Part 2:

Rain pattered lightly on the leaves. Green leaves swelled with the rain and periodically dumped to the forest floor. It was a light rain, but it was enough to keep the birds quiet. The sounds of the forest were dull and sleepy. It was midday and it was a gloomy, gray day. Tristan’s boots crushed soft piles of leaves underfoot, his gray cloak brushing against tree branches and brush. He held his hunting bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. His sword, Drakiler, was tethered at his hip. He was not a warrior today, but a hunter.

Sir Crowley’s face surfaced into Tristan’s mind. He could see his jolly, plump face and his bushy mustache. The ends were curled upward. He carried himself mightily, like a warrior. Tristan had admired that. Warriors wear their swords across their back, not at their hip, Crowley had said. It’s slower to draw your sword from the hip than from the back. His words echoed in Tristan’s mind as he ducked and side shuffled through thick brush and wet trees. His cloak was thick enough to keep him dry and prevent the water from seeping through.

He grimaced, suppressing a short sob. It was hardly even a sob. Rather, it was a gasp. The scene played through his head in short, repeated flashes. Sir Crowley had died at the hands of Dalko. It was a duel, fair and to the death. But somehow it hadn’t felt fair. The Kingsguard had all been watching. They surrounded Sir Crowley Begg, shouting encouragement and pronouncing bravery and courage unto their seasoned leader. Then they died. They were slaughtered. Slaughtered by arrows from the rooftops of Sesten’s downtown. That part wasn’t fair. They weren’t supposed to die. The arrow in Tristan’s left hand snagged on a thin branch. He tugged at it viciously, yanking the arrow free. He grit his teeth as he did it. Rainwater and sweat dripped from his hair. It was getting long. The front hung over his eyes, and large strands stuck together due to the wet but also the thickness of his dark hair. The back and the sides were down to his shoulders. His master, Dalko Rivien, had suggested multiple times that it was time for a cut. He even handed Tristan his own personal saxe knife. Tristan would thank him with hardly a word. It was more of a grunt. But he shrugged it away. He wasn’t neat and kept. He wasn’t tidy and sharp. He was indifferent, and lost. Besides, Loren liked it long. At least, that’s how it seemed. She still found him sometimes. When he was alone. But there wasn’t the same spark like there used to be. They were just friends…companions. Somehow “companion” felt like the right word. They kept each other company. They maintained their sanity in this crazy world simply by checking in on each other.

A twig snapped to Tristan’s right. His reflexes brought his longbow before him in a flash, an arrow knocked. It sounded like dashing feet. Whether it was a person or an animal, it didn’t matter, Either one would need to be taken care of, unless the person was Denderrikan. There weren’t supposed to be Denderrikans out this far. Not on their own. Tristan was wandering into dangerous territory. It was east of Sesten, and east of their new outpost--Feynram. These lands were still fertile and untouched, unlike most of Windem. It was fertile land that bordered with Solaria. The Solarians were uncertain folks. Some were loyal to Windem, some were loyal to Denderrika. The ones loyal to Denderrika would be largely considered rebels. Outlaws. Solaria was originally in treaty with Windem. That was before all of this. Before Denderrika had begun invading and Brantley had began a border war in the west.

Tristan heard another snap. It sounded like a twig snapped in half. More rustling. He angled his longbow, string drawn back to the right side of his cheek. He was proficient with a bow, but he was no expert. Tristan had no illusions about that. But that wasn’t a concern of his. He was good enough with a bow to hunt for food, and that’s what was most important. Most of the food supply in Windem was dwindling. The capital had most of it. The rest was rotted over and spoiled by Cropkillers. One sniff, one lick from the tongue of those foul creatures, and the crop was infected. It spread like wildfire. Within days, an entire acre would be dead.

Tristan had just lowered his bow when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. It was a blur, but he saw it. Then he heard it. He jerked to his right, made the calculation and released. He maintained his posture, hand still drawn back to his cheek, bow held firmly in front of him. The arrow whizzed through the moist air and clipped a tree. It clattered harmlessly and the chance was gone.

“Buck,” whispered Tristan. He watched the buck leave his field of vision. It was too late now. He’d alerted the buck to the threat. Tristan picked out another arrow, felt the birch of the arrow and ran his finger along the iron tip. The moist air had dampened the arrow and added extra weight that Tristan hadn’t accounted for.

Tristan’s stomach growled. It was midday but he hadn’t eaten in over a day. It wasn’t that he didn’t have food available to him. He refused to take from the stash back at Feynram. That was for the less competent. He could hunt his own food. He wouldn’t be reliant on anyone else for food. Dalko was heading things at Feynram, along with the other three Ascendiens who had arrived to help take over the white-walled castle. Xenotho, Enfallio, and Vitarko. They had a council who ruled over the castle and made decisions for the good of the group. Tristan didn’t know how to feel about their authoritative grip. He didn’t know how to feel about a lot of things. That was why he chose to be indifferent about most things. Politics were a game for those in power and those who wanted to see things change. Tristan wanted change too, but by seizing power and leading masses of people. He could fight. He could be a warrior. He could win battles, and take over lands and castles. That would make a difference. He didn’t have to say a word to do that, besides his ugly battle cries and strained grunting when he was swinging Drakiler or his spear, Myroniad.

He was without Myroniad now and he cursed himself for it. He had decided against bringing it, since it was just a hunting trip. But now he felt naked without it. It had become a part of him now. It was like family to him, just as Dalko had suggested it should be. It was not merely a spear. It had power. He’d felt the warmth that radiated through it when he held. And when he unwrapped the tightly bound black leather and held the blade in his hand, he felt close to his father. Gareth Blackthorn. It had been his blade. A gift from a faraway Sorceress. Her name eluded Tristan. But the hilt was missing when Dalko finally found it, so they had decided to bind it to his spear.

For this trip, Drakiler would do it if he were caught in a bind. His longbow could work as well, but he always felt more comfortable in close combat with his sword or his spear. Swords or spears didn’t lose accuray in the rain. Not like his arrows did. Besides, his size was his strength now. He had grown into a man. He had filled out and no longer needed to do strength training outside his Ma’s house like he used to. He felt a sharp pang of nostalgia course through him. Remembered that small house on the far side of Twin Hills. Uncle Bodry’s visits. Sir Crowley cresting the hill with a gentle smile on his face, awaiting Tristan’s tax payment. He ran a hand over his face, then ruffled his hair. Rain sprayed from his head in all directions. One distant bird floated a symphony from a faraway tree. It gave another hum. There was no response.

Tristan continued trudging through the forest, recognizing every tree, bush, and log along the way. He had come this way before. It was peaceful here. There were markings on the trees made by a blade. They were Tristan’s. The markings led him to a clearing. It almost a perfect circle. The grass with gentle and soft here. He laid down, spreading his cloak beneath him. He laid down his longbow beside him, clasping his hands together with his fingers interwoven. A strand of wet hair tickled his nose and he blew it out of his face without touching it. His face was prickly and cut in some places where he had begun to shave his facial hair. It bothered him when it started to grow. It was itchy. One of Dalko’s Graycloaks and trusted men, Kenton, had assured Tristan it would get softer if he let it grow. He couldn’t wait that long.

Tristan allowed himself to fade into a light sleep. It was the kind of sleep where you aren’t sure whether you truly dozed off or just daydreamed. He would awake for short spurts and then drift off again. He didn’t sleep much at night. He only dreamed of the same horrible things over and over. Sir Crowley’s death and then the arrows going into the neck and chest of the Kingsguard. His Uncle Bodry being bound in chains after being beaten, and then dragged into a desolate room and treated like a dog. And then the dream that came most often…his father’s death. He wasn’t sure whether the dream was true to reality or not, but it came more often than the others and it was slightly different each time, but the general premise remained the same. The most vivid part was his father drowning in icy waters, hardly able to keep himself above water. His arms had a slipping grip on the plates of ice that he had fallen through. He saw the fear in his father’s eyes, followed by a burst of hope. Trust. Faith. A hand reached out to grab him and save him. It would slowly reach down, but for some reason it just could never quite reach him. Gareth’s face would turn blue, his mouth sat open, and his eyes turned a milky white. The hand would withdraw, leaving him to drown and fall through the freezing waters. Tristan knew whose hand it was. Elric Drakonstone. His father’s traitor.

Elric claimed he couldn’t have saved him anyways. His body’s temperature would never have recovered. He would freeze to death. Tristan didn’t know what to make of that part. It didn’t matter to him. He was indifferent. He still hated Elric, although Dalko had tried to work that hate out of him. Dalko thought he had succeeded in that, but deep down Tristan knew it was still there.

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Tristan stirred from his position, suddenly sitting upright on his right forearm. He yanked his gray cloak out from under him. He heard the sound of blades scratching against each other. A few muffled shouts followed it. It was far off, but close enough that it piqued Tristan’s interest. Denderrikans? Solarians? Knights of Windem? There were multiple possibilities. But whoever it was, they were fighting. Tristan was up and trotting further beyond the clearing and beyond where he had left markings on the trees. He didn’t usually go out this far, but then he usually didn’t have reason to.

He nearly lost his sense of direction twice. The sounds seemed like they could have been coming from the east or the west. He decided on heading southeast, and his instincts turned out to be correct. He had assumed the struggle was between a few men, but it turned out to be a small skirmish. It wasn’t exactly in a clearing either, although the trees were well spaced and there was very little brush and bushes along the forest floor in this area. The rain had intensified as Tristan scurried along to this scene of battle and the trees overhead made it darker in the forest than it typically was during this time of day.

Tristan could see right away that there were Denderrikans fighting. They wore their distinctive gray cloaks and carried their own unique swords. The hilts of a Denderrikan’s sword was extremely important to them, as it carried a unique and personal significance to them. Tristan saw they were extremely outnumbered. Close to six Denderrikans were laying on the forest floor, their blood dulled and diluted by the rainfall. There were five more still standing, although two of them looked severely injured and close to feinting.

The other men wore a mix of colors. Most wore beat up, dinged gray armor that was missing in some places. Those men also wore tattered scarlet capes. Knights of Windem, thought Tristan. There were about twelve of them, two of which were scattered on the ground. One of them lay with his limbs splayed wildly and a dagger running through the back of his head and out the other side of his mouth. The other men who were mixed in were in random garb that Tristan couldn’t identify, which usually meant they were Brantish men. If they were Solarian, they usually wore bright white clothing and had jet black hair. There were about four of them, which meant it was fourteen Windem men and Brantish men against five Denderrikans.

Tristan knocked an arrow to his longbow, pulled the arrow back to his cheek and released two separate arrows in the span of six seconds. The first one struck home through the neck of a Brantish man, sending him squealing and sprawling to his death. The next arrow scudded harmlessly off the shoulder piece of a Windem Knight. Tristan’s presence was registered now, and the leader of the group shouted for two men to go and handle Tristan. Tristan threw down his longbow and withdrew Drakiler. The two Knights of Windem carried large battle axes that looked awkward in their grasp. Tristan knew they were likely much more comfortable with their spears, but close combat in a crowded forest made the axe a more viable option. Tristan smiled at the grip they had on their axe. Drakiler felt delightful in his grasp, like it weighed no more than one of his own arms.

Tristan darted in and out of thick tree trunks, yanking branches as he went and sending buckets of rain down overhead as soon as he was within a few yards of the attackers. The first attacker brought his axe up overhead far too slowly, allowing Tristan to anticipate his downswing and dodge harmlessly to the side of his assailant. He used Drakiler like a pike to disarm the knight. His blade clanked against the axe’s head and sent it noiselessly to the ground. He followed up that swing by viciously driving his blade in an upward arc, catching the knight right beneath the jaw with his blade. The other attacker wasted less than two seconds in shock at the speed and might of Tristan’s swing. He took a step back, realizing two late that he needed to raise his own axe to fend off Tristan’s next swing. Tristan’s swung Drakiler, narrowly missing the knight’s face by less than an inch. Tristan advanced another two steps faster than the knight could register his near-death experience, and then finally did meet his end when Tristan came over the top of the knight and slashed at his scalp. He was one of the few knights who was without a helm. Tristan chuckled inwardly at his ill fortune of missing a piece to his armor.

Emboldened by Tristan’s attacks, the other Denderrikans took up a cry of war and made advances on the knights. Three of the Brantish men were taken down quickly by a combination of Tristan emerging from their right and the Denderrikans from the middle. The fourth Brantish man proved to be formidable, parrying Tristan’s every stroke and simultaneously fending off two Denderrikans.

Tristan moved swiftly past the Brantish man, eyeing up the remaining Knights of Windem. He approached them calmly now, swinging his sword around at hip level with frightening hand coordination. His skill with a sword but pit in the stomach of the cowarding knights.

“We weren’t here to harm your men,” one of them quivered. “Please, have mercy on us and we’ll be on our way.” He was lowering his sword to show he meant no aggression towards this larger-than-life warrior who had seemingly appeared from the shadows of the forest. “We are short on food--”

The man beside him echoed his sentiment, “Desperately low on food, sire. We know we ought to stay in away from your crop, but…”

“But what?” asked Tristan. There was no hint of friendliness to be found in his tone.

“But you are actually in…our…” He trailed off seeing malice form in Tristan’s eyes. Most of his face was covered in deep shadow.

“You’re in our land, you bastard.” The third of the knights had stepped forward boldly, his axe held in front of him confidently. He was older than the other two with prickly stubble and a stubborn scowl. “I don’t fear any man. I’ve won my share of duels during this war. This is a war that you Denderrikans started!” He shouted quite angrily and Tristan was tempted just then to wipe his head clean off.

“For your boldness,” began Tristan, “you will die.” Tristan looked at the other two men. “As for you two, I will spare you. I wouldn’t fear you if were weaponless and without my two legs. Cowards.” The two returned blank, confused looks.

“Go,” said Tristan. The two turned and ran. The third knight evidently lost his boldness and turned to run with the other two knights, but immediately tripped over a tree root hidden in the darkness. Tristan came up behind him and buried his sword in the man’s back. Blood pooled over top of his scarlet cape turning it a darker shade than the rest of the cloth.

When Tristan turned around, he saw that the only man remaining was the Brantish man who put up a strong effort and fended Tristan off and also two Denderrikans. Tristan watched as his crude pike of a weapon was swept from his hands. He backed off a pace and found his back to a tree. The Denderrikan who had led the advance on him beckoned two men to either side of the Brantish man, flanking him and cutting off all escape.

Tristan watched with intrigue, as the man seemed to accept his fate. He had kind, dark eyes and his hair was trimmed neatly and he had an extremely straight scar that ran across his forehead. He put his hads up. “All I ask is that you make it quick and easy. I mean your kind no harm, I was simply following my party out here to find food.”

The Denderrikan brought the tip of his sword to the man’s neck, pushing it gently against the soft skin so that a small stream of blood ran down the side of his neck. “In these times, these dark times, there is no mercy. We kill, and we survive.” The Denderrikan set his jaw, pursed his lips and prepared to kill the man.

“Don’t,” said Tristan. He didn’t know why, but he said it.

“Huh?” asked Kayo, the Denderrikan. “Tristan, he’s an enemy. He was trying to steal our crop.”

“We are on their land,” replied Tristan.

“This is our land now,” replied Kayo. His glance shifted from Tristan to the man at sword point, and back to Tristan.

Tristan approached Kayo slowly, his boots scuffing the leaves softly underfoot. He raised a hand slowly, gently bringing Kayo’s blade down. “I said don’t.” Tristan stared at Kayo, his eyes unblinking. Kayo turned away, scoffing.

“He killed some of our men.” The man beside Kayo spoke now.

Tristan withdrew rope from his hip and tied it around the man’s wrists, binding them. “What is your name?” asked Tristan.

“Nothelm,” he replied. His face was full of disbelief, but it quickly turned to anxiety. “If you mean to kill me, please do it now. I’d rather not be subject to torture or mutilation at the hands of your men.”

Tristan stared into Nothelm’s eyes, measuring him. His lips slowly formed a satisfied grin. He opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped. “He’s coming with us,” said Tristan, to no one in particular. Then he turned, slowly walking back towards the clearing he had dozed off in earlier. The Denderrikans followed, bringing Nothelm along as they went. Nothelm trudged behind wearily, receiving contemptuous looks from his captors as they went.

When they arrived back at Feyndram, Tristan had Nothelm tied to a post in the stable with the horses. “Here,” said Tristan. He brought a bowl of cool water to Nothelm’s lips. He drank thirstily. Blood was crusted around his lips and purple bruises had started to form around his face. Tristan scanned his face with narrowed eyes. “Our men do this to you?”

Nothelm shook his head, gasping for air in between deep draws on water. I tried to mount one of the horses when you first tied me up here. I fell and dinged my face up real bad. Quite embarrassing really. I won’t lie to you lord, I don’t mean to stay a while if you’ve got no use for me here besides a slow death.”

Tristan chuckled. Nothelm had an easy going nature about him. The way he spoke of his fall from the horse had been so casual. Tristan spoke briefly before turning and leaving him. “You won’t die here. Not if it’s up to me. You’ll see.”

Nothelm watched Tristan walk away. He saw a lowly spirit in Tristan. His shoulders were slumped. His eyes were dim. But he carried himself with a hidden strength. It was a strength Nothelm knew well, and that only he could truly see. Nothelm had had that same strength once, long ago. He’s after something…or someone. Perhaps he’s been hurt. Nothelm smiled to himself, thinking about the time he’d lost someone dear to him. He never had gotten vengeance on the man at fault, but he’d come to peace about it after many years of suffering. But that had been long ago, and that hidden strength had since left him.