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.
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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.”