Dalko’s men dragged the spy by his arms and threw him to the ground. He sprawled with his arms outstretched but they did little to cushion his fall. 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. We thought your existence was Denderrikan propaganda.” The spy emitted a dry laugh, then coughed. Tristan studied him, standing with arms crossed as if he were one of the Denderrikans. He didn’t seem entirely upset that he’d been caught. He looked smug, like finding out about the secret compound was enough to satisfy his deepest longings.
“I live. And I am no myth.” Dalko’s face seemed more narrow than ever--sharp as a sword. His eyes were small and his nose was pointed and short. “I take it the King stationed you here,” said Dalko.
His second-in-command, from Tristan had witnessed, pulled rank beside Dalko. His face had more scarring than normal skin. 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 that was pushed back. His face was not as scowled as Dalko’s, but it still bore menace. 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.
Kenton spoke now, “Is it true? 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.
“The name’s Skjora. I was stationed by the Chief of Spies, who works closely with the King.” Skorja held his head back, desperate to avoid being sliced by the sword which was starting to dig into his neck.
“Skorja?” questioned Dalko, pacing in circles slowly. The rest of the Denderrikan force were slowly gathering in a large semi-circle around the spy. Tristan found himself at the front of the semi-circle with Loren to her right and the bulky, grizzly looking Denderrikan 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.” Kenton’s tone was almost 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.” Skorja was struggling to keep his head up high enough to avoid the fine edge of Kenton’s sword.
“A traitor then,” said Kenton, looking at Dalko. Dalko’s face remained unchanging, yet somehow Tristan knew that was bad.
“A traitor to his lineage, to his ancestry. This man’s life is an insult to Denderrikan lineage,” spat Kenton. “May I?” he asked, looking at Dalko. Dalko nodded, placing his hands behind his back.
Kenton pulled back his sword, lifting it high into the air as if to chop Skorja’s head clean off. He came down with a precise cut and sliced Skorja’s right ear from his head, blood squirting everywhere. Skorja screamed, cried out for mercy. 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. Some still did, but a man such as Dalko would only increase in malice at the sound of such a scream.
“Then tell me,” began Dalko, “who is the Chief of Spies?”
“He’s an older man…with a walking staff!” Skorja shouted the last part hurriedly, as if it might help his case. 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 thought he might stumble. 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?” Dalko’s voice was raised into a harsh growl. Tristan saw Loren and many others tense. That tone of Dalko’s must have been a dangerous sign.
Skorja gulped. “Bodry knows of my suspicions. The King likely has no clue.”
Dalko nodded to himself, his eyes down at the ground as he paced. “He will know soon enough, but it will be too late by then.” Dalko walked over to Skorja, kneeling down so that his eyes were level with Skojra, “And do you know why we are going to set up a garrison in Sesten, of all places little spy?” He was talking to Skorja as if he were a child.
“Why is that?” Skorja’s voice was a little louder than a whisper. His mouth was dry and Tristan could hear the crackle from the lack of saliva. He knows he’s going to die, thought Tristan.
A deep guilt dawned on Tristan. 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. No, he was devoted to them, to Dalko. He couldn’t imagine choosing to leave now. Dalko was too dangerous, too cunning. He’d see right through it-- never allow him to live if he were to walk away from their agreement.
“For one, we have fertile land in our possession now. Fertile land that the Crown relies on as an import. The kingdom is already running low on crop and food. Soon, that shortage will be worse. Cropkillers will be upon this land soon, 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. Kenton finished polishing his blade, contemplated putting his sword to Skorja’s neck again. Dalko held out a hand to stop him.
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.
“Why?” asked Skorja, indulging the Ascendian.
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“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.
“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.”