Chapter 26 “The Journey Begins”

Tristan’s group was gathered, supplied, and well fed before their excursion north. The feast had been splendid two days prior. Dalko had seen to it that the talented cooks and chefs of Feynram were gathered and put to work. It hadn’t been difficult to convince them, and no violence had been needed. They would be rewarded handsomely for their troubles, something Lord Grimlor Eyowen had neglected to do even once in his long tenure as Overlord of the city.

Although the fest had served its purpose, the plates lacked variety and consisted mostly of corn, potato, and pork. No one complained. It was a meal fit for a king when there was a famine amidst the land. Most of the food that was brought in by the scavengers was blackened with Rot, which is what folk were calling the decay of the crops.

“We must be cognizant of the city folk,” Dalko said. Enfallio had nodded his agreement before Xenotho chimed in. His voice was deep and rich. “If we want to substantiate our hold on this city and prevent a rebellion, we have to tend to these people better than Grimlor did. Otherwise, they have the numbers. It only takes a few to get a revolt going and overwhelm us.” That had been a mutual understanding amongst the Ascendian leadership. More numbers were slowly pouring in from Sesten now that a new outpost had been established. The next outpost was being scouted now, with the idea being that they would continue to move further north and lay down roots with each community that they were able to commandeer. Fortunately, Sesten and Feynram had resulted in minimal bloodshed.

Tristan was saddling his pack and feeding his horse a handful of hay, patting his mane. The horse whinnied happily.

“Tristan,” came a voice. Tristan turned his head, knowing it was Dalko. “Yes, lord?” It was early morning and the ground had a thin layer of frost covering it. It was a crisp day and the sun was warm overhead. A chilly gust of wind blew occasionally but it was a beautiful day for the most part. Tristan’s stomach was bundled with nerves and angst, thoughts of doubt plaguing him. Was he really cut out to lead this journey?

“Enfallio made this for you,” Dalko handed Tristan a map. The paper was old and wrinkled but the ink was fresh. “It will lead you where you need to go. Just like we talked about yesterday.”

“Plains of Ashara,” muttered Tristan absent-mindedly as he poured over the map. “Are there some places missing from this? It looks pretty bare.”

“Enfallio omitted most places, besides the ones that you’ll need to know. Your route is marked out clearly for you.” Dalko gave Tristan a pat on the back, pursing his lips.

Loren appeared next to Tristan, hearty and cheerful as usual. “Whatcha got there, Sword Maker?” Loren’s eyes darted curiously across the map. Her hand popped up to grab it, her curiosity taking over. Tristan yanked the map from her grasp, a cross look upon his face.

“I haven’t looked at it for more than a minute, give me a moment please.”

Nothelm finished packing his mount and made his way over to Loren and Tristan. A pleasant look plastered across his face. His beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair had been groomed with a saxe knife. His hair was full and thick, but kept short. His hairline was sideways, causing Loren a fit of laughter.

“We’ve only met two days ago and you’re already laughing at me. For what reason has my face brought you joy on this chilly morning?” Nothelm couldn’t help the sheepish grin that spread across his face.

“It’s your hair, Nothelm. It’s not straight!” Loren was giggling and unable to stop herself.

“It's a Brantish cut,” said Nothelm defensively, but secretly enjoying the attention. He had hit it off quite naturally with Loren at the feast. Nothelm had never struggled to make friends.

“If that’s how the Brantish style their hair, then you’ve done a magnificent job. Any more slanted and your whole face is like to look crooked!”

Kenton and Asherin walked past their stable. Their horses had been prepared by the nearest stablehands that Asherin could find. Kenton had tried to make them do it by force, showing them the steel inside his scabbard but Asherin had shoved Kenton away, scowling at him and gesturing him away with a flapping hand. Asherin dug into the pouch at her belt and showed the stablehands three silver coins. Their eyes lit up and their stomachs growled. That was enough to buy something small at the market. They were gauntly skinny and notably malnourished.

Kenton ignored Tristan as they walked past. Asherin gave a cold nod, quickly refocusing her gaze to the mighty black destrier that was saddled and ready. Tristan stared for a while to admire Asherin’s black horse. It was a beautiful beast and its jet-black fut matched Asherin’s black warrior’s garb and black sweeping hair which was tied up into a messy bun. Tristan’s cheeks burned red when he was caught staring. Asherin, feeling his eyes on her, glanced back at and her eyes met Tristan’s. He lowered his gaze first, feeling sheepish for staring. Asherin allowed herself a small grin but lasted only a second.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The five of them led their horses to the main gates and then paused. They were just waiting on Eamon Thorne and his hosts of guards before they left.

“Was that supposed to be for us?” asked Loren, pointing toward the rows of Feynram city-folk who lined either side of the street. There were tons of them and more continued to pile in.

“If it was meant for us, they sure were quiet when we passed through,” said Nothelm.

“It’s not for us,” said Asherin. Nothelm turned to his left to see who had spoken in such a gruff voice, but found no warmth from Asherin. She kept her gaze forward, ignoring Nothelm.

“There,” said Tristan. They heard it before they saw them. The city had begun to erupt in cheers and applause. Understanding dawned on Tristan and his group. Captain Eamon Thorne was a respected leader here. He had the loyalty and love of Feynram, unlike Grimlor. Eamon Thorne emerged from around a bend in the street, coming out of a narrow passageway between two tall buildings that were white as snow.

Eamon’s face was set in a stoic expression, his piercing face scanning the adoring crowd. Tristan watched as Eamon waved to familiar faces, nodding his head reverently at the compliments and well wishes of the crowd. These were his people, and he served them faithfully. The guards behind Eamon cantered their horses carefully through the narrow streets, riding in pairs. The hooves of the horses clacked gently on the cobblestone.

Eamon and his men pulled rank before Tristan. “Eamon Thorne, Captain of the Guard of the City of Feynram…at your service.” Eamon stood with a spear in hand, his splendid gold and white cape and garments shining brightly underneath his chest and shoulder plated armor. “Are we ready to depart?” asked Eamon. Tristan nodded, scanning the city one last time. He hadn’t been here long, but he had felt so safe and secure behind its mighty walls. He wouldn’t see the safety of a mighty city for quite some time--even if the mission went perfectly according to plan.

They were headed to the Plains of Ashara. That’s where Basidin’s servants would be with their Cropkiller horses. If the Plains of Ashara were diseased and destroyed, the entire south Windem would feel the rippling effects. Many would die. Since the war began, food was being ferried from the Plains of Ashara to every city and town south of those plains to keep people fed. The plains were too vast and wide to be guarded. They would need an army the size of Windem to keep the Cropkillers out of the plains. One sniff or one bite of those plains and the disease would spread within days. Windem’s largest natural plains and source of game or food--gone.

Dalko and his council had spent days trying to figure out what benefit that would be to Windem--to kill its own source of crops. Although there was no clear answer, one thing was certain. Whoever was in control of Windem’s war efforts was not in their right mind. King Tarren would be killing his own people if the decision were his. The name Basidin had come up multiple times, and that had bridged into the scouting report which had arrived from Enfallion and his men. The report told of Basidin and his escort of Servants who would be embarking on a trip to burn through the south and cut off the north by skewering the crops with disease. No army could march the distance of the Plains of Ashara without living off the land. Basidin had learned that fact and decided it was a worthy cause. The land would be rotted and destroyed, leaving the vast Plains of Ashara a wasteland, and a death wish to anyone who dared traverse its distance without a few months worth of food.

“Open the gates!” shouted Captain Eamon. Cal and Bard were standing atop the ramparts. Tristan watched as two more men joined Cal and Bard to heave on the large wooden crank that controlled to opening and closing of the gate. The brown gate creaked and groaned. It was open.

The group looked to Tristan, awaiting his command. “We leave for the Plains of Ashara,” began Tristan, unassured. He didn’t feel like a leader. He certainly didn’t believe he was. His eyes scanned the cheering, jubilant crowd. He didn’t mind that the cheers were mostly for Captain Eamon and his guard. His eyes spotted Dalko, leaning over a wooden ledge atop a stairwell that led into one of the buildings off to the side of the main street through the center of the city.

Dalko gave a curt nod, even waving discreetly for a moment. Tristan nodded, realizing that this could be the last time he ever saw his master. His mind flashed back to all of their time spent together in the rocks of Aigoo.

“Everyone feels fear at some point,” Dalko had said one time during their training. “The question is…are you going to show it?”

Tristan turned toward the open rocklands beyond the gate, setting his back against the city he had aided in taking. Show no fear. I will show no fear.

Eamon pulled rank beside Tristan. He had agreed to show Tristan the way. He knew these lands like the back of his hand. Eamon’s guard trailed behind them. In the rear was Loren and Nothelm and then behind them was Kenton and Asherin.

“Are you ready for this?” asked Eamon, his voice rich and thick.

“I’m ready,” replied Tristan, but his eyes were lost and distant. He was entering into the unknown.

“I have already vowed my service to your cause,” began Eamon. “I will not turn back on that. My word is good. I thought you ought to hear it up front.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Eamon…is fine. Just Eamon.”