


    The door creaked open with great caution and a guard stepped through. ¡°M¡¯lord, forgive this intrusion. Marion Otto suggested I remind you of your one-on-one meeting at midday with Captain Eamon. I thought I ought to bring this to your attention to give you the proper time to¨C¡±


    ¡°--I need no reminder, I¡¯ve got it covered.¡± Grimlor had scurried to the guard and was now shooing him out the door. He lightly pushed his arm and the guard scuffled out of the room, and a confused look spread across his face. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t look so daft. I¡¯m no child, I am your master. And I can keep my own schedules, thank you very much!¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°It¡¯s just that last time¨C¡± the guards'' words were cut off, as the door was slammed shut in front of his face. The guard shrugged and then hurried down the wide stairwell, which led from the private chambers of the city¡¯s royalty down to the common area where multiple corridors branched off in different directions. The guard comforted himself, reminding himself that he had done what was required of him by Captain Eamon. There wasn¡¯t much else he could do as a man of his station. His master, Lord Grimlor couldn¡¯t say that he hadn¡¯t tried to warn him. Not like last time.


    Eamon Thorne stepped into his private quarters, his gaze sweeping over the spartan yet functional space. It was his space. Although it looked as ordinary and bare as an unoccupied room, that was how he preferred it. There was nothing to distract him from the job at hand. With the way things were, this city couldn¡¯t afford for a man of Eamon Thorne¡¯s influence to fall behind. War was being waged. Food was scarce. Eamon Thorne was the Captain of the Guard in Feynram, and had been for as long as anyone could remember. He was only forty-two, but he had been appointed as Captain of the Guard from an early age. He had been twenty-four and it was a great honor. But the years wore on him, and it wasn¡¯t helped by the fact that his Master and Overlord, Gimlor Eyowen, couldn¡¯t move his focus beyond the misplaced books on his bookshelf. Or the new wrinkle on his yellowy, leather map on his desk. Or the dusk that gathered in the corners of his bed chambers.


    Sunlight streamed through the elegant windows of Eamon¡¯s quarters, illuminating the organized desk at the room¡¯s center. Eamon¡¯s desk was the singular element of the room that signified his presence. With a practiced efficiency and a light sigh, Eamon moved to the desk. His leather-gloved fingers traced the neatly stacked reports and ledgers. He thumbed through a stack of reports until he found one titled, ¡°The Dwindling Larder: An Assessment of Food Security in Feynram and Windem.¡± Eamon scanned the report briefly, pausing when he got to the part about Cropkillers. He drew in a deep intake of breath, then folded the report in half and tucked it away. It was time to brief Lord Grimlor.


    Eamon moved to the door, hesitating to glance at the weapons rack along the back wall of his room. An arsenal of gleaming blades and crossbows resided there, each one maintained in optimal condition. One crossbow was missing from its usual spot. Eamon had given it away to one of the graduating apprentices of the city¡¯s watch the day prior. He would have to check up on him at some point today. It would have been the apprentice¡¯s first day on the job. He was on duty at the front gate along with someone else who had graduated a few years earlier. He brushed his way past a small bookshelf on his way to the door, which was mostly bare except for a few small volumes on tactical treatise and historical accounts. Satisfied that all was in order, the Captain stepped out of his quarters and closed the door behind, satisfied that all was in order.


    Captain Eamon eased his way through the drafty corridors of the castle, giving a curt nod to the guards he passed. They paid their respects, eager to demonstrate their commitment to their duty as the city-guard. The corridors had no windows, and so they were dimly lit with braziers that flickered wildly, giving off shadows that danced against the walls. Eamon noted that the floors were not as clean and polished in this section of the castle. The further into the citadel you went, the less things were kept nice. Standards have never been a priority here, thought Eamon. But that was not something he would allow himself to lose sleep over. The true worry lies in the fact that they were ill prepared for a well planned attack. They had nearly a hundred and fifty competent guards inside these walls, and an additional fifty men they could pool from if they had to defend the walls from the Denderrikans. Windem had not sent reinforcements, despite Lord Grimlor¡¯s feeble attempts to receive more men. There had been no response from King Tarren at all. Eamon knew that Grimlor¡¯s poor wording and lack of urgency in his letter had surely played a part.


    Eamon Thorne stood before the ornate desk of Lord Grimlor, whose face showed evidence of a strained morning. His bottom lip was quivering and his gaze slowly shifted from an aimless stare out of his window to Eamon unflinching eyes. Grimlor seemed to jump suddenly, as if unaware of the Captain¡¯s presence until their eyes had locked.


    Eamon clutched the carefully prepared report in his hands, the one titled ¡°The Dwindling Larder: An Assessment of Food Security in Feynram and Windem.¡±


    ¡°Captain Eamon¡­how, erm¡­pleasant to find you here this fine morning.¡± Grimlor looked as though he had just taken a sip of sour milk. ¡°How are things?¡± Grimlor¡¯s tone came off as careless, indifferent.


    ¡°Well, I have gathered a couple of reports here for you, as you required. The first one is in regard to the food shortage that we are seeing across all Windem and specifically, the shortage within our own walls. The second report is a general update on notable events within Feynram.¡±


    ¡°Ah. I see.¡± Grimlor was rubbing at a spot on his desk that was discolored oak. He licked his thumb and then scrubbed at the spot furiously, wincing as he did so.


    ¡°Lord.¡±


    Grimlor looked up from his desk. He paused his cleaning momentarily.


    ¡°We have things we need to discuss.¡±


    ¡°Right then. On you go.¡±


    As Eamon began to speak, outlining the grim details of the food shortage that threatened to engulf Windem, Lord Grimlor¡¯s eyes darted around the room, fixating on the slightest imperfections.


    ¡°Captain, before we get too far in this business of yours, I must address the positioning of that vase. It is ever so slightly askew, and it¡¯s simply driving me mad.¡±


    Eamon paused, his jaw tightening with barely concealed frustration. He watched Lord Grimlor stride across the room to straighten the offending vase, muttering under his breath as he did so.


    ¡°There, much better,¡± the Overlord proclaimed, returning to his seat and waving a hand dismissively. He seemed content with himself now, crossing his legs and adjusting himself in his seat. ¡°Now, please, continue with your report.¡±


    Eamon took a deep breath, then launched into the summary of his findings. ¡°As I was saying, my lord, the food supplies within the castle walls are dwindling at an alarming rate. We are facing shortages of grains, meats, and produce that could¨C¡±


    ¡°--Ah, yes, the grains,¡± Lord Grimlor interrupted once more, his eyes narrowing. ¡°I noticed the storage barrels were not arranged in perfect symmetry when I last inspected the pantry.¡±


    Eamon wondered when Lord Grimlor would have taken the time to inspect the pantry. ¡°My lord, the state of the food stores is far more dire than the mere aesthetic concerns. If we do not address this crisis immediately, we risk civil unrest. The city¡¯s defenses could be compromised. Do not underestimate what a hungry people will do if they suspect the leadership is not dealing with it.¡±


    Lord Grimlor blinked, seemingly taken aback by the Captain¡¯s forceful tone. His leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming anxiously.


    The doors to Grimlor¡¯s chambers burst open, emitting two guards who were gasping for breath and winded from sprinting through the corridors. Eamon frowned, a hunch telling him that something was wrong. Very wrong.


    ¡°Hey there! Mind my plants!¡± shouted Grimlor. A plant pot wobbled nervously, eventually steadying itself and spilling a few crumbles of soil on the floor.


    ¡°M¡¯lord, we have fires,¡± said the guard.


    ¡°Fires?¡± asked Grimlor and Eamon in unison.


    ¡°East forest. The flames are getting high. We can¡¯t figure out who started them, or how they started¡­but they¡¯re quickly escalating in scale.¡±


    Grimlor snarled, lurching to his feet and turning on his Captain. ¡°Captain, do something!¡±


    Eamon ignored his Master and Lord, brushing past Grimlor and signaling his guards to follow him out to the ramparts. Grimlor stood still in his chambers, awaiting his servants to arrive like he knew they would. In fact, he couldn¡¯t believe that they hadn¡¯t arrived yet. Grimlor suddenly grew a deep pit in his stomach. He paced back and forth, then decided to lock and bolt his chamber doors. Before he could, they door swung wide open and then closed with a heavy thud, cutting off the sounds of commotion from the ramparts overlooking the fires. The Overlord stumbled back, falling onto his back as four figures loomed before him. Grimlor¡¯s eyes widened with a mixture of fear and confusion. The four figures stood in a line in front of him, their faces obscured by the deep hoods of their graycloaks. Grimlor¡¯s heart pounded in chest. They slowly moved toward him, their movements precise and controlled. Grimlor thought their movements so calculated that it almost seemed unnatural.


    Grimlor¡¯s fear slowly turned to anger. But it was a false anger. It was the type of anger that someone embodies when they are scared and the only way to deal with that deep, dark fear is to replace it with anger.


    ¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± the Overlord demanded, his voice wavering and finger wagging. ¡°I will not tolerate this disruption to my city. Identify yourselves. Now!¡±


    The lead figure, slender and no taller than five-foot-eight, stepped forward. His features remained hidden within his hood besides those strikingly blue eyes, which seemed to almost glow.


    ¡°Lord Grimlor,¡± spoke Dalko, his voice low and mysterious. ¡°What an honor.¡± Although Grimlor couldn¡¯t see it, a smirk had started to spread across Dalko¡¯s face.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ve ever had the honor¡­¡± Grimlor trailed off, his mouth agape.


    ¡°That would be right. We¡¯ve been watching your city for a while. We are Ascendians, sent by the High Lord Maltor.¡± Dalko gestured for Xenotho, Enfallio, and Vitarko to remove their hoods. They did so, revealing an unrelenting row of icy stares. Grimlor felt his mouth go dry. He¡¯d heard stories of the Ascendians but they had all sounded like fables.


    Grimlor said, ¡°I was not aware that Windem had any such alliance with Denderrika.¡±


    Dalko titled his head, staring idly at his companions. Xenotho grunted, mildly amused but not letting it show on his face.


    ¡°There is no such alliance. We¡¯re taking this city by force, as we have identified Feynram as a key outpost. This will be a new unified location for the Denderrikans in the war efforts.¡±


    Grimlor¡¯s eyes widened. He quickly backed away, hands fumbling for the bell on his desk that would summon his guards. ¡°Guards!¡± he shouted. ¡°Guards! Intruders in the¨C¡± before he could finish the sentence, Xenotho had stepped forward and held out his doubled-edge pike before Grimlor¡¯s eyes. Purple markings danced along the staff of the spear-like weapon, freezing Grimlor in place. His limbs were paralyzed in place, stiffened and void of all flexibility.


    ¡°Your guards will not be needed for this meeting,¡± said Dalko, his tone unwavering. ¡°They are otherwise occupied with the fires to the east, and the small camp who standing outside the main gate as we speak.


    Grimlor¡¯s heart pounded quickly, realization dawning on him. ¡°You¡­you started the fires? But why?¡± Dalko¡¯s next words chilled the Overlord to the core. ¡°The fires are but a prelude to a full-scale siege of your city.¡±


    ¡°And what role do you expect me to play in this?¡±


    ¡°Dalko stepped closer, his presence looming over the paralyzed Overlord. ¡°You, Lord Grimlor, will assist us in ensuring a smooth transition of power.¡±


    With no other choice, Grimlor found himself nodding reluctantly, resigning himself to the Ascendians¡¯ demands¨Cresigning himself to the fate that now awaited his city.

 Chapter 23: Negotiation at Feynrams Gates

    The young guard whom Eamon Thorne had recently promoted stood watch at the front gate with a more experienced guard named Bard. The young guard, whose name was Cal, stood quietly, his gaze sweeping across the landscape in front of him. Bard was sharpening the end of his spear. His bow and quiver sat leaned against the wall of the ramparts.


    Bard had made no effort to get to know Cal, whose vigor and enthusiasm for the job bothered him to no end. This was not the sort of job in which the eager were rewarded. There was no promotion from here¨Cnot unless you did something extraordinary and could back it up with excellent abilities as a warrior. Bard was not that kind of man. He let his beard grow wild and kept a permanent scowl on his face. He resented the times they were living in. War was upon them. Whether he wanted to be a part of the war was not up to him. He was sworn in as a guard of Feynram¨Ca steward of the city. Food was scarce enough as it is. If he left his post as guard, he would be without a guaranteed source of food. He looked at Cal, pondered his innocence and youthfulness. He¡¯ll wind up just like me someday, I know it. Bard shook his head lightly, Cal not noticing. Bard looked back to the blade at the end of his spear. He frowned, losing interest. He put his spear down and straightened up, coming beside Cal and giving the landscape one sweeping glance.


    From atop the ramparts they had a long and wide range of vision. There was nothing but rocks, dirt¡­and more rocks. Big rocks. Boulders. But the boulders were spaced so intermittently that they¡¯d surely see if someone were trying to approach the city. They¡¯d have to wait until nightfall to stand a chance of dodging from boulder to boulder without being seen. Cal looked over at Bard, smirking.


    ¡°What?¡± asked Bard.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± said Cal.


    ¡°Why are you smirking?¡±


    ¡°Because this is quite amusing.¡±


    ¡°What is?¡±


    ¡°This¡­this post. Our job. It¡¯s all one big joke.¡± Cal side-eyed Bard, the smirk still spread over his face.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know the first thing about our job. You¡¯re too young. Just wait until you¡¯ve given half your life to this city. Only then will you start to realize that the Captain is only here to make our lives miserable.¡±


    ¡°Captain Eamon?¡± asked Cal.


    ¡°No, the other Captain in this city,¡± said Bard dryly. ¡°Yes, of course I¡¯m talking about Eamon. He¡¯s got a stick up his¨C¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± Cal was pointing somewhere indistinctly. Bard¡¯s head jerked up.


    ¡°That¡¯s called a rock, stupid.¡±


    ¡°No, behind the rock. I saw something. A shape. Looked like a person.¡±


    Bard and Cal started a while, silent. The sound of the wind and city noises carried faintly through the air.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± said Bard. ¡°Get used to it.¡±


    ¡°No, I know what I saw,¡± replied Cal.


    ¡°If someone is deciding to hide behind a rock outside of our walls, I must say¡­I am not concerned. One person is not scaling these walls on their own.¡± Bard gave a low grunt in amusement, and then allowed it to cascade into a series of deep bellied chuckles.


    ¡°We should still keep an eye on it and possibly report it. Captain Eamon would want to know.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯d you know about what the Captain would want? You¡¯d be wasting his time¨C is what you¡¯d be doing. If someone is lurking around out there then they¡¯re a fool.¡± Bard grabbed his bow and knocked an arrow from his quiver. ¡°I hope you¡¯re right, just so I have something to pass the time. But just so we¡¯re clear, I am fairly certain there is no one out there. Standing here for long periods of time can make you see things¡­you¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°Someone¡¯s coming,¡± said Cal. He was pointing straight ahead out into the distance. A blurry outline of a figure could be made out along the horizon. He was alone, and in no hurry.


    ¡°Could be one of ours,¡± replied Bard.


    ¡°Where¡¯s his mount?¡±


    ¡°Maybe he lost it.¡±


    The two stood in quiet anticipation. It was more of a fascination than anything else. Anything to pass the time was welcome. They still had six long hours before relief came.


    More details could be distinguished now. It was a man in a billowing, oversized gray cloak. The shade of gray of his cloak seemed to blend with the surrounding landscape. Cal felt his eyes go in and out of focus. As the man came closer, Cal¡¯s palms turned sweaty. Part of him craved something to do, but most of him was perfectly happy to stand here with nothing to do. He was new and young, and didn¡¯t want to screw anything up. Captain Eamon had invested in him and entrusted him with this responsibility as Feynram¡¯s newest guard.


    Bard¡¯s stomach rumbled audibly with hunger. Cal lifted an eyebrow, peering over at Bard. ¡°Hungry?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m always hungry. Our portions get smaller by the day.¡±


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¨C


    Cal¡¯s  mouth was dry as cotton by the time Tristan had come within speaking distance of the gate. Bard was tensed up, a look of deep concern spread over his face. Who was this man, and what did he want? By the color of his cloak, they knew he wasn¡¯t a Knight of Windem. He was possibly a Denderrikan, most likely, or even a Brantish or Solarian who did not align with Windem. That would make him a rebel.


    ¡°Probably a messenger of some sort. Let me handle this,¡± Bard muttered.


    The air was thick with tension as Tristan stared down the two guards at Feynram¡¯s front gate. Bard, the experienced veteran, squared his shoulders and met Tristan''s gaze unflinchingly. Tristan scanned the entire walled city, marveling at the beauty of its walls and tall towering structures.


    ¡°You alone?¡± asked Bard.


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t say,¡± said Tristan.


    Bard pursed his lips. ¡°Who sent you?¡±


    ¡°I serve Lord Dalko.¡±


    Bard and Cal exchanged a confused look. Who was Lord Dalko?


    ¡°I don¡¯t know the name.¡± An awkward, silent tension filled the air. A minute passed.  ¡°Denderrika or Windem¨Cwhom do you serve?¡± asked Bard.


    ¡°Denderrika.¡±


    ¡°And what business does Denderrika have with Feynram? This is a city marshalled by loyal citizens to Windem.¡±


    ¡°Windem¡¯s leadership is tainted¡­corrupted.¡± Tristan let that sit for a moment. Bard chuckled.


    ¡°I answer to my Captain, who answers to my Lord. What happens in the Capitol is none of my concern,¡± said Bard.


    ¡°Perhaps it should be,¡± replied Tristan. ¡°Anyways, let¡¯s talk about why I¡¯m here. I want entry into your city. In fact, I¡¯d like to make your city an outpost for Lord Dalko and the Denderrikans. Now, there are a few ways we can go about this. The easiest way is probably the best case scenario for you and your people. You can open those gates and let us in. Nobody has to die.¡±


    Bard scoffed at this. Cal shifted uneasily beside him. He glanced around, caught something in the peripheral vision. There was something brightly shining in the sky to the east. Fires. Cal turned to nudge Bard, but Bard had already began to talk with this stranger again.


    ¡°Us? Where¡¯s the rest of you? All I see is one man who seems to think he can make irrational demands to a well garrisoned city. You see these walls?¡±


    Tristan whistled. Rocks began shifting into people. Gray cloaks slid out of their crumpled, balled shape. Cal and Bard stumbled back a step, shock evident in their faces. Those cloaks had been like magic¡­


    ¡°How many?¡± muttered Bard. Cal was still looking back and forth between the distant fires and the scene down below. Bard slapped him on the arm. ¡°Got to be around fifty. Go get more guards. Get Captain Eamon.¡± Cal nodded, scurrying off to find Captain Eamon.


    "You have some nerve, showing up at our gates with an army at your back," Bard growled, his voice low and gruff. "What makes you think we''ll just let you waltz in, hmm?"


    Tristan''s lips curled into a humorless smile. "Come now, Bard, is that any way to greet a fellow traveler? All I ask is for safe passage into your fine city. Surely that''s not too much to ask?"


    Bard scoffed, shaking his head. "You think we''re fools? We know your kind, Tristan. You come bearing ''requests,'' but really, you mean to take what you want by force." He spat on the ground, his eyes narrowing. "Well, you can forget it. Feynram does not bow to the demands of invaders. This city will never be a Denderrikan outpost"


    Tristan''s expression darkened, and he gestured to the small army which stood behind him now. "That''s a shame, Bard. I was hoping we could come to a reasonable agreement." His voice lowered, taking on a menacing edge. "But if you won''t let us in, then we''ll have to come out and meet you in battle."


    Bard fixed Tristan with a steely glare. "Your malice does not threaten me. Feynram has stood against greater foes than you. We will not surrender this great city, not now, not ever." The tension in the air was palpable. Tristan''s eyes narrowed, signaling to his army. The sound of weapons being drawn echoing across the open space. "Then you leave me no choice," Tristan said, his voice dripping with menace. "Feynram will fall, one way or another."


    And then came the catapult on wheels. Twelve men had begun to wheel the catapult out from behind a very large cluster of rocks. It wasn¡¯t the biggest siege engine Bard had ever seen, but it had range and could likely fling small projectiles a good distance into the city. How the hell did they wheel that thing out here without anyone seeing? Thought Bard.


    Just then, the rest of the guard arrived in large numbers. Captain Eamon was running behind them, Cal at his back with a perplexed look spread across his face. There were now close to thirty guards shuffling in along the ramparts. Down below, a small militia of city guards formed just inside the gates, as Eamon had ordered. They needed to be prepared for the worst case scenario. Battle.


    All thirty guards had grabbed their bows and were knocking arrows. ¡°Concentrate your aim on the one in the middle,¡± said Eamon, pointing at Tristan. ¡°Don¡¯t fire until I give the signal. We may be able to handle this civilly.¡± That was how Eamon Thorne would have preferred things to pan out. It was not worth losing lives where possible. The war was claiming enough lives across the land. Eamon frowned as Bard caught him up to speed. It was difficult to gauge how serious he should take this man who stood below with an army of fifty and a catapult.


    ¡°What is your name?¡± called Eamon.


    ¡°Tristan.¡±


    ¡°Your full name please.¡±


    ¡°Does it matter?¡±


    ¡°It does, yes.¡±


    ¡°I serve Lord Dalko Rivien of Denderrikan. That ought to be enough,¡± said Tristan. Disclosing his identity as a Blackthorn was not an element he hoped to add to this situation. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°Eamon Thorne, Captain of the Guard.¡±


    ¡°Who is your lord?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Lord Grimlor.¡±


    Tristan liked Captain Eamon. Liked him far better than Bard, who was still standing with a foul look on his face. Eamon seemed a reasonable man.


    ¡°May we speak with Lord Grimlor?¡± asked Tristan.


    Eamon withheld comment. Tristan turned, looking at Kenton and Asherin. They nodded affirmingly. Eamon¡¯s silence was deafening. Lord Grimlor was being held by the Ascendians. That part of the plan had worked. Tristan looked to the east and saw the black smoke drifting up into the soft blue sky.


    ¡°We can avoid all of this,¡± said Tristan. ¡°Let us into your city, take us to your lord. We just want to talk.¡±


    ¡°If it was merely talk, you can do it right now, right here. With me,¡± said Eamon.


    Tristan nodded. ¡°We can explore other methods too, then.¡± He turned to the men who were manning the catapult. ¡°Load it up.¡± Two men hoisted a large rock into the catapult. They pulled the crank tight and the catapult grunted and strained under the stress.


    Eamon, visibly stressed by the prospect, began to speak in a loud voice. ¡°Tristan, you know we can¡¯t let you in here. This is a city under the rule and jurisdiction of King Tarren. To surrender would be cowardice, and we will have no cowardice here!¡±


    ¡°It would take a wise man to surrender, Captain Eamon. A wise man would think about the lives that he could save¨Cthe innocent citizens who might get hurt. Let us into your city, or we¡¯ll start letting the rocks fly.¡±


    Loren was standing a few feet behind Tristan, spear in hand. She wondered when Tristan had learned how to negotiate and speak so smoothly. His training with Dalko taught him how to be a warrior, she assumed, but what part of that training involved speaking skills? He no longer seemed like the shy, easy-going boy she had met in Twin Hills. The boy from Sesten. He was a man now and confidence coursed through him. He was turning into a Blackthorn.

 Chapter 24: Preparing to Leave Feynram

    Lord Grimlor¡¯s palace looked no different than it normally did, except for the Throne Room. The Throne Room had one notable difference. There was someone else besides Grimor sitting on the high dais and in the throne chair. Dalko Rivien.


    Although he was no king, Grimlor had set up his Throne Room in a splendor of jewels and gemstones. The array of jewels and bright gems reflected off of the sunshine majestically. The mosaics along the walls displayed fascinating scenes of Windem history. One mosaic was a three-piece, all hung next to each other. It told the story of Feynram¡¯s origins. Tristan studied these mosaics now, preparing to approach Dalko with his selections to accompany him. He was to journey towards the Captiol to confront Basidin¡¯s servants and their Cropkillers. Of course, they would have Veracifers with them too. Dalko had managed to tame a couple of Veracifers in the past, and he had held them captive at his secret base outside of Sesten. Tristan remembered all too vividly that horrifying experience he had had when he¡¯d led the Windem Spy to the secret compound intentionally. With his immunity to their paralyzing and hypnotizing stare, it was no wonder that Dalko had seen fit for Tristan to lead this party. But then Tristan had had his doubts. He had significant doubts-ones in which he had lost sleep over.


    He was supposed to ¡°lead¡±, whatever that meant. He had his first taste of leadership during their takeover of Feynram, and that had ended with his embarrassment. Asherin had intervened, having to negotiate on his behalf with that smart-tongued Captain, Eamon Thorne. The first part of negotiations had gone well, Tristan had thought, but he had been on the brink of beginning a real siege. Lives would have been lost. Bloodshed would have ensued. In his mind, that was the point all along. That was the reason they had taken two months to assemble a catapult. The plan had been devised intricately, with the fires, the Ascendians¡¯ invasion, and the hidden army of Denderrikans that were composed of two hundred, rather than the mere fifty that Eamon and his guards had seen from the ramparts.


    Tristan had it all planned. He would fire a few rounds from the catapult. It would be enough to bring mild ruin to the beautiful white walls. They could coax Eamon and his guard out from behind the gates, realizing they must meet out on the battlefield to prevent further damage to their walls.


    ¡°If you wait forever behind those walls, we can also just starve you out!¡± Tristan had shouted as one of his last gasp lines. Eamon had visibly grimaced, running a hand through his thin hair and then ruffling it all back into a messy heap.


    At that point, Tristan was prepared to have them open the gates and meet them on the open field. Of course, they would have archers at their back--which is why Asherin had stepped in and changed the plan. The archers were something Tristan had not accounted for, foolishly, as Asherin had reminded him. Tristan had frowned, wishing to see his plan through and allow the guard to become overwhelmed on the flanks as his spare and hidden men would emerge from behind the tall rocks like devils--axes and spears in hand. Some would leap to the tops of the rocks with their bows and aim for the men along the ramparts. Tristan had argued with Asherin, backing up that element of his plan. Asherin had disagreed, taking over negotiations with Eamon and ensuring Eamon that they would starve them out and fling feces into their city until the place was rank with filth, stink, all variations of foul infection and disease.


    ¡°We¡¯re stalling. That¡¯s all Dalko needs. The Ascendians would have their Overlord captive by now. He¡¯ll be behind their Captain of the Guard at any minute now, a knife held to the Overlord¡¯s throat. They¡¯ll open the gates and we¡¯ll waltz right in. No bloodshed. No deaths. It¡¯s that simple.¡±


    Tristan was panting heavily with anxiety at that point. He had begun the plan with a great gusto and bravery. He was still riding the coattails of the tremendous confidence he had gained from training with Dalko for months. One thing became apparent at that moment. Tristan had not been trained in diplomacy.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to be a diplomat to use common sense,¡± Asherin had said sneeringly.


    Before Captain Eamon Thorne had formulated a proper plan to deal with the small army that was camped outside his walls, Bard had been tapping at his back, muttering his name and title repeatedly.


    ¡°What? What could you possibly need--¡± Eamon¡¯s voice trailed off. He had turned to shrug off Bard and scold him for ruining his train of thought. Then he saw it. They had appeared like ghosts appearing out of thin air. Four of them¡­the Ascendians. The shorter one with piercing blue eyes (that reminded Eamon of ice) was standing in the front of the Ascendians with a jagged, yet somehow ethereal, beautiful dagger at the throat of the City¡¯s Overlord. Lord Grimlor Eyowen. Eamon exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. He gestured for weapons to be lowered with his right hand. It came up like a stiff pole and then swung down like someone waving a flag. His guards lowered their weapons obediently, intrigued by these men in graycloaks with hoods that concealed all but their mouths and their bright eyes that showed through the shadows of the hood.


    ¡°Open the gates.¡± Dalko¡¯s voice was a low grumble.


    Eamon didn¡¯t need to ask what would happen if they didn¡¯t. It was quite evident.


    ¡°Do as he says,¡± said Eamon. Bard and Cal moved to the large wooden crank and heaved. Two more men added their strength to the effort and the gates slowly opened with a reluctant groan that echoed through the midday air.


    The next scene had sent chills through Captain Eamon. He realized that they had been more fooled than they had initially realized. One hundred and fifty Graycloak Denderrikans emerged from the ground like wraiths. They would have been outnumbered if they had met that young man who called himself Tristan for battle.


    Dalko raised himself from his seat and slowly descended the five steps of the high dais. He had changed out of his Graycloak and was now wearing a woolen cape that dragged along the ground behind him. He wore tall boots that thudded softly on the palace floor. It was quiet this morning. The palace hadn¡¯t seen a morning so quiet since it had begun its existence. Dalko had placed all palace workers, servants, and leadership in locked rooms inside the south tower. It had been a generous gesture, considering there were vacant spaces in the dungeon. Dalko had decided to leave those who were imprisoned where they were. He wasn¡¯t sure which ones may have a vendetta against Feynram and thus wouldn¡¯t give them the chance to explore that option if he didn¡¯t have to. Those prisoners wouldn¡¯t care that new leadership had taken over Fenyrm. At least, that¡¯s what Vitarko had told him. He had sent the Ascendian to inspect the dungeons, the four towers, and the main castle of the Capitol and to return with a full report of his findings. It had taken Vitarko the better part of three days, but the report had come back full and detailed. An Ascendian never omitted any level of detail--no matter how small.


    Dalko strolled up to Tristan, hands behind his back. His boots scuffed along the floor lazily. ¡°I heard the lady Asherin Unsworth helped you close out your business with the Captain before we arrived with Lord Grimlor. I hope she wasn¡¯t overbearing.¡±


    Tristan turned his attention from the mosaics. He had been studying a shaggy blonde haired knight who had lost his half-helm to a man in black garb but had simultaneously gutted the man in black with his sword as he was falling back over a cliff¡¯s edge. Tristan had frowned, failing to recall anywhere nearby that had a cliff.


    ¡°Asherin stepped in prematurely. I could have handled it.¡±


    ¡°I believe you,¡± said Dalko. He opened his mouth, then closed it. The two stood in silence awkwardly for a moment. ¡°You did well,¡± Dalko finally said.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound like it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but you did. It was a big responsibility.¡± Something about Dalko¡¯s voice sent a chill through Tristan. He couldn¡¯t quite understand why. It felt like a cold wind had passed through him. He shuddered.


    ¡°You said it could be a continuation of my training,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°And indeed it was.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t seem like training if lives are dependent upon it. That was real.¡± Tristan¡¯s tone had grown very stern.


    ¡°Calm yourself, Tristan. You must continue to battle your emotions. You must make decisions out of your rationality. Rational thinking eliminates emotions, even if you must suffer.¡±


    ¡°Suffering. Isolation. This is the life of a warrior,¡± said Tristan, reciting a line that had been beaten into him during his time alone with Dalko. Even after all the time they had spent alone, Tristan felt himself tremble with fear at times when he was alone with the Ascendian.


    ¡°Why do you entrust me with such responsibilities? First the siege, now the mission¡­I feel I must know. I haven¡¯t slept much lately.¡±


    ¡°I was meaning to speak with you about the mission. I wanted to ask if you had selected your companions for the trip.¡± Dalko set about walking slowly along the wall, observing some of the other mosaics. ¡°But first I must answer your question by asking you a question.¡± Dalko seemed to have a look of quiet satisfaction planted on his face. ¡°Why do you think it is that I would entrust a boy from Sesten with these responsibilities?¡±


    The silence was deafening. Tristan had no answers. That was why he had asked in the first place. ¡°Well,¡± began Tristan. Another long pause. ¡°I¡¯m a Blackthorn. My bloodline suggests I am capable of¡­¡± Tristan trailed off. He was looking at the mosaic that Dalko was now focused on. Tristan¡¯s mouth slowly opened wide. It was his father¡¯s father. The Great Sir Grant Blackthorn. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Dalko continued, acting as though they hadn¡¯t just chanced upon a mosaic of Tristan¡¯s ancestors. ¡°That is part of it, yes¡­but more than that, Tristan.¡± Dalko turned, clutching Tristan¡¯s shoulders and holding his face in front of his. Tristan felt his body go horribly cold. Dalko¡¯s hands were icy. ¡°You are the Wielder of the One Sword. I¡¯ve seen it in my visions. The sorceress has shown me. By rights, Tristan, the sword is yours. In fact, it was your father¡¯s. It was gifted to him by Lady Saphira--the one who shows me things.¡±


    ¡°But¡­but why? Why do you care? What¡¯s in this for you? Why train me for months at a time? Why did you give me forbidden access to your hidden compound in Sesten? Why are you leading me against my own people? I don¡¯t want to take down Windem. I want to save it!¡± Tristan¡¯s voice had grown to a shout.


    Dalko removed his hands from Tristan¡¯s shoulders, but his eyes never left Tristan¡¯s. ¡°Because¡­we are bound together. We want the same thing, Tristan. Do you know what that thing is?¡±


    Tristan pondered a while. What did Dalko want? He remembered now. ¡°You want to be freed. You are under her curse¡­Lady Saphira¡¯s. You are just a pawn in Maltor¡¯s game.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s interwoven into my blood. I am hers to do command. Lady Saphira ensured this when I was a child. To break free, I must give the High Lord Maltor what he want most--what Denderrikans want most.¡±


    ¡°Which is?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°World Domination. A new order. And Windem is the ideal place to start. Ripe with open land and fruitful vegetation. I will not be free until I take over Windem on behalf of Lord Maltor and the Denderrikans.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever considered running away? Breaking free? It¡¯s no fair that you should have to wage a war against your own desires.¡± Tristan was perplexed. A deep crease ran along his forehead.


    ¡°I would die,¡± said Dalko. My healers, my bloodsguard, they would abandon me.


    ¡°Bloodsguard?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°They hold the mixture that keeps the poison from infecting my blood. You may have seen them before. Brown cloaks, blue-tinted potion. You¡¯ve heard their chanting at night sometimes, I presume.¡±


    Tristan nodded. He had heard their rituals at night on occasion during their training.


    ¡°Without them, I cannot have the potion administered to me and Lady Saphira cannot hear their chanting. That is how she keeps me bound.¡±


    ¡°Is it the same for the other Ascendians?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°In a way, yes. But each Ascendian is different. It is not up to me to reveal the ways in which Saphira keeps them bound to her.¡± Dalko exhaled deeply. He shifted his gaze to the high dais and the bold display of gems, diamonds, gold, and rubies which littered the wall behind the throne. ¡°But that¡¯s where you come in, Tristan. I cannot over take Windem on my way. In my Verr Seeing, Saphira has shown me a way. You are that way, Tristan.¡±


    Tristan approached the throne, watching Dalko return to his seat on the throne and cross his legs. ¡°What if I fail? What if I don¡¯t want to do this?¡± Tristan felt tears well up in his eyes. He fought them. Choked them back. He had been suppressing that fear for months. What if he wanted to quit? But he couldn¡¯t quit now. Twin Hills wouldn¡¯t be the same. Ma was gone. Uncle Bodry was locked away in Sesten. Elric was still alive. And Tristan was on the way to becoming a warrior--a Blackthorn.


    ¡°I don¡¯t ponder failure. We cannot dwell upon the actions of others, Tristan. We can only control a fraction of our own destinies. Mankind is weak. They worry about the affairs of others--people whom they cannot control. Remember our training, Tristan. All we can master is ourselves. Take your thoughts captive. Make your emotions captive to your will. The rest will take care of itself.¡±


    Tristan nodded, but inwardly he felt like a big bag of emotions. Sometimes looking at Dalko made him sick. It reminded him of betrayal, murder, darkness. He was the cause of great bereavement throughout the kingdom. The death of the Kingsguard. The death of Sir Crowley Begg. It was wrong, all of it. The Kingsguard were wiped, murdered. There had been no negotiation there. Just death. In one fell swoop, twelve arrows had found the homes of twelve of the kingdom¡¯s most respected, skilled knights. And now Tristan served the man responsible for their deaths.


    ¡°How am I supposed to sleep at night? Huh?¡± Tristan had raised his voice again. He flapped his arms despairingly.


    ¡°Control your emotions, Tristan.¡±


    ¡°NO! I will not!¡± Tristan convulsed, tears streaming down his face. But he was not sad. He was angry. Divided. Turmoil spilled from within and spilled out in the form of quick sobs and ill-tempered shouts. ¡°I vowed to become a Knight and serve this kingdom, just like my father and his father before him. I am a Blackthorn!¡± Tristan circled the throne in a half-circle below he steps to the high dais. Tristan brought his emotions under control, wiping the snot and tears away from his face.


    ¡°Tristan¡­answer me this.¡± Dalko tilted his head to the left, running his tongue over his teeth. ¡°Do you want to serve me or not?¡±


    Tristan stood. Frozen. Now was the chance to stop, to turn away. He had gotten all of the training he had ever dreamed of. He could take what he¡¯d learned so far and run. He could run to the Capitol and beg King Tarren to let him serve him. Or perhaps, he¡¯d find an outpost with men who were still loyal to the old ways--men who knew his father and Sir Crowley. They would surely take him in and welcome him with open arms. But no--that wouldn¡¯t work. Those men worked under their Lord Commander. The same Lord Commander who had betrayed his father and stolen his mother. He was a defiler of Blackthorn¡¯s, and he would pay for that someday.


    ¡°I serve¡­¡± Tristan paused, eyes locked with Dalko. Seconds passed. Finally, an answer escaped Tristan¡¯s lips that surprised even him. ¡°I undeniably, unequivocally, serve you, Lord Dalko Rivien of Denderrika. I serve you ¡®til the day I have righted the wrongs in my life. And until the day that my father¡¯s sword is complete and in my grasp¡­until Myroniad, is no longer a spearhead, but the blade to my sword¡­I serve you.¡±


    Dalko sat still as a stone, indifference implanted on his narrow, sharp face. ¡°Excellent, young Tristan. You should know, you will be rewarded for your loyalty in ways that are not yet clear to you. I hope you know that,¡± said Dalko. His voice was hard as steel, cold as an icicle. ¡°Now that we¡¯ve made that clear, have you chosen who will accompany you to confront the servants of Basidin?¡±


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°And who have you chosen?¡± Before Tristan could begin, Dalko added, ¡°And a brief explanation as to why you have chosen each person should suffice.¡±


    ¡°From your contingency of Denderrikans, I have elected to go with Kenton, Asherin, and Loren. Kenton is afraid of nothing, and has the aggression of a bear. I suppose if we encounter trouble on the journey, Kenton will not hesitate to put his life on the line to defend our group.¡±


    ¡°He is loyal without hesitation, certainly.¡± Dalko nodded his approval. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Loren has been a dear friend to me. She showed me your compound and was the first person to lead me out of my sheltered life as a boy in Sesten. She led me beyond the Twin Hills and proved to be a breath of fresh air in my life. I suppose any journey of substance requires trusted friends to help push you along.¡±


    ¡°We will miss her here at Feynram, I am sure of it. She is quite good with a sword as well, if you hadn¡¯t already noticed.¡±


    ¡°And Asherin, well, you know how she is,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Most men fear her more than Kenton. And those who don¡¯t know her will underestimate her.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± said Tristan. ¡°I knew she looked the part when I first met her. But it is no facade. She is a warrior. A fighter. She has more strength than two men put together, I have learned¡­and she¡¯s not a bad negotiator, as I expressed earlier. She helped us enter these walls without bloodshed.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°I am bringing Nothelm Eseloor, a Brantish man that I captured on one of my excursions. He has proved to be a great companion and has provided good fellowship. He knows his way around a sword and has no family left. He is better off aiding me than rotting away in the dungeons here.¡± Tristan was not sure why he trusted Nothelm so much, but he just did. His gut told him so.


    ¡°Can he be trusted?¡± asked Dalko.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Nothing else was said regarding Nothelm. Tristan noted a hint of reluctance in Dalko.


    ¡°Lastly, I am bringing Lord Eamon Thorne and a number of his guards, as we had discussed previously. As long as you are still good with the arrangement, I would like to see that through.¡±


    ¡°Do you favor Eamon and his guards over our own? I can send you ten Denderrikans instead, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°No, I want Eamon. He is a disciplined man and he seems wise. Besides, his guards will answer to him with a loyalty that I have rarely seen before. He knows his way around the kingdom. We could use that. Loren, Kenton, Asherin¡­they are new to Windem. They won¡¯t know the road like Eamon will.¡±


    ¡°And the arrangement?¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Do you still remember it?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Dalko lifted his brows. Tristan exhaled deeply.


    ¡°Okay, fine¡­I don¡¯t remember all of the details.¡±


    ¡°He will see you safely to the completion of your journey. If he fulfills his end of the bargain, we will reinstate him as Overlord of Feynram and allow him to operate as a ruler of the city.¡± Dalko paused a moment before adding, ¡°Of course, he will still be answerable to me and we¡¯ll have a small contingent of Denderrikans here to watch his every move and offer counsel.¡±


    Tristan pursed his lips, nodding. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s what I remember hearing. It¡¯s coming back to me now.¡±


    ¡°I am adding one more member to your journey.¡± Dalko whistled. From a small door behind the throne came a figure that was hardly an inch taller than Dalko. He removed his deep hood, revealing rich, brown eyes and a chiseled, youthful face with tousled brown hair. ¡°I want you to meet Vitarko. He¡¯s one of the Ascendians.¡± Vitarko gave a small nod. His face was still and void of emotion. ¡°He¡¯s vowed to aid your group along the way. Consider him a security investment in your safe travel to meet Basidin¡¯s servants. After all, who would deny the option of an Ascendian--these times of war being what they are.¡±


    Vitarko stepped forward, his hand outstretched. ¡°A pleasure,¡± he said. His voice held a thick accent.


    ¡°We¡¯ve met,¡± said Tristan. He reluctantly shook his hand. He didn¡¯t want Vitarko on their trip. It wasn¡¯t someone he had selected.


    Dalko wrapped up their time together by going over logistics. He ended by saying, ¡°In all, fifteen of you shall go. Any more than that and you may find yourselves struggling for food. The road will be bare, but I suspect the closer you get to the Capitol, the more bountiful the land will be.¡±


    ¡°When shall we leave?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°You will leave the day after tomorrow. First, we must enjoy one last feast together inside these warm and wonderful walls. Then, we shall review the trajectory of your journey and review the plans and objectives altogether. Remember, communication will be key. We should observe every member of your party closely. You don¡¯t want any internal incidents or conflicts to mar your progress. After all, it will be a long and tiresome journey.¡±


    That night Tristan lay his head down on his pillow. It was the second to last night he would be spending in a comfortable bed with a plush pillow and privacy to accompany it. For the first time since leaving Sesten, he found sleep as soon as he lay his head down.

 Chapter 25: The Servants of Basidin

    The five men sat around the long table, their faces cast in shadows. A small fire burned in the heart at one end of the room. It was a depressingly bare and empty room. It was void of decor and objects. But it was the meeting place that had been designated and all five men now sat restlessly. They¡¯d been here nearly an hour but the man who had summoned them here had not arrived yet. And then he did.


    Akar, the leader of the wretched group entered into the room, the door creaking shut slowly behind him. He took a seat, leaning forward and his eyes glinting with malice. ¡°Our master, the great Basidin, has a task for us,¡± he rasped. A few men eyed each other nervously. Their leader spoke as though it was another routine job, but they had never met before. None of them knew each other¡¯s names. ¡°The time has come to spread his dominion across this wretched land.¡± The others stirred, sensing the power in Akar¡¯s words. He was bald, but his face had a greenish, sickly tint to it. Deep scars etched intricate carvings into his face.


    Basidin had promised them everything their blackened hearts desired - wealth, women, power. Things that the men seated around the table could never dream of. Festal Crowe brought a hand to his own scarred face, feeling the rough, charred flesh that had been burned in an incident when he was nine years old. He looked like a monster and had been ostracized ever since. But now, prizes awaited him. Women awaited him, Basidin had promised.


    Akar continued, ¡°We ride at dawn. Basidin has gifted us with his most fearsome creations.¡± He gestured to the shadowy corners of the room. Festal Crowe nearly screamed. The rest of the group also became startled in their seats. Had they been in the room the whole time? Two Cropkillers emerged, their decaying forms barely held together by tattered flesh. The men eyed the undead beasts fearfully at first, but it quickly turned into a lusty hunger. Fed Moltec imagined the wrongs he would right with those beasts if he made it out of this mission. He had been promised whatever provisions, beasts, and men he needed to take down the leadership of his hometown. He hadn¡¯t expected beasts of this variety¡­he didn¡¯t know these fantastical beasts had even existed.


    Then, a Veracifer materialized, its swirling eyes and twisting tongue lolling around crazily. The Veracifers sent a chill through the room. The men averted their gaze, knowing the creature¡¯s deadly power. ¡°We leave no survivors in our wake,¡± Akar announced. ¡°Basidin¡¯s will shall be done.¡±


    The men nodded, besides Festal Crowe who spoke up with uncertainty. ¡°What about Windem¡¯s own people? Are we to kill them?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t misspeak,¡± snarled Akar in Festal¡¯s direction. ¡°Basidin¡¯s will be done.¡±


    The men nodded, their souls already corrupted by the dark promise of Basidin¡¯s power. They had each already ruined their lives in some form or another, but this was a chance to move past that failure. To be rewarded for their filth, for their vileness, for their mistakes¡­they would bring ruin and despair to all who stood in their path. As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the five servants of Basidin rode out, the Cropkillers and Veracifer in their wake. A wave of unnatural darkness seemed to spread from their very presence, blotting out the warmth of the sun. The land trembled, sensing the evil that had been unleashed.


    The five servants of Basidin rode hard, the Cropkillers and Veracifer keeping with unnatural speed. A thick cloud of dread hung in the air, tainting the land they passed through. People shied from the streets, shutting their doors and locking the bolts. Squirrels and deer scurried to their places among the woods. Birds ceased their chirping and insects simply blackened to a crisp and died from the stench and dread of the Cropkiller horses.


    As they neared a small farming village, Akar raised a gloved hand. ¡°There,¡± he said, his voice dripping with malice. ¡°The man we seek.¡± The others followed his gaze to a lone figure standing amidst the fields, his shoulders slumped in defeat. It was Kael Voryn, a deserter of the Denderrikan army. He had deserted the group during the migration from Sesten to Feynram. Dalko had known, but he did not take any action to stop him. He didn¡¯t need dead weight in the group.


    Kael¡¯s heart had grown cold, filled with bitterness and a thirst for vengeance. Dalko had ripped him from his home in Denderrika, knocking on his door and stealing him from his family to serve in a cause he didn¡¯t believe in. Kael had refused initially, and that¡¯s when the torture had started. Dalko had given him up to that evil lady, Asherin--Kael was pretty sure that¡¯s what her name had been. And Kenton too. Those were his cronies, Asherin and Kenton. He looked down at his scarred arms. His palms and fingertips had been burned as well. He no longer had feeling in his arms and hands. He couldn¡¯t taste either. They had burned his mouth with scalding hot water. But that had only been after he¡¯d threatened to kill Dalko, which evidently didn¡¯t bode well with his henchmen, Asherin and Kenton.


    Akar spurred his horse forward, the others trailing behind. The Cropkillers snorted, their rotten nostrils flaring as they sensed the fertile land. The Veracifer glided silently, its empty sockets fixed on Kael. As Akar approached, Kael turned, his eyes widening in surprise. But there was also a glimmer of something else. A spark of dark curiosity filled Kael with mix between fear and rage--a deep, suppressed rage that burned with hot flame. ¡°Who are you?¡± Kael demanded. His hand instinctively moved to the sword at his hip. His first thought was that Dalko had sent these men to kill him. Akar smiled, a twisted, humorless expression. ¡°We are the servants of Basidin, the one true master. We have a proposition for you, Kael Voryn.¡± Kael¡¯s brow furrowed, but he did not draw his weapon. Maybe he wasn¡¯t sent by Dalko.


    The Cropkillers had begun to encroach on the fields, their presence withering the crops that Kael had just worked so hard to plant and nurture.


    ¡°Basidin has seen the darkness in your heart,¡± Akar continued, his voice low like a peel of thunder. Somehow, Kael found it to be compelling. ¡°He knows of your thirst for vengeance, for power. Your hatred of the Denderrikans runs deep, and Basidin likes that very much. Join us, Kael, and all that you seek will be yours.¡± Kael¡¯s eyes narrowed as he considered the offer. The Veracifer drifted closer, and he felt a shiver of unease. He knew Dalko had kept a Veracifer in his camp back at the compound.


    Kael felt a temptation, a lure from this man Akar that he could not deny. ¡°What must I do?¡± Kael asked. He scratched at the scars on his arms until they bled. It was a bad habit of his. His voice was barely above a whisper.


    Akar¡¯s smile widened. ¡°Embrace the darkness, Kael Voryn, and you will find that it is not darkness at all but rather, it is¡­light.¡± Akar smiled triumphantly, menacingly. ¡°Become our leader, and together we will bring ruin to all who stand in our way.¡± Kael hesitated for only a moment longer, then nodded. What about the people here that I¡¯ve found? Thought Kael. He had come to like this rural community of farmers. Screw it, I don¡¯t need them. This was only temporary anyways until I found something¡­something better. And here it is¡­


    The last vestiges of his morality crumbled, replaced by a cold, calculating hunger for power. He was fed up with being tossed around like a resource by those above him. ¡°I am yours, Basidin,¡± Kael declared, his voice ringing with twisted conviction. A surge of hateful adrenaline coursed through him like a lightning bolt. The five servants of Basidin had found their leader, the most wicked among them. And with Kael Voryn at their head, they would unleash devastation upon the land that would be spoken of for generations to come. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    If my family must suffer alone at the hands of Dalko, then this land will falter and decay into ruins at my hands¡­at Basidin¡¯s hands. My oh my, yes--this will be lovely. Kael was rubbing his burned hands together with a twisted, corrupted look spread across his face. Festal Crowe shivered. Fed Moltec turned his face from Kael, feeling a darkness that was worse than Akar¡¯s.


    As Kael Voryn pledged his allegiance to the servants of Basidin, Akar produced a small, ornate object from the folds of his cloak. ¡°To seal your bond with Basidin, you must take this token and wear it always,¡± Akar said, his voice low and commanding. Kael took the object, his fingers enclosing around the cold metal. It was a pendant that was shaped into a gnarled, twisted tree. At the center of the pendant was a single, glowing red gem that seemed to pulse with an unholy energy. ¡°This is the Mark of Basidin,¡± Akar explained. ¡°You are now bound to your master¡¯s will. As long as you wear it, Basidin will know you. All of you,¡± Akar¡¯s last words chilled Kael. His mouth went dry and his throat started to close up with fear. Yet, there was a growing sense of power and terrible purpose which had clutched at Kael. Without hesitation, Kael clasped the pendant around his neck, letting it come to rest against his chest. The red gem seemed to flare to life, casting an eerie glow across his features. Kael felt the mutilated skin along his arms flare into hot, searing pain and then fade away just as quickly.


    ¡°I am his,¡± Kael declared, his voice reverent now. ¡°Basidin¡¯s servant, forever.¡± The other men nodded in approval, each of them already wearing a similar pendant. None glowed as hot and as bright as Kael¡¯s did though. They were now bound to Basidin, their wills utterly and completely subsumed by the dark power that emanated from the twisted tree-like symbols. The group turned and continued on their path of destruction. Without a word, Kael¡¯s mind set itself upon the task at hand--his commands came directly to him from Basidin by way of the token which hung from his pendant.


    The crooked men travelled onwards without needing a word to unite them in their purpose. The moved at a casual pace with Akar and Kael riding the Cropkillers and Fed Moltec leading the Veracifer on with a noose around its neck. Festal Crowe threw a bag over its face. ¡°Not worth risking it,¡± Festal said.


    The Servants of Basidin came to the top of a ridge that overlooked a deep and swooping valley below. The charred remains of a small town was smoldering in the distance. Kael wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench of death that hung heavy in the air. Festal coughed. Akar tilted his head, twisting his jaw at the rancid smell. Breen Slate, one of the quieter servants of the group, tilted his head back and laughed. Marsh Geral, a stout man who was missing an eye, smiled widely. He had three teeth and one unibrow that spread greasily above his eye.


    As they descended the crest and drew closer, the full extent of the destruction became clear. Blackened buildings, broken and looted. Lifeless bodies strewn haphazardly across the streets, their vacant eyes staring into the abyss. Akar reined in his Cropkiller, his gaze sweeping over the scene.


    ¡°It appears the Lord Commander got here before us,¡± murmured Akar, a hint of begrudging respect was reflected in his tone. Kael gave Akar a sideways glance, lifting an eyebrow. Akar took no notice.


    ¡°Lord Commander?¡± asked Kael.


    Before Akar could respond, a dark figure emerged from the shadows, seeming to materialize from the very smoke and ash. His features were hidden beneath an helm with spikes that jutted out in every which direction. Blood and bits of flesh dripped from the ends of the spikes. Kael shivered. This figure gave off some feeling that was hard for Kael to understand. It felt like something was pushing on him, weighing him down. He had never felt so uneasy in his life. Akar immediately dismounted, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. The others followed suit. Kael hesitated, then did the same. He descended slowly to his good knee (the other one had been bashed pretty badly years ago and it had never been the same) and slowly lowered his head. Sweat was dripping from his face, even though it wasn¡¯t warm. He felt his body shake with fear.


    When the man spoke, his voice was a deep, rumbling crack that reminded Kael of a sharp, cutting whip that just slashed through the air.


    ¡°Rise, Servants of Basidin.¡± As the men rose, the figure removed his spiked helm, revealing a face that struck a chord of recognition with Kael. He had seen this man before. It dawned on him a moment later. This was the Lord Commander of King Tarren¡¯s armies. The man that was leading the war against the Denderrikans. He had heard Dalko speak of this man in his secret councils with the other Ascendians and with his close advisors.


    The man had chiseled features, piercing dark eyes, and a voice that carried an unmistakable authority. ¡°I am Elric Drakonstone, Lord Commander of King Tarren¡¯s armies.¡± Kael let his mouth fall agape. Then closed it, straightening his posture and narrowing his eyes.


    Akar inclined his head respectfully, ¡°Lord Drakonstone. We have come to offer our services to Basidin¡¯s cause.¡± Akar slowly pulled his pendent out from beneath his garb, revealing the token of a dead, twisted tree with a red gem in the middle. The others did the same, and Elric gave an audible grunt at the sight of the pendents.


    Drakonstone¡¯s gaze settled on Kael, and the former Denderrikan soldier felt a wave of dread wash over him. Elric¡¯s eyes bore into his soul, searching for any hint of weakness or deception. ¡°And who is this?¡± Drakonstone asked, his tone laced with suspicion.


    ¡°This is Kael Voryn, our new leader,¡± Akar replied, gesturing to Kael. ¡°He has pledged his allegiance to Basidin and bears the Mark.¡± Kael swallowed hard, felt the weight of Drakonstone¡¯s cold stare. He¡¯s searching me, testing me¡­


    Elric Drakonstone studied Kael for a long, tense moment, then a thin smile spread across his lips. ¡°Welcome, Kael Voryn,¡± he said. His face was dripping with dark amusement and villainy. Kael would make an excellent addition to Basidin¡¯s cause. This must be the one Basidin had shown me, thought Elric to himself. If he was correct, then Kael would prove to be a very worthy servant indeed. ¡°Let us see if you are worthy of Basidin¡¯s service.¡± The Cropkillers snorted restlessly, their rotting forms drawing ever closer to Elric Drakonstone. They were drawn to his aura--could smell the villainy dripping from his soul.


    Drakonstone turned his gaze to Kael. He had a sword in his hand, which he now slung over his shoulder, pacing around the group slowly. He¡¯s enjoying this, thought Kael. ¡°If you encounter a man by the name of Tristan Blackthorn,¡± began Drakonstone, his gaze centered on Kael. ¡°You are to capture him and bring him to me. If he¡¯s too dangerous, kill him. He¡¯s Denderrika¡¯s biggest weapon.¡±


    Kael felt a chill run down his spine. Blackthorn was a name he knew. Who didn¡¯t? But Gareth Blackthorn had died years ago. But that first name sounded too familiar¡­where did he--but then it dawned on him. Dalko had found a boy named Tristan¡­even brought him to their compound right before they took over Sesten. Kael had left shortly after the takeover. Kael felt conflicted for a short moment, but the feeling quickly left. He felt something warm pressing against his chest. His hand went slowly to the pendent hanging around his neck. The Mark of Basidin began to burn. Kael¡¯s flesh started to melt away and he yanked the necklace from its place against his body. He held it in his hand, its temperature dying away. The red gem in the center of the pendent glowed a bright red and Kael could feel its power. Basidin¡¯s power. Kael knew there was no turning back. Not now.


    Kael nodded his head, his voice laced with bitter resolve. The faces of his family who he had been forced to leave flashed through his mind. His family--all of whom were still across the vast seas in Denderrika. ¡°It will be done, Lord Drakonstone.¡± The fate of Denderrika hung in the balance amidst the war, and Basidin¡¯s servants planned to do whatever it took to ensure its downfall.


    Kael smiled a wicked grin, turning in a wide circle to view the faces of servants who now answered to him. He was their new leader. ¡°We serve Basidin. He rewards us. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Only Elric remained, tending to a row of women he had kept for himself after ransacking and burning the town to the ground. They murmured anxiously with cloth stuffed in their mouths and hands tied to a feeding trough.


    As the group ascended back up the steep valley and to the top of the ridge, Akar spoke up. ¡°Master Kael, where do we go from here?¡±


    Kael reined his Cropkiller to the top of the ridge, its breath coming out of its nostrils in small tendrils of black smoke. ¡°The Denderrikans have a strong hold on the lands to the South. We pin them back, suffocate them.¡±


    Festal harrumphed. Marsh rubbed his hands together. Breen¡¯s gravelly voiced chimed in now. ¡°How do we suffocate them? We don¡¯t have an army.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need an army,¡± replied Kael, patting the man of his rotting horse. ¡°We¡¯ve got everything we need right here.¡±

 Chapter 26A: The Departing

    Chapter 26 ¡°The Journey Begins¡±


    Tristan¡¯s group was gathered, supplied, and well fed before their excursion north. The feast had been splendid two days prior. Dalko had seen to it that the talented cooks and chefs of Feynram were gathered and put to work. It hadn¡¯t been difficult to convince them, and no violence had been needed. They would be rewarded handsomely for their troubles, something Lord Grimlor Eyowen had neglected to do even once in his long tenure as Overlord of the city.


    Although the fest had served its purpose, the plates lacked variety and consisted mostly of corn, potato, and pork. No one complained. It was a meal fit for a king when there was a famine amidst the land. Most of the food that was brought in by the scavengers was blackened with Rot, which is what folk were calling the decay of the crops.


    ¡°We must be cognizant of the city folk,¡± Dalko said. Enfallio had nodded his agreement before Xenotho chimed in. His voice was deep and rich. ¡°If we want to substantiate our hold on this city and prevent a rebellion, we have to tend to these people better than Grimlor did. Otherwise, they have the numbers. It only takes a few to get a revolt going and overwhelm us.¡± That had been a mutual understanding amongst the Ascendian leadership. More numbers were slowly pouring in from Sesten now that a new outpost had been established. The next outpost was being scouted now, with the idea being that they would continue to move further north and lay down roots with each community that they were able to commandeer. Fortunately, Sesten and Feynram had resulted in minimal bloodshed.


    Tristan was saddling his pack and feeding his horse a handful of hay, patting his mane. The horse whinnied happily.


    ¡°Tristan,¡± came a voice. Tristan turned his head, knowing it was Dalko. ¡°Yes, lord?¡± It was early morning and the ground had a thin layer of frost covering it. It was a crisp day and the sun was warm overhead. A chilly gust of wind blew occasionally but it was a beautiful day for the most part. Tristan¡¯s stomach was bundled with nerves and angst, thoughts of doubt plaguing him. Was he really cut out to lead this journey?


    ¡°Enfallio made this for you,¡± Dalko handed Tristan a map. The paper was old and wrinkled but the ink was fresh. ¡°It will lead you where you need to go. Just like we talked about yesterday.¡±


    ¡°Plains of Ashara,¡± muttered Tristan absent-mindedly as he poured over the map. ¡°Are there some places missing from this? It looks pretty bare.¡±


    ¡°Enfallio omitted most places, besides the ones that you¡¯ll need to know. Your route is marked out clearly for you.¡± Dalko gave Tristan a pat on the back, pursing his lips.


    Loren appeared next to Tristan, hearty and cheerful as usual. ¡°Whatcha got there, Sword Maker?¡± Loren¡¯s eyes darted curiously across the map. Her hand popped up to grab it, her curiosity taking over. Tristan yanked the map from her grasp, a cross look upon his face.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t looked at it for more than a minute, give me a moment please.¡±


    Nothelm finished packing his mount and made his way over to Loren and Tristan. A pleasant look plastered across his face. His beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair had been groomed with a saxe knife. His hair was full and thick, but kept short. His hairline was sideways, causing Loren a fit of laughter.


    ¡°We¡¯ve only met two days ago and you¡¯re already laughing at me. For what reason has my face brought you joy on this chilly morning?¡± Nothelm couldn¡¯t help the sheepish grin that spread across his face.


    ¡°It¡¯s your hair, Nothelm. It¡¯s not straight!¡± Loren was giggling and unable to stop herself.


    ¡°It''s a Brantish cut,¡± said Nothelm defensively, but secretly enjoying the attention. He had hit it off quite naturally with Loren at the feast. Nothelm had never struggled to make friends.


    ¡°If that¡¯s how the Brantish style their hair, then you¡¯ve done a magnificent job. Any more slanted and your whole face is like to look crooked!¡±


    Kenton and Asherin walked past their stable. Their horses had been prepared by the nearest stablehands that Asherin could find. Kenton had tried to make them do it by force, showing them the steel inside his scabbard but Asherin had shoved Kenton away, scowling at him and gesturing him away with a flapping hand. Asherin dug into the pouch at her belt and showed the stablehands three silver coins. Their eyes lit up and their stomachs growled. That was enough to buy something small at the market. They were gauntly skinny and notably malnourished.


    Kenton ignored Tristan as they walked past. Asherin gave a cold nod, quickly refocusing her gaze to the mighty black destrier that was saddled and ready. Tristan stared for a while to admire Asherin¡¯s black horse. It was a beautiful beast and its jet-black fut matched Asherin¡¯s black warrior¡¯s garb and black sweeping hair which was tied up into a messy bun. Tristan¡¯s cheeks burned red when he was caught staring. Asherin, feeling his eyes on her, glanced back at and her eyes met Tristan¡¯s. He lowered his gaze first, feeling sheepish for staring. Asherin allowed herself a small grin but lasted only a second. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The five of them led their horses to the main gates and then paused. They were just waiting on Eamon Thorne and his hosts of guards before they left.


    ¡°Was that supposed to be for us?¡± asked Loren, pointing toward the rows of Feynram city-folk who lined either side of the street. There were tons of them and more continued to pile in.


    ¡°If it was meant for us, they sure were quiet when we passed through,¡± said Nothelm.


    ¡°It¡¯s not for us,¡± said Asherin. Nothelm turned to his left to see who had spoken in such a gruff voice, but found no warmth from Asherin. She kept her gaze forward, ignoring Nothelm.


    ¡°There,¡± said Tristan. They heard it before they saw them. The city had begun to erupt in cheers and applause. Understanding dawned on Tristan and his group. Captain Eamon Thorne was a respected leader here. He had the loyalty and love of Feynram, unlike Grimlor. Eamon Thorne emerged from around a bend in the street, coming out of a narrow passageway between two tall buildings that were white as snow.


    Eamon¡¯s face was set in a stoic expression, his piercing face scanning the adoring crowd. Tristan watched as Eamon waved to familiar faces, nodding his head reverently at the compliments and well wishes of the crowd. These were his people, and he served them faithfully. The guards behind Eamon cantered their horses carefully through the narrow streets, riding in pairs. The hooves of the horses clacked gently on the cobblestone.


    Eamon and his men pulled rank before Tristan. ¡°Eamon Thorne, Captain of the Guard of the City of Feynram¡­at your service.¡± Eamon stood with a spear in hand, his splendid gold and white cape and garments shining brightly underneath his chest and shoulder plated armor. ¡°Are we ready to depart?¡± asked Eamon. Tristan nodded, scanning the city one last time. He hadn¡¯t been here long, but he had felt so safe and secure behind its mighty walls. He wouldn¡¯t see the safety of a mighty city for quite some time--even if the mission went perfectly according to plan.


    They were headed to the Plains of Ashara. That¡¯s where Basidin¡¯s servants would be with their Cropkiller horses. If the Plains of Ashara were diseased and destroyed, the entire south Windem would feel the rippling effects. Many would die. Since the war began, food was being ferried from the Plains of Ashara to every city and town south of those plains to keep people fed. The plains were too vast and wide to be guarded. They would need an army the size of Windem to keep the Cropkillers out of the plains. One sniff or one bite of those plains and the disease would spread within days. Windem¡¯s largest natural plains and source of game or food--gone.


    Dalko and his council had spent days trying to figure out what benefit that would be to Windem--to kill its own source of crops. Although there was no clear answer, one thing was certain. Whoever was in control of Windem¡¯s war efforts was not in their right mind. King Tarren would be killing his own people if the decision were his. The name Basidin had come up multiple times, and that had bridged into the scouting report which had arrived from Enfallion and his men. The report told of Basidin and his escort of Servants who would be embarking on a trip to burn through the south and cut off the north by skewering the crops with disease. No army could march the distance of the Plains of Ashara without living off the land. Basidin had learned that fact and decided it was a worthy cause. The land would be rotted and destroyed, leaving the vast Plains of Ashara a wasteland, and a death wish to anyone who dared traverse its distance without a few months worth of food.


    ¡°Open the gates!¡± shouted Captain Eamon. Cal and Bard were standing atop the ramparts. Tristan watched as two more men joined Cal and Bard to heave on the large wooden crank that controlled to opening and closing of the gate. The brown gate creaked and groaned. It was open.


    The group looked to Tristan, awaiting his command. ¡°We leave for the Plains of Ashara,¡± began Tristan, unassured. He didn¡¯t feel like a leader. He certainly didn¡¯t believe he was. His eyes scanned the cheering, jubilant crowd. He didn¡¯t mind that the cheers were mostly for Captain Eamon and his guard. His eyes spotted Dalko, leaning over a wooden ledge atop a stairwell that led into one of the buildings off to the side of the main street through the center of the city.


    Dalko gave a curt nod, even waving discreetly for a moment. Tristan nodded, realizing that this could be the last time he ever saw his master. His mind flashed back to all of their time spent together in the rocks of Aigoo.


    ¡°Everyone feels fear at some point,¡± Dalko had said one time during their training. ¡°The question is¡­are you going to show it?¡±


    Tristan turned toward the open rocklands beyond the gate, setting his back against the city he had aided in taking. Show no fear. I will show no fear.


    Eamon pulled rank beside Tristan. He had agreed to show Tristan the way. He knew these lands like the back of his hand. Eamon¡¯s guard trailed behind them. In the rear was Loren and Nothelm and then behind them was Kenton and Asherin.


    ¡°Are you ready for this?¡± asked Eamon, his voice rich and thick.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready,¡± replied Tristan, but his eyes were lost and distant. He was entering into the unknown.


    ¡°I have already vowed my service to your cause,¡± began Eamon. ¡°I will not turn back on that. My word is good. I thought you ought to hear it up front.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Captain.¡±


    ¡°Eamon¡­is fine. Just Eamon.¡±

 Chapter 26B: The Journey Begins

    The group made it past the vast rocklands of Feynram and then turned east towards the outskirts of Feynram. Tristan pulled out the wrinkled map, studying it harshly. Eamon noted his angst. He swallowed a few times, thinking over the correct tone of voice that would put Tristan at ease. He didn¡¯t want to come across as commandeering. This was Tristan¡¯s journey and he was to lead. Dalko had made that clear to Eamon in their private meeting.


    ¡°We can head east just as we are now,¡± said Eamon. ¡°The Whispering Woods are ahead, but we¡¯ll have to go through dense forest first. It¡¯s the only way out of Feynram from this direction.¡±


    Tristan was tracing a finger along his map. It paused at a grove of trees that was just below a large forest that was titled ¡°THE WHISPERING WOODS.¡± Tristan lifted his head from the map. The road they were currently travelling went on for several more miles, but he could make out forest up ahead. They dotted the landscape like little green dots. ¡°Outskirts of Feynram first, then the Whispering Woods,¡± said Tristan softly.


    ¡°That would be the way, yes,¡± affirmed Eamon. Tristan felt the tension in his shoulders ease a bit. He liked Eamon. He was glad that Asherin and Kenton were in the rear. Loren and Nothelm too, at least for now. He didn¡¯t want them eavesdropping or chiming in on their conversation. Once he got this whole navigation thing figured out, then he¡¯d be happy to welcome them up front. Eamon¡¯s guard could cover their rear.


    Tristan was not surprised to hear distant rumblings as the sun began to hang low in the sky. The weather had been cool and damp for nearly three months, but now they were beginning to near the winter solstice. The past three days had been cold. Today had been unusually warm, and that warm air was now colliding violently in the sky with the gloomy gray sky.


    The group came upon a clearing at the edge of the Whispering Woods and decided to set up camp for the night. Tristan was the first to set down his things, heaving his pack down from his horse. Loren yanked her pack from her own mount, approaching Tristan.


    ¡°This where we sleep for tonight?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied Tristan. It was obvious enough, and he knew that Loren already knew the answer. She wanted a reason to speak to him.


    ¡°How far back does the Whispering Woods go?¡± asked Loren innocently. Tristan went to open his mouth but Kenton interjected.


    ¡°Five miles. It¡¯s not long.¡±


    ¡°But those five miles will feel much longer,¡± said Eamon. Two of his guards had already prepared themselves to stand watch. ¡°There¡¯s odd things afoot in these woods. More likely to encounter odd animals and other beings than humans, I reckon.¡±


    ¡°Beings?¡± asked Nothelm, unsure as to what Eamon was implying. ¡°What--like Elves and Dragons and that sort?¡± Nothelm held a warm grin, eager to lighten the mood. Spirits within the were low from a long day on horseback. Nothelm¡¯s own buttocks were numb but he was determined not to let it dampen his own mood. The journey was too long to be pouting already. He glanced around the group. Asherin¡¯s face was set in a scowl as she went about tidying her sleeping area. Nothelm furrowed his brow, and shrugged. Asherin was always scowling. Who was to know when she was truly grumpy and when she was merely being herself?


    ¡°No dragons here,¡± said Kenton. He neglected to mention Elves. Everyone knew they weren¡¯t real in this world. Only in fairytales did tales of the Elves come to life. Some claimed they had lived thousands of years ago, others argued that the realm wasn¡¯t thousands of years old.


    ¡°Well then,¡± began Nothelm, breathing heavily and chuckling lightly in the same breathe as he unslung his pack. ¡°If anyone would like to share what to expect from our little excursion through the Whispering Woods, I know one lad who would be delighted to know!¡±


    Loren and Tristan stood a few paces away from the group, chatting idly. Loren managed to get a warmth out of Tristan. He stoic facade for a moment, unable to contain a gentle smile. Her energy was infectious. It always had been.


    ¡°Do you remember?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°What--you mean when you¡¯d come and find me by Twin Hills and we¡¯d explore together? At night?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± exclaimed Loren. ¡°Oh, how that feels like so long ago. We would run and run, galloping through thick grasses and remote woods. The Whispering Woods reminded me of those nights, except the Whispering Woods looks dark as pitch. The woods by Sesten was alive with fireflies and bright bugs at night. I¡¯ve never seen those bugs anywhere but Sesten.¡±


    ¡°Redbugs, we call them.¡± Tristan squatted on his haunches, then sat flat on his butt. The ground was soft and the grass plush. ¡°


    ¡°Don¡¯t get used to it,¡± said Loren, noting Tristan¡¯s comfort. ¡°I have a feeling the farther we go, the less of this we¡¯ll find.¡± She held a clump of bright green grass in her fist and then let the blades of grass go spinning and swirling to the ground.


    ¡°Dalko said the Whispering Woods may not be what they used to be. Although it¡¯s never been a friendly place, it¡¯s always been teeming with game and wildlife. We¡¯ll have to ration our food carefully. We may not find food growing from the ground for quite some time after we pass through those woods.¡±


    The night went smoothly, barring a few odd noises and sounds that came from the woods. At times, it sounded like howling. Other times it sounded like teeth gnashing--dogs or wolves fighting amongst themselves. One noise awoke everyone at the same time, the guards on watch were standing with the hairs of their neck stiff as a plank. A loud, piercing scream echoed through the woods. Tristan had awoke with a jolt, Loren with a gasp. Kenton rose to his feet slowly, his metal bared.


    ¡°Just a fox, most likely,¡± said Eamon. Kenton had not been so sure, and stood his ground with his sword in hand for nearly ten minutes before slowly easing back into his sleeping positon beside Asherin, who was already fast asleep again. Nothing bothers her, thought Tristan to himself.


    He faked sleep and waited for all the others to fall asleep again. He lay flat on his back with his eyes closed until the sounds of light snoring and heavy breathing meshed with the chirps of crickets and croaking of frogs. His eyes opened and he gazed at the stars above them. The thunderstorm that had seemed imminent had cleared up and the clouds had drifted away. The sky was clear and beautiful that night. For many nights beyond, Tristan would look back on that night and smile--for her had no clue how many miserable nights were in store. If only he knew to enjoy that night for what it was rather than letting his thoughts swirl restlessly with anxiety.


    The next morning came sooner than Tristan had hoped. He had awoken instinctively before the guards could arouse the group. The sound of their clunky boots dragging over the grass took Tristan out of his sleep before their voice came, ¡°All, it¡¯s time to wake up and get a move on it. Sun¡¯s coming up!¡± A bleary, red-orange sky was just beginning to show over the horizon, which was back toward Feynram, where they had come from. Kenton was slowest to wake, his dirty blonde hair a tangled mess.


    The group split tough bread but didn¡¯t bother to heat up beans or coffee. Eamon and Kenton had hinted it might be smart to do so before starting on their day¡¯s adventure. They would need all the energy they could muster. Tristan had shook his head, not saying much. He rolled up his pack and mounted himself, clicking his tongue and urging his horse toward the woods. Nothelm was close behind him, wincing at the sight of the dark and mysterious woods. The overhang was so thick that hardly any sunlight was going to make it through.


    Eamon and Kenton exchanged sour glances, but Loren stepped between them with a typical warm smile spread across her face. ¡°Surely no one¡¯s tired yet. Our journey has only just begun! Come now, let us stay close to the Blackthorn boy.¡± This time it was Asherin who let a heave of exasperation escape her as she trudged her horse past the group and mounted. ¡°Blackthorn boy,¡± she muttered to herself. She had never been one to care for legends or stories. All that mattered was right in front of her--not in some distant past or faraway land where a man or woman or great renown had accomplished some great thing.


    Eamon waited for the group to catch up to Tristan before bringing up the rear with his guard. He watched Asherin mount, caught her looking back and making eye contact with him. He busied himself, feeling sheepish. He hadn¡¯t been staring out of lust or interest in that manner, but rather with intrigue at her battle-esque aura. She was imposing and strong, built like an ox. Her long black hair portrayed fierceness and even beauty. Her type was not common, and Eamon had not seen such a woman before inside the walls of Feynram. Sure--he had seen female warriors and competent diplomats, but never one so tall and thick as Asherin.


    Tristan led the group into the woods, the wrinkled map spread across his lap. His finger rested upon a word in thick, cursive letters. ¡°WHISPERTON.¡± He folded up the map and tucked it away. His hand reached instinctively to his hip, where Drakiler sat snuggly in its scabbard. Myroniad, his powerful spear, sat upon his back, the bottom of the shaft peeking up over his right shoulder. The blade, which was really the blade of his father¡¯s sword, pointed out below his left hip.


    The air felt thick and suffocating inside the Whispering Woods. Not only was it humid, but all of the noise that had preceded their arrival had gone deadly silent once they entered. A narrow path snaked through the woods, twisting and winding. Vines, branches, and underbrush reached out at them as they slowly cantered their horses forward. The path barely accommodated the breadth of the horses.


    ¡°Does anyone else feel that?¡± asked Nothelm.


    ¡°What, like we¡¯re being watched?¡± replied Asherin.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± said Nothelm.


    ¡°I feel it too,¡± said Kenton.


    ¡°It¡¯s to be expected,¡± said Eamon loudly. He was in front of his guards but behind the rest of the group. ¡°The living things of the woods do not like sharing their home with others. It''s best we keep our heads down and get out of here as soon as we can. Only five miles.¡±


    Loren had lost her warm confidence and stared gloomily ahead, fearful that she might get the attention of someone, something, if she let her gaze wander off to either side of the path. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    They had been travelling nearly two miles when they came upon a rare clearing that was no more than fifty yards in distance. The path resumed again at the other end of the clearing.


    ¡°Shall we pause a moment?¡± asked Nothelm. ¡°I could use a minute to take a piss and scratch my balls. Been all bunched up on this horse for a while now.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve only travelled two miles, Nothelm.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes were darting across his map. The clearing they had entered was a small circle on his map. There was a symbol there--too small to make out. Was it an animal? A logo? Tristan couldn¡¯t tell.


    ¡°It feels like we¡¯ve been travelling for hours,¡± said Nothelm.


    ¡°I agree,¡± murmured Kenton. He had his dagger in his left hand and the reins in his right hand. He wheeled his horse around, scanning his surroundings.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± said Eamon. ¡°Let them watch. They don¡¯t take well to strangers being here.¡±


    ¡°Who are they?¡± asked Asherin angrily.


    ¡°The wolves.¡± Eamon gulped nervously.


    ¡°Wolves? Its the middle of the day. Don¡¯t they hunt at night?¡± asked Nothelm.


    ¡°Not in here¡­the Whispering Woods doesn¡¯t have a day or night. Look around you,¡± the group followed Eamon¡¯s eyes. ¡°It¡¯s dark now. It only gets darker at night.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± said Tristan. He had maintained a distance from the group and now approached the other end of the clearing.


    ¡°Come on, hurry,¡± ushered Loren. ¡°We mustn¡¯t get separated.¡±


    A distant howling rang through the air.


    ¡°That was definitely a wolf,¡± said Kenton. He grit his teeth, preparing to jab his dagger at anything that moved. Just then, a bush rustled and a small hare came darting into the clearance. Kenton¡¯s breathing increased rapidly, a drop of sweat rolled down his forehead and between his eyes.


    ¡°Just a rabbit,¡± said Asherin softly.


    Beyond the brush, and unseen by the group, were twelve sets of golden, glowing eyes. Saliva ran down the side of the wolves¡¯ jaws. They were starving.


    The group made it past the clearing and the sensation that they were being watched subsided some. A few extraneous noises had picked up again, and Kenton had never been more grateful to hear crickets chirping noisily.


    ¡°I think we¡¯re nearing the exit soon,¡± said Kenton.


    ¡°Tristan has a map,¡± said Asherin. ¡°Tristan, how much longer?¡± Tristan looked down at the map in his lap, unfurling it and studying it. They were a little over halfway. He didn¡¯t say a word, only kept his horse spurred on in the right direction.


    ¡°Well gee, good thing the only mute member of the group has the map. He could be leading us to the edge of a cliff for all we know,¡± said Asherin.


    ¡°Easy,¡± came Eamon¡¯s voice from behind her. ¡°We about halfway, if memory serves me.¡±


    Asherin had been tempted to ask what mission had dragged Eamon out this way through Whisperton and the Whispering Woods but something about the air made her stop. Talking suddenly felt uncomfortable. It was as if talking required an enormous amount of effort. Kenton suddenly felt it too.


    It¡¯s like a big heavy cloak has weighed me down and I can hardly think or move, thought Loren. Unbeknownst to her, the rest of the group was having the same thought. Asherin quickly resented herself for bugging Tristan moments ago. No wonder he had checked his map but not bothered saying anything.


    An owl hooted. The owl swivelled its head and its eyes peered open three feet from Tristan¡¯s face. It was sitting on a branch that was just barely off the beaten path. Tristan gave a yelp of surprise and his horse lurched forward, rearing its front legs. Loren¡¯s horse did the same, and Kenton¡¯s horse neighed wildly. Tristan held on for dear life, barely managing to stay atop his horse.


    ¡°Just an owl,¡± croaked Eamon. No one else had enough bravery to speak. Kenton reached for his canteen, felt his muscles curl up like stiff paper that had no moisture left in it. He struggled, barely bringing the canteen up enough to wet his lips and relieve his parched tongue. A heavy fatigue was beginning to set in, and everyone could feel it.


    ¡°Four,¡± said Eamon warily. Everyone knew what it meant despite the vague nature of his mutterings. Four miles in, one to go.


    The path had begun to widen steadily, until it was soon wide enough to permit them to ride two abreast. They declined to do so, instead continuing on in single-file like brain-dead zombies. Tristan hugged the right side, and so the group followed his lead behind him.


    ¡°Sand,¡± whispered Tristan. He was pointing at the ground on the left of the path. He snapped a branch from overhead and tossed it to the ground where he had pointed. The branch was embraced by the sand, then the sand moaned and sent a poof of sand up into the air. The sand enclosed around the branch and slowly absorbed it, dragging it down its depths. Eamon¡¯s horse neighed gently. He patted its mane, even kissed it genty to try and calm it. Kenton felt his heart rate quicken. An unseen force seemed to pull him from his saddle. He came close to dropping out of his saddle and into the quicksand, but a curt shout Asherin snapped him out of it.


    They made it past the quicksand the path began to narrow again before coming out into another wide clearing. It was darker here, despite the clearing. The trees covered the sky above them like a thick canopy, blocking any sunlight besides what was reflected from the trees¡¯ leaves. Tristan''s mouth gaped as he stared up at the trees. Loren¡¯s mouth soon turned into an ¡°O¡±, noticing what had caught Tristan¡¯s attention. Everything was black. The bark, the leaves, the vegetation. Some of it had withered and died, but most of it still looked alive--only it was a black as pitch. Mesmerized and equally amazed, Kenton dismounted.


    ¡°Stunning,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Kenton!¡± shouted Asherin. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dismount. Get back on your horse!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­nature¡­it¡¯s so¡­gentle, and calm.¡± Kenton slowly ventured toward the other end of the clearing. The rest of the group was calling to him, in a sharp hush and low whisper. They were not sure why, but a whisper felt right. Something was asleep here, and it best not be awoken.


    Before Kenton could go any further, the hair on his skin went straight up. A chill ran down Tristan¡¯s spine. Asherin gasped. Loren gawked, covering her mouth with her hand. Twelve wolves emerged from the woods, mouth foaming and teeth bared. What startled the group beyond the wolves¡¯ seemingly voracious appetite, was the color of their fur. Besides their golden-ring eyes, they were jet black. Their fur coats, their paws, their claws, even their teeth. All black.


    Just like the trees, thought Tristan to himself. ¡°Cursed,¡± he whispered to himself at first. Then aloud, he bellowed, ¡°They are cursed! These woods--they are subject to the will of the Shadow! The vegetation has been poisoned.¡± It was as if the deep blanket of sleep had been lifted from his mind. His bellows awoke everyone else from their own mindless wonder. This was real--and those wolves were hungry!


    ¡°Run for the light, we¡¯re less than a mile away. Stay off the path, go!¡± Tristan had withdrawn Drakiler from his scabbard and wheeled his horse toward Kenton (who was still without his horse) and the wolves, which were slowly encroaching on the group. ¡°Go!¡± shouted Tristan, finally galvanizing the group into action. Kenton¡¯s horse neighed wildly, ditching its owner and following hot on the tail of Asherin¡¯s horse. The group bounded through the thick of the woods, vines and sticks whipping and lashing at their faces all the way.


    ¡°Kenton, hop on!¡± shouted Tristan. He spurred his horse past Kenton, who grasped Tristan¡¯s arm and allowed himself to be hoisted up. He slid in behind Tristan and they rode off, the wolves hot on their trails and growling like little devils.


    The horses were faster and more powerful, but the brush was thick and the trees were many. This slowed them significantly, but the wolves seemed to dance through the thicket like dark shadows. Tristan caught up to the rear of his group, but the wolves were gaining.


    ¡°I see the light ahead,¡± said Kenton. Tristan saw it too and lifted his sword to point. ¡°The light is ahead, make it to the light and we will be free of these woods!¡±


    The chase ensued and the light ahead grew very slowly as they approached it. At first it was a small ball of light, but as they neared it, it grew into a wide light, like the entrance to a cave. The light was blinding as they neared it. Tristan spurred his horse to the front, whipping and kicking at his horse to speed onward.


    A sharp cry rang out. Tristan felt his horse lurch forward with more speed and knew immediately. Kenton had fallen off. Tristan had seem the low hanging tree branch late and hardly ducked in time. Kenton hadn¡¯t had a chance to prepare and thus was knocked clumsily off the back of the horse.


    ¡°Kenton!¡± shouted Asherin, wheeling her horse around.


    ¡°Leave him,¡± muttered Tristan, but no one heard him and he was glad they didn¡¯t. Loren and Eamon and his guards had wheeled around as well.


    Kenton had come to his feet quickly, but was swaying and disoriented. He still held his sword somehow, and slowly shuffled in a semicircle. A circle of twelve wolves were beginning to enclose him. As if on cue, they all attacked. Kenton sliced at the first one, slashing it across the belly. His flung his blade upward at the next, cutting its head open from throat to head. The third one leapt at him sideways, its claws digging into his flesh and its mouth reared back, ready to chomp down on his arm. Asherin had arrived.


    Asherin catapulted from her horse, coming down on the wolf before its jaws could close on Kenton. She jammed her blade down on its back, twirling around and slicing through two more wolves, and then a third. But Kenton was down The slashing black claws of the wolf had done enough damage to leave Kenton in a painful heap on the forest floor. Red blood spurted busily onto a mix of black, brown, and yellow leaves. The rest of the wolves took their cue, growling with rage and snarling their threats before bounding off into the direction they had come. They disappeared into the dark.


    Asherin picked up Kenton on her own and lay him across her horse before mounting again. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±


    No one needed to protest that idea. Just then, a sound from afar off, which sounded like a squealing pig, was enough to arouse them from their shock at Kenton¡¯s nasty wounds. Kenton was writhing around on Asherin¡¯s horse, agony plaguing him and offering no respite. Tristan winced, knowing Kenton was one of Dalko¡¯s fiercest, most legendary warriors. The image of the wolves¡¯ black claws and foaming mouths etched itself in Tristan¡¯s memory for many years to come.


    The group finally came to the end of the woods and spilled out into the bright light of midday. They had only been in the woods for a couple hours at most, but it had felt like days on end. The group dismounted, with Asherin laying Kenton delicately onto soft green grass.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have my men stand guard in case those wolves decide to come after us,¡± said Eamon in his ever-diligent manner. Tristan regarded him lightly. Loren knelt beside Kenton, assessing his wounds.


    ¡°Dalko gave this pack. It has Denderrkan medicine in it,¡± said Loren. She busied herself rummaging through the pack of supplies.


    ¡°Is Denderrikan medicine supposed to be any better than what we have?¡± asked one of Eamon¡¯s guards. Asherin shot him a dark glance. He blushed, turning away and vowing to himself not to be smart around the lady warrior in black ever again.


    Asherin knelt down to help Loren, applying a white cream and securing a thick white bandage around the four wide gashes.


    ¡°Fortunately, he didn¡¯t lose too much blood. The gashes are in shallow areas, but we¡¯ll have to keep re-dressing it and cleaning it often to make sure it doesn¡¯t get infected,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°It stings, badly,¡± said Kenton, wincing. He tried to rise to his feet, but faltered at the acute pain. The two gashes on each leg were the ones that hurt the most. The other gashes were on his arm and his rib, but those were more superficial and had just grazed him.


    ¡°We¡¯ll rest here for a few hours before moving onward. I¡¯d like to be away from those woods before nightfall,¡± said Tristan.


    The group murmured their ascent. If Kenton were not hurt, they¡¯d have gladly put as much distance between themselves and those woods as possible beginning immediately. Kenton dozed off into a feverish sleep while the rest of the group split small rations amongst themselves.


    ¡°May as well start a fire now,¡± said Tristan. ¡°Better to have a fire now while it''s still light out.¡± The group began a fire and cooked a hearty meal before preparing to journey onward. Meanwhile, Kenton dreamed he was all alone in a faraway iceland, the Shadow stalking him and hunting him like a dog after a mouse. Just as the Shadow caught him, swiping at him with his clawed hands, Kenton awoke with a start, panting and sweating.


    ¡°Your cuts,¡± gasped Asherin, ¡°they¡¯re infected.¡±

 Chapter 27: Bandits

    The trip has not begun the way that Tristan would have hoped for. Looking back, he wondered if they should have entered the Whispering Woods at all. They could have taken an alternate route around the woods, but that would have tacked on an extra twelve hours, he guessed.


    Tristan felt his breath become shallow and his heart rate quicken. What was he doing? He became very aware of how alien he had become. He was no longer than same boy who had grown up in Sesten. He missed his Ma, missed Uncle Bodry--who was locked away somewhere under the same regime as the one that he now served. His head spun. Waves of nausea washed over Tristan like an unwelcome ocean current, dragging him down and down below the salty waves. He was laying flat on his back with his head resting against his pack. The group were nearing the end of their rest and preparing to move forward, but Asherin had expressed her concerns after removing Kenton¡¯s bandages and revealing the nasty cuts that Kenton had received from the black wolf.


    ¡°Those wolves weren¡¯t normal wolves,¡± Asherin had said. ¡°I mean, look at this,¡± Asherin said as she removed the bandages and positioned Kenton¡¯s leg for Tristan to see.


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree,¡± said Tristan. ¡°Not only was the fur jet black, but so were its claws and everything else.¡±


    ¡°The woods were black too,¡± murmured Kenton weakly. ¡°The whole place¡­¡± Kenton grimaced, his hand clutching at one of the cuts on his rib, ¡°place seemed diseased¡­sick.¡±


    ¡°Well there¡¯s no doubt about that,¡± replied Eamon who had been seemingly scanning the horizon and not listening. He spoke again, still facing away from the group and with one foot propped on a rock. ¡°Windem¡¯s forces have merged with whatever crooked, vile thing it is that¡¯s out there. The Shadow--as many call it. That¡¯s just a bland name for whatever darkness it is that has spread from the north. We¡¯re seeing the evidence here--even in Whisperton. And their most dangerous host is yet to arrive.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re after, right?¡± said Loren. She lay on her side with her elbow propping her up. Her hands twiddled with some twicks, then snapped them in half and tossed them aside.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°What¡¯s the use?¡± asked Asherin. ¡°Looks like they¡¯ve already infected the land. Kenton¡¯s badly hurt, and he needs real medicine. I say we head back and avoid the Whispering Woods this time. It would be unwise to go any further.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± replied Tristan.


    ¡°No? That¡¯s it?¡± Asherin was cross. ¡°If we¡¯re to continue onwards, I think we¡¯re all owed an explanation or a justification of some sort.¡±


    ¡°We keep moving forward. We can¡¯t turn back now. If we head back now, we¡¯re accepting defeat.¡± Tristan¡¯s lips were pressed firmly, a stern look upon his face.


    ¡°Besides, if no one takes down the evil that approaches, who will? We¡¯ll run out of food. Windem will starve us out. That¡¯s what they want,¡± said Loren, siding with Tristan.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± groaned Kenton.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look fine,¡± replied Asherin. She ran a hand over his forehead. ¡°He feels warm.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get him on horseback and journey onward. His body can fight the infection,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°And if it can¡¯t? Then what?¡± Asherin rose to her feet, crossing her arms indignantly.


    Tristan came to his own feet, moving his face within inches of Asherin¡¯s. ¡°Then we deal with it.¡± The two stared each other down for perhaps fifteen seconds before Asherin dropped her gaze.


    ¡°Dalko placed Tristan in charge. He has seen the visions. We ought to trust him, and trust Tristan to lead us.¡± Loren stepped between Asherin and Tristan, trying to rescue a mutual understanding. ¡°Dalko calls Tristan the Wielder of the One Sword, now we must help him fulfill that.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re not on this journey to help Tristan achieve his dreams,¡± said Asherin. She was chuckling now. ¡°I am doing no more than we set out to do--and that is to confront the Servants of Basidin and rescue the largest cropland in Windem. That¡¯s all. Beyond that,¡± Asherin brought her face within an inch of Tristans again, nudging Loren out of the way, ¡°You¡¯re on your own.¡±


    The group managed to pack up their belongings and get Kenton laid across a horse. It was time to carry on. They travelled for a while, setting out a few hours after noon.


    ¡°We¡¯ll go as far as we can until the sun sets, and then some,¡± said Tristan. Eamon was riding abreast with him. He nodded.


    ¡°As you command, Tristan.¡±


    Tristan smiled. He liked the Captain of the Guard. He was stoic. Objective. His guards were well trained and followed along with no complaints. Tristan had hardly heard a word out of them since the journey began. Where their Captain went, they would go.


    The horses cantered onward, their hooves clacking lazily atop the dirt road.


    ¡°Have you identified our next checkpoint?¡± asked Eamon. They had been cantering along the road for nearly an hour. Tristan unfurled his map, his finger hovering for a few second while he looked for the spot.


    ¡°Here,¡± said Tristan. His finger landed on a place called ¡°Granite Ford.¡±


    Eamon nodded his head approvingly. ¡°Seems a good a place as any. It will be heavily guarded though, you should know. That bridge has had a toll since the earliest days--they¡¯ve earned a fine coin off the citizens of Windem through the years. I think they¡¯ve only doubled the size of the toll guard since the war began.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t want Denderrikans having access to that crossing, do they?¡±


    ¡°No, they don¡¯t,¡± agreed Eamon. ¡°You and I will lead when we arrive. We¡¯re from Windem and have familiar faces. It¡¯d be best if Kenton and Asherin kept their faces obscured and hidden beneath their hoods.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­where¡¯s Vitarko?¡± Loren asked. She was riding just behind Tristan and Eamon.


    ¡°He split off before the Whispering Wood,¡± replied Tristan. ¡°He¡¯ll be taking a different route than us but he¡¯s supposed to join up with us at some point.¡±


    ¡°Did he say why?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then why did Dalko bother sending him with us if he¡¯s not going to be around to aid us in our journey?¡±


    Tristan shrugged. ¡°The Ascendians have their way of doing things. I¡¯m sure Vitarko talked it over with Dalko beforehand.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think to ask?¡± Loren¡¯s tone was curious but still whiny.


    Tristan ignored her, keeping his head forward.


    The group made good time. It had been several hours and they had successfully exited Whisperton. The road was fairly deserted besides the occasional traveller headed the opposite direction. Since the war began, people mostly headed south toward the Capitol rather than away from it.


    ¡°We¡¯re out of Whisperton, right?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Correct,¡± replied Eamon.


    ¡°Where are we now?¡±


    ¡°These lands belong to no territory or fief. We are passing by remote towns and villages that are littered to either side of the main road we now travel. Soon, we will be approaching Skalla.¡±


    ¡°Skalla,¡± whispered Asherin. Loren turned her blonde head of hair back, peering curiously at Asherin.


    ¡°You know of Skalla?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard stories,¡± said Asherin.


    ¡°Stories of what kind?¡± asked Loren.


    Kenton moaned wearily beside Asherin. She ran a hand along his cheek, then rubbed his forehead with her thumb. ¡°You¡¯ll be okay, I promise,¡± she whispered. She snapped back into the present, addressing Loren¡¯s question. ¡°Stories of its scum-like inhabitants. Dalko has sent men to Skalla before.¡±Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°For what?¡± asked Tristan. It sounded more like a strict statement than a question. He was growing tired of Asherin¡¯s pessimism.


    ¡°To understand the land. High Lord Maltor has asked. The Sorceress has asked in Dalko¡¯s dreams and in his visions. He keeps a detailed record of everything he knows about these lands.¡±


    Loren harrumphed. Tristan grunted. Eamon said nothing. The group carried on, watching the sun¡¯s light begin to drift into a soft, gentle blue and eventually a purple.


    ¡°We¡¯ll stop soon,¡± said Tristan. They were coming up on the main road that passed through Skalla¡¯s foothills. Thin green trees that crowded closely surrounded the road on both sides, rising and falling with the foothills.


    ¡°I¡¯d recommend passing through these foothills before settling down for the night,¡± advised Eamon.


    ¡°Thieves?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Bandits,¡± confirmed Eamon. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ¡°We call them bandits. Thieves are petty, thoughtless men in the cities.¡±


    ¡°And bandits?¡±


    ¡°Bandits are smarter. They take more. Let us hope we shan¡¯t chance to encounter them here.¡± Eamon¡¯s forehead was scrunched into a dozen mini wrinkles.


    Half an hour passed. Tristan could make out a man standing along the side of the road. His head was hanging low and his shoulders were slumped forward as if he were about to tip over and faceplant. ¡°Slow down,¡± said Tristan. He held out a halting hand.


    ¡°Weapons,¡± said Eamon curtly. His guards quickly, and in sync, withdrew their daggers from their scabbards. ¡°Stay mounted, but be ready. This could be a trick,¡± said Eamon, talking to the entire group.


    As they came closer Tristan could make out more details. He was a heavy man with a balding head of stringy, long hair. The edges of his eyes were red and his face blotchy. Blood was dried and crusted all over his brown tunic. His feet were barefoot and he was breathing in shuttering gasps.


    ¡°Pl--plea--please! Help me! Go no further. Only trouble awaits you beyond this point.¡±


    ¡°What kind of trouble?¡± asked Tristan. His hand slid discreetly to Drakiler, which was sheathed at his hip.


    ¡°There were men. B--bb--bad¡­men!¡± the man stammered and then his big, buggy eyes darted anxiously at their group. Asherin heaved an impatient sigh.


    ¡°Can you tell us where you saw these men?¡± asked Eamon. His mind was already planning and anticipating. Tristan looked at Eamon, recognize that fact, and realize he ought to be doing the same.


    ¡°Up there, right where you¡¯re headed.¡± The man was pointing toward the direction they were headed. ¡°Three of ¡®em. They¡¯ve got staves. They¡¯re fit men, kinda like you lot here.¡± The man had calmed a bit and was studying them now. His eyes landed on Tristan and searched him head to toe. ¡°Say--you look familiar.¡±


    Tristan said nothing, pursing his lips. He gestured to Eamon, who was waiting to make sure Tristan didn¡¯t want to take lead on this.


    ¡°Three men you say,¡± continued Eamon. He looked back at his group. His eyes fell on Kenton, who was out cold and shaking with fever. Beads of sweat lined his face. ¡°Well, I¡¯d say we could take three men pretty handily. Did they have any bows? Was it just those three and no one else?¡±


    ¡°Yes, just those three. Erm, one of them was holding a bow in his hand but his quiver was empty. He was missing most his teeth and the skin on his face looked pink and scarred. Rough lookin¡¯ bunch, I will say.¡±


    ¡°Like most bandits,¡± confirmed Eamon.


    ¡°Can you help me?¡± asked the man. ¡°They took my horse, my food, my water¡­surely men of your stature have food you can spare. I can see your packs there.¡±


    Tristan pulled out a small pack of dry nuts. ¡°Here.¡± he tossed the pack to the man, who snatched at it hungrily and immediately began piling the nuts in his mouth. ¡°Oh, thank you kind stranger!¡± Tristan nodded his head and then nudged his horse onward.


    The group remained alert in their saddles, scanning either side of the road for unusual activity. The road seemed deserted. It was eerily quiet. Not even the birds sang. The wind didn¡¯t howl. In fact, it was a mild and calm day. It was neither warm nor cold. But as the sun continued to drift lower and lower, a slight chill began to gnaw at them. Asherin took her cloak and slid it over Kenton as a second layer. He was shivering badly.


    Fifteen minutes later the bodies began to show up along the sides of the road. First it was one (badly butchered and arms decapitated) and then there were two bodies laid side by side and with throats slit. One of the bodies was stripped of its clothes except for a boot which clung to the corpses¡¯ foot.


    ¡°Too late to turn back now,¡± remarked Loren. Her tone was oddly bubbly.


    ¡°What did I tell you? Welcome to Skalla.¡± Although his words sounded matter-of-factly and calming, Eamon was uneasy. He felt his heart rate begin to quicken and adrenaline begin to course through him. This wasn¡¯t mere thievery. This was murder. Cruelty.


    Tristan hardly noticed the corpses along the side of the road. He didn¡¯t even hear Eamon Thorne ask him if they ought to quicken the pace and bear their swords, just in case. His mind was adrift and far, far, away. He didn¡¯t feel like him. He wasn¡¯t Tristan Blackthorn. He was just some man. Some man that was doing the dirty work for a Denderrikan war leader. He was supporting the wrong side of the war. Or was he? Windem was no longer what it used to be, he knew that. The Kingsguard had been wiped out, thanks to Dalko, and the Elric Drakonstone was the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s Armies. And, from what he¡¯d heard (and was now common knowledge across the land) King Tarren was no longer the same king he used to be. In fact, he was hardly in charge. There was some dark, vile sickness that had descended upon Castle Rarington--or Stormhold, as they were now calling it. Even the way they had changed it¡¯s name had unsettled Tristan.


    But he was torn. His father had died for Windem. He had died in an attempt to accomplish the impossible for King Tarren. Couldn¡¯t Tristan honor his father by following in his father¡¯s footsteps? Ought he to serve in the King¡¯s armies and help to fight this war? He wondered if King Tarren would even remember that Gareth Blackthorn had a son out there. Tristan¡¯s thoughts drifted to his Ma. Dalko had said that Elric had taken her away. He wondered whether that was true, or whether Dalko had just said that to put Tristan¡¯s mind at ease. One thing was certain--Dalko knew who Tristan was and knew the significance of his bloodline. And that was something. That felt more like an homage to his father, to the Blackthorns. But what was he doing now, riding out to some vantage in South Windem with these riders? Outside of Loren, he did not know them well. He didn¡¯t know Asherin nor Kenton very well. He¡¯d only just met Captain Eamon, and he didn¡¯t trust Vitarko--and didn¡¯t know when or where they¡¯d see him again.


    All of these thoughts swirled through his head. They were thoughts that he would have preferred to keep somewhere far away in the back of his brain. But he couldn¡¯t now. It all came gushing to the forefront like a storm front--thoughts of Elric, Ma, Dalko, his father, King Tarren--his purpose. What was he doing here? It all became so apparent now that he was removed from Dalko¡¯s presence. The further he journeyed from Dalko, the more certain he became that he ought to just ride off in the middle of the night and leave his group. He could ride up to Stormhold¡¯s front gates and announce that he was home. Gareth Blackthorn¡¯s son had come home. Surely they would open the gates and welcome him with open arms. But now times were different. Tristan wasn¡¯t sure how he would be received. There was new leadership in Windem. It was a leadership that was willing to starve its own people in order to win a war. Tristan figured that if a leadership was willing to do that, then it would be in no shape to welcome back an old face that had spent the past years in the shadows of Sesten and Feynram, working for the mastermind who was organizing the campaign to take over Windem.


    ¡°Tristan--hey. Are you with me? Tristan--¡± Eamon was nudging Tristan¡¯s arm when he finally came-to. There was a man standing one hundred yards ahead in the middle of the road. He didn¡¯t look hurt or mutilated. He looked confident. Expectant.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± asked Tristan. He felt like he had just woke up from a long and disorienting nap.


    ¡°It¡¯s a stranger, that¡¯s who!¡± shouted Asherin.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know who it is, but it sure looks like it could be the dangerous men that the man back there was talking about,¡± said Eamon. Tristan could smell the stale jerky on his breath.


    ¡°Could be a different man than him. You said Skalla is known for its criminals and bandits.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but Tristan--he¡¯s blocking the road. I¡¯m willing to wager there¡¯s more just like him standing off to either side of the road, just hiding and waiting in the trees and the foothills. No man blocks the path of a group our size without some supreme confidence.¡±


    ¡°I say we kick it into top gear and run him down with our horses,¡± said Loren confidently. ¡°If we go fast enough, it won¡¯t matter who they have or how many of them there are.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± chimed Asherin. ¡°If we stop now, it could mean more trouble than we¡¯re prepared for.¡±


    ¡°Could have archers,¡± Eamon whispered to Tristan. ¡°Best we play their little game and avoid unnecessary casualties.¡±


    Tristan envisioned arrows flying through the air like a hoard of locusts. Kenton was already deathly ill. It only took one accurate arrow to end a life. ¡°We¡¯ll stop and see what he wants. Let us not presume he is out to rob us. He may have some warning for us just as the first man we encountered did.¡±


    They slowed their horses and eventually stopped twenty yards before the man who stood in the road. His face was mutilated and burned. Must be the same man we heard about earlier, thought Tristan.


    ¡°Hello there,¡± said the man with a dreadful, toothless smile. He was holding a stave in his right hand. His clothes appeared old and tattered. His grin made Tristan¡¯s stomach do a flip. Something wasn¡¯t right about this guy.


    ¡°How can we help you, sir?¡± asked Tristan stiffly.


    ¡°You can start by complying with a few simple requests¡± he paused, studying the group and still flashing his ridiculous grin. Seeing no resistance, he continued, ¡°we¡¯ll need all your food and all your weapons. That¡¯s all really. I told you it¡¯d be simple!¡± The man chuckled heartily and tapped his stave repeatedly in his hands.


    ¡°That won¡¯t be happening,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Okay then, I figured you¡¯d say as much. Come on out boys!¡± he laughed again, this time snorting as he laughed, which made the same sound as a broken bell.


    A wave of fifteen men came out from the cover of the woods on the right, and then the same number on the left. They were holding staves and axes. More men spilled out from the treeline behind those men with crossbows and shortbows knocked and ready to fire.


    ¡°Now,¡± began the man in charge, ¡°shall we try that again?¡±


    More men filed out of the woods behind them and enclosed the group from the rear. ¡°Oh, and we¡¯ll take your horses too! AHAHA!¡± The man found the last part to be particularly funny.

 Chapter 28: Darwin and the Takers

    ¡°Name¡¯s Darwin, by the way. I know you must¡¯ve been wonderin¡¯,¡± Darwin smiled a sheepish grin. He had a steep widow¡¯s peak. His hair was short and brown but not buzzed. The hair on top of his head appeared soft and fluffy, blowing backwards with the wind. His eyes were wicked and criminal. His eyes were what bothered Tristan most. They were constantly smiling with his mouth, but the pits of his eyes gave away his malice.


    ¡°We¡¯re just passing through. Not looking for any trouble. We¡¯ve got a man down--¡±


    Darwin cut off Tristan, putting out a hand to signal him to hold his thoughts. ¡°Oh, we don¡¯t care about your friend, although, I must say--what a shame. Your group must¡¯ve passed through Whisperton, I figure¡­that place is FULL of dark magic¡­you know--that black stuff that¡¯s killin¡¯ all our food and what not.¡± Darwin strode up to Tristan, hands hanging on his sword belt. A small hatchet hung there. He had handed his stave to his second-in-command, who stood clumsily behind Darwin with long greasy blonde hair. His face reminded Tristan of a horse.


    ¡°He get bit?¡± asked Darwin.


    ¡°Yes,¡± snarled Asherin, who was hovering over Kenton protectively.


    ¡°AHA!¡± Darwin doubled over, over-exaggerating every movement. ¡°Wow--I wouldn¡¯t mess with her! She looks more like a bear than a woman. Huge breasts too. Nice!¡±


    Tristan felt his hand go to Drakiler instinctively. Darwin noticed and put his hand out, a patronizing look spread over his face. ¡°Aw, you know what--my fault. I should¡¯ve done this from the start. Lay down your weapons. We¡¯ll take those now. As for the food, we¡¯ll search your stuff once we¡¯re done talking and spare you the trouble. Your group must be exhausted¡­where you headed anyways?¡± Darwin¡¯s tongue ran across his teeth, his eyes darted from Tristan to Eamon and back to Tristan.


    ¡°We¡¯re looking for someone,¡± said Tristan, not knowing what else to say.


    Darwin stared at Tristan, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Ahhh, you know what¡­so are we!¡± he turned back to his men, eyes narrowing. ¡°Say--Simon, do you still have that crude drawing that Eraq so kindly drew up?¡±


    The man called Simon began rummaging through his bag and then withdrew a weathered, yellow paper. ¡°You mean this one? The one that King Tarren passed out a few months ago?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that one.¡± Darwin snatched the paper out of Simon¡¯s hands. He studied it, and then lifted his gaze across the group. His eyes finally landed on Tristan. He turned the paper, showing Tristan the drawing. ¡°Now you tell me if you¡¯ve seen this man. If you¡¯ve got a lead on him, maybe I¡¯ll just let you keep your horses there--and that¡¯s a BIG if.¡±


    Tristan studied the paper. He felt like he was looking at a somewhat butchered drawing of himself. In fact, it looked like his father, Gareth, only twenty years younger. ¡°Who is this supposed to be?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°Some young heir to an old legend¡­Blackthorn family, I think they¡¯re called. Anywho--the Lord Commander issued the notice a while back. Guess he thinks the Blackthorn kid¡¯s gone rogue. Supposedly he¡¯s working against the kingdom now¡­big prize if anyone finds him and brings him back. And you know--I¡¯d say you were him if I were to trust my instincts. But, well¡­¡± Darwin looked back at his cronies. Most still had their weapons bared and arrows knocked. ¡°We¡¯ve seen how my instincts have gotten me into trouble before.¡± Darwin flashed another dark grin. He folded up the drawing and passed it back to Simon. Simon grabbed it fearfully and hurriedly put it back in his pack.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Alrighty, let¡¯s get to it. Lay down your packs and step aside. This will only take a minute.¡±


    Tristan went first, then the rest of the group followed suit, laying down their packs and bedrolls. Asherin laid Kenton down in the grass at the crest of a small foothill. He moaned, turning his head from side to side as if in some agonizing, disturbing dream. His face was pale and his lips were a blueish-purple.


    Darwin and his men rummaged through their belongings, tossing anything that wasn¡¯t food out onto the road in a dismal, cluttered mess.


    ¡°Thank you for your swift cooperation,¡± said Darwin. ¡°I¡¯ll even add in a little gift for your friend there since he seems to be struggling so bad.¡± Darwin signaled with a flick of his head for Simon to hand over a medicine pack to Asherin. ¡°This¡¯ll clean him up good. Straight from the Capitol. Consider that a token of mutual respect.¡± Darwin whistled and his group began to pack up and prepare to roll out.


    ¡°Oh, one more thing¡­¡± Darwin strutted his way down the road, passing between members of Tristan¡¯s group. ¡°From now on, you stay off this road. Is that clear?¡± Darwin¡¯s face was no longer friendly and patronizing. It was furrowed and filled with a contained rage. It reminded Tristan of one of those black storm clouds that is threatening more than a mere storm. ¡°This road belongs to no one but the Takers. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world¡­there are givers, and there are takers. We know what type of people we are. And when you¡¯ve got all this¡­¡± Darwin peered around at the foothills, the trees, the road, ¡°disease-infected poison laying around, you¡¯ve got to take what you need to survive. It¡¯s that simple. Because unless you living in or around the Capitol under the blessing of the king, you will soon die out. This land ain¡¯t fit for ordinary people no more.¡± Darwin paused, then returned to his group and resumed his normal cheerful, eerie grin. ¡°Best of luck to ya! And oh--don¡¯t forget. You see that Blackthorn fella--you come to me. I will see that you are rewarded handsomely.¡± Darwin gave a shrill whistle and his group fell into line.


    Tristan and the group were on foot now. Eamon watched with a scowl as Darwin rode off on his majestic beast, one of Feynram¡¯s finest. When the last of the Takers had ridden off down the road in the direction they had just come, it was Eamon who spoke first.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take my men and we¡¯ll follow them. Tristan can take the rest of you onward, we¡¯ll catch up later. We¡¯re going to get our horses and our weapons back.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s a smart--¡± began Tristan.


    ¡°We won¡¯t make it far without our weapons, let alone our horses. It¡¯ll take us twice as long to get to our destination without the horses. And by that point, Basidin¡¯s Servants will be past the point that we are hoping to encounter them. They¡¯ll have mutilated and diseased the last standing acreage of cropland. Then Darwin¡¯s vision will be correct. We¡¯ll all starve--Denderrikans and Citizens of Windem alike. King Tarren isn¡¯t just trying to win this war, he¡¯s trying to start a new society that belongs solely to the Stormhold, or Rarington, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    Tristan reluctantly agreed, trying to ignore the painful sounds of mercy stemming from Kenton. ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right. Besides, we¡¯ll have to wait a while before we can travel with Kenton. Let us hope that medicine works.¡±


    The group found a hidden spot on the other side of the foothills and made camp for the night. They did not light a fire for fear that another group of bandits might discover them.


    ¡°No ruler reigns here. This is a land of outlaws, and we ought to be careful. I say we stick to the trees and stay off the main road,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°No wonder we¡¯ve hardly encountered anyone. I wonder how many other innocents have been troubled by the Takers,¡± replied Loren. Asherin did not say a word, only stared glumly with Kenton¡¯s head resting in her lap.


    There were only four of them now. Vitarko was still gone. Eamon and his guards were in pursuit of the Takers. The group sought sleep the best they could that night, but only Kenton truly slept. His moans turned to snores, which Tristan thought might be a good sign.

 Chapter 29: The City of Elaria

    ¡°Eamon told us that he would meet us here. He reckoned we might find some leftover food and weapons here. We can use this place as a refuge until we¡¯re well rested and reunited with Eamon and his guard,¡± said Tristan. They had travelled nearly twenty miles on foot today, which was ten miles fewer than the past seven days. It had been two weeks since Darwin and the Takers had robbed them and Eamon had taken his guard to pursue them.


    ¡°We¡¯re staying here?¡± asked Loren, astonished.


    ¡°We don¡¯t exactly have much of a choice,¡± replied Kenton, who had healed miraculously after receiving the medicine from Darwin. His scars still glowed with a mixture of white light and black ooze. The stench was the worst part. It had even kept the group up most nights, unable to drown the smell with even a fire. But Kenton claimed he was fine, and had never felt stronger (although Tristan knew this wasn¡¯t true. He heard Kenton clutching his rib in the night and groaning under the pain.)


    ¡°What happened to Elaria?¡± asked Asherin. They were standing just outside the crumbled city walls, mouths agape at the destruction before them. The shadows of Elaria had begun to lengthen as the sun began to dip below the crumbling towers and broken archways.


    ¡°My best guess? A battle occurred here, and recently too. I couldn¡¯t say who won, although considering that the whole city is burned down it seems as though nobody came out the other side as the clear victor,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°We¡¯ll likely learn more once we get inside. Come on,¡± said Tristan.


    ----


    Shiv had not been told how to kill them, or why he was to kill them. And he did not ask. It was becoming more and more common for work to come to him, rather than the other way around. The past year had been productive for him and his reputation now preceded him. Most still did not even know his name, and he preferred to keep it that way. King Tarren¡¯s messenger hadn¡¯t used his name, and had likely been told not to. But the messenger knew where to find him and what to look for. Head to Oliver¡¯s Tavern and look for the man in a dark purple cloak who sits alone by the back window. There¡¯ll be cobwebs and broken glass near his seat. No one cleans up that area of the tavern. No one goes near it, except to refill his tankard or offer him a new pipe. Shiv smirked to himself, imagining that these were the words the messenger had likely been told.


    The messenger had arrived around midday, the scroll quivering in the grasp of his bony fingers and worry lines etched all over his troublesome face--which had reminded Shiv oddly of a mouse.


    ¡°Who sends you?¡± Shiv had asked. His voice was cold and icy.


    ¡°K-k-king Tarren, if it please you.¡±


    ¡°Mhm.¡± Shiv snatched the scroll out of the messenger¡¯s hands. It described a travelling group of approximately twelve to fifteen people. Their leader was wanted dead or alive--didn¡¯t matter. Shiv¡¯s brow raised when he got to the bottom of the scroll. There was a bonus written in fine ink: 50,000 gold bonus if the leader is brought alive to Castle Stormhold. Shiv rolled up the paper and tucked it in his cloak pocket.


    ¡°That¡¯s it? Do you need anything--¡±


    ¡°Leave,¡± said Shiv. The messenger backed away hurriedly, snagging his foot on a stool and scampering to the ground. He yanked the door open and hurried away, mounting his horse and charging away before he was fully settled in the saddle.


    Shiv finished smoking his pipe and then slowly gathered up his belongings from his busted old seat at the back corner of Oliver¡¯s Tavern. He gave a curt nod to the barkeep, who returned a solemn wave. A visible exhale could be seen from the patrons inside the tavern, who felt they could all enjoy themselves a bit more loosely now that Shiv was gone.


    Shiv muttered to himself as he leapt up onto his white and black spotted horse, ¡°let us hope they are still in Elaria--else that messenger won¡¯t make it back the next time he comes to see me.¡± Shiv smiled to himself. The best company he¡¯d ever known was himself. Everyone else could go to hell.


    The stench of death hung thick in the air as Shiv moved silently through the deserted streets of Elaria. The blackened ruins were a grim testament to the violence that had transpired. Corpses littered the ground, their lifeless eyes staring sightlessly up at the night sky. Siv¡¯s boots crunched on the rubble underfoot, but the sound was barely perceptible, drowned out by the eerie creaking of the burned-out buildings. The assassin¡¯s sharp gaze scanned the shadows, alert for any sign of movement. He didn¡¯t need much. He¡¯d tracked down an assassin working for a different king many years ago and had snuffed him out on scent alone. A faint scuff of a boot heel, the rustle of cloth - that was all Siv needed to hunt down the group through the blighted city.


    Shiv had had a cat once. Pounce was its name. Shiv smiled at the thought of his black and white cat. It reminded him of his horse that he rode now. A great cat, he thought. The cat had taught him a lot about the art of graceful movement. The assassin dismounted, tying up his horse and laying down some hay and water for it. He slipped between crumbling structures now just like his old cat, Pounce. He worked carefully to avoid bloated bodies that lay scattered in the streets. The reek of rotting flesh stung his nostrils. He gagged. It was inaudible. A gloved hand covered his mouth as he leaned over beside a broken pole (and there was no telling what it used to be prior to the city¡¯s destruction). The assassin straightened up again, his focus unwavering amidst the rancid smells that swirled around him. His prey were close. The prize was not far. He could feel it, like a prickling sensation at the back of the neck that set the heart racing. Pausing in the shadow of a collapsed archway, Siv listened intently. Wind whistled through the city, then died. Shiv waited. He waited some more. That was the name of the game - waiting.


    There, drifting on the still night air, he could hear voices. Faint but distinct. The assassin¡¯s lips curled curled in a humorless smile. The prey had been located. Quietly, Shiv drew the obsidian dagger from its sheath, the razor-sharp edge glinting in the moonlight.


    ----


    Tristan shivered. His hand went to his hip and found an empty scabbard. Drakiler and Myroniad were gone. ¡°I feel like we¡¯re being watched,¡± said Tristan as they wandered cautiously through the city.


    Loren had a hand covering her nose and tears were slowly crawling down the sides of her face. ¡°The smell¡­I¡­can¡¯t¡­stand it¡­¡±


    Kenton wore a look of disdain, one hand instinctively covering his scar. Only one of the four cuts he had received had healy fully and without the white glow and black edges. Asherin pushed by him, unaffected by the smells or the haunted look of the ruins. ¡°Keep moving. The smell won¡¯t kill us. Let¡¯s do what we came to do and be done with this place.¡± Asherin looked at Tristan. ¡°What? Are you with me or not?¡±


    Tristan snorted in derision and followed Asherin. Kenton and Loren dragged behind.


    ¡°My scars¡­they¡¯re stinging,¡± said Kenton. He grimaced, rubbing at the scar on his leg. No one had wanted to stop to check on Kenton for fear that someone was trailing them. Although Tristan had verbalized it, none of the others wanted to admit it.


    The Rot was heavy and thick within the ruined city of Elaria. The air was ripe with its decay. Although Tristan and his group couldn¡¯t feel, couldn¡¯t tell it was scraping down their throats and clinging to their lungs, it was. It was worse here than it was in the Whispering Woods, and their memories were all the worse. They were without one of their members that they had started their journey with, and yet no one had remembered. No one had seen Nothelm¡¯s horse neigh in derision and dash off into the distant forest and shrub. No one had heard Nothelm¡¯s yelp as he was thrashed from the saddle and tossed carelessly like a ragdoll. The Rot was here, and Basidin would have his way with the land. Windem was first, and all the other nations and kingdoms would follow suit. Somewhere far away, beneath the depths of Castle Rarington, now known as Stormhold, Basidin¡¯s defiling presence was smiling in some odd way that only his form was capable of, for he was no human - no being that even represented life. He was darkness and shadow. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The ancient stones of Elaria rose before them like giant towers, twisting and sprawling in the dark sky. The moon shone brightly this night and the stars twinkled overhead. Crumbling spires and collapsed arches cast long and ominous shadows across the cursed city. A gruesome battle had taken place here. Mutilated bodies became less recognizable the farther the group ventured inward to the heart of Elaria.


    Tristan felt a persistent ache, a nagging sense that something - or someone - was missing from their group. He couldn¡¯t place who it was or when he¡¯d lost them. He just knew that they had. As he came to think of it, he couldn¡¯t even remembered how long they¡¯d been journeying, or how long they¡¯d been in Elaria. It had been night for hours now, or was it days? Was it weeks? Tristan felt his breath become shallow. Paranoia was setting in. Was this city made of magic? Was none of this real? He then considered the possibility that he was dreaming. But no, this was all so real. He pinched his arm. Hard. Nothing happened. This was real. He turned to Loren, whose face was somehow cheerful despite the awful feelings of dread that was washing over him. Asherin appeared more distressed, which somehow made Tristan feel better. It can¡¯t just be me.


    As the four companions pressed on, their empty hands clenching at their sides, an unsettling silence hung heavy in the air. It was too quiet. The wind stirred, but that was all. Loren¡¯s keen eyes scanned their surroundings, alert for any signs of danger but was met with none. She had found a small dagger that was chipped on its edge. She had slipped it into her belt and kept her right hand close to it in case she might make use of it. Beside her, Asherin walked with a tense posture, her broad shoulders back and straight. She had been scowling far more than she already did (which was quite impressive, Tristan thought) ever since Darwin and the Takers had taken their weapons. Asherin felt naked without hers. And Kenton, the seasoned warrior and right-hand-man to the imperious Dalko Rivien, kept his shoulders squared as best he could, his three glowing, oozing scars a testament to the perils that had already faced.


    Something rustled in the shadows, a furtive movement just at the edge of their vision. Tristan whirled quick as lightning, his heart pounding, but saw nothing except the crumbling remains of a once-grand structure. The sense of being watched prickled at the back of his neck.


    ¡°Someone is lurking here,¡± said Asherin. Tristan nodded, lowering into more of a crouch than a walk.


    ¡°It¡¯s just those ancient halls,¡± replied Loren. ¡°Spirits abound in this dark, forsaken place. This is the home for the dead, not for the living.¡±


    As they ventured deeper, the oppressive silence began to weigh on them again. The uncertainty gnawed at Tristan¡¯s mind. Where¡¯s Nothelm? He nearly jumped, as if a voice had came out of nowhere and whispered those words to him. He looked around, half expecting Loren, Asherin, and Kenton to have heard it too. They didn¡¯t. The name stirred a flicker of familiarity, but he couldn¡¯t grasp the memory. Had he been with them before? Had he been lost, somehow, in the Whispering¡­Whispering Forest? Whispering Wood? Which was it? He couldn¡¯t remember now. The unanswered questions nagged at him, weighed him down like some anchor tethered to his ankle and pulled him deeper and deeper under the waters of the ocean. He was drowning, losing himself. Tristan. Tristan Blackthorn is my name. He took two deep breaths. He still knew who he was, and that was important.


    The group continued to scan the ruins, desperate to find discarded weapons that might aid in their protection. So far, all the corpses seemed to have swallowed their weapons.


    ¡°Does anyone else find it odd that these corpses don¡¯t have their weapons by them? Who would have taken the time to collect them?¡± asked Loren. Asherin huffed audibly. Loren exchanged a glance. ¡°What? You don¡¯t wonder?¡±


    ¡°Unless there¡¯s an answer to that question standing right in front of us, why even ask the question?¡± replied Asherin. Loren frowned. She had never liked Asherin and that interaction had only confirmed her dislike.


    Loren¡¯s eyes narrowed as she spotted the hilt of a dagger much like the one she had already found protruding from beneath a fallen stone. Asherin pushed in front of her, reaching down to retrieve it. She grasped the worn leather grip, admiring the blade which was in surprisingly good shape. ¡°Finders keepers,¡± said Asherin. Loren pursed her lips. Her face flushed red.


    Kenton¡¯s gaze swept across the crumbling structures. But the only blades he found were rusted and unreliable. He grabbed a sword, a look of cheer spread across his face but only lasted a second when half of the sword¡¯s long blade snapped in half and clattered noisily onto the cobblestone. Tristan instinctively shushed the group, a finger covering his lips. Their armaments were sorely lacking, which served as an unsettling reminder of their vulnerability here. It didn¡¯t help that they felt like they were being watched.


    A soft scrape of stone on stone set them all on edge, the lack of weapons heightening their sense of danger. Tristan  scanned the gloom, searching for the source.


    ¡°Could just be the crumbling structures,¡± said Asherin.


    ¡°Or something more sinister,¡± replied Asherin.


    Tristan held up his hand for silence, listening to the wind. It stirred restlessly then died. ¡°Probably just the wind. Knocked over the stone, that¡¯s all.¡±


    The air felt thick with unseen peril. Although Tristan wanted to believe his own words, he knew a menacing presence cloaked in secrecy was just lurking out there, watching and waiting.


    As the party scoured the ruins for any usable weapons, a figure emerged from the shadows, seemingly out of thin air. Loren shrieked, her and Asherin both withdrawing their daggers and holding them out threateningly. Tristan and Kenton both stood on guard, prepared to attack who they believed had been tracking them all this time. The figure revealed herself and the group relaxed instantly. It was a pleasant-looking lady, with an oddly attractive aura about her that drew the weary travelers in. Tristan was reminded of his old, warm cabin and the smell of tasty stew simmering above the fire, or even roasted venison on the spit. Loren smiled, feeling intoxicated by this warm presence which contrasted so starkly with this dreadful, forsaken city of ruins.


    ¡°Greetings, weary ones,¡± she said, her voice soft and melodic. ¡°I couldn¡¯t help but notice your plight. Please, come and sit by my fire. I could use the company.¡± Tristan glanced at the others, unsure, but the promise of warmth and respite was too enticing to resist. ¡°Come on,¡± she encouraged them, ¡°I¡¯ve got food to share as well. You all look like a hungry lot.¡± She smiled warmly and Tristan felt oddly attracted to this woman. He studied her face, which isn''t a face he would associate with beauty. But even still, it beckoned him in and he couldn¡¯t resist the lure.


    They approached the flickering flames, where the women gestured for them to make themselves comfortable. ¡°I am Alara, once the city sorceress of Elaria,¡± she explained, gazing into the dancing flames. The flames alternated between hues of blue, orange, and purple. The lady began to speak in long eloquent sentences, feeling no need for introductions or explanations as to how they had suddenly found themselves enjoying a (seemingly random) fire in the middle of this miserable city.


    ¡°Before the great battle that ravaged these ruins, I tended to the city¡¯s needs with my magic. Sometimes with my touch¡­my body.¡± The lady smiled, peeking around the confused faces of the group. ¡°Oh yes, I was here to please the city¡¯s council in whatever way fit their needs and purposes. I was the city¡¯s best kept secret.¡± Kenton shifted uncomfortably, his glowing scars oozing that strange black substance. The lady eyed it warily. ¡°And now, I find myself quite alone. No bed to warm, no men to please, and most notably -- no magic to weave. My spells have fallen by the wayside, and only the dead enjoy my presence now. I¡¯ve been¡­left behind,¡± said the lady, her words trailing off slowly.


    ¡°The battle¡­what happened here?¡± Kenton rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the stillness. Alara¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°King Tarren¡¯s primary weapon is a disease that he calls The Rot. It affects the mind, killing plants and livestock, with inconsistent and devastating effects on the humans it touches.¡± Alara eyed Kenton¡¯s scars. Kenton covered the scar on his leg with his hand, wishing she would remove her gaze.


    Loren¡¯s brow furrowed as she listened intently. ¡°The Rot? I¡¯ve heard whispers of it, but the details have been scarce, even from our own camp back home.¡± Tristan scowled at her, wishing for Loren not to mention that they had a camp. She didn¡¯t know where this witch¡¯s allegiances lied. Loren continued, heeding Tristan¡¯s dark scowl, ¡°What exactly does it do?¡±


    ¡°It does exactly what you are seeing now,¡± replied Alara. ¡°Ravages the land, leaving famine and strife in its wake. The Rot steals memories, corrupts the mind¡­causes those it touches to forget the most important things. The Rot dwells greatly here in this city¡­its particles loom in the air like small little bugs.¡±


    Asherin leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Forgotten memories? What do you mean?¡± The sorceress met her gaze, her eyes shining with a veiled sorrow. ¡°I¡­I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve forgotten much. There was someone else, I think, who was dear to me. The ruler of this city. But the Rot has stolen that memory, and I fear I may never recover it. I do not remember where I come from¡­I only recall a shuddering cold and gusting wind. Snow and ice¡­rocks. Lots of rocks. But that memory has been sealed along with much else. I am chained to this city, cursed by its dark magic.¡±


    Tristan felt a chill run down his spine at her words. ¡°Someone you¡¯ve forgotten? How is that possible? And how does one forget where they were born? Where they are from?¡±


    Alara shook her head slowly. ¡°The Rot is an insidious disease, affecting both the body and the mind. It has taken so much from me - my home, my purpose, and even my most precious memories.¡± Alara¡¯s gaze was cast low. She stared at a few stray embers that had floated harmlessly away and landed on a cold, blue stone. ¡°But I remember extraneous details - random bits of information that may be of aid to travelling strangers such as yourselves.¡± Alara straightened up, smiling brightly. Tristan noticed her hair was a beautiful snow-white color. Somehow, it made her look younger. He frowned. Had it always been white, or did it just turn white when he wasn¡¯t looking? He suddenly wasn¡¯t sure if her eyes had been blue when they first saw her.


    The group exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of her words settling over them. Tristan couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of empathy for the lonely woman. Whatever had happened in Elaria, it was clear the effects of the mysterious Rot were far worse and far more devastating than they had initially thought.

 Chapter 30: The Witch, The Assassin, and the Ascendian

    An hour had passed and the group found themselves warmed by the crackling fire. Alara had provided a hearty meal, which had left the group both disturbed and grateful.


    ¡°Where did you¡­find¡­¡± Loren trailed off, Alara dismissing her question with a sweep of her hand. ¡°Don¡¯t concern yourselves with the ways of a witch.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were a sorceress,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°Sorceress, Witch, Seer, they¡¯re all the same anyhow.¡± Alara smiled, but her eyes told a different story. Tristan shuddered, but the look had gone out from Alara¡¯s eyes just as soon.


    The group ate hungrily and received packs that were stashed with food rations and medicine.


    ¡°It¡¯s a gift! I love giving and receiving gifts,¡± exclaimed Alara in a child-like fashion. ¡°I saw your group approaching the city days ago - it was in the flames.¡±


    ¡°You knew we were coming?¡± asked Tristan. He suddenly felt like they ought to pack up and leave now. They should leave the packs behind, leave Alara behind, leave the city behind. He suddenly felt panic rise up in his chest, as if he might never leave the city. Was this all a trap? Had Basidin laid this trap for them? He wondered if Alara was trapped here too. Elaria was one big trap, like a spider finding a fly nestled in its web and unable to work its way out.


    After the group finished eating, they follow Alara to a partly demolished building across the street. Tristan looked up at the stars as they went, wondering how it was still night. It had surely been more than a day that they had spent here in Elaria? Or had it? He couldn¡¯t remember.


    ¡°Please, make yourselves comfortable,¡± Alara said, gesturing to the modest quarters. ¡°I¡¯ve done what I can to make this haven amidst the ruins.¡± As they settled in, Alara led them deeper into the crumbling city. Finally, she stopped before a set of grand, ornate doors. It was splintered and damaged where handles used to be. Now the door swung loosely on its hinges.


    Tristan turned to Loren, murmuring in a low whisper. ¡°We¡¯ve got to leave this place. This feels wrong.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± whispered Loren. ¡°I think this lady is so sweet!¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s no lady, Loren. She¡¯s a witch!¡±


    ¡°Keep your voice down, she¡¯ll hear you,¡± replied Loren. She pushed past Tristan, a wide smile on her face. Alara led them inside.


    ¡°This was once the throne room of Elaria¡¯s lord,¡± explained Alara, pushing the doors open to reveal a high-ceiling room. It was quite a cavernous chamber. The lighting was poor but Alara quickly lit the braziers with a sweep of her hand. ¡°But now,¡± she continued, ¡°this is my home. Quite lovely, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The group stepped inside. Kenton was quick to close the doors, searching for a piece of loose wood to bar the door. Tristan knew he felt it too. There was still someone else out there¡­watching them.


    The group marveled at the faded grandeur that still clung to the deserted hall. Tattered tapestries hung along the walls and a massive stone throne sat at the far end of the room. It was partially obscured by debris but the arm rests were littered with precious jewels and gems. The top of the chair had divots where jewels used to be set, but they appeared to have been stolen.


    ¡°This is where I have lived since the battle. I spent lots of time in here, mostly at the right hand of the city lord. Oh--how I forget his name! He died an awful death when this place fell. But even that detail escapes me¡­¡± Alara trailed off, her fingers running slowly over the handrest of the throne chair. She admired the jewels lustfully.


    Tristan couldn¡¯t help but feel a mixture of sympathy mixed with lust for the witch. Her memory has been faded¡­but how long has it been since The Rot settled here? Three weeks? How long have we been here? Before Tristan could continue his train of thought, Nothelm¡¯s face flashed through his mind and then disappeared. He was left confused and unsettled. Something was off.


    ¡°You must have been through so much,¡± said Loren gently. She came up behind the witch and drew her into a tender embrace. ¡°The Rot¡­it¡¯s taken so much.¡± Alara turned, pulling Loren in close and kissing her on the forehead. Asherin and Tristan exchanged uneasy glances.


    ¡°The Rot has been a relentless foe, but I have not lost hope.¡± Alara eased herself out of Loren¡¯s embrace, striding slowly down the steps of the high dais which the throne chair sat upon. ¡°You see, I have been having these visions¡­visions of you, Tristan, and your companions.¡± Alara walked by Tristan, her lips coming close to his neck. ¡°I have seen the role that you are to play in the fate of this land--the fate of Windem.¡± Goosebumps ran across the back of Tristan¡¯s neck.


    Alara gestured to each of them in turn. ¡°Loren, Asherin, Kenton¡­Tristan.¡± Tristan¡¯s name came off of Alara¡¯s tongue in a lustful snare. ¡°Your destinies are intertwined. Each of you have a great task before you.¡± The group exchanged curious glances. Asherin looked to Tristan, whose eyes were now far-off and glazed. Horny fool, thought Asherin. If that¡¯s all it takes then we¡¯re damned.


    ¡°What do you mean? Our destinies--what are they? What tasks must we undertake?¡± Tristan stammered his words out, suddenly feeling small and weak. His mind was like a rusted gear, turning and cranking noisily, but hardly moving. Alara moved closer, her gaze piercing.


    ¡°The Rot has ravaged this land, and King Tarren¡¯s grip on power grows ever stronger.¡± Alara paused, striding over to Kenton. She lifted his shirt and ran a long and cold, bony finger over the scar on his rib. Kenton shuddered and moaned all at once. Her touch was delightful and shocking - her finger was cold as an icicle and yet healing and comforting all at once. ¡°But there is a darker power spurring the King on--it is a power that is greater than the Denderrikans are prepared for.¡±


    ¡°Basidin,¡± said Tristan, suddenly regaining his sense of self. ¡°It¡¯s the Shadow, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°The Shadow,¡± began Alara, ¡°is just an illusion. There is no Shadow.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re wrong,¡± stammered Asherin, who was growing tired of seeing her companions fall victim to this charming witch. ¡°The longer you speak, the more I begin to think you are in league with the Shadow.¡±


    Alara laughed, then spoke with a booming voice that sent cold wind blasting through the throne room. ¡°What is darkness but a shadow? What is evil, but a passing storm cloud that obscures the sun for a time, and then passes? The Shadow that you speak of is not the enemy, but it is the nature in which your enemy has taken hold.¡±


    Kenton¡¯s mouth was agape, his eyes dull. He was never one for deep sayings and quotes of philosophy. He yearned for an axe in his hand. Only then would his mind clear and eyes sharpen.


    Alara continued, hoping to put Asherin¡¯s resistance aside. ¡°But you, you four, have been chosen to stand against the darkness. You are the key to unraveling the plans of Basidin and his Rot, and to restoring hope to the broken land of Windem.¡± Alara pointed at Tristan, ¡°And you, Tristan, will make all the difference.¡±


    ¡°And what of me?¡± asked Kenton, still drunk with lust after Alara¡¯s bony finger had caresse his scar.


    ¡°Your role is yet unclear to me, Kenton Wolfsblood,¡± replied Alara. ¡°You have been kissed by wolves that cling to the Rot like moths to a light. Your path is mysterious and unclear to my ways of sorcery.¡±


    Asherin¡¯s nose scrunched and a snarl came over her like a storm cloud. That¡¯s a load of weasel shi--


    ¡°The path ahead will be perilous,¡± began Alara, ¡°but I have seen the strength of this group. It is surpassed by none, and only just barely matched by the enemy with which you seek. Basidin and his Servants, they are expecting you.¡±


    ¡°But how?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°She told them,¡¯ said Asherin, clutching her dagger in her right hand. She was eyeing Alara crossly.


    ¡°I did no such thing,¡± replied Alara. She strolled back to her throne seat and sat down, crossing her legs and leaning her head back.


    The group stared at Alara, stunned by the weight of her words. How far into their lives did these visions of hers extend?


    Tristan spoke up, his voice tinged with disbelief. ¡°You¡­you know about Basidin¡¯s Servants? About our task to confront them?¡± He searched her face, seeking answers. Alara nodded solemnly, allowing her gaze to sweep him away with charm. Tristan battled another surge of lust. It coursed through him, driving down his gut and into his manhood. She furrowed his brow, desperately batting away his thoughts of lust. She¡¯s seducing me, and she has succeeded, he admitted to himself. He looked on the witch again - noted her hair had turned a wavy blonde-brown color. Her eyes were dark and piercing (no longer blue). Her dress was sky-blue and white and a beautiful tiara sat upon her head. The rest of the group didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    Asherin¡¯s breath had become heavy with disdain for this foul witch. She looked upon the witch with derision - her gray, stringy hair and her foul odor, which drifted from her place upon the throne and into her nostrils. Asherin peered at Tristan, saw his look of mesmerized intrigue, and then cursed quietly to herself. She¡¯s more powerful then she lets on, thought Asherin.


    ¡°My visions have shown me much,¡± said Alara. ¡°Including the one you have lost - Nothelm. He is alive, though he has found another companion of yours. One who is a Captain of the Guard. Do you remember either of them? I fear the Rot has clouded your memories.¡±


    Tristan nearly broke. Amidst his conflicting feelings of lust and peril, he now felt guilt - like he had let someone down. Nothelm. His face popped into his head.


    ¡°Nothelm!¡± shouted Tristan. The rest of his group started. Loren covered her mouth in surprise.


    ¡°We forgot him! It was in the Whispering Wood,¡± said Tristan. ¡°We were so focused on Kenton that we forgot all about him.¡±


    Kenton was scratching his head. His memory evaded him. His scars leaked heavy liquid ooze. Loren shook her head, brow furrowed. ¡°Nothelm¡­I feel like I should know that name, but it¡¯s as if there¡¯s a wall in my mind, blocking the memories.¡± Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Tristan turned to his companions, feeling a sudden burst of clarity. The mind fog of the Rot seemed to lift momentarily. ¡°We have to get out of this city.¡± Tristan grabbed the pack of food and medicine that Alara had gifted to them. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s go.¡± Asherin was the first to grab her own pack and follow Tristan toward the door.


    Loren lifted her hands in protest, then followed them. Kenton trailed behind, one hand clutching his scar, black ooze dripping out from his fingers.


    ¡°Wait!¡± shouted Alara, pausing the group at the door. Tristan turned slowly, glaring at the witch. They must leave before she had her way with them--with her enchanting words. ¡°Before you leave, I have one request.¡± Alara¡¯s gaze settled on Tristan, her eyes like a torch igniting a dark hall. ¡°I¡¯m sure you are aware I cannot accompany you on your journey. My place is here, in these ruins¡­amidst the Rot and the corpses of Elaria.¡± She paused, sorrow evident in her voice. ¡°But I ask that you stay with me, just for tonight.¡±


    Tristan looked at Asherin, at Loren, and at Kenton. Their knowing glances all said the same thing. It¡¯s time to go. ¡°Look,¡± began Tristan before Alara cut him off.


    ¡°I have been so terribly lonely in this great city all by myself. Even if it is just one of you, that would be enough to warm my heart and send my spirits soaring for days and weeks.¡± Alara¡¯s hot yellow eyes fell on Tristan. Her stare was suffocating. Unavoidable. Tristan felt a flutter of unease wash through him. Alara¡¯s eyes bore into, searching the depths of his soul.


    ¡°Tristan,¡± she whispered now. Her whisper easily carried across the empty throne room. ¡°I know of your lineage, the Blackthorn legacy that flows through your veins. You are a descendent of legends¡­your father--a hero of the realm,¡± she paused, her words coming out seductively. They drew Tristan in, but he knew they shouldn¡¯t. His father¡­how did she know of my father? How does she know I¡¯m a¡­a Blackthorn?


    ¡°Lay with me this night, Tristan. Lay with me, and I will deliver every pleasure imaginable into the palm of your hand. And,¡± Alara added with a wag of the finger, ¡°you can even stay an extra night if you find my touch so irresistible.¡±


    Tristan was sweating mightily. Every piece of him was suddenly attracted to this woman, this witch. Her stare was mesmerizing, her skin so youthful and creamy. Her voice--it reminded him of an early spring day where the birds are chirping and the sun is smiling down upon the land. Tristan took a step toward her. Loren reached for his hand. He yanked it away.


    ¡°Tristan! Don¡¯t you dare take another step,¡± said Asherin. He paused, his head turning slowly. He mouthed the words before the sounds came out. ¡°I¡¯m going.¡±


    Tristan walked forwardly slowly. His mind whirled. His eyelids felt heavy and his face was warm. The closer he came to the witch, the safer he felt. Turning back now would feel like stepping into a raging blizzard without so much as a light tunic. Tristan frowned, or at least he tried to. His face was frozen, his legs moving without his permission. Something felt¡­off. Still, he couldn¡¯t ignore the lure. ¡°I will stay the night, as you¡¯ve requested.¡±


    Alara¡¯s expression brightened. She gestured toward a secluded alcove within the throne room. ¡°Excellent. Then let us retire, and I will share my talents with you, Tristan Blackthorn.¡± As Tristan followed the witch, he couldn¡¯t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over him. He entered Alara¡¯s secluded alcove and the door shut behind them.


    ----


    The sun rose. Asherin leaped to her feet, dragging Loren and Kenton up by the arms. ¡°Come on, we¡¯re going with or without Tristan.¡±


    ¡°But this is his mission, is it not?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°This is Denderrika¡¯s mission, Loren. In fact, I don¡¯t see why Tristan agreed to any of this in the first place. I don¡¯t see why Tristan and Dalko have such a strong understanding with one another. I don¡¯t understand any of it! Now come on, let¡¯s go! I¡¯m sick of this place. I can¡¯t even remember that damn witch¡¯s name. The Rot is surely settling in, and soon enough none of us will remember our own names. Same will be true for anyone who doesn¡¯t want to starve to death if we don¡¯t make our way to the Plains of Ashara before those wicked servants do.¡±


    Kenton stood still, dumbfounded, looking from Loren to Asherin, and back to Loren. He turned his head towards Alara¡¯s secluded alcove. ¡°They¡¯re still in there. We can go check on them,¡± suggested Kenton, an innocence in his tone.


    ¡°Are you an idiot, Kenton?¡± said Asherin. ¡°Tristan spent an entire night in there with her, and you want to go check on them? She¡¯s probably set him against us by now. If we rescue him now, and somehow manage to avoid her dreadful charm, he¡¯ll kill us in his sleep next chance he gets.¡±


    ¡°Or,¡± replied Loren, ¡°they just laid together and that¡¯s it. Just because he slept with her doesn¡¯t mean it was anything more than what it sounded like.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s right,¡± said Kenton. ¡°We can¡¯t leave him. Dalko was certain that Tristan was the most important piece to our mission. And he¡¯s got that spear¡­I forget its name now¡­¡±


    ¡°Myroniad, yes, we all know his magical spear that will eventually be a sword if he ever finds the rest of it,¡± said Asherin.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t have Myroniad anymore though. The Takers took it,¡± said Loren.


    ¡°Ahh, the Takers. I had forgotten what they called themselves. I can¡¯t remember their leader¡¯s name, but I will kill him if I see him again,¡± said Kenton. The memory of Darwin had drawn Kenton¡¯s face into a snarl.


    The door to the throne room burst open. It was Vitarko.


    ¡°Vitarko!¡± shrieked Loren in wild amusement.


    ¡°Where have you--¡±


    ¡°--where is he? The boy, Tristan¡­where is he?¡± Vitarko walked at a speed quicker than most could run.


    ¡°He¡¯s in that room with--¡±


    ¡°--the witch? Alara?¡± asked Vitarko. A wild look was in his eyes.


    ¡°Yes,¡± all three said in unison.


    ¡°This is why you stay clear of the city,¡± muttered Vitarko under his breath. His cloak was torn across the back and blood crusted at the shoulders. The bottom of his boot had torn and was dragging under his feet as he walked. The sound filled the tall room.


    Vitarko walked to the alcove, yanking the door off its hinges. Alara shrieked. Tristan gawked, a glazed look in his eyes. Vitarko withdrew his dagger, preparing to insert it into Alara¡¯s throat. Tristan shouted, clutching at Vitarko¡¯s wrist to stop him.


    ¡°Let go if you know what¡¯s best for you. You¡¯ve been a fool to lay with this witch. There¡¯s no telling what kind of information she got out of you.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell her anything, I swear. We just slept--¡±


    ¡°--doesn¡¯t matter!¡± growled Vitarko. ¡°None of that matters--it¡¯s too late. Basidin knows exactly where we are.¡±


    ¡°I have no relationship to Basidin, and no business with anyone from the Capitol. This was my city and when it fell, I stayed. That is all,¡± said Alara. Her hands were up, palms facing Vitarko. She warbled, her lip quivering. Now that it was morning, Tristan saw Alara in a better light. Either the morning had provided mental clarity, or her beauty had worn off significantly over the course of the night.


    Vitarko hoisted Tristan out of the bed, tossing him to the ground. His bod sprawled and Vitarko gave him a kick in the back as soon as he began to rise up. ¡°Your lucky we don¡¯t have time to hash this out properly. We¡¯re leaving. Now.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Alara. ¡°If he wants to stay, he stays.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Alara. I can¡¯t stay. He¡¯s right,¡± said Tristan, backing away toward the door. Vitarko¡¯s eyes were locked on Alara now, his dagger still bared and held with the tip pointed toward the floor. He was preparing to attack.


    ¡°Leave this room, and close the door,¡± said Vitarko.


    ¡°But--¡±


    ¡°--now.¡±


    Tristan slid out the door, nearly tripping over nothing but gathering himself just in time. The door slammed behind him. A flash of light illuminated the room, which was followed by three sounds. One sounded like a shriek made by Alara, the other sounded like a grunt by Vitarko, and the last one left an imprint on the four companions that would never be forgotten. Nor would it ever be spoken of again. It was the sound of a blade searing free from its scabbard, followed by two heads thudding the floor and rolling to stop against the door. Tristan and the group ran to the exit, slamming the oak doors behind them.


    ¡°Someone else was in there,¡± said Asherin as they ran. She looked at Tristan. ¡°Who was in there? What did you do with her all night?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember! She had me under some sort of spell. The last thing I remember was standing before her throne and feeling like I was being pulled in against my wishes.¡± Tristan ran out of breath. They were sprinting down the main street of Elaria, dodging fallen structures and messy corpses which littered the streets with their old, dried crimson blood.


    ¡°There!¡± shouted Loren, pointing at a group of eight horses with two riders atop the first two.


    ¡°Horses!¡± shouted Tristan.


    ¡°And Nothelm¡­and the Captain, I forget his name,¡± said Asherin.


    ¡°Eamon!¡± exclaimed Tristan.


    The group arrived at the horses, hurriedly cutting their reins loose from a lonely shaft of timber that was still staked securely into the ground. The rest of the structure had burned down, judging by the charred remains.


    ¡°How did you guys find us?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Vitarko,¡± managed Eamon, whose face was bloodied greatly. ¡°He found me along the road. I managed to find the Takers and¡­¡± struggling, Eamon withdrew a long spear with a sword blade fastened to the end of it. ¡°Here, I managed to get this back. I know it¡¯s important,¡± he wheezed, falling back onto his horse and hugging the mane.


    ¡°My spear,¡± began Tristan. He ran his hand along its smooth shaft, admiring the sword¡¯s blade which was fastened securely at the end by leather. ¡°Myroniad.¡±


    ¡°And what about you?¡± asked Loren, looking pointedly at Nothelm. He, too, bore the marks of hardship, though his marks appeared more like whiplashes and scratches. They covered him head to toe.


    ¡°You guys left me to die in the Whispering Wood. I was chased by those wolves. The black ones,¡± he gestured to Kenton, his scars glowing white light. ¡°They never got me like they did Kenton there. But those woods got me real good. Lots of twigs, thorns, sharp brush and weed. Vitarko found me lying in some thick brush after nearly two days. I was too weak and thirsty to move.¡±


    ¡°Alright--we¡¯ll have time to talk later, but we¡¯d better get out of the city. This place has some dark magic within it,¡± said Tristan, positioning his horse at the lead. ¡°Wait, Eamon, where¡¯s the rest of your guard?¡±


    Eamon gave a curt nod of the head, pursuing his lips. ¡°They, uh¡­they didn¡¯t make it. The Takers¡­Darwin¡­there were too many of them, but we had a plan. Didn¡¯t quite work out, but I was fortunate to get away. Turns out, they had dropped your spear outside of their camp by accident. I happened upon it as I was sneaking away. Long story--I¡¯ll tell you later.¡±


    ¡°What about Vitarko, is he coming?¡± asked Nothelm.


    ¡°No,¡± replied Tristan. ¡°I don¡¯t suspect we¡¯ll be seeing him again. Same as Eamon said--long story. I¡¯ll tell you later.¡± Nothelm¡¯s face fell. He cursed. It didn¡¯t hurt to have an Ascendian around. In fact, it was their only safeguard against whatever foul magic was lurking out there.


    The group rode off, the horses¡¯ hooves clicking against the cobblestone in a rhythmic click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. They finally emerged from the rear gate which had been busted down by force and splintered into hundred pieces. Elaria was behind them.


    ¡°Where to now?¡± asked Nothelm, delighted to be back with the group.


    ¡°To Granite Ford,¡± said Tristan. ¡°Once we get through Granite Ford, we¡¯ll be past the worst of our obstacles, I hope.¡±


    ¡°Granite Ford requires a toll for travelers to get by. Be prepared to pay handsomely for a quick crossing,¡± murmured Eamon. He was still hunched over in his saddle, relying on his grasp on the horses¡¯ mane to keep him upright.


    Tristan smiled as the wind whipped at his hair. The horses were well fed and full of youthful energy. He wondered where Vitarko had found them. He considered asking Nothelm or Eamon if they knew, and then decided against it. The quiet was nice for a change. Besides, they would camp for the night soon and they could swap tales then. His hand reached back, grasping where his spear, Myroniad, rested in its old place. He smiled. Everything was going to be alright. They¡¯d made it past the witch of Elaria.


    ----


    Shiv grabbed Vitarko¡¯s head by the hair. Blood drained from the bottom of the head where it had been severed with one fell swoop of his sword. He tossed the head to the floor carelessly. It rolled and bobbled, coming to stop beside the witch¡¯s head. It wasn¡¯t the head he had hoped for. He still hunted for the one whom King Tarren had asked for. Tristan Blackthorn.


    Shiv cursed, kicking down the door to Alara¡¯s alcove. He sheathed his sword and went for his obsidian dagger, then realized it was already in his left hand. He growled, then yelled. He yelled not because he¡¯d been outwitted, and not because they had gotten away. No - he knew exactly where they had gone and where they were intending to go. He yelled because this was going to take longer than he¡¯d expected, and that meant another night in the cold and another night away from his warm and secluded spot in his favorite tavern with a tankard of ale in his hand. He found his black and white spotted horse and gave her a firm patt, rubbing her mane and giving her a light kiss.


    Shiv held his horse¡¯s mane in his two hands, pushing her forehead against hers. He whispered, ¡°When I find this bastard and bring him before the King, I¡¯m going to demand a bonus. A nice, big..bonus.¡±

 Chapter 31: The Lord Commander of Windem

    The King¡¯s council had shrunk significantly since the war began. Lord Commander Drakonstone paced through his private chambers, wondering when Mildred would return from the buttery with wine and ale. Scents of basil and camomile drifted from the floor. Elric had watched as two servants (whose exact roles within the castle Elric was not entirely privy to) got down on hands and knees and spread all sorts of herbs onto the floor to disguise the scent of spittle, grease, and beer. The previous nights in Elric¡¯s private chambers had been messy. He¡¯d had more company than he¡¯d ever had before, especially now that King Tarren had been moved closer to the infirmary. His mind was feeble and in need of constant attention. It had gotten to the point where he was not able to make it to the latrine and his feces were painting the floorboards like splattered paint.


    Elric Drakonstone squinted through the peephole of his solar, peering down at the light activity in the great hall down below. The hole would be disguised from the other side, he knew. It was a neat peephole that left Elric wondering how many other sneaky holes and secrets were obscured from throughout the castle. He directed his gaze directly below where he stood, and saw two servants tidying the high dais. King Tarren would be seated there in a few hours, and Elric would be on his left. The queen¡¯s seat was vacant, and would remain vacant. Her death had been sudden and unexpected, but in King Tarren¡¯s current gloomy state he had not seemed to notice. He hadn¡¯t managed more than a moan that sounded like either ¡°ye¡± or ¡°nuh¡± in over a month.


    ¡°Cobwebs,¡± muttered Elric.


    ¡°Huh?¡± replied Mildred as she entered the room with two bottles of wine and a tankard hugged tightly under her arm.


    ¡°Cobwebs¡­in the corners of the King¡¯s mind.¡± Elric turned away from the peephole just as the almoner had exited the great hall with leftover peas and beans to feed to the poor. Their number was growing by the day. Elric frowned slightly, figuring there would be bloodshed over those peas and beans. He didn¡¯t envy the almoner. Not one bit.


    ¡°The King¡¯s mind decays with every day. We ought to figure out who his heir will be.¡± Mildred locked eyes with Elric, a crease forming on her forehead. ¡°And soon, love.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know¡­¡± said Elric. He trailed off, pacing along the floor again with one hand resting below his nose and on top of his bushy mustache. His stomach growled. The smell of smoked herring was rising up from the kitchens downstairs. That was the downside of spending so much time in a solar. It was too close to everything. His old chambers were secluded and away from everything up in the east tower. I ought to move back there, Elric thought to himself. He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. He knew he¡¯d never follow through with it--not when he was so close to cementing himself as the Castellan of Stormhold (formerly Rarington).


    King Tarren had informed Elric of the decision in one of his increasingly rare moments of lucidity. He was seated on his throne, black ooze slowly dripping out of his nose and white smoke drifting out of his mouth like misty, humid rasps. It gave Elric chills at first¡­back before he had convened with Basidin.


    ¡°Our Lord and Ruler has spoken through me,¡± said King Tarren, his eyes glazed. His face had aged thirty years since Basidin had taken hold of the castle. Elric had tried to push away the guilt¡­the fear. Is all of this my fault? Did I bring Basidin here? From Northrock? King Tarren resumed after a lengthy pause to catch his breath. His fingers trembled, clutching at the edge of his royal crimson robe. ¡°He wants two Lord Commanders to lead our armies. One of them will be a young man¡­his name is Kael. Akar is seeking him out now with the token.¡±


    Elric shuddered at the thought of the token. He knew the pennant of the gnarled, twisted tree was on a necklace somewhere beneath King Tarren¡¯s robe. His cupbearer had tried to rip it off in the King¡¯s sleep, desperate to rid the King of this terrible illness of evil that had befallen him. No one knew how the cupbearer had died. He was found the next morning by the bedside of the weak King Tarren with strangle marks around his neck. Elric wondered if the queen had suffered a similar fate.


    ¡°Two commanders?¡± asked Elric. ¡°But I¡¯m¡­I¡¯m the Lord Commander of the King¡¯s armies. Remember?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said King Tarren. He wagged a bony finger. ¡°You will have a new role here. You will serve as Castellan of the castle. We shall name this place Stormhold, for it will endure a mighty storm against a great host.¡± Elric¡¯s brows furrowed. He didn¡¯t know of any mighty army advancing on the castle. Denderrika¡¯s armies were scattered, fighting many small battles on different fronts. ¡°And the other commander besides the young man Kael will be another with the name of K--¡± The King¡¯s words caught in his throat and his eyes bulged. Elric thought he might choke and keel over right then and there. Two tending servants rushed to his aid. Elric recognized one of them as the castle laundress. The King sat up, his handing massaging his throat. He gently brushed aside the pats of comfort from the two servants. ¡°Ken--Ke--¡± King Tarren¡¯s eyes rolled back and his head tilted onto his shoulder. He was fast asleep.


    ¡°Took all of his strength just to say that?¡± said Mildred. Her boots clicked softly along the stone floor as she approached.


    ¡°I guess I¡¯m to be named Castellan soon,¡± said Elric.


    Mildred¡¯s eyes slowly widened in surprise, then her mouth curled into a smile. ¡°That¡¯s great, right?¡±


    ¡°I suppose,¡± replied Elric. His gaze lowered. Castellan was not the same as Lord Commander. It wasn¡¯t what he had worked for all of those years--not what he¡¯d journeyed to Northrock for. Mildred pulled him into her embrace, planting a tender kiss onto his lips. Elric resisted initially, then felt himself irresistibly drawn into her warm embrace. Their lips met like soft pillows. His stomach fluttered.


    ¡°Who are we expecting for council this evening?¡± asked Mildred. She could sense Elric¡¯s restlessness. He didn¡¯t like to wait. Meetings weren¡¯t his thing. The council always drove him mad, although he¡¯d never admit it.


    ¡°The Steward, erm¡­his name evades my memory.¡± Elric brought a hand to his forehead as his eyes searched the ceiling for an answer. ¡°Halson. I believe that¡¯s his name.¡±


    ¡°Just Halson?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then who else? Is the King coming?¡±


    Elric paid Milred a sarcastic glance. She shrugged. ¡°No, the King is in no condition to appear in the small council.¡±


    ¡°The chaplain?¡±


    Elric shook his head, irritation plain on his face. ¡°I¡¯ve told you before, we¡¯ve done away with the chapel and the chaplain. He disgraced this castle in his sermons.¡±


    ¡°Spymaster?¡±


    ¡°We still haven¡¯t found a replacement.¡±


    ¡°Bodry¡¯s still being held by the Denderrikans?¡±


    ¡°He is. And he¡¯d better not return now. He¡¯s spilled too many secrets already, I¡¯m sure of it. What a weak minded bastard--¡±


    ¡°Elric.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. I forget that he was your¡­family.¡±


    ¡°He still is,¡± snapped Mildred. She busied herself, twisting a strand of her hair into a braid.


    Elric moved to a corner of the room and lit a candle. Its orange flame flickered wildly. Shadows danced along the walls like ghosts. The door to the solar opened. It was Halson. Two more men trickled in behind him.


    ¡°Lord Commander,¡± said Halson, nodding as he stepped into the room. ¡°These are the two engineers we hired--Bilgar and Myogar of Rittgeal. They¡¯re ready to begin effective tomorrow, as you requested.¡±


    Elric¡¯s gaze held the two engineers for nearly thirty seconds before he held out a hand. ¡°Pleasure.¡±


    Bilgar shook his hand first, and then Myogar.


    ¡°Let¡¯s begin, shall we?¡± said Elric.


    ¡°After initial assessment of your holdings here in Windem, Stormhold seems to be the heart of the land--your most strategic point. To lose Stormhold could be detrimental.¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± said Elric knowingly. He¡¯d paid a hefty fee for their services and demanded to see the value now.


    ¡°Your position is weak. Your walls are breachable. I tasked Myogar to find a way in overnight. You know how long it take him?¡± Bilgar¡¯s accent was weak. He wore a single spectacle over one of his rich brown eyes. A bushy mustache covered his entire mouth and his thinning brown hair was covered by a brown hat.


    ¡°He never made it in. My guards would have seen him. Unless someone was paid to let him in,¡± said Elric. He looked to Mildred, who shrugged. ¡°I didn¡¯t hear of anyone getting in,¡± she said.


    ¡°It take him¡­two¡­hour.¡± He paused a while between the last two words, as if searching for a difficult word that was somewhere in the back of his brain. His words were thick with Rittgalian dialect.


    ¡°Well how did he get in?¡± asked Elric incredulously. He didn¡¯t believe Bolgar, and was hoping that he¡¯d come up with a ridiculous answer so that Elric could tell him off right then and there and shoo him off. They didn¡¯t need some overpaid engineer to come in and tell the future Castellan how to fortify a castle. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Bolgar slowly strolled across the chamber, stopping right before the latrine.


    ¡°What? You need to go?¡± said Elric.


    Bolgar pointed with a short, stubby finger. He waited for Elric to look at where he was pointing. He finally gave in, striding across the room and peering down the latrine.


    ¡°Through there, Myogar made his way into the castle.¡±


    ¡°Impossible,¡± said Elric. ¡°I would have noticed.¡±


    ¡°You were sleep,¡± said Myogar. ¡°Snore loud!¡± He suddenly popped to life like a wind up toy, an expression of pure amazement coming over him.


    Elric chuckled, looking at Mildred with a look of disbelief. Halson nodded his head as if confirming what was just said.


    ¡°Why are you nodding your head?¡± Elric said. He was glaring at Halson now. ¡°What? Were you watching this head of dirty blonde hair emerge from the hole with which I offload my shit?¡± Myogar pulled back in dismay at the description of his hair.


    ¡°Clean hair, not dirty!¡± said Myogar.


    Bilgar¡¯s face was full of patience, waiting for Elric¡¯s disbelief to die off so he could move on to the next topic. He peered around the room, noting the crimson bed curtains that were drawn back to reveal a bigger bed than he¡¯d ever seen. He sniffed the air. Basil, thought Bilgar.


    ¡°We will need to reconfigure your latrine and others like it,¡± said Bilgar. ¡°In addition, we will need to build a new outer wall. Your walls here are square. Square is breachable.¡±


    ¡°Our walls are not breachable. We keep our walls heavily manned,¡± said Elric.


    ¡°Just wait,¡± said Halson. Elric scowled at him. Halson was a short man, and Elric towered over him like a man scorning a child.


    ¡°Square walls have blind spots in corners. Cannot have this,¡± said Bilgar. ¡°Need circular keep to ward off sieges and avoid breaches.¡±


    ¡°Hold on,¡± interrupted Elric. His hand had shot up and was not prodding at Bilgar¡¯s chest accusingly. ¡°You mean to tell me that we need to rebuild our entire keep? I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯ve heard the latest, but we¡¯re in a war. Our enemy has eyes and ears, and they will jump at an opportunity to take us down when we¡¯re weakest. If they see us--¡±


    ¡°You have workers. People. Hungry people. Hungry people will work. For food.¡± Bilgar had not been phased by Elric¡¯s overbearing stature. ¡°Pay well with peas, beans, oats. People will build.¡±


    ¡°What he¡¯s saying,¡± interjected Halson, ¡°is that we don¡¯t need to take down the square keep. We can just build a new curtain wall around the square keep. He wants to build a circular wall.¡±


    ¡°Yus,¡± confirmed Bilgar. Myogar nodded his head, standing shoulder to shoulder now with Bilgar. They both wore brown from head to toe, Elric had just noticed.


    ¡°Okay. What else?¡± asked Elric.


    Bilgar and Myogar looked at each other. Myogar nudged Bilgar.


    ¡°Ninety feet high, twenty two feet thick. Impenetrable,¡± said Bilgar.


    ¡°Ninety feet? Halson, how tall is our current wall?¡±


    ¡°Seventy-five,¡± said Halson, looking from Elric to Mildred, and back to Elric.


    ¡°Fifteen feet make a difference?¡± asked Elric.


    ¡°Yus,¡± said Bilgar. ¡°And we build meutrieres for your men.¡±


    ¡°Moo-tree what?¡± said Elric. He had never heard such a word.


    ¡°I do not know the word for the common tongue here in Windem¡­em¡­¡± Bilgar looked to Halson, who shrugged. ¡°Holes¡­in wall.¡±


    ¡°You mean arrow loops?¡± said Elric.


    ¡°Yus,¡± said Bilgar. ¡°Arrow loops better for defending the walls. Archers on the ramparts¡­can die easy.¡±


    Elric nodded. He saw the value now. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    Bilgar smiled. ¡°Yus.¡±


    ¡°Yus,¡± repeated Myogar. His grin was too wide and Elric nearly smacked him across the face. Or perhaps he was still fuming from the fact that Myogar had snuck in through the latrine while he was sleeping.


    ¡°We build ditch around circle wall,¡± said Bilgar. ¡°Fill with water.¡± Bilgar motioning the action of someone pouring something.


    ¡°A moat,¡± said Elric.


    Bilgar nodded, exchanging satisfied glances with Myogar.


    ¡°Wall built in hundred days. Moat built after wall. Record time. Never faster,¡± said Bilgar.


    ¡°I told you these guys were good,¡± said Halson.


    Elric looked from Halson to Mildred, and then to the two engineers. ¡°When can you start?¡±


    Elric had stepped out onto the ramparts to get air. The sun had set hours ago and the night guard was on watch. The air was always so crisp at night, and especially during Elric¡¯s favorite time of season. Winter. Windem had its fair share of brutal winters, but this one had been mild so far. It had only gotten cold enough for mild flurries, but no serious snowfall had beleaguered them so far this year. Elric found he had developed a newfound love for the cold after the ill-fated trip to Northrock. His fortunes had changed for the better ever since that trip.


    ¡°Have you had your dreams lately?¡± asked Halson as they paced along the ramparts. They walked past a guard who had been chiseling his dagger with his back pushed against the wall he was supposed to be looking over. He nearly fell as he turned his body to assume a watchful position. His dagger fell to the stone walkway, clattering loudly.


    ¡°What dreams?¡± asked Elric.


    ¡°You know,¡± began Halson. ¡°The ones that you told me about¡­the ones about your friend, Gareth--¡±


    ¡°--enough.¡± Elric became cold with bitterness. Halson shivered at the way his tone had rolled into a low growl. ¡°Do not utter his name anymore. He is dead.¡± Elric¡¯s teeth were snarled into a grimace. The guard on watch thought twice about reaching down to grab his dagger until his Lord Commander was out of striking distance. His temper had consequences for even the innocent.


    ¡°My apologies, Lord Commmander,¡± said Halson. ¡°I was merely trying to check in on you, like a good friend.¡±


    ¡°We are not friends, Halson. You are the steward of this castle and I am soon to be its castellan. If we are going to have a good working relationship, I recommend we keep our conversations professional from here on out.¡± Elric stopped walking. Halson turned to face Elric, his cheeks rosy red from the cool air.


    ¡°I understand,¡± said Halson.


    ¡°I need you because you know things. You know things that I myself cannot prod and ask, therefore you are of value to me. Do you remember what happened to the Master of Whispers?¡± said Elric.


    ¡°Uh¡­I believe you threw him¡­from the¡­ramparts,¡± said Halson evenly. It was important that he keep his cool here. Elric was testing his resolve.


    ¡°There are many stories about me which are not true. That one, however, is true.¡± Elric chuckled. King Tarren had wanted him dead anyways. It was too dangerous to have someone with a loose tongue running around and spreading rumors to the people of Windem about some vile creature that dwells in the castle¡¯s tunnels. The fun part for Elric had been deciding how to go about killing him. He had made sure that the Whisperer¡¯s death was well seen by his guards. Word would travel fast. Men ought to fear him, whether by falsities or true stories. It mattered not.


    Elric and Halson walked the length of the ramparts, taking the time to examine and discuss the square shape of the castle¡¯s curtain wall. Elric leaned over the ledge to examine the supposed blind spot that Bilgar had been attesting to. ¡°I suppose this could be a blind spot,¡± said Elric. He yanked Halson by the collar, pushing his upper body over the edge to view the blind spot.


    ¡°Ah, I see,¡± said Halson. His breaths were quick and his heart rate rapid. Elric released his grip and Halson steadied himself away from the corner.


    ¡°They begin work tomorrow,¡± said Halson.


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    As in shifts, Halson made way for the next man who was due to speak with Elric. It was one his messengers, who had been sent to dispatch the assassin, Shiv.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± said Elric.


    ¡°I was held up,¡± said the messenger.


    ¡°What of the assassin?¡±


    ¡°He accepted, of course. My intel claims they saw him enter the city of Elaria on his black and white spotted horse and he exited shortly thereafter with two heads in his lap.¡±


    ¡°Have the heads been identified?¡± asked Elric.


    ¡°No,¡± replied the messenger.


    ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll find out soon enough. Although I did want the Blackthorn boy brought to me alive but I didn¡¯t let on to Shiv that it mattered much whether he was dead or alive.¡±


    ¡°You did include higher pay if the boy was brought to you alive,¡± said the messenger. His voice was confident and assured. It was a far cry from the tremors that Shiv had sent through the messenger when he was face to face with the assassin. Few men could inspire genuine fear like Shiv.


    ¡°What¡¯s with the boy anyways?¡± asked the messenger. ¡°Is he some sort of pawn in this war?¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± said Elric. He wished he had remembered to bring his tankard of ale outside with him. It was still sitting inside his private chambers. ¡°It¡¯s just that he¡¯s a Blackthorn. That¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°A Blackthorn,¡± said the messenger, testing the words. ¡°Isn¡¯t that the name of the Lord Commander who preceded you? I forget his first name,¡± the messenger frowned, bringing the palm of his hand to his forehead. ¡°Gavin, was it? No, I can¡¯t remember. Funny how even legends begin to fade from memory after a few years.¡±


    Elric snorted in derision. ¡°You are correct in that assessment. He¡¯s the son of a man who paid a great service to this nation¡­to Windem. But he has taken a different path than his father. A very dangerous and twisted path.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± asked the messenger. ¡°What could a boy do to cause you so much headache? He have some sort of guarded secret or something?¡±


    Elric laughed heartily. ¡°No, nothing of that sort. But he¡¯s got his father¡¯s blood in him, and he¡¯s coming after some of our men. Some of our very important men.¡± Elric thought of Festal Crowe and of Kael Voryn. The other¡¯s faces became lost in his mind with all the other faces he saw on a daily basis. Those two were the important ones.


    ¡°They doing work for Akar?¡± asked the messenger. Akar¡¯s name was one that did bring a shudder to the messenger. He was in the same league of dark and mysterious men such as Shiv. As he came to think of it, he supposed Elric was in that company now too.


    A cold draft suddenly blew them back a step. The guard on watch brought the cowl of his hood lower and tried with all his willpower not to show how cold he was.


    ¡°Akar¡¯s involved, yes¡­anyways, I¡¯ve talked too much already. It¡¯s getting late.¡±


    Without another word, Elric brushed past the messenger and returned to his solar. The fireplace was roaring and Milred was already submerged beneath the covers of their bed.


    ¡°Hurry, Lord Commander,¡± said Mildred, a twinkle in her eye and her lips twisting with seduction. ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting.¡±


    Elric smiled as he undressed himself. He took a quick look down the latrine to make sure he wasn¡¯t met with the face of Myogar. Once he was assured of that, he wandered over to his bed and snuggled up beside Mildred. No wonder Gareth had always been desperate to turn in early for the night, thought Elric. It all makes perfect sense now.

 Chapter 32: Basidins Lair

    Elric awoke, propping himself up onto his elbow. His first thought was that his nipples were hard as rocks and his skin had gooseflesh from head to toe. The window to his bedchamber was open and a cold breeze was drifting in with the soft morning sunlight. Birds chirped happily and the smell of pine needles brought a pleasant aroma wafting into his nose. He nudged Mildred. She moaned, turning over to face away from him and pulling the bed sheets up to her neck.


    Elric stepped tenderly out of the bed, careful not to wake Mildred. He stretched his limbs and yawned widely. He looked at the latrine and couldn¡¯t help but scoff at the memory of the engineer, Myogar, who had snuck in through the latrine to prove the castle had weak spots. Elric took extra pleasure in relieving himself over the latrine, a petty smirk spread across his face.


    After relieving himself and moving downstairs to receive a fill of coffee, Elric snuck back to his solar to garb himself in warm clothing. He pulled a long sleeve linen tunic over his long torso and pulled up a pair of warm black breeches. His breeches were made of wool and of a fine quality. His slid his belt across his waist and secured a saxe knife, a dagger, and his sword to it. He completed his day¡¯s garb by sliding into a black mantle lined with black and white speckled fur and easing an overcoat atop his tunic. He grabbed his signet ring from a table beside his bed, giving the jewel atop the signet an audible kiss. It had been the Lord Commander¡¯s before him. Gareth Blackthorn. He was gone now, and Elric still found himself feeling fortunate and grateful that he had been able to fill Gareth¡¯s role now that he was gone. The only thing that nagged at him was Basidin. He hadn¡¯t intended for Basidin¡¯s spirit to follow them back from Northrock--hadn¡¯t even know such a spirit named Basidin even existed. He shivered. He was dreading his daily visit.


    First, he would head to the dungeons below the keep. After he passed by rebels and treasonous men (whose number had tripled since King Tarren¡¯s since Basidin¡¯s influence) Elric would enter through the hidden passageway at the end of the cell block and emerge into the underground tunnels. Elric chuckled to himself, imagining the shock on Myogar and Bilgar¡¯s face if they had known about that hidden weak spot. He didn¡¯t intend on showing them. No man was to know about that tunnel besides a select few trusted men. Halson knew about it, and even that already felt risky.


    Elric downed the rest of his coffee with one big slurp and placed the cup just inside the buttery. He smiled at the buttress, who returned the favor with her glittering blue eyes and wide-toothed smile. Her face initially brought excitement, reminding Elric of his continual lust for the buttress. The excitement quickly faded, as her existence also reminded him of the former Cupbearer who he¡¯d had to kill. She had been close with the Cupbearer, but she didn¡¯t dare show Elric resentment--not to his face anyhow.


    Elric passed through a series of narrow corridors that branched off of the great hall. The great hall was situated in one of Castle Stormhold¡¯s three baileys. It was the only castle in Windem that had a series of corridors, and it was also the only castle in Windem with three baileys instead of two. Elric frowned. It was quiet in the castle, and it had been for quite some time now. What once had been a bustling castle of economic prosperity and political imputous had now been converted to a war station for Windem¡¯s capitol. Those who wouldn''t bend the knee and vow absolute loyalty to King Tarren and his new policies were imprisoned or hanged¡­or, in some rare cases, thrown off the ramparts by the Lord Commander. That story had done the rounds inside Stormhold.


    ¡°Mornin¡¯ Lord Commander,¡± said a guard. He was standing watch over the door to the dungeon. Elric grunted, then paused as he studied the guard¡¯s face. He recognized the guard as the same man who had dropped his dagger the previous night when Elric was walking along the ramparts with Halson.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name, guard?¡± spat Elric.


    ¡°Hedwyn, if it please you m¡¯lord.¡±


    Elric sneered. ¡°Hedwyn,¡± he muttered mockingly. ¡°Sounds like the name of someone¡¯s pet owl.¡±


    ¡°Agreed, m¡¯lord,¡± said Hedwyn as he heaved open the heavily barred door. The locking mechanism stuck, and Hedwyn had to heave at it several times to finally creak the door open. He got it open just enough for Elric to slide through. Elric paused before allowing Hedwyn to close the door.


    ¡°Do you have any self-respect? At all?¡± asked Elric.


    ¡°Certainly, m¡¯lord.¡±


    Elric shook his head and disappeared down the steep and twisting stairs. The steps were slick with slime and grease. Elric nearly lost his footing and cursed aloud. After quite some time, Elric finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs, where two guards stood at attention with their old weathered spears held firmly in one hand.


    ¡°Drop the act,¡± muttered Elric, paying them no mind as he sauntered by. The two guards exhaled, allowing their chests to drop into a normal slouched posture. They glanced at each other with silly grins on their faces. ¡°I saw that,¡± said Elric. They dropped the grin, quickly assuming a serious, stoic look.


    Elric moved through the dungeon with the grace of a ghost. The air was thick with a damp, acrid smell, a blend of mold and stale breath. The smell reminded Elric of someone¡¯s foul breath after vomiting. He coughed. It never got easier breathing down here. The torchlight barely cut through the shadows, leaving the stone walls to loom like dark shadows. Each step taken by Elric resulted in a soft splash. Green and brown mush covered the floor in a thick layer of slime. Half formed whispers of men who had gone mad filled the maddening silence of the dungeon. Others moaned with hunger pains. Some prisoners cried distant sobs of neglect and regret at having taken a stand against the new leadership in Windem.


    ¡°How could he? How could he do-o-o-o this-s-s?¡± Elric noted a figure hunched over in the corner of his cell, rocking back and forth with his knees drawn to his chest. ¡°The King-g-g-g¡­he¡¯s evil. He¡¯s a traitor!¡± He snarled like a rabid dog, leaping on all fours to the edge of his cell and then proceeding to bark at Elric. Foamed ran down his mouth. Elric eyed the visible scars on his neck. They were oozing a black liquid and a white mist ran up from the scar. Elric¡¯s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. He shuddered, and kept moving. He had known the man--and had been the one to arrest him when Akar had returned to report that one of the remote villages at the outskirts of the capitol had refused to surrender its yield of oats.


    Elric found that he, too, had become a part of the dungeon¡¯s anatomy as his long black cloak dragged along the slimy wet floor. His boots made no sound other than the occasional splash, but his mere presence was enough to bring most prisoners to the edge of their cell. Their eyes were full of anguish, desperate for any scrap of food. It wasn¡¯t mealtime yet. Their one measly meal of leftover peas and beans would come at noon time. They¡¯d be fortunate if it hadn¡¯t already been licked and slobbered over by the King¡¯s hounds that resided upstairs and wandered the bailey.


    As Elric wandered further down the hall, the sound of chains rattling and cries of woe began to ring together and grow louder.


    ¡°You can¡¯t just leave us here like discarded tools,¡± wailed a man. His face was gauntly skinny and his beard was so large and bushy that it was nearly larger than his own head. It grew outward more so than downward. ¡°Lord Commander¡­you were our Lord Commander once. We trusted you, and you failed us!¡±


    Elric winced, then withdrew his sword and slammed the blade against the bars which resulted in a deafening clanging throughout the dungeon. All cries went silent besides the mutterings of a madman from a cell Elric hadn¡¯t passed yet. ¡°I am still your Lord Commander, and I will not tolerate that tongue of yours.¡±


    ¡°But you were our Lord Commander--¡±


    ¡°--I¡¯ll have that tongue clean out if I hear another word.¡±


    The man spoke no further. He cowered back into the shadows of his cell, staring glumly at his sickly skinny legs.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing further to be said to any of you,¡± announced Elric. ¡°The King made his decree clear. There is a no tolerance policy for those who would wish to oppose the King and his new policies. We are in a war and, as such, we must do what we must in order to achieve victory. Even if it means we must cling to the dark for a time.¡±


    The dungeon¡¯s air felt colder now, even as Elric¡¯s boots clicked sharply against the floor. He was getting closer to the trap door at the end of the row of cells which would allow him to descend to the underground tunnels where Basidin lay in waiting. A voice brought pause to Elric¡¯s steps.


    ¡°Windem is no longer the same nation as I remember it,¡± snarled a man. ¡°How can I enforce your policies on my people when I¡¯ve already made promises¡­promises that originated long before this land descended into shadow?¡±


    ¡°Baron,¡± said Elric. He had never been able to remember the man¡¯s name, even before he had been thrown into the dungeon. ¡°To answer your question--It¡¯s quite simple, actually.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± the Baron snorted in derision, his hands bound to the cell bars by thick hemp rope. His wrists were raw and bloodied. ¡°And how¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°You either adapt and obey¡­or you rebel and lose everything. You had a choice, and you chose poorly,¡± said Elric. All friendliness had left his tone.


    ¡°I am a man of honor. I will not turn on my own people.¡±


    ¡°And how has that fared for them? Hmm?¡±


    The Baron snarled. He yanked his arms, rattling the bars of his cell.


    ¡°Your people,¡± began Elric, ¡°have raised enough hell to warrant some serious punishments. They ought to be thankful we have tolerated their rebellion thus far. After we sent Akar and his newfound gang, things have settled down a bit. It just took some burning¡­and some hunger.¡± Elric smiled, pressing his face against the black, rusted bars.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how you stand it,¡± stammered the Baron. ¡°Destroying your own land.¡± The Baron tried to pace the span of his cell but his bound hands kept him closer to Elric than he would have preferred. ¡°Rotting the crops with¡­whatever that dreadful disease is. The Rot, as they¡¯re calling it now.¡±


    ¡°You think I enjoy all of this, Baron?¡±


    ¡°I think you do.¡±


    ¡°I do what I have to in order to maintain my station. In case you haven¡¯t noticed while you¡¯ve been rotting away down here, there¡¯s a force within this castle now that¡¯s more powerful than anything Windem has seen before. I don¡¯t reckon it ought to be messed with.¡± Elric backed up a pace from the bars of the cell. His cheeks flushed red and his jaw was firm.


    The Baron¡¯s face remained stubborn and unchanged. ¡°I understand that. But I. Do. Not. Respect it.¡± The Baron was snorting hot air through his nostrils, seething with contempt for Elric. He had failed his people as Lord Commander and allowed this evil to infest the land instead of fighting it. ¡°I stood up for my people,¡± said the Baron. ¡°Protected them.¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°And how did that turn out for you?¡±


    ¡°Look at me. I lost everything. And yet, I wouldn¡¯t change one thing. You know why?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re a fool, Baron. You¡¯re just a fool.¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯m not. It¡¯s because some of us have morals. Convictions. Beliefs. I¡¯m not willing to compromise those things, not even if it costs me everything.¡± The Baron had softened, believing Elric was beginning to understand.


    Elric shrugged, giving a couple of light taps to the Baron¡¯s cell as he slinked away into the shadows. ¡°Inspiring, Baron.¡± Elric paused, turning before he left, ¡°You know--we banished our castle¡¯s chaplain. Perhaps we ought to consider you as a candidate to replace him.¡± Elric slipped away, wandering down the long row of dungeon cells.


    Elric passed cell after cell of imprisoned men who had once faithfully served the crown. He tried to keep his gaze straight ahead. He heard a voice cry out. He lingered. I should keep moving. He had no time for those who didn¡¯t understand the stakes. The bottom line was that there was no other option. Basidin was too powerful and too manipulative. There was no sense in defying him. That would spell an end to him.


    In the eyes of the imprisoned and the oppressed, Elric was the enemy. But Basidin¡­and the King¡­they had promised order, and it was that promise which held Elric to his solemn oath. For all the madness and cruelty that came with it, it was still a better path than an endless war with the Denderrikans, the Solarians, and the Brantish. The young and the foolish didn¡¯t understand that. All they saw were chains and hunger. Poverty.


    Another few steps, and Elric came to a cell where an older man stood against the bars, his once-proud armor now rusted and battered. His face was pale but hard and his cheekbones were high on his face. He was dangerously skinny now, whereas Elric had always remembered him as a plump and jolly man. He had been a great spy once, until the King had changed his ways and this man had decided he would not serve this new twisted King.


    ¡°Lord Commander,¡± the man said with a sneer, his voice hoarse from weeks of disuse. ¡°You have no shame, do you? None at all.¡±


    Elric huffed a breath of hot air and turned away from the spy. His chest tightened. ¡°There is no shame in honor.¡±


    ¡°The things you¡¯ve done for that cursed throne¡­for that¡­whatever it even is that you¡¯re about to go and visit with. That vile creature¡­you¡¯ve lost more than your honor and brought on more than just shame. You¡¯ve lost your soul, dear Elric.¡± His voice, though raspy, was full of wisdom and undeniable conviction. He was one of the most revered spies to ever serve Windem.


    Elric turned toward the spy, though his gaze never softened. ¡°I didn¡¯t come here for your words, old man. And I certainly didn¡¯t come to hear your lectures. You think I¡¯m unaware of what¡¯s been lost?¡± His voice was low, but cutting. ¡°I¡¯ve seen hunger¡­children starving. There are villages out there who are resorting to cannibalism. Some are eating the crops anyways and keeling over in the streets from poisoning. I¡¯ve seen more deaths than you can imagine, and that¡¯s not even including the death toll from the war.¡± His gaze flickered to the spy¡¯s hands which were shackled with iron bindings rather than hemp rope like the other prisoners.


    ¡°Then why?¡± The man¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°Why, Elric? Why follow this madness?¡±


    Elric stepped closer, eyes narrowing. ¡°Because sometimes you do what¡¯s necessary. Because sometimes, the only way to stop madness is to become it.¡±


    The older man shook his head, disbelief mingling with disgust. ¡°I thought you were better than this.¡±


    ¡°Better?¡± Elric¡¯s eyes darkened. ¡°I¡¯m better than most. That¡¯s what matters. You had a choice too, old man. And you made the wrong one.¡±


    ¡°Is that how you sleep at night? Telling yourself that?¡± The man spat what little saliva he had, a thin dribble sliding down the rusted bar of the cell. ¡°There¡¯s a war going on out there, and lives are being taken. Men are being held captive. And yet, you would entrap your own men--honorable men, at that time.¡± The spy leaned closer to Elric. ¡°Think of Bodry Tenthill, Chief of Spies. Sir Crowley Begg of the Kingsguard. All gone because of the war. Isn¡¯t that enough tragedy for one kingdom? Hm? Is it?¡± The spy was shouting now. Elric backed off, slowly turning his back on the old man.


    ¡°And what about them?¡± shouted the old man. Elric knew where he would be pointing. The old man coughed, a rasping, broken sound. ¡°Look down there,¡± said the spy, his voice thick with contempt. ¡°Tell me that doesn¡¯t haunt you.¡±


    Elric¡¯s gaze followed to a lonely cell at the end of the long cell block where the torchlight hardly reached. The cell was dimly lit and the iron bars looked bent under the weight of despair.


    ¡°Do you see them, Elric?¡± the spy sneered. ¡°Prince Darin, Princess Aliyah, and the queen¡­¡±


    Elric¡¯s breath caught in his throat, though his face remained impassive. The prince was hunched in a corner, his youthful face gaunt and pale, his once-pristine clothing now a ragged mess. His eyes were wide, like a man trying to wake from a nightmare but unable to escape its grasp. Beside him, his sister, Princess Aliyah, sat with her back against the wall, staring at nothing, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her regal beauty was marred by the hollowness in her eyes.


    And in the farthest corner of the cell, lying still and unnaturally quiet, was Queen Adalisa. The once-powerful queen now lay lifeless, a faint pallor to her skin, her body twisted in a way that suggested the end had been slow, painful, and inevitable.


    ¡°Their fate was sealed long before I came to this station,¡± said Elric, his voice faltering now. You know that as well as I do.¡± A tear rolled down Elric¡¯s cheek as he stared at the pitiful cell.


    ¡°Tell me, Elric, as you stand there with the power to release them. To release all of us¡­how does it feel to have their blood on your hands? You have sealed the queen¡¯s fate, but it¡¯s not too late to redeem yourself.¡±


    A tense silence hung between the two men. Elric¡¯s eyes locked with the lifeless face of the queen. Elric had always enjoyed her company, and had been a great friend of his alongside her spouse, King Tarren. His voice, when it came, was cold, distant. ¡°I do what I must. And you, old man, would have done the same.¡±


    The spies¡¯ laughter echoed after Elric as he walked down the dingy hall of slim and mush, his cloak dragging behind him and collecting filth. He opened the last cell door on the left, the clanging of the keys bringing any prisoner within earshot to their knees or feet to see who might be getting released.


    ¡°You¡¯re just as much a prisoner as we are, you know that?¡± shouted the spy. He cackled again, this time even louder. ¡°This blood is on your hands, and you¡¯ll have to live with that forever!¡±


    Elric moved to the remote corner of the cell, where a neglected bale of hay sat in a shadowed heap. There was something strange about the corner -- a sense that the very air here was different, thicker, colder. Elric had done this every morning he could, but it never got easier. His fingers enclosed around the latch of the hidden door, which seemed to blend right in to the brown, earthen floor. He lifted it up and a cold blast radiated throughout the dungeon. He heard several prisoners moan and shriek with pain. The cold was painful on their malnourished, stretched skin.


    A narrow stairway awaited before him. He hesitated a moment, listening for the sound that always made him uneasy. There was the distant sound of dripping water, accompanied by an eerie hum that made the whole tunnel feel alive. It was a pur that made the whole ground vibrate as he held the trapdoor open.


    Stepping into the darkness, Elric pulled his cloak tighter and closed the trap door shut behind him. He was descending into the heart of the ancient underbelly of Stormhold.


    The air became thicker and more stagnant as he pressed on. A dank muskiness gnawed at his senses. His eyes watered. Each step he took seemed to stretch time. The silence of the tunnels became oppressive as he went on. The dank smell of the dungeon eventually evolved into something more unnatural, like the decay of some ancient being--like the very bones of the earth were hidden here and waiting to be found. The dim torchlight along the walls flickered along his path as he went on. He coughed as dust and cobwebs hung from the walls and the low ceiling.


    At last, after what felt like an eternity, Elric emerged into a narrow passageway that led into a large chamber. The air was thick with the stench of something foul. Elric gagged. He always did.


    Elric¡¯s heart raced but he forced himself to remain calm. The part that always alarmed him was the smell--like something foul had died but had never truly been alive in the first place. Something that was just wrong, and inherently contrary to nature. A feeling would overcome him in these tunnels that made him feel as though this creature he was about to encounter was an egregious sin simply by existing.


    He stepped into Basidin¡¯s lair.


    The walls were doused in the glistening, black veins of organic and pulsating with repugnant life. In the center of the room, on the farthest wall, was something more grotesque than any living creature to ever have existed.


    It was not human. It was not even animal. It was an abomination.


    A splattering of flesh, a dark, oily mass that seemed to ooze and rippled as though alive. The surface shimmered with a multitude of glittering eyes--hundreds of them. They were scattered sloppily across the fleshy, amorphous body like a million tiny stars in a sickly, fleshly void.


    From the twisted mass, long spider-like protruded with jagged ends that could pierce like a sword. They twitched, rather than moved, like a dead bug whose nerve endings were still firing even after it died. The creature¡¯s body was slick and moist, like a dripping, pulsing wad of goo.


    ¡°Basidin, my master¡­¡± whispered Elric. His mouth went dry as he approached, each step deliberately placed as if he could fall through the floor with a misplaced step.


    The air was thick with a malignant power and an energy that seemed to infect the soul and turn every normal, moral thought backwards. There was no discernible face to speak of, only twitching, dripping alien form that reeked of corruption and dissension.


    ¡°Lord Commander,¡± Basidin rasped, though it had no voice. The sound was like a thousand rasping whispers. ¡°You¡¯ve come at last. You are late today.¡±


    Elric didn¡¯t flinch, not like he used to. ¡°I¡¯ve come for your power¡­for your guidance.¡±


    Basidin¡¯s mass pulsed, shimmering with dark energy. The eyes all blinked in unison, slowly, as if lazily processing Elric¡¯s words. ¡°The King¡¯s throne is weak. You are weak, Elric Drakonstone.¡± The voice flashed through Elric¡¯s mind like a thousand little whispers. ¡°Though, you understand better than most. You understand the true price of complete power¡­there must be control.¡± The word control echoed around in Elric¡¯s brain, becoming louder and louder until Elric could hardly conceal his agony.


    ¡°I do,¡± said Elric in fearful agreement.


    ¡°We have many enemies,¡± the voice slithered and writhed around like a snake. ¡°The Denderrikans wage a war they cannot win, led by their pitiful sorceress, Saphira.¡± The sorceress¡¯ name was like poison, stinging Elric like electricity. He grimaced. The air grew colder still as the creature¡¯s presence seemed to suffocate the very space around them. ¡°You have done well, Elric Drakonstone. I knew you would be faithful from the moment I watched you betray your friend all those years ago. The death of Gareth Blackthorn was the sacrifice that brought me out of my dormancy.¡± Basidin¡¯s spider legs twitch wildly. Black ooze shot out from its body, painting the walls and dragging down a few spider webs.


    ¡°For that sacrifice, you are being justly rewarded,¡± said Basidin.


    ¡°Thank you, master,¡± stammered Elric, bowing his head in reverence.


    ¡°My servants¡­Kael, Festal, Breen, Marsh, Fed¡­you have sent them and they have served me well,¡± said Basidin.


    Elric shuttered. ¡°Indeed, master. Akar did well with them. In his recruitment--I mean.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­I agree.¡± If Basidin had a tongue it would have slithered up and down like a snake. ¡°They are due to meet one of our biggest adversaries. The Blackthorn boy.¡±


    ¡°I have arranged for his assassination, master. It will be taken care of,¡± said Elric.


    Basidin chuckled, which sounded like a pair of rusted blades scraping. ¡°Oh, you will see, young Elric. If fate aligns as the Sorceress Saphira has envisioned, you are due to meet this boy. You have something that belongs to him¡­something that was gifted to his father by Saphira.¡± Basidin¡¯s words rattled around in Elric¡¯s mind like a genie trying to escape a lamp.


    ¡°He will never make it here,¡± replied Elric defiantly. He gulped, sweat streaming down his face despite the chilling temperature of Basidin¡¯s presence.


    ¡°Fate will decide that,¡± said Basidin with a cool, calm voice. The way it sounded nearly human bothered Elric more so than his chilling voice of whispers. ¡°You must be ready if he arrives at our doorstep, for whoever claims the other half of that sword will have immense power before them.¡±


    Elric withdrew his sword, admiring the hilt. It looked like any other hilt he¡¯d ever possessed. It wasn¡¯t encrusted with jewels, it didn¡¯t glow or have any special powers. It was just a piece of ivory and metal melded together by a blacksmith, or so Elric assumed.


    ¡°Understood master,¡± said Elric. ¡°What would you have of me this day before I depart?¡±


    Basidin¡¯s form shook with a thundering jolt. The entire room shook. The low ceiling threatened to crack and collapse.


    "Prepare yourself, Lord Commander," the creature hissed, its voice like the scraping of bone on stone. "The final battle is upon us... and when it is over, there will be nothing left of Windem but ash and ruin."


    A low, guttural laugh bubbled up from the creature¡¯s depths, sending chills crawling down Elric¡¯s spine.


    "Not even the memories will survive."

 Chapter 33: The Toll at Granite Ford

    The mid-afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long, slanted shadows across the land, its warm light at odds with the chill that had gripped the region for weeks prior to today. A cool breeze swept through and rustled the small clusters of grass and weeds that sprouted from the dirt path with which they walked now. The sound of the river was distant, yet constant, as it added to the unsettling quiet of the day.


    ¡°You can hear the river from here,¡± said Eamon, his brows furrowed as he navigated a few tricky divot holes on the path. Either side of the dirt path gave way to a short steep drop off where one could easily ruin an ankle.


    ¡°We¡¯re headed in the right direction,¡± affirmed Tristan. Eamon and Nothelm had done well to navigate them to this point after losing Tristan¡¯s map. ¡°We manage to cross the ford and then it¡¯s just the Ashara Plains that stand in our way.¡± Tristan lifted his head with optimism and took in the beautiful sky. It was a mix of blue and green hues with soft but dissolving clouds.


    ¡°How can we be certain that we are getting to the cropland before Basidin¡¯s men?¡± asked Nothelm. Tristan frowned. ¡°Not questioning your confidence, by any means, lord¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not your lord. I¡¯m no one¡¯s lord,¡± said Tristan. ¡°But¡­to answer that question, we cannot know with certainty. If we are too late and they have infected the crop, we¡¯ll hunt them.¡±


    ¡°Hunt them?¡± said Nothelm.


    ¡°Hunt them,¡± confirmed Tristan, nodding his head. ¡°The intel that came to Dalko indicates these men will be a problem long after their attempt to poison the Plains of Ashara. If they are to follow Basidin¡¯s wishes, they¡¯re only getting started.¡±


    The group journeyed onward along the beaten path for another hour, encountering no one besides a few galloping hares and some roaming cattle. Asherin and Kenton lagged behind--Kenton¡¯s stamina still hadn¡¯t been the same since the attack by the black wolf. Kenton Wolfsblood, the witch of Elaria had called him.


    The air grew thick with the scent of wet stone as the narrow path began to open up ahead. The distant roar of the river was louder now, and it drowned out the rest of the sounds as they pressed on, every step bringing them closer to the Granite Ford.


    Eamon walked beside Tristan silently, his hand resting on the hilt of a dulled sword he had stripped from one of Darwin¡¯s bandits when he and his guards had attacked them. Nothelm trailed back a few paces, his pace slower and more deliberate. Tristan smirked to himself, remembering how silly it seemed that they had completely forgotten about him in the Whispering Wood. The blame fell squarely on the Rot, which was in the air that they now breathed. The other part of him wondered if anyone else in the group would have even cared if they had remembered by chance. Asherin and Kenton were cold toward Nothelm, still unforgiving towards anyone with an allegiance to the Brantish. They were at war with one another, after all.


    ¡°I should¡¯ve seen it coming,¡± Eamon muttered, his voice low and tinged with frustration. He had been quiet for most of the journey but now the weight of what he¡¯d lost seemed to break through. He¡¯d lost the guardsmen that he¡¯d brought along for the journey, and they had been some of his finest men. ¡°The Takers were more than we¡¯d prepared for. They had more men.¡±


    Nothelm¡¯s lips twisted into a smirk, his stride suddenly more than casual now that he had found an opportunity to speak up. ¡°You thought Darwin would be easy pickings?¡± he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. ¡°He¡¯s more than just a bandit, you know.¡±


    Eamon¡¯s eyes narrowed as he turned to scowl at Nothelm. ¡°Says the man who was completely forgotten back at the Whispering Wood and nowhere to be seen for our entire expedition through Whisperton. I would¡¯ve loved to see you run that tongue so smoothly back when we encountered Darwin and his men. Wouldn¡¯t have been so coy then, I¡¯d wager.¡±


    There was a long pause, and Tristan glanced over his shoulder at Eamon. He could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his posture had stiffened at the memory, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. He knew Eamon would not forget those losses in a hurry. He took pride in protecting his men, his people. He was the Captain of the Guard, the Protector of a City, of Feynram.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t have known, Captain,¡± said Tristan softly. ¡°You did what you could. You took back this,¡± Tristan tapped on his spear, Myroniad, which hung across his back. ¡°And the horses, too.¡±


    Eamon¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°I should¡¯ve been sharper,¡± he muttered. ¡°I should¡¯ve staked out the compound longer¡­had more patience. I could¡¯ve kept my men safe and still escaped with the same amount of weapons that I did.¡±


    Nothelm quickened his pace, coming alongside Eamom whose pace slowed significantly. Nothelm¡¯s eyes assessed Eamon with the sharpness of one who¡¯d seen many battles himself, and experienced too many failures and losses to count.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the first to lose good men, Eamon,¡± said Nothelm, his voice smooth but underlined with a trace of something darker. ¡°This world¡¯s a vicious place, and it¡¯s no better when there¡¯s a war. A war of blood and magic is what it is.¡± Nothelm paused, studying Eamon¡¯s face. ¡°But hey--you¡¯re still breathing. And so are the rest of us. That¡¯s what matters, I s¡¯pose.¡±


    Eamon chuckled bitterly. ¡°It seems we¡¯re walking to our graves, is all. The Takers, the Rot, and the city of Elaria--I wasn¡¯t there for that but from what you¡¯ve told me, it sounds like that witch was no good and the assassin who took her head is far worse. We¡¯re barely alive as it is.¡±


    The bitterness in his voice stung, but Tristan knew it was the truth. Vitarko¡¯s loss, their weapons stolen, the shadow of the assassin lurking out there somewhere--it was harder and harder to keep up the illusion that they were heading anywhere but disaster.


    Nothelm studied Eamon for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing something in the older man¡¯s words. "You speak of death like it¡¯s a guarantee," he said, voice low but steady. "But it¡¯s not. You¡¯re still here, Eamon. And so is Tristan. So am I. We mustn¡¯t let Vitarko¡¯s heroic act be in vain. He rescued us--brought us together, and he sent us on our way. That¡¯s got to count for something."


    Tristan caught Nothelm¡¯s gaze and felt a flicker of understanding pass between them. For all the cleverness and cunning Nothelm hid behind, there was a deep loyalty buried beneath it. Nothelm wasn¡¯t about to let them fall apart¡ªnot if he could help it. Nothelm wanted the war to end and his personal freedom secured just as much as anyone else did. His life had been spared by Tristan months ago, and he owed him his loyalty now.


    Nothelm¡¯s lips curled into something like a grin, but his eyes remained hard. "We¡¯ll either keep moving, or we¡¯ll fall behind. We¡¯ve made it this far and I don¡¯t reckon a bridge and a toll will be able to stop us. Not unless there¡¯s an assassin waiting for us with his blade sharpened and his appetite wetted. Let us hope we¡¯ve beaten him here."


    "You¡¯re right," Eamon admitted, the sharpness in his voice dulled slightly. "I¡¯ve been caught in my own head, wallowing in what¡¯s lost." He let out a breath, the tension easing from his shoulders. "But I¡¯ve no intention of falling behind. Not yet.¡± He exhaled strongly, tapping the hilt of his sword. ¡°As for the assassin, If we encounter him, I¡¯ll hold him up. I fancy my chances with a blade in my hand and a killer in my sights.¡±


    Nothelm nodded, a confident smirk spreading across his face¡ªjust slightly. "Then let¡¯s keep moving.¡±


    "Let¡¯s get across that bridge," Tristan said, his voice firm. Eamon nodded, his eyes hardening with renewed resolve. The three men¡ªeach carrying their own ghosts¡ªwalked toward the crossing, determination set in their bones.


    The road ahead narrowed to a jagged path that wound between craggy boulders, each step bringing them closer to the towering cliffs of Granite Ford. The river below, a raging torrent of frothy white water, carved its way through the valley, its roar deafening.The wind gusted sharply as they neared the bridge.


    Not far from the ford, a ragtag camp had been set up, the dull glow of a fire casting long shadows across the rocky ground. Several figures stood guard near the fire, their eyes scanning the approaching travelers. They wore mismatched armor and tattered crimson capes, their weapons gleaming under the fading sun.


    "That''s the crossing," Nothelm muttered, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. His dark eyes flicked toward the group of guards standing watch. "I¡¯ve crossed this bridge once before, years ago... and I can tell you, the toll here is not in gold alone."


    Eamon Thorne, his brow furrowed in a rare show of unease, looked over the bridge and then back at the group. "There¡¯s something off about this place," he muttered, voice low. "Keep your wits about you.¡± His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. A familiar strength suddenly showed in his mannerisms--the guilt and shame of the loss of his guards now forgotten.


    ¡°Hullo there!¡± shouted a smug knight as he left the dull glow of the fire and began strutting toward Eamon. His hand was rested casually on the hilt of his longsword. His crimson cape was fluttering lightly in the wind, revealing a hundred small tears and holes in its fabric. His armor was battered, his breastplate heavily indented which gave the appearance of a near-fatal hit from a spear in a jousting contest--at least, that¡¯s what Eamon had gathered upon first glance.


    The Knight sauntered over, his head naked in comparison to the rest of his bulky armor suit. His boots crunched softly underfoot but were drawn out by the rushing sounds of water down below. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard speckled with hints of red. His eyes were blue like a lazy afternoon sky and his hair had just enough length to be pushed over.


    ¡°Good evening,¡± replied Eamon, stiffening as he approached. ¡°We seek passage across the Granite Ford. I take it we¡¯ll have to run that by you lot first?¡±


    ¡°Name¡¯s Salafar,¡± he held out a gloved hand. Eamon shook it.


    ¡°Eamon Thorne, Captain of the Guard of the City of Feyrnam.¡± He turned back to his companions. Tristan and Loren stood behind Kenton and Asherin as if escorting them as prisoners. ¡°These are my--¡±


    ¡°--If I could be so direct, Captain,¡± began Salafar, turning his body to gesture a few of his knights into the conversation. ¡°What is the Captain of Feynram doing so far from home? If word from the travelers around here can be believed--Feynram has fallen.¡± His tone held a hint of menace, but his bright blue eyes were still cordial.


    ¡°Feynram has indeed fallen to the Denderrikans,¡± said Eamon. ¡°My friends and I here,¡± Eamon gestured back toward Tristan and Loren, ¡°we managed to escape amidst the chaos of the siege. The Denderrikans outnumbered us, outwitted us. They had Ascendians with them.¡±


    Salafar¡¯s head tilted upward in understanding, his gaze holding Eamon¡¯s tensely. His chin tilted down to eye-level again and a subtle smirk spread over his face.


    ¡°Who are they?¡± Salafar¡¯s words came out like a statement, rather than a question.


    ¡°Denderrikans,¡± replied Eamon. ¡°Our intention was to bring them to the King for questioning and whatever else they can be leveraged for¡­figured that might count for something.¡±


    ¡°The King is in no state to receive visitors, Captain.¡± Salafar spat the last word out like a poisoned cup of coffee. ¡°And given that the city fell¡­on your watch? That¡¯s a bad impression, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Agreed, Salafar,¡± said Eamon. ¡°But please, Salafar,¡± Eamon brought his hands together in a praying motion, ¡°we request passage through the Granite Ford. We haven¡¯t got much else going for us at the moment. I¡¯d sooner be reunited with the Windem front of the war and contribute in any way that the King or the Lord Commander sees fit.¡±


    Salafar¡¯s eyes narrowed. Two of his companions pulled rank beside him, appearing bored and disinterested despite their bulky armaments and glistening weapons. One of the knights was a blonde woman with short hair and a blunt face. She gnawed at an apple, her eyes glued on Eamon. The woman watched with mild curiosity at the members of the travelling party. There were countless travellers who had passed through this way, seeking sanctuary by the Capitol where food was most abundant. But this group was different from others--they were dressed like warriors and knights, and not like peasants or vassals.


    Tristan eyed Salafar and the others with an uneasy apprehension. These knights didn¡¯t strike him as loyal servants of the crown. The way they had greeted Eamon¡¯s news of Feynram¡¯s fall had seemed more like bitterness mixed with amusement rather than the dismay of someone who was passionate about serving their nation.


    Salafar pointed at Nothelm with a gloved finger. ¡®Who¡¯s he?¡±


    ¡°Brantish man. He was serving at the side of Windem when his group was ambushed by Denderrikans,¡± said Eamon.


    ¡°We took him in,¡± chimed Tristan. Salafar seemed amused by Tristan¡¯s interjection.


    ¡°And how about him?¡± pointed Salafar. ¡°He looks like that young fella everyone¡¯s been lookin¡¯ for¡­what was the name¡­ah--yes, Blackthorn.¡±


    ¡°Name¡¯s Tristan Drakiler,¡± Tristan lied. ¡°I don¡¯t know of anyone named Blackthorn, although I do recall the stories of our former Lord Commander, Gareth Blackthorn.¡±


    ¡°Fine warrior and leader of men, he was,¡± said Salafar. ¡°I had the pleasure of fighting alongside him during many border skirmishes. We wiped away thousands of snots just like him,¡± said Salafar, pointing at Nothelm again. ¡°Your kind disgust me, by the way. But glad that your people have come to their senses and joined the cause. Windem must stand amidst this hour of darkness.¡± Salafar straightened. He reached out a hand to the blonde knight beside him and she withdrew an apple from behind her back and placed it in Salafar¡¯s hand. He took a massive bite, chewing obnoxiously and staring at Eamon the whole time. Eamon swallowed, shifted his feet.


    ¡°Well, what do you say?¡± asked Eamon. ¡°We have no coin, as we were robbed during our journey here. I reckon from one Knight of Windem to another you could just let us pass this once and we¡¯ll be on our way to Castle Rarington.¡±


    ¡°Stormhold,¡± corrected Salafar. ¡°Rarington is no longer its name. As to your generous idea, no. We don¡¯t stand guard here for charity. We require payment, as would the King.¡±


    Eamon pursed his lips, frowning. Tristan¡¯s mouth opened in protest, then closed.


    ¡°However,¡± began Salafar, pausing to take another big chunk out of his red apple. ¡°Your form of payment need not be coin. Coins and jewels have little value in Windem at the moment.¡± He held up his apple, admiring it from all angles. ¡°Perhaps, you have some food to spare?¡± Salafar eyed the horses that were tethered together and stayed obediently by Tristan and Loren. Loren pet one of the horses gently and it let out a soft neigh.


    ¡°The horses aren¡¯t for eating,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°The horses won¡¯t cross here. Too narrow,¡± said Salafar. ¡°Most get too spooked. If you wanted to get to Stormhold from Feynram, you¡¯ve chosen the wrong path.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll give you the horses. Will that be sufficient?¡± Eamon spoke with a firm tone and his face gnarled into frustration. Loren¡¯s mouth sat agape and Tristan wave his arm in protest, before recognizing that Salafar was right and Eamon was playing his cards well, no matter how difficult the journey ahead might be without mounts.


    ¡°The horses are a good start,¡± said Salafar. ¡°We¡¯ll also need some stories.¡±


    ¡°Stories?¡± said Loren.


    ¡°You lot have travelled far,¡± said Salafar. ¡°You¡¯ve been in the front lines of a Denderrikan invasion. You¡¯ve seen the war raging in the southlands--a war that is due to come north eventually. I reckon the Denderrikans plan to end their war at Stormhold¡¯s front gates, if they can make it that far. What can you tell us?¡±


    ¡°What do you want to know?¡± said Eamon.


    ¡°We want information. Not for the King, not for Windem¡­but for ourselves. You see,¡± Salafar took one last bite of his apple and then launched it a hundred yards towards the stone bridge so that it bounced once on the stone and then plummeted over the edge and down into the rushing waters.


    ¡°We¡¯re trying to figure this all out here. On the one hand, you¡¯ve got the war with Denderrika. Their High Lord wants our land, our castles, our people. On the other hand, from our understanding as former Knights of Windem, Windem is at war with itself. We¡¯re at war with our own people, our own land. Now how does that make sense?¡±


    ¡°You said former Knights of Windem. What do you mean by that?¡± asked Tristan.


    ¡°You heard me right,¡± said Salafar. ¡°We¡¯re no longer servants to the King. We abandoned our post long ago, once we found out the King¡¯s not truly the one ruling anymore. And the Lord Commander, Elric Drakonstone, I reckon he¡¯s got as much to do with it as the King himself.¡±


    Eamon¡¯s gaze hardened, his fingers curling into fists. The shift in Salafar¡¯s tone and his admission left a bitter taste in his mouth. ¡°You abandoned your post,¡± Eamon repeated slowly, his voice steady despite the swirl of questions that were now churning in his mind. ¡°You swore an oath to protect Windem. To the King. And now you¡¯re telling me you¡¯re no longer bound to it?¡±


    ¡°And what of you, Captain?¡± Salafar turned on him, that menace returning to his face. ¡°You let your city fall. That falls squarely on your shoulders. You want to talk about abandoning your post--how about you turn your party around here and march on back to Feyrnam. After all, you swore an oath to protect the city, didn¡¯t you? To serve and protect the Lord Ruler of the White Walled City, and all of its citizens there-within?¡±


    "Windem died a long time ago, Captain," Salafar said. His tone was far less conspiratorial than it had been, now almost matter-of-fact, as if speaking of something everyone already knew. "The King is a puppet, with no strings worth pulling. The real power is elsewhere now. You know it. I know it. Even the Denderrikans know it." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice so that only Eamon could hear, the others seemingly lost in their own thoughts. "Elric Drakonstone... he¡¯s the one calling the shots now. You just don¡¯t know it yet."


    ¡°You said you wanted stories¡­information,¡± said Tristan. ¡°We can give you that. We may know more about the fall of Windem than you do. Elric Drakonstone isn¡¯t the one calling the shots. At least, he may think he is. But there¡¯s something else directing this darkness, lurking in the shadows.¡±


    Tristan went on to explain their experiences in the Whispering Woods with the black wolves and then their time in the ruined city of Elaria and the witch who revealed many details to them about their own destinies and that of Basidin and his servants. It was the first that Salafar and his rogue knights had heard of Basidin.


    ¡°So you mean to tell me that Basidin sits the throne in place of King Tarren?¡± asked Salafar.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t rule like a King. His spirit and influence seeps through that castle like a poison,¡± said Loren boldly.


    ¡°And what of this death and decay that plagues these lands? Does Basidin step out from his hiding place like a gardener and sow poison into the ground?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s called the Rot,¡± explained Loren. Tristan chimed in where necessary, explaining what Cropkillers were and how Veracifers haunted the lands to the south where they could blind and nullify an entire town with its paralyzing gaze.


    Salafar¡¯s expression darkened with each word. The casualness in his demeanor had long since evaporated, replaced by the quiet intensity of someone absorbing a weighty revelation. His blue eyes, once bright with mockery, were now narrowed with a growing sense of disbelief.


    "You say that this Basidin, whatever he is, is controlling the throne," Salafar muttered, more to himself than to Tristan. "And that this is what¡¯s spreading the Rot?"


    He turned his gaze back to Eamon, then to Nothelm and Loren, as if verifying the truth in their faces. The mention of the Rot seemed to hit harder than anything else, and the grimness in his posture spoke volumes.


    The blonde knight, who had until now been disinterested, finally spoke up, her voice low and sharp. ¡°I¡¯ve heard of such things. Tales from the southern borders, where whole fields go barren overnight, and villages wither like plants in the drought. But I always thought it was just superstition. Stories to keep the peasants in line.¡±


    ¡°Stories?¡± Loren¡¯s voice cut through with an edge of frustration. ¡°It¡¯s not a story. It¡¯s real. And it¡¯s spreading. There are things in the south¡ªthings like Cropkillers and Veracifers. Things that aren¡¯t of this world. They¡¯re tied to Basidin, and they follow wherever his influence spreads.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re telling me that the Rot is not just a plague of disease and death,¡± Salafar said slowly. "It¡¯s some kind of weapon. And Basidin is at the center of it?¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± said Tristan.


    Asherin was still quiet, as was Kenton, who seemed to be clutching at his scars and grimacing tightly.


    Salafar stood abruptly, his boots scraping against the gravel, and started pacing. His fingers drummed idly on the hilt of his sword. ¡°I don¡¯t know what we¡¯re going to do about it,¡± he said, his voice tightening. ¡°But one thing is clear¡ªif Basidin¡¯s controlling everything, the war between Windem and the Denderrikans aren¡¯t just coincidences. They¡¯ve been orchestrated. The Denderrikans... they¡¯ve been manipulated. Just like us. We¡¯ve been played, Captain."


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s any truth to that,¡± said Tristan. ¡°The Denderrikans have their own agenda outside of Basidin. They¡¯re led by a Sorceress, Saphira.¡± Tristan quickly shut his mouth, realizing he may have spoken too much.


    ¡°And how would you know that, boy?¡± asked Salafar. His eyes were rich with intrigue now.


    ¡°These two,¡± Tristan gestured toward Asherin and Kenton. Kenton leaned forward, struggling to keep his head up. Asherin stood with a stiffness and distant stare. ¡°They told me. They were with the Denderrikans until we pulled them away during the invasion at Feynram.¡± Tristan spoke confidently, but was unsure as to whether Salafar would believe his lie. He heaved a sigh of relief when understanding seemed to dawn in Salafar¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Could it be,¡± began Eamon, who seemed to be piecing things together at the same rate as Salafar, ¡°that the Sorceress is in league with this Basidin?¡± The two groups stood in silence for a while, brooding over this uncertainty. Finally, Salafar broke the silence.


    ¡°Alright,¡± Salafar continued, his voice gaining strength, ¡°I¡¯ve heard enough.¡± He gave a small wave of his hand, as if sweeping away the lingering uncertainty. ¡°You¡¯ve told us about Basidin, the Rot, and the creatures crawling out of the southern darkness. I believe you. And as much as I¡¯d love to hear more stories, there¡¯s no time for it.¡±


    He turned to the group, his eyes scanning each one in turn, as though appraising their worth in a glance. ¡°You¡¯ve made your case. It¡¯s sufficient payment for crossing the Granite Ford.¡±


    Eamon¡¯s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension of the last few hours hadn¡¯t fully eased. ¡°So we¡¯re clear then?¡± he asked, his voice edged with a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. ¡°We¡¯ll be able to cross without any more games, no more haggling?¡±


    Salafar gave him a sharp look, his blue eyes glinting in the firelight. ¡°I never said there wouldn¡¯t be games, Captain,¡± he said with a half-smirk, but there was no mistaking the finality in his tone. "But this crossing, this night, you¡¯ve earned your passage. For now."


    With a brief glance at his comrades, he nodded, and the rogue Knights of Windem began to shift their positions, signaling the end of the conversation. The blonde knight tossed her apple core into the fire and stood up, stretching. She seemed to be in a hurry to get things moving, perhaps more eager to be rid of the travelers than to carry on with their strange and unwelcome tale.


    One of the other knights standing by the fire, a tall man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping across stone. ¡°The horses are yours to give, but the stories, those stay with us,¡± he said, his eyes narrowing on Tristan and Loren as though appraising them. ¡°We¡¯ll remember what you¡¯ve told us.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a fine group of liars, that¡¯s for sure,¡± the scarred knight added with a low chuckle. ¡°But the truth, that¡¯s another matter.¡±


    Salafar waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Enough talk. We¡¯ll take the horses, and in return, you get safe passage. It¡¯s more than I¡¯d give most.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Eamon said, his voice firm, as he moved toward the bridge, his boots crunching on the stony ground.


    The group left the horses with the knights and began their crossing over the blue and black hued stone bridge, a soft breeze fluttering their garments.


    Salafar withdrew an Aetheris from his pack, admiring it in the palm of his glove as the Captain and his escort began their crossing, placing one foot in front of the other carefully as they went. It was the most valuable form of currency in all Windem, and he¡¯d only ever held one once before in his whole life, and that moment had come just an hour prior to the Captain¡¯s arrival.


    ¡°Who gave you that?¡± asked the knight with a jagged scar running down his cheek. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen one of those in a while.


    ¡°You were taking a piss when he came by,¡± said Salafar. ¡°Some man with a black and white spotted horse and a crooked grin. I told him his horse would be sufficient for payment and all he did was spit at my feet and withdraw a glittering obsidian dagger. Told me he¡¯d pay me with an Aetheris, else I could expect to be slit from head to groin.¡±


    ¡°And you just took that?¡± asked the scarred knight.


    ¡°Eh,¡± said Salafar. ¡°I could¡¯ve taken my chances with him. But I¡¯ve never held an Aetheris in my hand before. Once this whole war is over, I can buy a large plot of land with this. Maybe even some serfs.¡±


    ¡°Did he give his name?¡± asked the scarred knight, frowning. ¡°The only men outside of royalty who get their hands on an Aetheris is an assassin or a formidable mercenary.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t get a name. But he did say he was passing through on official king¡¯s business,¡± said Salafar. ¡°I reckon he would¡¯ve had some great stories to share.¡±

 Chapter 34: Crossing Granite Ford

    Granite Ford stretched out beneath their feet, their path suspended above the deep gorge below. The stone surface, slick with moss and droplets of water from a damp rain earlier that day, narrowed as it crossed the chasm, forcing each step to be taken with great caution. To their left, the drop was sheer, an unforgiving plunge into an endless fall, the sound of rushing water nearly lost to the wind''s howl. To the right, the great wall of a black mountain rose jagged and immovable like a tower of granite that seemed to lean in.


    Midway across the walkway, the mountain began to fall away and eventually there was nothing on either side of the walkway besides open air and a drop to one¡¯s death. Below them, the river raged in a tangled mesh of whitewater, too far down to see clearly but close enough to taste the fear in the cool, damp wind.


    Eamon led the way, followed by Nothelm, Tristan, Loren, and then Asherin and Kenton. Asherin and Kenton struggled to walk side by side, Kenton¡¯s left arm slung around Asherin for support. His wounds were bothering him once again. The medicine that had once made his wounds seem fully healed no longer brought relief. In addition, black strangulation marks turned the skin of his neck to a deathly black color, although Kenton swore no one had touched his neck and he didn¡¯t have any trouble breathing. It was his scars that were throbbing and making his legs lose feeling besides the prickling sensation one gets when their leg falls asleep.


    ¡°How does anyone ever bring a horse across this Ford anyways?¡± asked Nothelm, trying to ease his conscious about giving up their horses. ¡°It¡¯s too narrow.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been done before,¡± said Eamon. ¡°But most would take a different route through these lands. Unfortunately for us, we don¡¯t have that kind of time if we¡¯re hoping to beat Basidin¡¯s Servants to the Plains of Ashara.¡±


    ¡°How far are we from Ashara?¡± asked Loren. She had her arms outstretched to help her keep balanced, but it made her look uncoordinated, as the walkway wasn¡¯t so narrow that any others in the group felt the need to do so.


    ¡°Not far,¡± said Tristan and Eamon in unison.


    ¡°Once we make it to the other side of this crossing, we¡¯ll have about twenty miles until we hit Ashara, and then a further ten miles or so until we hit the Plains.¡± Eamon paused, breathing heavily and testing a spot lightly with his foot that appeared as though the stone was cracked and likely to give way. ¡°We have to travel the distance of the Plains before we get to the fertile land where the crops are.¡±


    ¡°Which is how far?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know the exact distance,¡± said Eamon. ¡°But it¡¯s far. Likely going to take us a few days.¡±


    ¡°How do we know where we¡¯ll meet Basidin¡¯s Servants? And what they look like?¡± asked Loren.


    ¡°Look, we can discuss all the details once we get off this stonebridge. As for now, I¡¯m just trying not to think about the two hundred foot drop before my vertigo sends me spiraling to my death,¡± Eamon said. His face was fixed in a look of discomfort.


    The wind whipped at them as they came upon the midway point in the trek across the path. The sun was a blood-orange smear against the bruised blue of the sky. The light was fading fast, and with it the cool, chilling wind was setting Tristan¡¯s teeth to chattering. His hand reached behind him instinctively, clutching Myroniad. He felt comforted somehow, knowing his weapon was still secured at his back. But he missed Drakiler. The scabbard at his hip contained a dull, rusted sword he¡¯d found in Elaria. It was clunky and its weight didn¡¯t feel right in his hand--not after all this time he¡¯d gotten used to wielding Drakiler--the Drakonstone Killer. I will find that sword, and I will kill him.


    Without warning a figure materialized ahead. As if conjured from the impending night sky, Shiv, the assassin, stood in their path at the far end of the stonebridge. His black cloak was rustling in the wind, his obsidian dagger gleaming faintly in the dim light.


    Eamon¡¯s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword. They were too far across the stonebridge to retreat now, but a glance over his shoulder confirmed his fear. The way back was blocked. One of Salafar¡¯s men stood at the far end of the bridge, an unblinking statue, a longbow in his hands drawn tight. There would be no escape.


    Asherin cursed. Kenton groaned in pain, blissfully unaware of the peril that barred their path. Loren held her head in her hands, her mouth forming an ¡°O¡± in disbelief. Tristan fumbled for Myroniad whilst Nothelm pulled his dagger from its scabbard.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice,¡± Eamon muttered, his voice low. ¡°We fight.¡±


    ¡°No going back now,¡± Tristan replied, his eyes narrowing, a grim smile pulling at his lips.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go first. This is my fight,¡± said Eamon.


    ¡°No,¡± replied Tristan. ¡°He¡¯s after me. He¡¯s an assassin sent by the King. It¡¯s only right--¡±


    ¡°--I won¡¯t let you, Tristan.¡± Eamon¡¯s eyes met Tristan¡¯s. ¡°Trust me on this.¡±


    Tristan exhaled deeply, backing away to allow Eamon room to advance on the assassin.


    ¡°I lost my men to the Takers, those damned bandits,¡± said Eamon. ¡°This is my chance to make it right--to make it up to myself.¡±


    Shiv stepped closer, his movement smooth and predatory. His knees were slightly bent, his obsidian dagger held overhand so that he could bring it down in a harsh slash when the time was right.


    ¡°Leave the Blackthorn boy to me and the rest of you can walk free,¡± shouted Shiv in a gravelly voice. He took long, slow steps across the stonebridge. Eamon walked lucidly with his shoulders back and his longsword held out in front of him.


    ¡°Blackthorn¡¯s not up for the taking, I¡¯m afraid,¡± said Eamon defiantly. ¡°He¡¯s out to do the very thing the King sent you here for, and I¡¯m going to see to it that you don¡¯t stand in his way,¡± said Eamon.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid,¡± shouted Asherin in her deep, guttural voice. Her black hair was blowing softly in the wind. The water below them was gushing loudly and Asherin¡¯s voice hardly carried to where Eamon was standing.


    ¡°Your footing, Eamon,¡± said Tristan.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got it,¡± replied Eamon, running a hand through his hair. He gave a nervous shudder.


    Eamon took the first step, advancing with terrible purpose. The smell of wet stone was in the air as the sun crested below the horizon. The sky grew dull and purple. Shiv¡¯s eyes narrowed, his cloak billowing behind him.


    Eamon swung his sword wide and sweeping, nearly taking Shiv¡¯s head off. Shiv ducked, nearly losing his footing on the wet stonebridge. He was nimble and recovered his position quickly. Shiv darted forward, advancing with his obsidian blade and flashing it across Eamon¡¯s neck. Eamon took a hurried step backward, but it was too late. Shiv¡¯s dagger nicked Eamon¡¯s throat, a wild spurt of blood gushing like a fountain. Loren gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Asherin shouted but her voice was muffled by the wind and the rushing waters below.


    Shiv landed another blow, but this time his dagger was met by Eamon¡¯s sword and was deflected away with a loud clang. Shiv struck twice more, each time being met by the defiant block of Eamon¡¯s sword. The assassin swiped his dagger in a quick and menacing jab, slicing through Eamon¡¯s shoulder and cutting through the fabric that adjoined his chainmail. He had stripped most of his heavy armor earlier in their journey but he still had protective chainmail and a few pads. His arm just below his shoulder was ill-covered, and now Shiv¡¯s blade had sliced deeply into the flesh. Eamon cried out, but his instincts were still heroic.


    He kicked out, using the sole of his boot to slam down hard on Shiv¡¯s chest. He flew back and skidded roughly on the slick mossy stone. Shiv¡¯s eyes had widened significantly, weary of the steep drop-off to either side of him. If Eamon had angled his kick, Shiv could have been free falling before meeting his certain death.


    The assassin rose to his feet, a smirk playing on his lips, as though the whole exchange had merely been a game of skill and wit, not life or death. Eamon¡¯s heart thundered in his chest. He held his longsword in his left hand, grimacing and clutching the deep gash in his upper left arm with his other hand.


    ¡°Step back, Eamon!¡± cried Nothelm. He was already charging past Eamon, nearly knocking him over as he went by.


    ¡°Nothelm, no!¡± cried Eamon.


    Nothelm swung his sword widely in a series of three thrusts. Shiv was equal to the task, dropping to a crouch and using his dagger to parry Nothelm¡¯s blows. He swung his leg wide in an agile movement, catching the back of Nothelm¡¯s leg and sending him staggering back onto his backside. Shiv sheathed his dagger and grabbed a blunt staff that was slung across his back. It had blended right in with his cloak. Shiv kneeled down, dislodging a loose stone from the walkway and grasping it in his right hand whilst the staff was in his left.


    ¡°Nothelm, get down!¡± shouted Tristan, who had seen it coming.


    Nothelm was slow to his feet, and did not register Tristan¡¯s warning in time. The brick-sized stone came hurling at him, striking him on the side of the head. Nothelm staggered and swayed, then his body went limp and he was tumbling to the ground. Loren and Tristan lurched forward, clinging only to Nothelm¡¯s lower body to keep him from toppling off the walkway and down to his death.


    Eamon, now recovered, stepped forward wearily as blood stained his garments around his neck, chest, and left arm. He lunged forward, trying to catch Shiv off guard with a powerful thrust aimed directly at Shiv¡¯s chest. Shiv raised his staff, using it as a blockade to stop the downstroke of Eamon¡¯s sword. The sword cut through the wood, smashing Shiv¡¯s staff in half. Shiv tossed one end of the stick at Eamon, and then used the other half of the stick to jab at Eamon¡¯s chest and send him back a step.


    Eamon lunged a second time, but this time it was to his detriment. Shiv was too quick, as he shimmied around Eamon, using his momentum against him. He had slipped behind Eamon in the blink of an eye, and before Eamon could react, the obsidian dagger had been driven into his back. Pain lanced through him as the dagger sank between his shoulder blades, a white hot searing pain rushed through him. Eamon felt his breath leave him as his muscles contracted and his knees crumbled beneath him.


    Shiv wasted no time withdrawing his dagger and coming onto Eamon again. Before he could land another fatal stabbing with his dagger, a hand came over his shoulder and ripped him back. It was Asherin. Shiv jutted an elbow back, landing a blow to Asherin¡¯s nose and sending her reeling. He turned, landing an additional fisted punch through the center of Asherin¡¯s face. He grabbed his dagger again, hungry for more blood. He brought his dagger above his head, prepared to bring it down on Asherin before she could react.


    Eamon grabbed the hood of Shiv¡¯s cloak and yanked him with all his might. Shiv came toppling down over Eamon, who had been crouched on one knee. Shiv toppled over the side of the stonebridge, both his hands clutched around Eamon¡¯s wrists.


    ¡°Let go, you bastard!¡± muttered Eamon. Blood dripped from his neck and poured over Shiv¡¯s face as he held on for dear life, his entire body dangling over the deep chasm. Tristan, who had just managed to get Nothelm back onto the stonebridge with Loren¡¯s help, rushed over with Myroniad.


    ¡°Eamon, move!¡± shouted Tristan. Eamon leaned his shoulders back, screaming as the searing pain of his upper arm radiated all over his body.


    One of Shiv¡¯s hands let go of Eamon¡¯s arms, going to his side and grabbing his dagger. He used his last surge of strength, looping his dagger up and into Eamon¡¯s neck. The dagger penetrated Eamon¡¯s soft skin, made a light thud as it plunged in. Eamon¡¯s eyes glossed over, his body went limp. Eamon¡¯s body slid over the slicked stone path, taking Shiv down with it as they plummeted down to their deaths hundreds of feet below.


    Tristan cried out in despair. Loren fell to her knees, crestfallen.


    ¡°Come on!¡± shouted Asherin, desperate to get across and be done with the whole affair. ¡°The bowman is still standing with his bow strung. We can lament his death when we¡¯re safely across, come on!¡±


    Tristan snapped out of his longing gaze down into the depths of the rushing waters. The two bodies¡ªEamon and Shiv¡ªwere now little more than specks in the dark void below. The river, wild and merciless, had swallowed them whole, pulling them into the depths with no trace of their fall. The only proof of their existence was the blood-stained stone beneath him.


    ¡°Move!¡± Nothelm urged, his voice taut with impatience.


    Tristan¡¯s chest ached, but he allowed himself to be pulled forward. His feet moved mechanically at first, each step a battle against the numbness that threatened to consume him.


    Asherin was already leading the charge across the bridge, her pace quick and purposeful with Kenton tailing at her back, hunched over and moaning. The others, struggling to keep up, did not notice how narrow the stonebridge had become in their haste, how precariously it seemed to narrow as they continued their journey forward. It had always been perilous¡ªone wrong step and the abyss would claim you¡ªbut now, in the wake of their loss, it felt like the ground itself was giving way beneath them.


    And so they moved¡ªstep by step¡ªeach one more difficult than the last. The stonebridge, so narrow now, seemed like a razor-thin thread between life and death. But with each step forward, the memory of Eamon''s sacrifice burned brighter in Tristan¡¯s chest, pushing him onward.


    They would not let it be for nothing.

 Chapter 35: The Winds of Ashara

    Chapter 35: The Plains of Ashara


    The wind had the stench of salt and rot, whispering across the plains of Ashara, where the earth itself seemed to sag under the weight of a long-forgotten grief. Kael Voryn did not flinch. His eyes, bloodshot and empty of all but purpose, scanned the horizon¡ªa horizon that stretched to nothing, as though even the land itself had abandoned this place. Behind him, the Servants of Basidin trudged, their every footfall an echo of the inevitable destruction they were about to unleash.


    Kael¡¯s gaze flicked to his companions, the Servants of Basidin. They were like him in so many ways¡ªempty husks before they had been filled with the will of their dark master. Yet even as they marched, the madness that simmered within each of them was already beginning to surface, like fissures in a cracked skull. The pendant¡ªalways the pendant¡ªwarmed their skin, the twisted, gnarled tree engraved upon it writhing with power, each of its crooked roots pulling at their souls.


    Although Akar was no longer with the group, he appeared every so often from lofty vantage points atop his black destrier. Overlooking from atop a foothill, at the crest of a peak, or even atop buildings or the ruins of a tower, in one instance. He was Basidin¡¯s High Servant, and appointed to watch over Basidin¡¯s Servants, who now marched towards their destinations. Although they all marched wearily toward the Plains of Ashara, all but Kael had different destinations.


    Breen Slate was the first to slip from the path. He had been walking steadily beside Festal Crowe, but now his footsteps grew erratic, stumbling as if something unseen had taken hold of his mind.Without a word, Breen veered off course, his heavy boots dragging through the dead grass toward the distant village.


    "Stay focused, Breen," Kael muttered under his breath, his voice a low command, but it was no use. Breen was lost already. Like the others, he had been marked, and now he was drawn toward whatever whispering call the pendant offered. Kael could hear the whispers. Festal heard them too, Kael knew.


    They would each seek out a town, a village, a helpless settlement, and bring them to their knees¡ªfeeding them to the endless hunger of Windem¡¯s royal army. But Kael had no need to worry about them. Basidin had preferred this way--Akar had assured him. The people wouldn¡¯t be able to resist the draw of the pendant. People were starving. The land was dying. Those who hadn¡¯t already defected to Solaria or Brantley in search of refuge and sanctuary would gladly take up the call of Basidin and King Tarren if it meant food and water.


    Mildred was developing a reputation amongst the capitol as Mother of Windem--willingly leading and teaching all the children of Windem who came to the capitol for rescue. Men and women were being recruited for other things--like war and service. The Knights of Windem had disbanded, but the Royal Army was regrowing now. And Basidn¡¯s Servants only helped to bloat their numbers.


    Marsh Geral, ever the opportunist, glanced at the others, his eyes sharp and calculating. He''d been one of the more stable ones, more cunning than the rest. But now his lips quivered, his body twitching as though some unseen tether was pulling him to the east. Without hesitation, he reached for his pendant, clutched it tight, and followed Breen into the distance.


    Fed Moltec, the one-eyed, three-toothed wretch, grinned a half-crazed grin, already muttering to himself. His lone eye flickered between the others and the symbol of the twisted tree hanging at his neck. The madness was always present in him, but now it was louder, more tangible. He let out a guttural laugh and fell into line behind Marsh, his remaining teeth gnashing as though he were already tearing into something unseen.


    Festal Crowe, second in command and the most disciplined of the Servants, took a slow breath, his dark eyes narrowing. He had always been Kael¡¯s right hand, the one who kept the others in line when they teetered too close to madness. But now, even he could feel the pull of the pendant¡ªthe irresistible draw of Basidin¡¯s power¡ªand he faltered. It was as though something in him had broken.


    Kael clenched the reins of the Cropkiller tighter, urging the beast forward. Alone now, he would carry the Rot to Windem¡¯s most fertile croplands¡ªthe heart of its food supply¡ªand with it, he would drain the land itself of life, leaving only decay in his wake. The Cropkiller¡¯s hooves clattered against the cracked earth, the sound echoing like a death knell as the Veracifer slithered silently beside him. The other Veracifer that had begun the campaign with Basidin¡¯s Servants had gotten lost a few days prior. They¡¯d only found out where it had went when they stumbled upon the chaotic remains of a tiny village where people without any of their five senses were crawling through the streets and wailing as though dead already. That had been pitiful, and Kael had seen to it that the village folk were put out of their misery. Fed Moltec had taken particular pleasure in that command, brandishing a rusted stave he found laying in the grass and plummeting the pointed end of the stave into anyone he found laying without any sense.


    A brief flicker of thought passed through Kael''s mind¡ªTristan Blackthorn and his companions. Akar had predicted they would come for them. Kael allowed himself a small, twisted smile. It had been foreseen. They would play their part, but in the end, the Rot would not be stopped. Not this time. Basidin had revealed the face of the one whom he¡¯d marked. His name was Kenton, kissed by wolves as his dream had shown him. The Rot was in him already, and no amount of medicine would heal it. Kenton and Kael, the two commanders of Basidin¡¯s armies. Former Lord Commander Elric Drakonstone had taken up as Castellan and Lord over Stormhold, a prize from Basidin for Elric¡¯s loyalty. Kael wondered if he¡¯d be rewarded with some land or perhaps a castle if he did his part as a commander in the battle to come. He clicked his teeth, urging the Cropkiller along.


    Kael¡¯s eyes hardened as he stared toward the horizon. Ashara stretched before him, vast and empty, like the rest of the world would soon become. He could already feel the weight of Basidin¡¯s presence pulling him, guiding him. The pendant burned hot against his skin. Kael clutched it in his hand, kissed it.


    It would begin here. In the heart of Windem¡¯s most fertile fields. And by the time Tristan and his companions arrived, it would be far too late.


    The Rot was coming. And nothing would stop it.


    *     *     *


    The sky over the Plains of Ashara was an endless expanse of pale gray, the sun a faint, sickly disk that barely pierced the thick cloud cover. The land stretched out before them like a vast, unbroken ocean of dust and cracked earth, where the wind whispered with a dry, biting hunger that seemed to gnaw at the bones of the weary travelers. The group had been walking for days. Days that had blurred together into a haze of exhaustion, hunger, and frustration. With every mile they traveled, the wind howled louder, and the land grew darker despite the ever-present sun.


    As night fell, they made camp in a small hollow, the ground hard and uneven beneath them. There would be no fire tonight, as there was no wood, no fuel, and nothing left to burn. They huddled together in silence, the weight of the endless march settling on their shoulders like an oppressive fog.


    The loss of Eamon had been something that hadn''t been talked about, nor did anyone have any interest in doing so. Tristan felt the weight of Eamon¡¯s death on his shoulders, as the assassin had been sent for him. Asherin felt guilty too, knowing perhaps she could have done better to ward off the assassin. He¡¯d broken her nose in two places, although it hadn¡¯t needed to be pushed back into place, thankfully. Her whole face still throbbed, though it had been three days since they had crossed the Granite Ford.


    The second day was the luckiest. The wind died for a time, which allowed them to make significant progress across the Plains even on foot. They were not yet at the great croplands that had been the contributor to much rich trade through Windem¡¯s busiest roads, but they were encroaching on its southern tip. Not much lived out this way, and the group had counted their lucky stars when they came upon a couple of hares that were munching on a clove of grass not two feet from where they had set up a brief camp during the middle of the day to rest their weary feet. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Nothelm had killed them. He was quick with his dagger, stalking through the tall grasses on his belly like a snake. It would have been comical weren¡¯t it for the fact that they were hungry beyond anything they could ever imagine. Loren had stuffed her face with grass and a few sticks, testing them in her mouth for a few seconds before gagging and then spitting it out in a forceful lurch. It nearly landed in Tristan¡¯s lap, who heaved a few exhausted shutters of laughter before clutching at his stomach sensitively to try and abate the hunger pangs that plagued him.


    They had lost their packs at the stonebridge. Tristan had merely slipped off his pack and watched it fall off the ledge during their scrap with the assassin. Nothelm had not remembered what happened to his, and Loren, Asherin, and Kenton had surrendered their packs to the Knights manning the toll in exchange for a generous portion of the meats that they were roasting in a spit over the fire.


    It all seemed so foolish now. Kenton¡¯s scars had worsened even further since they had no longer administered the medication.


    The days blurred together. The relentless landscape offered no respite. They had no map, no landmarks to guide them, only the vague hope that somewhere beyond the horizon there was an oasis or a village that could offer them food and water.


    By the fourth day, they¡¯d lost track of the hours. Time felt as if it were slipping through their fingers, carried away by the harsh wind. The sun, a distant, hazy ball of light, was little more than a reminder of their thirst. Loren kept a steady rhythm in her steps, and when she would glance back at the others, her expression would soften ever so slightly. She kept the group together, urging them onward with quiet words of encouragement.


    ¡°We¡¯re not far,¡± she would say. "Just a little further. We can make it.¡±


    On the fifth day, the group began to show the true strain of the journey. Asherin¡¯s back ached from the weight of her armor, her shoulders bruised where the straps had worn against her skin. Kenton¡¯s limp had worsened, his wounds leaking more and more black liquid, staining his clothing and making each step a trial of endurance. He didn¡¯t speak of it, but the others could see the way his eyes shifted between them, searching for any ounce of help or respite one of them might be able to offer him. Unfortunately, they had none.


    Tristan¡¯s mind often wandered back to what had started this all. He thought of Twin Hills and of Sesten. Of his little hut and the old days when he¡¯d grown up with Ma and waited patiently for the next visit of his Uncle Bodry. He wondered what Bodry was doing now, supposedly still being held captive in Sesten with the Denderrikans. He hoped Bodry had managed to escape, or at least evade further suffer and torture. He was unlikely to yield any information to whoever was questioning him, Tristan knew that for fact. The only problem was that Bodry¡¯s resistance to their methods and his loyalty to the cause of Windem could only result in his own detriment. Tristan wondered if Bodry would keep up his same stoicism if only he knew that state that Windem had fallen into. If he knew of the shadow that had engulfed Windem, and covered all of its land like huge black cloak.


    He wondered where his Ma was, and if she was still with Elric Drakonstone. Was she being held prisoner? Were they mistreating her? Or had Elric propped her up like a queen, having her at his side in all his endeavors. Tristan gaped at the thought of his Ma enjoying life inside the castle like a noble--doing all the things that she had always wished Gareth would do for her. Tristan¡¯s father had always been more protective of her, keeping her separate from his life as Lord Commander.


    It was their sixth day of travel, and the exhaustion was beginning to sap the group of any remaining will to carry onward. Nothelm was the first to acknowledge it. His gruff voice broke the silence as he spoke up, his tone strained with exhaustion.


    ¡°We¡¯ll rest here. Just for a while,¡± he said, though it was clear from the way his shoulders sagged that he was pushing through his own limits.


    Loren glanced at Tristan. Her eyes were filled with silent questions, but she said nothing. Tristan nodded, his lips tight. ¡°Alright. We¡¯ll rest. But not for long.¡±


    They dropped their packs and sank to the ground, the harsh earth pressing into their bones. There was no real shelter here, no trees to hide under, no shade to offer comfort. The wind blew relentlessly across their faces, carrying with it the smell of the Rot. The Rot had taken hold of the wind, but land itself was still okay. That gave Tristan hope. Surely that meant the Servants of Basidin hadn¡¯t reached Ashara yet. The Rot would have spread like wildfire and reached their current location by now.


    The next day was more of the same. A slow, miserable trudge across the land culminated in a long rest just as the sun was beginning to set. The sun had barely set when the an unusually strong gust of wind swept across the plains, signaling the beginning of what should have been another ordinary evening in the midst of Low Winter. The plains of Ashara were known for their biting winds during this phase of winter. Bitter, cold gusts that rattled the bones and whipped at the skin, but nothing too unusual. The sky, heavy and leaden with clouds, hung low above the barren land, yet the storm had not yet made its presence known.


    Loren, who had been scanning the horizon, narrowed her eyes and glanced back at the others. ¡°Something¡¯s not right,¡± she muttered, the wind snatching her words before they could fully escape her lips.


    Nothelm, ever the pragmatist, grunted. ¡°It¡¯s just the Low Winter, the winds get worse this time of year. Nothing new.¡±


    ¡°What--a Brantish man is going to bring us news of the weather this far north? When have you ever lived through a Low Winter?¡± asked Tristan, chuckling lightly to himself.


    The gusts began to howl louder, swirling in tight circles around them like a hungry beast. The temperature dropped rapidly, far colder than it had any right to be for Low Winter. Tristan could see his breath turning to vapor in the air, the chill creeping up his spine, a gnawing, biting cold that cut through their layers of clothing like a blade.


    Kenton shivered involuntarily, and Asherin¡¯s usually steady steps faltered as the wind hit them like a physical force. ¡°It¡¯s not just Low Winter,¡± she said, voice rising above the howling gusts. ¡°This feels like a storm.¡±


    Before they could react, the storm fully unfurled. The wind roared to life, its momentum gathering strength in a matter of moments. The gusts tore across the plains, sending the dust swirling so thickly that it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. A strange, violent chill gripped the air, the temperature plunging far beyond what they could¡¯ve expected.


    ¡°We must find shelter!¡± Tristan shouted, his voice barely audible. ¡°Now!¡±


    Tristan pointed, spotting a massive rock formation just ahead, an enormous piece of rock rising out of the flat, barren land. It had been carved by years of wind and strange weather, with a jagged opening wide enough for all of them to fit inside.


    Tristan made his way toward it, leading the group and ushering them to hurry with his arm. The group scrambled inside the opening, breathless and wide-eyed, as the storm¡¯s force intensified behind them.


    The moment they were inside, Nothelm immediately set to work gathering the last of their dry firewood, which they had been carefully rationing. Loren helped him quickly arrange the logs while the others huddled near the back of the stone shelter, clutching their cloaks tightly against the unnatural cold that had settled in their bones. The wind howled like a maddened beast outside, the sound bending and twisting around the rocks as though it were trying to break through.


    Nothelm, his face grim but determined, struck his flint against a stone, sending sparks onto the pile of dry wood. The fire caught quickly, crackling to life with a sudden burst of heat that pushed back against the cold that clung to their skin. The light of the fire danced across the rock walls, casting long, flickering shadows in the small shelter.


    Once the flames had settled into a warm blaze, Asherin helped wedge a large rock across the opening, sealing it as best as they could. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but it blocked most of the wind. The warmth from the fire seeped into the air, though it was not enough to entirely fend off the chill still pressing at the edges of the rocky shelter.


    When morning finally arrived, the storm had finally eased up. They emerged from their shelter cautiously, their faces pale from the cold and the exhaustion. Loren¡¯s face suddenly lit up, unable to believe what she was seeing.


    The plains were dotted with frozen carcasses. Dozens of animals and wild game that had once roamed the land freely lay scattered across the ground. Deer, wolves, even smaller creatures, all lifeless and stiff as if the storm had claimed them in an instant. Their bodies were encased in layers of frost, frozen solid by the bitter cold. The group immediately began dragging the carcasses of the nearest animals back to their hidden shelter where they skinned them and got busy roasting the animals over a fire. They filled their stomachs until they couldn¡¯t fit another bit, and then topped it off with cold, refreshing water made of the thin layer of snow and frost that had coated the land overnight.


    Once they had finished eating and hydrating themselves, they packed up their camp and prepared for the final leg of their trip.


    ¡°I think we¡¯re close,¡± said Tristan as he led the way again. Small sprouts of vegetation began to pop up underfoot.


    ¡°Look,¡± said Nothelm, laughing. He kneeled down and picked a flower. It was a beautiful purple peddled flower he¡¯d never seen before.


    ¡°The Croplands are near,¡± said Loren, smiling. ¡°And it looks like we might just make it in time after all,¡± her last words trailed off as realization dawned on the group. They would soon be face to face with Basidin¡¯s Servants. And that was not a thought which made their legs any lighter as they journeyed onward toward the Cropland of Ashara.