The white walled city of Feynram stood majestic and imposing under the midday sun. Its towering alabaster walls gleamed brilliantly, casting a blinding reflection that could be seen for miles. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings and odd artwork, although it wasn’t in color so that one could not depict much from the art work unless standing directly in front of it. The carvings and art depicted tales of past glories and long forgotten battles.
The streets were paved with polished white stone, and elegant arches connected buildings of pristine marble. Tall spires and domes pierced the soft blue sky, each structure more grandiose than the last. The scent of blooming flowers and meticulously maintained gardens had once graced these streets, but no longer. No longer did the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread drift the nostrils of those who entered its walls. No longer were vendors and bakers selling their goods along the streets as merchants, citizens, and newcomers approached the citadel down the cobblestone path. Crystal-clear fountains had turned to murky water fountains. No longer did the water from those fountains sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. Instead, the water churned and gave off a dull and discontent brown and yellow. The food supply was low, and the crops were diseased. Most were, anyways. That’s how it was now--with the Cropkillers roaming the country. Windem had never known a famine so perilous and unforgiving.
At the heart of Feynram stood the grand and imperious citadel. Its walls were whiter than the rest of the city. Surprisingly, they were well maintained, even still. No hunger pangs could prevent the city’s servants from earning a fair wage by polishing the stone and marble daily. The walls seemed to almost glow with an ethereal light. The citadel’s guard towers reached skyward, crowned with golden roofs that shimmered in the light. At night, a faint blue glow was emitted form the pointed tops of the citadel’s towers. Inside, the halls were vast and echoing, with floors of smooth, polished stone and walls adorned with tapestries that depicted the city’s rich and storied history. The past year had been a new chapter in its history with the takeover of the Denderrikans. Citizens of Feynram had remained, for the most part, with those who did not submit to the takeover being exiled, imprisoned, or even killed.
As Tristan walked down the center of the city’s streets and towards the looming citadel gate, people stopped what they were doing and stared. They did not know his name, but they knew his face. They knew what he was capable of, and had witnessed his abilities with a spear and a sword on many occasions. At first, they had feared him with such a might that many became sick at the sight of him. But that contempt and deadly fear had changed to an awe and an admiration when they had learned that this man was someone who would stand at the defense of the city (should anyone try to breach their walls and bang down their gates).
Tristan’s sword, Drakiler, hung across his back in its scabbard. His spear was clutched in his hand, his thumb running back and forth over the smoothed black leather which held the legendary, magical blade that Dalko had seen in a vision a while ago. The vision was a part of Verr Seeing, which came from a sorceress far to the west and across seas. Tristan had heard stories of her power and influence, but had never met her. He wasn’t entirely sure if she existed, but if the stories were believed, the blade that Dalko had discovered underneath Sesten had belonged to his father, Gareth, when he was Lord Commander of King Tarren’s armies. The hilt was still missing. Without the hilt, the sword was not complete. The finest blacksmiths in the land had tried to attach hilts of all kinds, but the blade had rejected every one with an eerie green aura that blew men off their feet. Some had failed to conceal a smirk at the story, whenever Tristan tried to explain it. Some outright laughed. It sounded ridiculous. But it was true.
Tristan had gotten used to the stares. He ignored them now as he paced through the streets. His head was forward and his eyes glued to the big marbled gate up ahead. He hoped they would open it as soon as he arrived. He couldn’t stand for one more person to approach him and beg for either food or for some service to avenge some tragic loss that had occurred due to the war efforts. War was still raging across Windem between the Denderrikans and the Crown.
“I can spare no food. The city will have your share for you tomorrow at the same time as they do every day,” Tristan would say. He had to shrug multiple people off at times. Citizens would grab at him pitifully, a dull light in their sunken eyes and poverty-stricken faces.
Someone jumped into line beside Tristan as he was walking. He jumped. He pulled his spear back and tensed his body. He relaxed. It was just Loren. Loren Bjornsfear. Beautiful as always, thought Tristan. He was no longer afraid to admit it. He was older now and beauty was something that ought to be recognized. Especially in these trying times.
“You’re jumpy today,” said Loren with a chuckle. “Where you headed Sword Maker?”
Tristan smirked. “To the citadel.”
Loren pursed her lips, furrowed her brows. “Okay, that could mean a lot of things. What is in store for you in the citadel that has you walking so quickly?”
“My man. Found him yesterday. Tied him up at the stables and forgot I left him there.”
Loren gasped. “You left him there? How?”
Tristan and Loren arrived at the gates. To Tristan’s delight, the guards manning the gate were aware of his arrival and heaved on the crank to open the gates. Tristan and Lorens slipped through, making their way toward the Great Hall. It was midday and whatever food could be prepared would be served. The Citadel was privileged in that way. Ever since the takeover, Dalko had allowed fewer and fewer people beyond the high gate and into the citadel. Some were even displaced from their normal homes.
“I had other things to attend to,” replied Tristan.
“Such as?” asked Loren.
“You know how Dalko is. There’s an endless list for me to take care of.”
“Of course I know. He keeps me busy too,” replied Loren defensively.
“Not like he does with me,” replied Tristan sullenly.
“Well I’m not the one he calls ‘Wielder of the One-Sword’, am I?” The corners of Loren’s mouth lifted and her eyes narrowed. She was looking up at Tristan’s face in hopes that he might return a smile but he didn’t.
“It’s all about the sword. It’s not about me,” said Tristan. “I’m happy to serve Dalko. He’s my lord and my mentor. But I just hope he doesn’t get too set on whatever that sorceress shows him in those visions he has. They’re not always correct, you know.”
Loren pursed her lips. He was right.
The two sat in the Great Hall at long trestles with benches for seats. Kenton, one of Dalko’s most trusted men and fiercest warriors, joined them with a hefty mug of ale. He hardly ever spoke and this time was no exception. Asherin Unsworth found them as well, but she, too, had few words to speak. She was one of the few people in the citadel that made Tristan uneasy.
“I’m off to see the man I found yesterday. I reckon he’s being held down below with the rest of the prisoners?” Tristan posed the statement as a question. Loren shrugged.
“How would I know? Best we’d find out.”
“I’m going alone,” siad Tristan. “I’ll bring him to meet you some other time.”
“Why?” asked Loren.
Tristan turned his back to her, heaving his long legs over the oak bench and making sure Drakiler was secured in its place on his back.
Tristan wound his way down a long spiral stairwell, coughing on multiple spider webs and cobwebs as he did so. The air was thick and the smells unpleasant, as one might expect. Rat feces littered the floor. Tristan’s face was covered in shadow as he approached the two guards on duty. The one who reacted to Tristan’s presence first was overweight and sloppily dressed. He wore a half helm that was crooked on his head and far too big for him.
“How can I help you, sir?...lord?” The guard couldn’t tell who it was that stood before him but he began to feel uneasy.
“It’s me, you dunce.” Tristan yanked the half helm off his head and tossed it to the floor. It clattered loudly. The sound echoed down the long hall of barred cells. “Keys.” Tristan held out his hand.
The other guard, who was stick skinny and dreadfully unprotected in regard to his armor, raised a finger. Tristan saw he hardly had two teeth in his mouth. “But…we aren’t supposed to…”
“Keys.” Tristan repeated himself, his right hand slowly inching toward Drakiler. The sword rattled coldly in its scabbard. The guard gulped audibly. He exchanged an uneasy look with his partner. He jangled the keys from their position by a hook on the wall and tossed them to Tristan. He shouldered past them, peering into each cell as he went. He recognized a few faces from the day they had overtaken the city. Most of them were new faces, though. One cell was hosting a dead man. His body was slouched over in the back corner and covered in blood. His face was eaten alive by rats and flesh hung off it like cheese.
“Over here,” came a voice. Tristan turned. Someone sat in the back corner of their cell. It was too dark to make out who it was.
“Who’s there?” called Tristan.
The man gave no reply. Instead, he heaved himself up onto his face. He came slowly forward until his hands rested on the bars of his cell. Eventually his cheeks were pushed against the bars and Tristan could finally see who it was.
“Nothelm,” whispered Tristan to himself. He gave Nothelm a long, studied look. In this lighting he appeared as an entirely different man to the one he remembered from the day before. Oddly, he reminded Tristan of his Uncle Bodry. Bodry Tenthill, Chief of Spies. Tristan shuddered. He felt a gnawing at the back of his throat. He thought he might vomit.
“Are you here to free me? It’s quite cold down here,” said Nothelm.
“Yes. Come on, we’re going.” Tristan spoke without expression. Nothelm noted that Tristan was looking right through him like he was some sort of ghost. He brought the key to the lock, turning it and emitting a soft click. Tristan opened the cell door and it squeaked loudly. A few muffled moans and groans filled the dungeon. Most of the people down here were malnourished or starved. There was hardly enough food to go around the city, let alone the dungeons. The rats were what fed the living. The dead were what fed the rats. The ecosystem of a dungeon, thought Tristan.
He led Nothelm past the guards and up the winding stairway. Their boots clicked with each step. It was eerily quiet. Far too quiet.
“That place is a graveyard,” said Nothelm. “Can almost hear everyone’s bones wasting away. Those rats…they get loud at night when they’re hungry. The lad across me hadn’t even died yet when they got into his cell. He was too lifeless to move a muscle, his mouth too dry to talk.” Nothelm and Tristan paused as they got to the top of the stairs and stepped back into the long corridor which led from the common room of the North Tower to the dungeon. “Thanks for getting me out of there, by the way. I much prefer the company of the horses in the stables. The smell of horse dung don’t sound so awful anymore.” Nothelm chuckled.
“North Tower,” said Tristan softly. He was staring down the long corridor at nothing in particular. Nothelm suddenly felt that unsettling feeling returning.
“North Tower,” said Nothelm, unsure as to why Tristan had said it at all. “What about it?”
“You know why the city put the dungeon below the North Tower?”
“No, why?” asked Nothelm. He wasn’t actually curious as to why. In fact, he didn’t care at all. All he knew was that he was so hungry that one of those rats didn’t sound too bad after all.
“There’s four towers. If someone were on a rescue mission to get someone out from the dungeons, they would have to guess correctly between the four towers.”
Nothelm nodded thoughtfully for a moment, wondering if Tristan had a specific point he intended on making. “Shall we continue down this corridor then?”
Tristan began walking and Nothelm followed. He continued his train of thought eventually. “That is--if the person seeking to rescue a captive even thinks to search underneath one of the towers.”
“Excellent point, erm…lord? Sir? What shall I call you again?”
“Tristan. Tristan is fine.” He held out his hand. Nothelm shook it.
Tristan led him up the North Tower stairwell and all the way to the top where a window that was taller than Tristan sat wide open. Cold air brushed the soft velvet curtains back from their place at the edges of the window. Tristan stepped through. On the other side was a long rampart with tall parapets that lapped the perimeter of the citadel’s main palace. The ramparts connected all four of the towers in one big square perimeter.
Tristan came to rest at the edge of the parapet, resting his elbows on the cool, damp stone. “Quite a magnificent view. Beautiful city,” said Tristan. Nothelm murmured his agreement. “I’m still getting used to it, you know. All the people. The busyness of the place. I grew up in a remote town. Much quieter there.”
Nothelm nodded, although he stood a step behind Tristan so that he did not see Nothelm. “Where did you grow up?” asked Nothelm.
“Sesten. Beyond the Twin Hills…I suppose you aren’t familiar.” Tristan’s tone was gentle and lowly.
“I’ve heard of Sesten. Travelled through there a few times before. I’m from Brantley, of course, which is by the coast on the other side of Windem. Naturally, my travels that far south were fairly limited. Although, the Brantish army had me visiting a lot of locations across Windem. Especially before the border war began.”
“You fought in the border war?” asked Tristan.
“Sure did. That’s where I learned which end of the sword was the pointy end. Found my way around an axe and spear as well.” Nothlem edged his way up to the parapet, resting his elbows beside Tristan. “Before that, I was just like any other Brantish farmer. Minded my own business. Loved my family.
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Tristan gave a harumph. “I’ve seen many skirmishes over the past year or so. But a battle? That’s uncharted territory for me.”
“You seem quite the warrior to me, if yesterday was anything to go by,” remarked Nothelm.
“Yes, well…” Tristan paused, scanning the horizon beyond the tall white walls of the city. “It didn’t happen overnight. I’ve still got a ways to go. I was trained by an Ascendian.”
“An Ascendian?” asked Nothlem, astounded. “Is it the same one who holds this city now?”
Tristan nodded slowly. “Lord Dalko Rivien.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” said Nothelm. “You know, being apart of the opposition army and all. Names get around. Dalko’s being one of those names. Say--come to think of it--I do hear talks about the former Lord Commander of Windem’s armies. He had the same last name as yours.” Nothelm looked into Tristan’s face, which was cold and distant. “Gareth Blackthorn. He was your father…wasn’t he?”
Tristan pursed his lips. He nodded.
“I’ve heard the story. Of course, there’s multiple iterations of that same story. I’m sorry. I’m sure his loss was hard on you.” Nothelm paused, slowly realizing the situation he had found himself in. He was now talking to the son of one of Windem’s most legendary figures in its history. Not only was Gareth Blackthorn formidable, but so was every other Blackthorn who came before him.
“You’re just another Blackthorn in the making, aren’t ye?” Nothelm said, a coy smile spread across his face. “It’s in your blood. To be fierce. Brave. Ambitious. I must say, and I mean no offense by this, but I didn’t know another Blackthorn existed.”
“Most don’t.”
Nothelm waited, presuming that Tristan would continue. He didn’t.
“I get it,” replied Nothelm. “Difficult legacy to live up to. I wouldn’t want that burden either.”
“It’s not that.” Tristan had ripped himself from his casual position along the ramparts with blinding speed. Nothelm backed off a step. A look of angst was clear in Tristan’s eyes. Nothelm cowered away, holding his hands up in an apologetic position.
“I’m sorry, I just assumed that you maybe…had felt that way.”
“I was raised away from everything by design. But I’m still as much a Blackthorn as any of my ancestors before me. And you are sorely mistaken if you think I don’t have ambition beyond the taking of this city. Feynram is Dalko’s victory. This war? This campaign that you and your sorry, little men were taking part in? It’s not my war. Never was. This war belongs to the Denderrikens.”
“But you’re a part of it. I mean, hell, you took this city. You killed my friends. You killed Brantish men, and Knights of Windem. There have doubtless been others. What makes you think you’re not a part of this?” Nothelm appeared genuinely perplexed. Tristan wasn’t sure why, but it only added to his frustration. This man is not worthy of an explanation. I only met him recently, and meant to kill him had it not been for that odd feeling that overcame me.
“I have some things I need to take care of, let’s just leave it at that.”
“Why have you brought me here, to Feynram?” asked Nothelm. That had been what he had truly wondered from the moment he was brought here. He had been patient in entertaining Tristan up to this point, hoping it might spare him from some devious reason that Tristan had in mind. He didn’t trust Tristan and his volatile emotions.
“Why did I bring you here?” repeated Tristan. Nothelm’s brows were furrowed. “That part is up to you. I don’t know you well, not yet anyways. I have a vision for what I want, and I need men at my side. Men like you, who know their way around a weapon.”
“How do you know you can trust me?” asked Nothelm.
“I don’t know if I can. But I can also just kill you if you give me reason not to trust you. It's that simple.” Tristan slowly walked along the ramparts, moving to the right of where they had been standing.
“Well…an unknown Blackthorn lurking in the shadows of the Denderriken war efforts. How unlikely that I, Nothelm Eseloor, should have the chance to join him in his ambitions for vengeance.”
“Who said anything about vengeance?” Tristan stopped cold in his tracks, not looking back at the trailing Nothelm.
“I assume that is what you’re after, is it not?”
“You would be correct,” confirmed Tristan.
“And if the stories that I have heard are true, you are seeking vengeance on the Shadow. Which, if you ask me, is like being upset at world evil and trying to stop the sun from setting every night.”
“I’m not seeking vengeance on the Shadow. My father didn’t die from the Shadow. They were hunting the Orc-eel, and Elric Drakonstone betayed him. He left him to do. I heard this from his own mouth.”
“Elric? As in, the lord commander of King Tarren’s armies?” Nothelm looked like he was about to burst.
“Yes. Him.”
Nothelm’s let out a short chuckle. Then another. Then he was shaking with silent giggles that made his shoulders jump up and down. He finally composed himself, and then continued walking along the ramparts when he realized Tristan had left him. Tristan turned the corner and escaped down some dark, cold stone steps. They were entering a small courtyard down below that was nothing more than a small clearing with more dirt than grass and a few small apple trees.
When Nothelm finally caught up to Tristan, he had finally finished chuckling. He wasn’t sure why it was funny. It just was. Tristan, an unknown man from Sesten, son of legendary warrior Gareth Blackthorn, had ambitions to get vengeance against one of the realm’s most seasoned warriors--Elric Drakonstone. There were too many dimensions to what he had just heard. In addition, he couldn’t begin to imagine how he fit into this story. Nothelm Eseloor of Brantley, a lowly farmer turned warrior.
“Answer me this,” said Tristan. He took a seat on a bench beneath one of the trees in the courtyard. “Why is it that your people are now partnered with Windem? Because, the last time I checked, your men had been engaged in a bloody war at the border for close to a year. What changed?”
Nothelm’s face became grim. “What changed was that your men started coming. If your men take Windem, then Brantley is next. And then Pren. Solaria. Benthicar. Rattgeal. The continent will be Denderriken.” Nothelm stared into Tristan’s cold, dark eyes. They were like small black almonds. Nothelm leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “And I’m not sure where you’ve been or what you’ve heard, but you could find yourself on the wrong side if you stay here. With the Denderrikens.”
Tristan furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes. His look told Nothelm to go on.
“King Tarren--he’s changed. He’s found something…or someone. Nobody knows except for his inner circle. Men like Elric Drakonstone…they know what it is. It’s dark, is all I’ll say. It’s dark and it's powerful and, no offense to the Denderrikens and the Ascendiens, but you’ve got no chance of making a stand.”
“It’s the Shadow, isn’t it? My father’s expedition to Northrock…they found the Shadow didn’t they?” Tristan’s face had contorted into a look of some deep anguish. A deep emotional agony was held there, and it gave Nothelm some pause. Did he need to tread carefully here? He didn’t want to be the bearer of damning news. Tristan had just spared his life, drawn him into his inner circle. He didn’t want to squash that now.
“It’s not the Shadow, although it could be a being that is of the Shadow, if you know what I mean. I know the tales always speak of the Shadow, but the Shadow lies deep within the farthest reaches of Northrock where no man can live. It's too cold.”
“That’s not true. My father could have made it that far.”
“He may have gone far. But not that far. Tristan, this isn’t cold like you or I have ever known. This is a cold that only the ice dragons of ages past can survive in. It’s colder than snow, or ice. It’s just…darkness. An absence of light, entirely. Without light, there is no warmth for the body nor for the soul.”
Tristan nodded his head, suddenly realizing they had shifted topics entirely from where they had started. He hadn’t taken Nothelm for such a knowledgeable person, but it was clear now. This was just the sort of person he needed by his side. Loren was too loyal to Dalko. Dalko was too loyal to his own cause. Tristan had to start anew. Find others who were like him. The Denderrikans would not fit that role.
“You mentioned that King Tarren had changed. My father knew him well, and so did my Ma. How has he changed?” asked Tristan.
“The Shadow has many loyal servants. Some are powerful, others are as harmless as the next vile man you’ve ever met. But one of them has come to Windem, and I don’t think this servant is a mere man. He’s a being.”
“How do you know this? Did you work closely with Elric?”
“People talk,” said Nothelm. “When the Brantish agreed to come together with Windem to fight the Denderrikans, we congregated in Windem’s capital to become united under one banner. I met some people there who were close to the King. They had noted he was much different. He lost his focus on justice, on righteousness, on protecting his own people.”
“What about Elric? Did you ever see him?” asked Tristan.
“I saw him once. Maybe twice. But I never spoke with him. He is high up in King Tarren’s chain of command obviously, as his Lord Commander. We took our orders from him though. That was about it.”
“Mhm.” Tristan checked the position of the sun and gave a small sigh. “I have to attend the council shortly. Here, come with me and I’ll find you somewhere to stay. We can find you a warm chamber and a comfortable bed. You’ll have my stamp upon your name now and no one will bother you.”
“You still don’t even know me,” came Nothelm’s reply. “Before we go, I would like to know what your goal is here. What are we doing?”
“What do you mean?” asked Tristan.
“I’m a defector from Brantish now. A defector from the crown. I’m essentially a traitor--and you’ve got no way to know you can truly trust me. I need to know what your plan is, or else I will find a way out of here. I am no Denderriken, and I will not kill my own people--the Brantish.”
“I don’t need you to kill Brantish men. I need your brain and I need your sword. You either serve me, or you die. There is no alternative. As for my goal, I’ve told you. I will personally see to it that Elric Drakonstone dies. But before I can do that, I have to get to him first. You know where he is.”
A cold wind swept through the courtyard as they walked, emerging through a wooden door and then down a high-ceilinged hallway. Their boots made soft clack sounds on the marble floor. Paintings hung on the walls over heroes from the past.
“So you want to kill the Lord Commander of the King’s Armies? Congratulations, so are four thousand other Denderrikans. You’ve officially joined the war.” Nothelm’s tone was cold. His words sarcastic.
“That is not all I want,” replied Tristan. He drew close to Nothelm, lowering his neck to stare coolly into Nothelm’s eyes. Nothelm suddenly felt very small and regretted taking Tristan’s mercy for granted.
“The weapon that will help me do that is at Castle Rarington.” Tristan’s weapons, Drakiler ad Myroniad, had been criss-crossed along his back. He held Myroniad now. “This is Myroniad. And this,” Tristan pointed at the menacing blade which was attached to the end of the spear by black leather bindings, “is the sword that is going to do it. As you may have noticed, it’s not a sword yet.”
“Where’s the hilt?” asked Nothelm, still cowering under Tristan’s harsh glare.
“Castle Rarington. It was my father’s sword…a gift given to him by a powerful sorceress many years ago. King Tarren should remember. In fact, he may be hiding it at this very moment. If he thinks he can prevent me from finding that hilt, then you can add him to the same list as Elric Drakonstone.”
“It’s not called Castle Rarington anymore, by the way.” Nothelm had one finger wagging in front of Tristan’s face. Tristan lowered the finger with the butt of Myroniad.
“Don’t do that.”
“My apologies.”
“What do they call it?”
“They call it Stormhold. It was renamed after the Kingsguard were slain by the Denderrikens. After the Kingsguard were slain, a lot began to change in Windem. There was no more accountability.”
“Stormhold,” said Tristan slowly.
The two men finally came to a point where they were to split off. Tristan found a guard standing by himself in corridors, right at the split where the rooms for the guests of Feynram split off from the long hall that led toward the courtyard that Tristan and Nothelm had just come from.
“Marn can show you to your room. Don’t be alarmed when the door is locked. It is just a precaution. As you said yourself, we’ve got no reason to trust you just yet. Trust takes time.”
Nothelm nodded, his eyes cast down at the floor. “We should continue talking, young Blackthorn.”
“We will,” replied Tristan. He gestured for the guard to lead Nothelm away. Tristan frowned. His memory had required him to draw back upon that fateful day in Sesten. Sir Crowley Begg’s death. The death of the Kingsguard. The way the arrows had all been sent into their necks simultaneously. There was no negotiation. Just death. Tristan shook his head, hoping to clear his head before he was to attend the council.
Dalko always required Tristan to attend, even though he would have nothing to contribute to the conversation. It was part of his training, and Dalko had been sure to emphasize how crucial it was that he sit in on this. In truth, Tristan enjoyed the council. He learned more about the Denderrikans and about the war every time he attended.
Tristan knocked on the two large oak doors of the Great Room. Two guards from inside yanked on the handle, allowing Tristan to enter the room. The first thing he saw nearly made him wretch. Tristan’s stomach did a flip. He felt vomit catch in his throat, but he swallowed, forcing the acidic chunks of breakfast back down his throat.
In the middle of the room was Dalko Rivien, standing amidst a larger council than usual. He had been in the middle of talking, but he paused when Tristan had arrived. He was holding the head of a Cropkiller rider. His gray, coarse hair was held in a tight grasp, the mouth hanging wide open and blood dripping into a crimson puddle in the middle of the floor.
“This Cropkiller’s horse found our last remnant of uncontaminated cropland between here and Sesten. Kenton managed to find him before he did too much damage and sweep his head clean from his shoulders.” Gasps escaped the mouths of a few around the table. Tristan noted that Loren had been invited to this council. She sat beside a few other familiar faces including Asherin Unsworth and Kenton.
“The disease will spread. Soon, we will not have a clean food supply besides what our hunters can catch with their bows. Even then, we won’t have enough to feed our people once our storage runs out.”
Dalko spent several minutes trying to calm down the room. Everyone wanted to speak at once. Finally, it was Kenton who quieted everyone with an angry shout and a furious fist upon the oak table.
“Enough! Let us listen to Lord Dalko.”
Dalko scanned the room with his cold, menacing eyes. “Vitarko has just recently returned with a scouting party. He lost many men to gain this intel, but here it is. There are more coming. King Tarren is sending a large host of evil filth toward Feynram. There are more Cropkillers, Veracifers, and warriors. They are led by a Servant of Basidin.”
“--who is Basidin?” Kenton interrupted.
“He is who we initially referred to as the Shadow. He is an offspring of Northrock’s vilest corner. A spawn of the Shadow, if you will. Anyways, Basidin maintains residence inside the walls of the Capitol, exerting his influence over the King. He has sent one of his servants to lead this pack toward us. They will decimate all further fertile land within a hundred miles of this city and look to starve us out.”
“We can’t let that happen,” said Kenton. “We’ve got to do something.” Kenton was speaking to no one in particular. He had his head in his hands.
“We will, Kenton. Patience.” Dalko held out a calming hand. Tristan became startled at the sight of a faint, blue mist radiating out of Dalko’s palm. He watched it waft up into the air like a stream of mist and float right into Kenton’s nostrils. He breathed contentedly, relaxing back in his seat. No one else had seemed to notice it. Just another one of the mysteries of their kind, thought Tristan. Or had he learned that from the sorceress? Her name slipped Tristan’s mind. His thoughts then wandered, and suddenly he was thinking about the sword that was rightfully his, which was gifted to his father by the same sorceress.
Dalko continued, assuring the council that a plan was already set in place. “I have spoken with Xenotho, Enfallio, and Vitarko. Upon our conversations and the guidance that we have gotten from the High Lord Maltor, we will put together a team to go and take down this party of Cropkillers and Veracifers before they can get to us.”
“Who will go?” This time it was Asherin who asked. She was garbed in her black war gear.
Dalko’s gaze shifted to Tristan for the first time. “Tristan Blackthorn will lead the group. He will pick his companions.” All eyes shifted to Tristan, who stood with his shoulder leaned against the wall and his face partly shrouded in shadow by the hood of his cloak.
“Tristan, you have ten days,” said Dalko. Tristan smirked under his hood, although no one in the council could see his little smirk. He already knew about the trip. Dalko had told him privately days ago.