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–which 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–not 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–confrontation. 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–and 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 tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
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.