PRESENT DAY

Tristian Blackthorn was fourteen years old with a moody head of curly brown hair. Tristan went about tidying up the outside of his mother’s home. He was busy stalking after a groundhog, a dagger in his right hand. He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly, the blade jutted out behind him so that he could bring it down in a harsh stroke when he got close enough. He never was quick enough to catch those groundhogs. He came mighty close a few times. He had caught a few rabbits before, but those had been away from the house and over the hills. He often took the liberty of wandering about the land of Sesten, sometimes going missing for half a day at a time but always returning before the sun went down. He knew his mother would be waiting for him then. She always stood leaning against the door frame to their small, cubed house. A thin but tired grin would be spread over her beautiful face, her eyes twinkling a bright blue. Her eyes were dazzling, even in the dimmest of light.

Tristan’s eyes were dark, like his fathers. He still had a thin frame but he was starting to lengthen out. He had grown nearly four inches in the past six months, bringing him to five feet, ten inches. He always told his mother that he would be taller than his father ever was. She would nod her head and say, “okay, Tristan.” Usually she would be prompted to take another sip of stew, as these conversations always happened at the dinner table.

“I’m going to be tall as a giant and have thick, strong arms just like Uncle Bodry!” Tristan would say enthusiastically. Mildred would chuckle--in that tired way that many mothers do after a long day of worrying about her child, cleaning the house, preparing supper, and also getting the breeches and linen shirts clean that Tristian would dirty up. Those white linen shirts would get so stained with green grass and brown dirt that Mildred tried to imagine what had to have occurred for his clothes to get such a way. She imagined him standing at the top of the Twin Hills (a pair of hills that had become a trademark for the town of Sesten) and gliding down on his stomach as torrential rain drenched the grasses and made for a natural slide.

“Uncle Bodry hasn’t been by in a while. I hope all is well with him,” Mildred would say.

“Do you want to go find him? I can go look for him!” Tristan would shout. He was already halfway out of his seat, only two spoonfuls of stew to account for.

“No Tristian. Today’s adventures are over. It’s getting dark and we don’t go out alone when it’s dark.” Mildred had a soothing way of speaking that would bring Tristan down from his wide-eyed grin and near-explosive energy levels. “Eat your stew before it's cold. I spent a long time on it.” Mildred waited until Tristan had taken his seat again and brought a spoonful to his lips before she brought her own spoon to her mouth. “See?” she’d say. “Good, huh?”

“Eh…I’m getting tired of stew,” Tristan would say. He was still young and naive, unaware of the effort that went into the daily supper preparations.

“You’re not hungry?” Mildred asked.

“No, I am. But not for stew. I want to go out and catch you something, Ma. I’ll ask Uncle Bodry if I can borrow his bow next time he’s here. I bet I could kill something big with that thing.” Tristan looked down at his stew. Steam no longer simmered from his bowl.

“I don’t think that bow is for hunting, honey. That bow is for other…things,” Mildred said.

“Like what? Killing…people?” Tristan had an innocent curiosity spread across his face. His dark eyes caught a glint of the dimly-lit candle on the table. Mildred smiled at him, a mixture of apprehension at the topic but also a deeply-devoted love for that face which reminded her so much of Gareth. Their resemblance was uncanny sometimes.

“Yes, like killing the bad guys,” replied Mildred.

“Was father killed by bad guys?” asked Tristan. Mildred was bringing a spoonful of stew to her mouth but now she paused. She lowered the spoonful slowly. Her eyes dropped to the wooden-planked floor, formulating her thoughts. She fought back tears. Tristan shouldn’t see this…couldn’t see the tears. Those could wait for tonight when Tristan was sleeping.

She lifted her head, finding her strength.

“No, he wasn’t killed, sweetie. He left our world attempting something…amazing,” she said. Tristan had heard bits and pieces before, but his curiosity was always begging for more of the story.

“Like what?” asked Tristan. Mildred took another spoonful of stew. The warmth was a welcome feeling, warming her chest like a hot flame.

“That’s a story for another time. Eat your sup.” Her face quickly grew tight and Tristan knew that would be the end of it. Sometimes she would indulge him. This was not one of those times.

Tristan finished his stew, finishing off the last few sips by tilting his bowl back and letting the liquid drain into his mouth. He had eaten so quickly that he hardly tasted it. Supper was hard. While all of his friends sat around the table with their fathers and mothers together, Tristan only had his Ma. He didn’t even have any siblings. No brothers and no sisters. He wished he could have at least had a brother. An older brother. That would be nice. Instead, he looked forward to visits by Uncle Bodry.

The next day was a typical early spring day. The weather was still chilly. There was some ugly weather pushing through. Cold winds and spitting rain made for a dreary and depressing day. It didn’t stop Tristan from going outside. Their modest home was on its own, away from most of the other townsfolk. They were just on the other side of the Twin Hills. The foot of those hills were just an acre from the front door to their home, and behind them was half an acre of green, rich grass followed by a thin stretch of trees that eventually turned into woods. On rainy days such as these, Tristan knew he was not allowed to wander past the Twin Hills, nor past the point where the thin trees turned into thicketed forest.

He pulled out his wooden sword from the lean-to that was behind their house. It was a lean-to that was old and rickety. Its wooden pegs threatened to crumble under the stresses of the cold winds. It was built by Gareth many years ago. The wood rotted now and held a dull gray coloring. It had once been a rich brown. The wood was cut, chopped, and assembled into a shed using the trees that were already there on the land. The house was built by Gareth as well. Although, they had not lived here until Gareth’s death. Mildred preferred the term “absence,” which sounded far less gruesome and grief-inducing than “death.”

The wooden sword was a gift from Uncle Bodry, unsurprisingly. Tristan twirled and thrusted his sword. He danced around log stumps and tree trunks that laid around the house. He imagined he was ducking and evading other knights in battle. He imagined that he wore the silver-plate armor of Windem. He imagined a billowing cloak that color of Claret. It was Windem’s colors. He dreamed that one day he would fight for Windem, possibly even as Lord Commander of the King’s Armies, just like his father had. In his mind, the position had never been filled. They were waiting for someone…anyone.

He spun around a tree, flailing his sword as if someone were exchanging a flurry of blows with him. He put his back against the tree again and then spun out the other direction. The rain added to the drama of his imaginary battle. Men were being slain all around him. The hopes of Windem rested on this one man. Their Lord Commander, Tristan Blackthorn.

He leaped up onto a fall tree, walking along the base of the trunk and balancing with one arm out and the other with his sword held out with the tip pointed. Two more imaginary parries and a thrust. His mind envisioned dancing along the parapets of Castle Rarington. The rain slashed down. His hair was matted to his forehead. His main enemy would not die. Not without a grueling fight. His slashes came out extremely clumsy, but it didn’t matter to Tristan. To Tristan, he was the greatest warrior Windem had ever seen. He was a prolific fighter and leader, just like his father.

“You cannot best me, Dark One!” shouted Tristan over the sound of the rain. The rain was coming down now in heavy sheets. Tristan enjoyed it. It was adding to the atmosphere of his made-up story. Dark One was an imaginary foe that Uncle Bodry had told him about.

Tristan’s foot slipped on the side of the tree trunk. The bark had become weak and damp from the rain and so it had chipped off right as Tristan stepped. He tumbled to the ground. The sword fell first but his side landed on the wooden crossbeam where the hilt met the blade. He grimaced, wincing. Sharp pain shot up his side. He allowed himself to roll around in pain but quickly took up his sword again, staggering to his feet and imagining the Dark One slowly approaching him. It pleased Tristan that he had taken a tumble. It fit the storyline.

He kept his left hand clutched to his right side. His right hand maintained a steady grip on the hilt of his wooden sword. The duel continued for some time. Eventually, an hour had passed. And then two. And finally, after Tristan was so winded and fatigued from all of his play-pretend sword fighting, he dropped his sword to the ground and sat on a tree stump with his head hung while he caught his breath. He remembered the words of Uncle Bodry. If you want to be a knight someday, you’ll have to become strong. Do you know how to become strong, Tristan?

Tristan had nodded yes with some enthusiasm. He had gotten down onto the ground and began hammering out pushups. He chanced a couple of glances up at Uncle Bodry, unwilling to stop until he saw some note of approval on his face. Wasn’t this what he’d meant?

“Physical strength is important, Tristan. But I’m talking about a different kind of strength.” Uncle Bodry was holding a thick, smoothly sanded staff. It was made of oak. He put it down, leaning it against a tree trunk. They were in the same part of the back lawn that Tristan sat in now. “I am speaking of strength from within.” Bodry slowly raised a bony finger to his heart. He tapped twice. “And here,” Bodry raised his finger to his head and held his finger against his head. Then he tapped it twice. “You must have both to be a Knight.” Bodry’s serious manner disappear and a warm, safe smile crossed his face. Tristan’s mouth was open in an “O” shape. His eyes were studying Uncle Bodry’s. There was a deepness to those dark brown eyes. He had crow’s feet at either corner of his eyes. His neatly trimmed white beard was slightly longer than it usually was. He still maintained a healthy crop of white hair, although it was thinning towards the back.

“Is that what being smart is?” asked Tristan. He was only ten at the time.

Bodry brought his thumb and his finger to his beard. He stroked a time or two. “Yes, you could say that.” Uncle Bodry was smiling again in that way that he often did. It was a smile of amusement. Tristan liked it. It felt warm and happy. His Ma never smiled like that. Not anymore.

“But you will see as you grow older. Being strong is in the mind,” Bodry tapped his head again. “It is here. But, do not stop with the pushups. Physical strength is of importance too. In order to carry out the will of the mind, the body must be willing and able.” Uncle Bodry pulled back his oversized brown robes. He reached inside and grabbed something that was hung at his hip where his sword usually was. Tristan noticed that his sword was tethered to his other hip today.

“I’ve got something here for ya, Tristan.” Bodry began to withdraw a long wooden stick. It had a crossbeam hammered where the hilt was. Tristan, thought the boy. He loved hearing his name spoken by Uncle Bodry. His voice was deep and rich. His name felt so powerful and important when it came out of his Uncle’s mouth. He wasn’t truly his Uncle, not by blood. But he was as much family to Tristan as his own Ma.

“What is it?” asked Tristan. He thought he knew, but he asked anyway. He wanted to hear the words.

“It’s a sword. It's for you, Tristan.” There it was again. Tristan. Spoken so cleanly and richly. His Ma always said it with an exasperated pitch to it. A sigh often followed his name. But this was a man’s voice. It was Uncle Bodry’s voice. Father had known him, and apparently they were close (according to what little of Uncle Bodry’s background had been told to Tristan by his Ma).

Uncle Bodry held the sword in both hands, as if he were handling a real, sharp-bladed sword. Tristan received it the way he’d seen other knights do it. He took it by the hilt, testing its balance and swinging it a couple of times. He had acted that part out the way he’d seen. The look on his face, however, was not acted at all. He held a mesmerized look.

Just then, Ma poked her head out of the front door, craning her neck around the corner. She smiled softly. “Whatcha got there?” she asked. She wasn’t truly interested. She was glad Bodry had stopped by. She could hear his voice from inside. It was a comforting voice to hear.

“Look Ma! A sword! It’s just like dad’s sword!” Tristan twirled the sword in the pattern of an X, putting on a face of bravado that kids so often do when holding a weapon. He turned to Uncle Bodry, imagining he was a foe and hoping his Uncle would grab his wooden walking stick and play with him.

“Now be careful with that,” yelled his Ma. “Don’t go hitting Uncle Bodry.”

Tristan paid his Ma no mind. He didn’t even hear her.

Uncle Bodry grabbed his stick, much to Tristan’s delight. The two played for a good while, laughing often and exchanging cheap dialogue that fit with whatever storyline Tristan had picked out for this particular scene. Bodry played the role of the Dark One’s henchman. His walking staff was a magical staff that doubled as a spear (without the spearhead--Tristan’s insistence) and Tristan was the last remaining warrior from the Kingsguard that must prevent this evil henchmen from advancing past Tristan and into King Tarren’s “Tower of Terrors”. That tower did exist, and Bodry had many (far too many) real-life memories in that tower. Some of those memories were honorable. Others he would rather have forgotten and never remembered again. But, for Tristan’s sake, he played along. The boy’s innocence was a breath of fresh air. He felt a twinge of guilt as they played, thinking that perhaps he ought to stop by more often.

By the end of the scene, Bodry pretended to have dropped his staff and allowed Tristan, the loyal member of the Kingsguard, to plunge his sword into Bodry’s stomach. With a great roar of laughter, Bodry had broken character and yanked Tristan off his feet, hoisting him onto his shoulder and parading him around the yard and shouting like a mad man. Tristan laughed so hard that he couldn’t even get the words out to say that “this isn’t how the story was supposed to end.” Mildred watched from inside, still smiling that soft smile of hers. Her eyes were deep in thought, and lost. She missed her husband.

After the laughter and goofiness had worn off, Uncle Bodry sat Tristan down before he left. Bodry leaned over, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were near to Tristan’s. “At the end of your story there, Tristan of the Kingsguard earned victory. Why do you think he won, dear Tristian?”

Tristan gave a quick response, hardly thinking. “Because I was a better fighter and I had a sword.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I want you to think about it, Tristan. What led to you slaying the Dark One with your sword?” asked Bodry.

“You dropped your staff.”

“Not me, the Dark One!” said Bodry, redirecting the conversation back to the story. “He lacked the strength in here,” Bodry tapped his head again with his long, bony finger. “One lapse in concentration…and POOF!” Bodry’s eyes had grown so wide and so serious that Tristan felt himself tremble. “And just like that, Tristan Blackthorn of Sesten was victorious. The victory came from the mind. From the mind comes strength, young Tristan. Don’t you forget that.”

“But--”

“What?” asked Bodry.

“I thought he dropped his staff because he was just tired?” Tristan held a deeply concerned look on his face. Bodry let his own face soften a bit. He didn’t want to concern the boy. He was only ten.

“He was tired, Tristan. You’re right. But where the mind goes, the body will follow. You remember that.”

* * * *

That was nearly four years ago, but to Tristan it felt like yesterday. Every encounter he had with Bodry stuck with him for a long time. He loved his Uncle.

“I must become strong,” said Tristan to himself. He hopped back up onto a narrow tree trunk that was laying in the woods and continued his sword practice. He spun, jabbed, slashed, and thrusted his wooden sword until he thought he would faint from hunger. And then he kept on going. Again, and again.

Some days Uncle Bodry would show up unexpectedly for supper. Mildred would quickly switch from her monotonous low-energy routine to a chipper, more lively version of herself. It always bugged Tristan when she did that, although he could not say why. But he loved it when Uncle Bodry showed up for supper. He would sprint to him, leaping into his arms and giving him a big bear hug. Those bear hugs turned into smaller hugs as he got older. But the excitement was still the same.

Uncle Bodry had known Gareth Blackthorn very well. In fact, he often told Mildred and Tristan that he knew Gareth better than his own brother.

“Many moons ago, I served as the King’s Hand while your father was filling the role as Lord Commander of the King’s Army,” Bodry would say. “It was a marvelous time. I hardly had anything to do--and was paid a pretty coin for it!” As the King’s Hand, Bodry was essentially the king’s closest advisor. King Tarren was young in his reign at the time, and could use all the help he could get. But Bodry was not the man he sought for wisdom and advice. Gareth had been that man.

“He essentially held two positions at the same time,” Bodry said. He would place a heavy emphasis over the word “two”, his eyebrows going high on his forehead. Tristan did not understand how tiresome that must have been until he was older.

It had been true. Bodry had been asked by Gareth to go with him on his expedition north to Northrock to hunt the Orc-eel, but it was King Tarren who had denied the motion. He could not be without both of his closest advisors. Gareth was the great warrior of the two, and King Tarren had personally requested that Gareth oversaw the trip.

“Take any man with you but Bodry, my Yeomen, and my Kingsguard. Those stay here in Windem for my security. The Knights of Windem are here at your disposal, Gareth,” said King Tarren.

There were other visitors that came around once and again, but most not as well received by Mildred. There was one visitor in particular that incited strong emotions within Mildred whenever he paid a visit. Thankfully, since Tristan had turned fourteen, those visits had been rare to the point where he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him.

That man was Elric Drakonstone.

Perhaps it was guilt from before Gareth had died. Perhaps it was that he simply reminded Mildred too much of her dead husband. After all, Elric had been Gareth’s right-hand-man the same way that Gareth was the closest man to the King. Elric had been with Gareth at Northrock and seen him die…had played a direct role in Gareth’s death. That, of course, was unknown to anyone besides a small handful of men who had been there that day.

There were only seven men still alive from the fateful day in Northrock. Only one of them had been able to unravel the horrid memories of that day and remember that Elric had decided not to save Gareth. His story on the matter is yet to come. For now, he serves quietly in the King’s armies as a Knight of Windem.

There was one visit in particular that had spelled the end of the arbitrary visits from Elric. It was a warm, summer day. The season’s flowers were in full bloom and everything was green. The Twin Hills stood proud with their flourishing grasses and the woods behind Mildred’s small square house were thick with brush and teeming with wildlife and small critters. Tristan was in the back chopping up wood. The summer wouldn’t last forever and Mildred planned to have piles of firewood stacked so high and so wide that she wouldn’t have to fear her house running cold during the harsh winter that was surely to come.

Done from the steep side of one of the Twin Hills came Elric. A usual smug look was spread across his face. Usually these visits resulted in Elric welcoming his way inside, pushing himself upon Mildred with flirtatious behavior until she could not stand it anymore and she was forced to do the deed in the bed with Elric just so that he would be done with it and get out of her home. She put it with it, but just barely.

There was a harsh rapping on the door. He slammed his fists hard, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. Mildred opened the door, a startled look on her face.

“Everything okay?” she asked. Usually a knock of such force came from someone within the Kingsguard, and they would be demanding some form of tax or payment. That was not common but it did happen. Mildred did not have much by way of coin besides the small bits of copper she made off selling her bonnets, cloaks, dresses, and brooches.

“Everything is okay now!” shouted Elric. She could smell ale in his breath.

“You’ve been drinking,” said Mildred.

“Yes, so?” said Elric. He was hanging halfway into the doorframe. Mildred had not backed up from the door. She was not in the mood for visitors. “Loosen up, visit for a bit. It's hard work out there rounding up the King’s cattle and sending men out to chase the wild tribes that sprawl across our lands.” When Elric saw that Mildred’s eyes merely flickered stubbornly and without expression he added, “It’s hard work.”

“Why are you rounding up cattle? That’s a farmer’s work.”

“I was speakin’ in riddles,” said Elric. “The cattle are my men. The king’s men…the Knights of Windem.” Elric pushed past Mildred, allowing himself inside the small home. His horse was left outside to crop the horse and soak in the sunshine.

Elric’s boots were dirty, and they were loud on the wooden floors. He was suited up in armor from the waist down. Sweat gleamed off Elric’s face. His half-helm was still in his hand. He held it like a baby. His features were dark but his skin was fair. His jaw was quite chiseled, but he was gaunt and thin. Being six-and-a-half feet, he towered over Mildred. He paced the small house, but looking for nothing in particular. He picked up a husk of corn, turned it over, in his hand, and then placed it back where he found it.

Mildred never asked Elric a question, but he continued anyway. “Took Gareth’s place as Lord Commander. Busy spot to be in, I’m learning. And Gareth was quite good at it. He sure had the citizen’s approval. Never been a Lord Commander respected like him before…but I’m trying.”

“You’re…Lord Commander…of the…King’s Armies?” asked Mildred. This had snapped her out of her disinterested mood. That had gotten her attention.

“Yeh. I figured you hadn’t heard. I knew you would’ve been happy for me if word got to you all the way out here,” said Elric. He was facing Mildred now. He put his half-helm down on a table. His cloth shirt was Clarit, the color of Windem. The emblem of a lion with a sword in hand was across his chest. It was the emblem of the land.

“Well, good for you.” Mildred kept her response short and her eyes down.

“Yes…good for me.” There was an awkward silence. Mildred wanted him out, but Elric had other plans.

“You oughta get out a bit more, eh?” Elric lifted Mildred’s face by her chin. He did it delicately with two fingers, which looked odd coming from a man as tall as Elric. “Visit the Citadel. Browse the shops. Come celebrate with the kingdom when there’s parades and such. It’d be good for you…and that one out there,” Elric gestured his head toward out back where Tristan was chopping wood.

“I think I know what’s best for us, thank you very much,” said Mildred. She jerked her head away from Elric’s two delicate fingers. His jaw tightened. He didn’t like that.

“You need to show some respect for the new Lord Commander. I made time out of my day to ride all the way out here to Sesten,” said Elric. His teeth were grit tightly and his face was now inches from Mildred. The smell of ale was really strong now. She could see veins sticking out in his neck and his forehead. He was drunk.

“Okay,” replied Mildred, backing off. Elric came closer. He put both hands around her waist.

“That’s ‘Lord Commander’ to you, lady Mildred. You’d be lucky to have me inside you--”

A loud slap disrupted Elric’s sexual advances. He let his face fall away from hers, bringing a hand to his cheek slowly. Mildred noticed one of his fingers was a nub. There was hardly a finger on his left hand where his index finger should have been.

“You WITCH!” Elric returned a left handed slap. Mildred had seen it coming and put up both hands to shield her face. Instead of the slap striking her cheek, it simply knocked her to the ground. She slammed her head on the wall behind her. She let a few sullen sobs escape before she decided enough was enough. She would not give Elric the satisfaction.

“This visit has gone to hell a lot quicker than I would have liked. Gareth would’ve been ashamed of this…ashamed of you,” said Elric. Mildred thought he would leave then. He didn’t. “Get up. Now.”

Mildred rose to her feet, still shielding her face.

“What happened to us, huh? What happened to you and me? Now I’ve tried to give you your space, but it’s been ten years! I’ve had women falling on top of me and begging me--no, pleading me--to just give them one night in a bed together. But I’ve said no. I’ve waited. And I've waited.” Elric paused, making sure Mildred was listening. She knew that was a lie. Elric slept around with anything that breathed, especially since Gareth had died. “And I’ve paused for what? For this?” He paused again. Mildred had nothing to say. Elric continued on, “Even with Gareth around, you still preferred me. He was tied up. He was never home. I was the one who kept you company and kept you warm. It was me. He could never--”

“--no. Stop right there,” said Mildred. Now she had had enough. “You keep his name out of your mouth. You’re lucky I’ve let it go this far.”

“Shut up, you witch--”

“You manipulated me. You went behind your friend’s back. Gareth was a loyal, and truthful friend who gave his life to defend Windem and serve the King. And what were you doing during that time? Seducing his wife? I don’t see a man who keeps women warm there. I see a man who leads a woman toward the dark, towards the cold.”

Elric let that soak in. Mildred was emboldened by his calm reception to her fiery words. Her voice had risen to a strict tone as she went on. Elric seemed to respect that more than when she cowered away.

“You’ve got bite, I’ll give you that Mildred. But I’m the Lord Commander now. I can send men to take this home from you whenever I want. I can burn the place down, if I want. I can have you brought before the King for treason, if I want. Then what would Tristan do? Hm?” Elric had shrugged his shoulders, and he kept them there. His eyes were wide and his face smug.

Mildred stared back at him, fire and hatred burning in those bright blue eyes. There was a liveliness there that had been around in years. It was not a healthy life that dwelled in her eyes. It was anger.

“Now,” began Elric as he locked the door. “Shall we get this over with? Now that you’re done with your tantrum?” Elric began to slide his heavy armor off his legs and kicked his boots off to the side. His feet stunk up the house immediately. Mildred felt herself become light-headed. In the past, it had been consensual (ashamedly). But they had kept their distance physically since Gareth had passed.

Tristan waited outside the door, unsure. He had heard raised voices and a few loud noises. There was only one hole from which one could look into the house, and that had been covered with cloth. Besides, it was too high up on the wall of the house for Tristan to look through. But he knew. Even at the tender age of fourteen, he could sense it. Something was wrong. His Ma did not want Lord Drakonstone here, Commander of the King’s Armies.

Tristan went and gathered his wooden sword, practicing a few strokes. It had been quiet inside the house for nearly ten minutes now. He figured he’d prepare himself in case he needed to defend his Ma when Elric came out. His floppy, curly hair popped up and down as he twirled and thrusted. Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, the door handle turned. The front door opened. He heard the hushed sobs immediately, but the first face he saw was Elric’s. He did not look upset. In fact, he looked quite content with himself. This confused Tristan. Hadn’t he been cross with his Ma moments ago when they were shouting?

“What did you do to my Ma?” asked Tristan, mustering up as much bravado in his voice as he could. He held his sword out in front of him, point first, like he had seen the Knights of Windem do in the arena during tournaments. He had only been to one before, but it had made quite an impression on him (along with all young boys who get a chance to witness such an event). He imagined a claret cloak billowing out behind him, hemmed down into place but big metal shoulder plates that made him look buff and strong. Elric’s armor had been sloppily pulled back on. His face snarled into a lousy smile that made Tristan feel uneasy.

“I did her every bit of good that your father used to.” That made Elric laugh to himself. He laughed hard. “She needed that, but she’ll be sore for the next few days. That’s normal, so don’t worry if she seems a bit slower movin’ than usual.” Elric said these words as if it were the most casual thing to have happened that day. It reminded Tristan of when Bodry assured him the weather would turn warmer soon but he’d have to brave a few more weeks of the bitterness of winter.

“How’s that, lord Drakonstone?” Tristan’s head was tilted curiously, his sword slowly lowered as he contemplated whether he was being fooled or not. He didn’t know for sure and he did not want to make a fool of himself. After all, he was standing before the Lord Commander of the King’s Armies.

“Me and your Ma…” Elric paused, getting ready to settle himself back in the seat of his horse. He hoisted his scabbard and sword belt up onto it. “We’ve always been close. She misses your father so I just helped her calm down a bit, that’s all.” He gave an artificial smile that last half a second, and then hoisted himself up onto his horse. It gave a neigh and lifted it’s head from the grass that it had been cropping.

“You did something wrong in there, and I know it.” Tristan’s face tightened and he took a step toward Elric. “Ma’s cryin’, and she never cry unless she really mean it.” Tristan now stood a couple paces in front of Elric’s horse, not intending to let him get away.

“Now now, Tristan. That is no way to address your Lord Commander. You’re soon to be sixteen, and then you’re eligible to fight in the king’s armies if the borders start to get ugly. I want you to see me as…” Elric brought a hand to his chin, staring off into the sky as if waiting for the words to appear to him up in the clouds, “Ah, I’ve got it! Your Lord Commander!” Irritation was visible in his voice for the first time. He yanked on the reins. “Like I said son, take care of your Ma, she won’t be movin’ around too easy for some time.”

Before he could send his horse into a trot, Tristan charged at Elric. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. He didn’t know which of those he felt strongest but he felt the urge to fight. “Bastard!” he shouted as he charged. He’d heard a boy on the other side of the Twin Hills use that word before. He liked it.

Elric lifted a hefty boot from his seat upon his horse and smashed into Tristan’s chest, knocking the wind from him and sending him sprawling onto the ground. Tristan gasped for breath. He felt like he was paralyzed. His back was seized up. His lungs were tight. Tears blurred his vision.

“Take care! Your father would be proud.” Elric spurred his horse on and trotted away. He went up and up, over the steep side of Twin Hill where he then disappeared shortly on the other side. Those last words had come out so casually, but they hurt the worst. It had not even made sense. What was there for Tristan’s father to be proud of? His clumsy efforts to protect his Ma? He had failed there. It was a simple insult, but it cut deep like broken glass.

Tristan lay in the grass, unmoving. His vision started to return as the tears died away. His back pain remained, and shortly later a headache plagued him until he was seeing spots. His Ma stayed inside, in too much agony to check on Tristan. He wondered if she had heard any of their interaction. The door was still open from when Elric had opened it to leave.

As Tristan lay in the grass, looking at the sky, he made a decision. Not only a decision, a promise. A promise to himself. If he ever saw Elric Drakonstone at his front door again, he would kill him. Plain and simple. He would be as dead as his father. But first thing was first, he needed a better weapon. A wooden sword wouldn’t do much against…against what? Elric’s boot? Elric was just stronger. And Tristan had come on far too obvious. He would wait for him. Prepare for him. He would hide in the woods or behind a tree with his wooden sword sharpened. He would find a rock and use it as a chisel until the tip of his wooden sword but no longer a square, blunt end but a sharp and deadly spear-tip, like the Knights of Windem sometimes used in tournaments.

Tristan lay there in the grass. A light breeze shook his hair gently. A soft smile spread over his face. At least he had a plan now. He would worry about the consequences later. Perhaps he could flee the country. Brantly was neighboring Windem and they had a lot of land. He imagined himself speaking to someone with the thick, impossible-to-understand accents of the Brantish folk. “Yeah, that would work,” he whispered to himself. He had almost forgotten about the shooting pain that shot up his back.

That was the last time Elric visited Mildred for quite some time. The next time he visited, Tristan and Mildred were long gone.