“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.

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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.”