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—a 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.
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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.