Region of Aigoo, twenty miles west of Feynram

7 months ago

The air was crisp and biting in the rocky region of Aigoo. Wind howled through jagged peaks and the ground was littered with sharp stones and hazardous footing. The clearing where Tristan stood was a stark contrast to the lush forests and rolling hills of his former life. Here, the landscape was bleak and foreboding, much like the man who was training him now. Lord Dalko Rivien, Lead Ascendian of the Denderriken army. Tristan was a long way from home. He could hardly even imagine that a place like Twin Hills existed..that Sesten even existed.

Tristan’s breath came in visible puffs as he faced his master. Dalko was not a towering figure, his aura and mystique gave off enough menace to cause Tristan great concern when the blood-thristy battle look came into Dalko’s eyes. It wasn’t a lively, fiery look that most men held. No. It was much more sinister than that. It was cold, almost metallic, like a metal blade that has been sitting in the cold for months. His eyes…their blue gaze was entrancing. Dalko was cloaked in gray, weathered robes that seemed to absorb the color of the white and gray rocks all around them. He was hard to spot at times, blending in with his background. It felt like magic to Tristan, who stood only a few paces in front of him.

“Focus, Tristan,” Dalko’s voice was a low growl, echoing off the surrounding rocks. “An Ascendian must be more than a warrior. You must be a weapon, devoid of weakness.”

“But I’m no Ascendian. You know that,” Tristan growled back. His teeth were bared, his arms shaking. He was battered with bruises up and down his arms from Dalko’s stick. His hips were bruised and sensitive to the touch from falling. Tristan’s muscles ached from hours of relentless training. His hands, raw and bloodied, gripped the hilt of his sword, Drakiler, tightly. Each movement felt like a battle against his own body. He pushed on. Fear and determination drove him, desperate to make the most of each moment. The memory of Sir Crowley Begg’s lifeless eyes haunted him. Those lifeless eyes, the limp body…laying in the streets of Sesten. The Kingsguard lay in a semi-circle around him, helpless. The image had been burned into his brain, and the man in front of him had been responsible. Dalko, the merciless killer. Dalko, the slave to the Denderriken cause. Dalko, the Ascendian who would not be freed of his duty to the High Lord Maltor until they won the war. That was when the sorceress, Saphira (her name always escaped Tristan), would free him of his obligation to the Denderriken cause.

Dalko moved with a fluid motion, demonstrating a series of lethal maneuevers. Tristan struggled to emulate them. Every time he thought he had done it seamlessly, Dalko always had another piece of critique for him. His footwork. His turns. His hip movement. Where he looked with his eyes. His speed. All wrong.

Dalko’s blade cut through the air cleanly. Each stroke had such precision and perfect weight to it. He had put down his large stick and switched to a real blade. The stick was more of a spear without the blade at the end.

“Again!” Dalko barked, and Tristan launched into sequence. His movements were clumsy and unrefined. A million small pebbles underfoot threatened to throw him off balance. He stumbled a moment, cursed, and quickly regained his footing.

“Better discipline. You cursed. The best warriors do not show emotion. That gives the enemy hope.” Dalko was defending Tristan’s blows with relative ease, although it required more effort than it had at the start of their training. Tristan’s strength had improved. There was no doubt about his frame and the size of his muscles, but having grip strength and sword strength was another type of strength entirely. Dalko was relatively small-framed, but none could match the power he put behind his strokes with a sword.

“Your emotions are your enemy,” Dalko continued, circling Tristan like a predator. “They cloud your judgment and make you vulnerable. You must learn to silence them.”

Tristan’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The faces of the Kingsguard, his Ma, Uncle Bodry, flashed before him. He could hear their voices, feel his mother’s embrace, and then the crushing isolation and despair that accompanied their absence. He tried to push it away. Tried to forget that Sir Crowley and the Kingsguard were dead at Dalko’s command. Tried to forget that Elric had taken his Ma. Uncle Bodry was kept a prisoner by Dalko, and who knew who was handling Bodry now, with him still being kept away in a dingy room somewhere in Sesten. He tried to bury these thoughts deep within, but it lingered. It was like an anchor, tethering a ship to the ocean floor. No matter how hard he tried to push away from that anchor, it would not budge.

The sun dipped below the horizon. Long shadows were cast over the clearing. Tristan began to feel a shift within himself. With the setting of the sun came the casting of his cares and worries. The pain, the fear, the sorrow, the anger--they began to dull, replaced by a cold, steely resolve. A steely determination. He met Dalko’s gaze, and for the first time, saw a flicker of approval.

“Good,” said Dalko. His voice was a low rumble. “You’re beginning to understand. But this is just the beginning. The path of an elite warrior, of an Ascendian, is one of solitude and sacrifice. It’s a lonely path. Are you prepared for that?”

Tristan nodded, though a part of him still clung to the remnants of his former self. The journey ahead under Dalko’s lead was uncertain, but he knew one thing. He would not fail to see through his ultimate goal. He was to become a lethal warrior. A formidable warrior. If he could control that, everything else would fall into place. He didn’t need to become lord commander to take back Windem from the grasp of the Shadow. He didn’t need to join Windem’s ranks to take down Elric Drakonstone. That could be planned. It could be a planned, meticulous kill. An assassin’s job. But it had to be him--Tristan Blackthorn. He would do it for his father, and for his Ma. And so it all made sense to him in that moment- the training and the suffering. He could do it, so long as he kept that vision within his sights.

Night came on quickly, and with it came the cold. Swirls of chilly gusts swept through the clearing and whistled between the gaps in the rocks. They had left Sesten earlier than the rest of the group to train alone. The rest of the group would come forty days later. Dalko had insisted that his training must happen now, and it must happen here in Aigoo.

“Why me?” asked Tristan a warm cloak wrapped around him. The fire provided significant warmth, but his backside was still cold.

Dalko spoke, but kept his gaze on the flames in front of them. “I have been shown things in my visions. The Verr-Seeing. The Sorceress Saphira has shown me. You are a Blackthorn, and the rightful heir to your father’s sword.” Tristan nodded, but said nothing. Dalko continued, “Our interests align, almost perfectly. Neither of us are Denderriken by blood, but by every right and interest, we are aligned with this campaign. I want my freedom from Saphira’s grasp, and you want your peace.” Dalko paused, and Tristan could have sworn he saw the faintest trace of a smile. As soon as he saw it, it was gone. “You can have your peace, but first you must understand your destiny lies with us. Your spear, Myroniad, is only at a small fraction of its true power. If you find the hilt, which is somewhere within the depths of Castle Rarington’s stronghold, there will be no one to stop you from avenging your father.”

“How can you be so sure of these visions? The Verr-Seeing, or whatever it's called?” asked Tristan. The shadows of the fire’s hungry flames danced wildly against the rocks like exotic dancers.

“The sorceress Saphira has seen many things. She saw my existence before I was born. Same with the other Ascendiens, Xenotho, Enfallio, Vitarko…when Maltor was still youthful and full of might, he sent out men to find us and strip us from our parents when we were only a few weeks old.” Dalko paused. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees. Tristan watched him reflect on his past, planning his next words carefully as he so often did. He was never in a rush to speak. “I tell you to prepare for a life of isolation and sacrifice, because that is the life I have lived. It is a dreadful way to live, but I have known no other way.”

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“What do you mean?” asked Tristan, surprised that Dalko was opening up to him.

“I was raised without the freedom to feel things, to express myself. I had to suppress those emotions until they didn’t exist. Saphira was the closest person that I had in my life.”

“There were just the four of you?” asked Tristan.

“No. Many more. There are more Ascendiens across Windem even now, gathering their companies and bringing them here to Sesten and eventually, Feynram. But in Denderrika, most don’t survive it.”

Tristan looked at him with his head tilted, eyes narrowed.

“The Ascendiens…most die or lose their mind before they are fully grown. It is a cruel way to raise a child,” said Dalko. “But to achieve what Saphira had seen in her visions, it had to be done. Some of us managed to make it out alive.”

“Like you,” said Tristan. “What was it like, I mean…growing up like that?”

Dalko paused, exhaling a long breath. “Isolation and sacrifice. That is all.”

Tristan nodded, eyes still on the flickering flames.

“We should rest. Tomorrow, we’ll go again” Dalko put out the fire and wrapped himself in his cloak. Tristan had first watch tonight. After all, there was still a war raging across Windem, and they weren’t immune to an ambush.

After forty days had passed, Dalko had completed his training of Tristan. Nearly five hundred members of the Denderrikan army who were camped at Sesten had come to join Tristan and Dalko in the remote rocky region of Aigoo. They would soon march on Feynram and overtake the white walled city. First came Loren, her swirling gray-green cape swirling in the light breeze. She wore shining silver armor, as did many of those who had marched from Sesten. The armies of Windem had united with a large number of Solarians, who were notorious for their poisoned arrows.

“Where is he?” asked Loren. Dalko said nothing, sharpening a small saxe knife with one leg propped up on a large rock. “Tristan, where is he?” repeated Loren. Finally, Dalko nodded in the direction of a small rock outcropping that said just below the clearing and overlooked a steep drop to a vast landscape of cliffs, rocks, and freefall. They were at altitude here.

Tristan sat on the ledge, staring out in the early morning mist. Loren came up beside, taking a seat next to him. “We made it!” she exclaimed. She gave him a bump in the side with her elbow, a wide smile spread across her pretty face. “How’d it go?” Tristan did not lift his gaze from the mist. He pressed his lips firmly together and gave a stiff no. “It went well.”

Loren furrowed her brows. “Is something wrong? What did he do to you?” Loren glanced back toward the direction of Dalko, a scowl spread across her face. “I’ll go talk to him. This isn’t you.” Before she could move from her seat, Tristan’s arm shot up and grabbed her.

“No. Nothing happened. I’m fine.” Tristan maintained his gaze out into the crisp, morning air. A bird soared in front of them, gawking and swooning in large circles before another bird, which looked like a large hawk, joined him.

“Why are you so serious? You’re scaring me.” When Loren didn’t receive an answer, she lifted herself from her seat and left him there. She approached Kenton, frowning. “He’s not himself.”

Kenton laughed heartily. It was the first time Loren had seen Kenton laugh. He patted Loren on the shoulder with a bit more aggression than Loren would have liked. She moved away from him so that he could no longer pat her in the patronizing fashion that he had. He swept his long hair off of his face, grinning still. “Are you surprised?” Loren walked away, equally disgusted with Kenton's lack of concern. “It’s Dalko!” shouted Kenton, as if that would alleviate all confusion.

Kenton approached Dalko, who was still sharpening his saxe knife. Dalko paused from sharpening his knife, “Any trouble on the road?”

“None,” replied Kenton. He re-thought the statement, recalling a few blips in their journey. Dalko waited patiently, disbelieving that there could be no trouble.

“Had to be something,” said Dalko.

“One internal problem, two external.”

“Were they dealt with?” asked Dalko, mildly interested in the same way someone might want to know if a menial task had been completed.

“The internal issue was handled. Xenotho saw to that. It was one of the Veracifers we brought. Their minds are changing. The enemy is winning them over from Saphira. Our Veracifer went rogue and attacked one of our own.”

“And?”

“We killed it--I mean, I killed it. But it was one of our archers. Now he’s blind.”

“Useless now,” replied Dalko. He began at his saxe again now, more aggressive this time before quickly checking his emotions and calming himself down to a more controlled chisel.

“That was one of the internal issues, as he didn’t want to continue after that. His name was Teri.”

“What’d you do with him?” asked Dalko. At the moment, Asherin Unsworth had just approached them, her sword unsheathed and hanging over her shoulder.

“I took care of him. Made an example out of him. Even the blind can find a way to serve our purposes. Teri couldn’t understand that.”

“Good,” said Dalko. “And the other internal issue?”

Asherin and Kenton looked at each other apprehensively.

“What?” asked Dalko.

Asherin nodded at Kenton, gesturing for him to explain the situation. Kenton heaved a deep sigh, and then figured he’d better get on with it.

“One of our men…one of our more vile men who is known for his crude tongue and twisted ways, he defected.”

“Defected? To whom?”

“It’s the evil that’s enshrouded King Tarren, it has a travelling servant. He lures and tempts those who they deem worthy to serve Basidin. They got one of ours.”

“Who?” Dalko’s interest was piqued now. He lowered his voice, realizing that eyes were watching now that many of the travelling Denderrikans were pouring in now.”

“Kael. Kael Voryn,” said Asherin.

“Should’ve never trusted him from the start. Saphira said she had visions of him. He has the potential for great power. She must’ve been convinced he’d serve our cause and not that of the enemy. Didn’t I send Vitarko to deal with Basidin’s messenger months ago?”

“He never did find him,” said Kenton, wincing as he delivered the news. He kept his gaze downward at his boots.

Asherin glanced over at Tristan who was still sitting alone, brooding. “How’d he do?”

Dalko stood for a while. He took a deep breath in through his nose, pursing his lips. A crease appeared on his forehead. The blue glow of his eyes intensified. “He did very well, although he doesn’t know it now. For now, he feels broken.”

“How soon will he heal?” asked Kenton. “Will he be ready for the siege on Feynram?”

“Oh yes,” replied Dalko. Dalko, Kenton, and Asherin were all staring in Tristan’s direction now. Tristan’s back was to them, his legs dangling over the edge of the boulder on which he sat. “Saphira’s visions were quite accurate with him. My Verr-Seeing confirmed it. He’s acclimated much quicker than I thought he would…” Dalko trailed off, then made one more remark before withdrawing from the newly arriving group of Denderrikens. He wasn’t one for crowds. “As for the siege on Feynram, Tristan will be our main weapon.” Dalko took his leg off of the large rock, sheathed his saxe at his hip, and withdrew from the clearing. He climbed atop a rocky foothold in the mountain which stood at their backs, and disappeared into a gap in the rocks that most didn’t know existed without accidentally falling through it.

Kenton turned to Asherin, a look of amusement spread over his face.

“What?” asked Asherin, her tone jaded with disgust. Her and Kenton were occasional lovers, but it never became more than a physical relationship. His uncalled for enthusiasm was one of the things she had come to dislike. She wished he was more like an Ascendian.

“Him,” said Kenton pointing toward Tristan with a thick, beefy finger. “He’s a Blackthorn, just like his father.”