Tristan yearned to go and see Bodry. He had tried on numerous occasions to sneak over to the far side of town, but the guards would not allow it. Dalko refused to allow it. Tristan was still pained by Bodry’s imprisonment. He felt responsible. It felt wrong. Bodry as Chief of Spies? How was it possible? It had already felt odd and wrong that he had learned long ago that Bodry was working as a spy at all…but Chief of Spies?

The plan that Tristan had decided upon was to remain with the Denderrikans for now, as there was no other choice, and then to try and free Bodry and escape together. He knew it would be difficult, but he would do whatever it takes to try to make it happen. In the meantime, Bodry could heal from his wounds that he had received when he first entered the town and was beaten by Denderrikan warriors. Tristan would use the time to try to figure out what power he had and become strong enough to make the escape. He wanted to find out about this fabled sword Dalko seemed to be fascinated with. He also knew that Dalko planned to train him to be a warrior. He didn’t know how long it would take, or if Dalko even had time to do that. Dalko seemed to be spearheading things as part of the Denderrikan invasion. Scouts were constantly going out and coming back into Sesten with word on how the war was going.

Things had intensified. Apparently the scattered warbands were starting to crumble. A rendezvous point was being organized by an Ascendian named Vitarko, where the warbands were to meet up amongst the remote and desolate crags of eastern Windem and regroup from there. Windem would be convinced that the warbands were retreating, but it was only to reorganize and redouble their efforts. Windem was taking the war seriously enough now that they had recruited all men over the age of sixteen and garrisoned every town, city, and village that was not already ransacked or invaded with at least two hundred men.

The next phase in the war involved the Denderrikan take over of Windem’s busiest, most significant city. It was the white-walled city of Feynram. It sat strategically in the heart of Windem. It was the busiest trade center in all the land, the wealthiest land and its suburbs and settlements spread beyond the city walls in a fifty mile radius in all directions.

“To kill a multi-headed dragon, go for the heart and not one of its heads,” Xenotho had said. Xenotho, Enfallio, and Dalko met often--and was most commonly referred to as “the meeting of the minds.” Tristan was occasionally allowed permission to sit in on those meetings, but Tristan had learned that this had only cemented the fact that he was to be monitored closely and never allowed to leave Sesten or that of the Denderrikan cause.

“If you take up a position of power someday,” Dalko had said, “which you will, if the Verr Seeing is correct, then you ought to know some of these things with which we speak.”

Tristan had merely nodded, a blank look spread over his face. That’s good and well, but when will I get to see Bodry? He wondered. He also was beginning to question why this war needed to happen at all. Why did the High Lord in Denderrika need more land? Denderrika was huge, and this war was costly. Besides, Windem hadn’t done anything to provoke Denderrika. Tristan only knew why Dalko and the Ascendiens led the fight. The answer was that they wanted their freedom. They were slaves to Saphira’s potion. Without it, they would shrivel up and die, literally. Only once the takeover of Windem was complete would they be freed from the curse. Tristan never bothered to ask Dalko what he’d do once he was free, but he wondered about it occasionally.

After the Verr Seeing vision of the whereabouts of the fabled sword, Dalko had set about collecting men to dig up the sword. The location was exactly as Dalko had envisioned it. The giant fountain of a flute player with fairy wings had to be dug up and removed in order to dig beneath it. Dalko failed to warn his men about what would happen if they hit something hard and metal, which they did, and the same scene played out that Dalko had witnessed in his vision. He believed it would ruin the vision if he were to interrupt the way it went down.

The blade was brought forth to the Ascendiens, who admired the blade with greed in their eyes. None dared touch it. They knew it was a sacred blade and they did not wish to invoke a curse of bout of misfortune upon themselves. The Ascendiens were always in fear of such a thing.

Dalko had ordered the enslaved blacksmiths to try and fashion a hilt to the blade. When they found it, it had no hilt. The hilt that had formerly been attached appeared to have been removed.

“Why did they remove the hilt, I wonder…” said Dalko, ponderously.

“Let us attach our own hilt and find out,” replied Xenotho.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Two blacksmiths died mysteriously in the crafting of a hilt that fit the blade. They simply collapsed and never awoke. Once the sword was completed, Dalko made one of the Sesten slavesman wield the sword. He became green in the face, retching, collapsing, and then seizing before barely surviving the fit.

“Remove the hilt,” ordered Dalko. “The hilt is somewhere in Windem, likely with the King. In this case, the blade cannot be wielded without the correct hilt.”

“The sword is a living, breathing power. It will not be corrupted by a hilt of a lesser degree, it seems.” Zenotho had his thumb grazing over his chin thoughtfully.

Dalko nodded. Enfallio had his hands gripped over the rubied pommels of his dual short swords at his hips. He started, pointing to the hiltless sword. “I wonder…” he trailed off, thinking.

“What?” asked Dalko.

“If that blade was meant for the Blackthorn boy, and the legend says that the sword belonged to his father…can he wield the sword, even with the incorrect hilt?”

“I will not risk it,” replied Dalko.

“I agree,” chimed Xenotho.

Tristan had been standing with them, listening. He spoke little around these men. Their kind made Tristan uneasy and the talk of him as some sort of powerful being was beginning to turn him sick.

“I have another idea then,” said Enfallio, his purple eyes beginning to glow. He was looking at Xenotho’s two-sided pike. “Have the blacksmiths attach the blade to Tristan’s spear. Leather bound most of the blade to the wood of his spear, and leave just enough of the blade showing at the end so that it's a proper spear.”

This consideration led to a slew of debate and arguing amongst the three men. Finally, Tristan spoke.

“Do it.” At first, the men slowly stopped arguing. Their heads slowly turned toward Tristan. “Do it,” repeated Tristan. “It’s my blade and it was my father’s sword. I already have a sword for now but my spear is weak. Let us fashion it into a spear for now.”

The three Ascendiens gave thoughtful looks. It appeared as if they had somehow come to an agreement by speaking with their minds and not their mouths.

“Fair,” said Dalko.

The blade was attached to Tristan’s spear that same day. He wielded it, and it somehow felt lighter in his grasp than it ever had. It felt as if it were humming, radiating some sort of unseen strength. The blade itself glowed a cool blue. It was dim, and low. But it was there--its power filled Tristan with confidence and awe. He tested it out a few times, sparring and stabbing. Xenotho and Enfallio stood with arms crossed, smiles spread across their faces. Dalko’s face still held a scowl, as always.

Loren turned a corner, then stood and watched. Tristan paused a moment, catching her staring. She smiled. He smiled back, dropping his eyes to the ground, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

“Tristan Sword Maker…” began Loren. “Shall I call you Spear Master now?”

“Not yet,” interjected Dalko. “He’s got a lot of training with that spear to do.” He lifted his voice toward Tristan. “We’ll begin tomorrow and train here in Sesten for two weeks. Beyond that, my Company is moving out and leaving Xenotho and Enfallio here to man this base.”

Dalko unfolded his arms, striding out into the clearing where Tristan wielded his spear under a red sunset sky. “This weapon will become an extension of your arms. It will become closer and more familiar to you than anyone you’ve ever loved.”

“Where are we going? You know, after the two weeks?” asked Tristan.

“The White-Wall City of Feynram. But first, we will establish a camp in the rock-lands a few miles outside the city. It is there that we will continue your training until you are ready.”

Tristan frowned. “How long will that take? This is a war, right? The war can’t simply be put on hold until I’m ready.”

“Oh, yes it can,” replied Dalko. “Our other forces will continue to invade, create skirmishes and distract King Tarren’s armies. But our main weapon, our secret weapon, will be us.”

“Us?” asked Tristan. “The company?” He thought of Loren, Asherin, and the others.

“By us, I mean you,” replied Dalko. “You are the Wielder of the One-Sword, the High Ruler of the seat of Windem. Whether you seat the throne as a Denderrikan or not, that part is up to you. But if the prophecy remains true, the fate of Windem lies in your hands.”

Tristan set his jaw, looking down at the spear in his hands. “Well then,” began Tristan. “I guess a great weapon like this one ought to have a name. After all, you told me yourself that this spear will need to be the closest family I’ve got.”

“Indeed,” agreed Dalko. “Got any ideas?”

Tristan paused a while, thinking. “What is the Denderrikan word for spearmaster?”

Dalko set his cold, blue eyes on Tristan, pursing his lips firmly. “Myroniad.”

“Myroniad,” said Tristan softly, testing it out. “I like it.”

End of Part 1