The young guard whom Eamon Thorne had recently promoted stood watch at the front gate with a more experienced guard named Bard. The young guard, whose name was Cal, stood quietly, his gaze sweeping across the landscape in front of him. Bard was sharpening the end of his spear. His bow and quiver sat leaned against the wall of the ramparts.

Bard had made no effort to get to know Cal, whose vigor and enthusiasm for the job bothered him to no end. This was not the sort of job in which the eager were rewarded. There was no promotion from here–not unless you did something extraordinary and could back it up with excellent abilities as a warrior. Bard was not that kind of man. He let his beard grow wild and kept a permanent scowl on his face. He resented the times they were living in. War was upon them. Whether he wanted to be a part of the war was not up to him. He was sworn in as a guard of Feynram–a steward of the city. Food was scarce enough as it is. If he left his post as guard, he would be without a guaranteed source of food. He looked at Cal, pondered his innocence and youthfulness. He’ll wind up just like me someday, I know it. Bard shook his head lightly, Cal not noticing. Bard looked back to the blade at the end of his spear. He frowned, losing interest. He put his spear down and straightened up, coming beside Cal and giving the landscape one sweeping glance.

From atop the ramparts they had a long and wide range of vision. There was nothing but rocks, dirt…and more rocks. Big rocks. Boulders. But the boulders were spaced so intermittently that they’d surely see if someone were trying to approach the city. They’d have to wait until nightfall to stand a chance of dodging from boulder to boulder without being seen. Cal looked over at Bard, smirking.

“What?” asked Bard.

“Nothing,” said Cal.

“Why are you smirking?”

“Because this is quite amusing.”

“What is?”

“This…this post. Our job. It’s all one big joke.” Cal side-eyed Bard, the smirk still spread over his face.

“You don’t know the first thing about our job. You’re too young. Just wait until you’ve given half your life to this city. Only then will you start to realize that the Captain is only here to make our lives miserable.”

“Captain Eamon?” asked Cal.

“No, the other Captain in this city,” said Bard dryly. “Yes, of course I’m talking about Eamon. He’s got a stick up his–”

“What was that?” Cal was pointing somewhere indistinctly. Bard’s head jerked up.

“That’s called a rock, stupid.”

“No, behind the rock. I saw something. A shape. Looked like a person.”

Bard and Cal started a while, silent. The sound of the wind and city noises carried faintly through the air.

“It’s nothing,” said Bard. “Get used to it.”

“No, I know what I saw,” replied Cal.

“If someone is deciding to hide behind a rock outside of our walls, I must say…I am not concerned. One person is not scaling these walls on their own.” Bard gave a low grunt in amusement, and then allowed it to cascade into a series of deep bellied chuckles.

“We should still keep an eye on it and possibly report it. Captain Eamon would want to know.”

“What’d you know about what the Captain would want? You’d be wasting his time– is what you’d be doing. If someone is lurking around out there then they’re a fool.” Bard grabbed his bow and knocked an arrow from his quiver. “I hope you’re right, just so I have something to pass the time. But just so we’re clear, I am fairly certain there is no one out there. Standing here for long periods of time can make you see things…you’ll see.”

“Someone’s coming,” said Cal. He was pointing straight ahead out into the distance. A blurry outline of a figure could be made out along the horizon. He was alone, and in no hurry.

“Could be one of ours,” replied Bard.

“Where’s his mount?”

“Maybe he lost it.”

The two stood in quiet anticipation. It was more of a fascination than anything else. Anything to pass the time was welcome. They still had six long hours before relief came.

More details could be distinguished now. It was a man in a billowing, oversized gray cloak. The shade of gray of his cloak seemed to blend with the surrounding landscape. Cal felt his eyes go in and out of focus. As the man came closer, Cal’s palms turned sweaty. Part of him craved something to do, but most of him was perfectly happy to stand here with nothing to do. He was new and young, and didn’t want to screw anything up. Captain Eamon had invested in him and entrusted him with this responsibility as Feynram’s newest guard.

Bard’s stomach rumbled audibly with hunger. Cal lifted an eyebrow, peering over at Bard. “Hungry?”

“I’m always hungry. Our portions get smaller by the day.”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

–

Cal’s mouth was dry as cotton by the time Tristan had come within speaking distance of the gate. Bard was tensed up, a look of deep concern spread over his face. Who was this man, and what did he want? By the color of his cloak, they knew he wasn’t a Knight of Windem. He was possibly a Denderrikan, most likely, or even a Brantish or Solarian who did not align with Windem. That would make him a rebel.

“Probably a messenger of some sort. Let me handle this,” Bard muttered.

The air was thick with tension as Tristan stared down the two guards at Feynram’s front gate. Bard, the experienced veteran, squared his shoulders and met Tristan's gaze unflinchingly. Tristan scanned the entire walled city, marveling at the beauty of its walls and tall towering structures.

“You alone?” asked Bard.

“Couldn’t say,” said Tristan.

Bard pursed his lips. “Who sent you?”

“I serve Lord Dalko.”

Bard and Cal exchanged a confused look. Who was Lord Dalko?

“I don’t know the name.” An awkward, silent tension filled the air. A minute passed. “Denderrika or Windem–whom do you serve?” asked Bard.

“Denderrika.”

“And what business does Denderrika have with Feynram? This is a city marshalled by loyal citizens to Windem.”

“Windem’s leadership is tainted…corrupted.” Tristan let that sit for a moment. Bard chuckled.

“I answer to my Captain, who answers to my Lord. What happens in the Capitol is none of my concern,” said Bard.

“Perhaps it should be,” replied Tristan. “Anyways, let’s talk about why I’m here. I want entry into your city. In fact, I’d like to make your city an outpost for Lord Dalko and the Denderrikans. Now, there are a few ways we can go about this. The easiest way is probably the best case scenario for you and your people. You can open those gates and let us in. Nobody has to die.”

Bard scoffed at this. Cal shifted uneasily beside him. He glanced around, caught something in the peripheral vision. There was something brightly shining in the sky to the east. Fires. Cal turned to nudge Bard, but Bard had already began to talk with this stranger again.

“Us? Where’s the rest of you? All I see is one man who seems to think he can make irrational demands to a well garrisoned city. You see these walls?”

Tristan whistled. Rocks began shifting into people. Gray cloaks slid out of their crumpled, balled shape. Cal and Bard stumbled back a step, shock evident in their faces. Those cloaks had been like magic…

“How many?” muttered Bard. Cal was still looking back and forth between the distant fires and the scene down below. Bard slapped him on the arm. “Got to be around fifty. Go get more guards. Get Captain Eamon.” Cal nodded, scurrying off to find Captain Eamon.

"You have some nerve, showing up at our gates with an army at your back," Bard growled, his voice low and gruff. "What makes you think we'll just let you waltz in, hmm?"

Tristan's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Come now, Bard, is that any way to greet a fellow traveler? All I ask is for safe passage into your fine city. Surely that's not too much to ask?"

Bard scoffed, shaking his head. "You think we're fools? We know your kind, Tristan. You come bearing 'requests,' but really, you mean to take what you want by force." He spat on the ground, his eyes narrowing. "Well, you can forget it. Feynram does not bow to the demands of invaders. This city will never be a Denderrikan outpost"

Tristan's expression darkened, and he gestured to the small army which stood behind him now. "That's a shame, Bard. I was hoping we could come to a reasonable agreement." His voice lowered, taking on a menacing edge. "But if you won't let us in, then we'll have to come out and meet you in battle."

Bard fixed Tristan with a steely glare. "Your malice does not threaten me. Feynram has stood against greater foes than you. We will not surrender this great city, not now, not ever." The tension in the air was palpable. Tristan's eyes narrowed, signaling to his army. The sound of weapons being drawn echoing across the open space. "Then you leave me no choice," Tristan said, his voice dripping with menace. "Feynram will fall, one way or another."

And then came the catapult on wheels. Twelve men had begun to wheel the catapult out from behind a very large cluster of rocks. It wasn’t the biggest siege engine Bard had ever seen, but it had range and could likely fling small projectiles a good distance into the city. How the hell did they wheel that thing out here without anyone seeing? Thought Bard.

Just then, the rest of the guard arrived in large numbers. Captain Eamon was running behind them, Cal at his back with a perplexed look spread across his face. There were now close to thirty guards shuffling in along the ramparts. Down below, a small militia of city guards formed just inside the gates, as Eamon had ordered. They needed to be prepared for the worst case scenario. Battle.

All thirty guards had grabbed their bows and were knocking arrows. “Concentrate your aim on the one in the middle,” said Eamon, pointing at Tristan. “Don’t fire until I give the signal. We may be able to handle this civilly.” That was how Eamon Thorne would have preferred things to pan out. It was not worth losing lives where possible. The war was claiming enough lives across the land. Eamon frowned as Bard caught him up to speed. It was difficult to gauge how serious he should take this man who stood below with an army of fifty and a catapult.

“What is your name?” called Eamon.

“Tristan.”

“Your full name please.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does, yes.”

“I serve Lord Dalko Rivien of Denderrikan. That ought to be enough,” said Tristan. Disclosing his identity as a Blackthorn was not an element he hoped to add to this situation. “Who are you?”

“Eamon Thorne, Captain of the Guard.”

“Who is your lord?” asked Tristan.

“Lord Grimlor.”

Tristan liked Captain Eamon. Liked him far better than Bard, who was still standing with a foul look on his face. Eamon seemed a reasonable man.

“May we speak with Lord Grimlor?” asked Tristan.

Eamon withheld comment. Tristan turned, looking at Kenton and Asherin. They nodded affirmingly. Eamon’s silence was deafening. Lord Grimlor was being held by the Ascendians. That part of the plan had worked. Tristan looked to the east and saw the black smoke drifting up into the soft blue sky.

“We can avoid all of this,” said Tristan. “Let us into your city, take us to your lord. We just want to talk.”

“If it was merely talk, you can do it right now, right here. With me,” said Eamon.

Tristan nodded. “We can explore other methods too, then.” He turned to the men who were manning the catapult. “Load it up.” Two men hoisted a large rock into the catapult. They pulled the crank tight and the catapult grunted and strained under the stress.

Eamon, visibly stressed by the prospect, began to speak in a loud voice. “Tristan, you know we can’t let you in here. This is a city under the rule and jurisdiction of King Tarren. To surrender would be cowardice, and we will have no cowardice here!”

“It would take a wise man to surrender, Captain Eamon. A wise man would think about the lives that he could save–the innocent citizens who might get hurt. Let us into your city, or we’ll start letting the rocks fly.”

Loren was standing a few feet behind Tristan, spear in hand. She wondered when Tristan had learned how to negotiate and speak so smoothly. His training with Dalko taught him how to be a warrior, she assumed, but what part of that training involved speaking skills? He no longer seemed like the shy, easy-going boy she had met in Twin Hills. The boy from Sesten. He was a man now and confidence coursed through him. He was turning into a Blackthorn.