When Tristan found his way back over the other side of the Twin Hills and back down the old yellow road through the heart of downtown Sesten, it only took him a few minutes to find the spot that he had met Loren that day before. Thankfully, he did not see the unsettling man with black, beady eyes from yesterday. Had that been usual in the busy downtown of Sesten? Or was that odd man just as sinister as he had perceived? Tristan pushed those thoughts aside, and decided it was just his naivety. He had hardly adventured outside his home before and everything was bound to look new and even frightful at times.
The clanging of mallets and hammers filled the morning air. It was a warm and sticky morning. The air was thick and thick black bugs buzzed through the air, attracted to all the scents and smells. Tristan looked around. Loren was not here yet. There was hardly anyone here yet. It was the first day of a new week, Braut, which meant everyone would be settling into their weekly duties and livelihoods. The streets wouldn’t be bustling like they were yesterday until three past noon, when folk crowded in for an ale and some supper. As far as Tristan knew, Sesten was the only town in Windem that combined their midday meal and supper.
An hour passed. Still no Loren. It wasn’t unusual, given that they were coming from opposite directions and their meet-up time was fairly ambiguous. Tristan took a deep breath and looked around. He swatted a fly. The bugs and flies were starting to become a nuisance. They kept landing themselves in his mouth when he yawned. Tristan fought to suppress his anxiety. It wasn’t that Loren made him nervous, but she did make him feel…different. He had never been close with a girl or a woman besides his Ma--not that he felt close with Loren. He didn’t even know if they were considered friends yet.
Finally it hit him. He pinned down his anxiety. It was the deal they had made. What did he have to fulfill on his end of the bargain? Loren hadn’t said. The possibility that she was leading him into some sort of trap crossed his mind, but he batted the idea away. She seemed trustworthy enough. He tried to think of what Uncle Bodry would say. He saw Uncle Bodry’s big blue eyes and head of receding gray hair in his head. It brought comfort to him and a slow grin spread across his face.
“What’re you smiling at eh, Sword Maker?”
Tristan turned to his right, eyebrows lifted. It was Loren. “Oh, hey there.”
“Are you that excited to see me, Sword Maker? You can’t keep that smile off your face huh?” Loren was smiling now, which meant that Tristan couldn’t wipe the smile from his own face either. He was reminded of her thick Dendarrikan accent. He remembered she had said her father was from there. The only thing he knew from what Uncle Bodry had told him was that Dendarrika was a huge land with dangerous outlaws. “Warbands,” he had called them. Tristan was not quite sure what a “warband” was, but it sounded fierce. “Don’t mess with a Dendarrikan,” Uncle Bodry would say. His eyebrows would be lifted high and his eyes wide.
Tristan would laugh and shrug his shoulders. “You don’t have to worry about me, Uncle Bodry, I don’t even know where I would find a Dendari…” the name was too long to remember. He was only eleven at the time. He came to, and realized he was just staring at Loren. He had missed whatever she’d just asked him. He was talking to a Dendarrikan now, he realized. He made a mental note to come back to that irony. “Don’t mess with a Dendarrikan.” Those words echoed in Tristan’s head. This girl was innocent enough. She only looked a year or two older than him, if that.
“I said, are you ready?” Loren tilted her head impatiently.
“Yes, I’m ready,” Tristan replied stiffly.
“Then let’s go. You look like you’ve just seen the Shadow,” said Loren.
“The Shadow?” asked Tristan.
“You’ve never heard of the Shadow? That’s a classic tavern tale, especially here in Sesten. I’m sure its told all over Windem too, especially since the Lord Commander of year past took one hundred men to Northrock,” said Loren. “Some balls, they had…hey, wasn’t the Lord Commander’s name…
“Blackthorn. Yeah, you’re right.” Tristan was dead serious and white as a sheet now. He stared back at Loren coldly. “Let’s get moving then. Lead the way.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sour your morning.” Loren said the last few word with a heavy accent.
“It’s no bother. Let’s hurry then, I mean to test my bow today before sundown. I’d rather get this chore over with.” Tristan put his head down and set to walking. Loren got over her concern and caught up to him, but decided against pressing the issue any further. She’d only just then made the connection about that last name, Blackthorn. The story of the journey into Northrock was so legendary and so well told that she never would have actually thought she was talking to the son of Gareth Blackthorn III. After all, Blackthorn was not an uncommon surname in Windem.
Once they had left the busy town of Sesten, Loren led the way with a quickened pace. They had turned left off the old yellow road, trudging between rows of crops and eventually cornstalks. Once they came through the crops, they then ducked, jumped, and evaded as they maneuvered through a heavy wooded forest. It opened up into a small clearing that went onwards for many miles to the west with swooping hills and giant rocks, but they continued straight and came into another long stretch of forest. The brush was not so thick here, and the ground underfoot was mostly fallen leaves and sticks. There were hills here too in the forest.
After two miles of walking through the forest Tristan broke the silence. “You said I looked like I’d just seen the Shadow earlier…what did you mean by that?”
“You’ve never heard of the Shadow?” asked Loren.
“No, I guess I haven’t,” replied Tristan. He felt himself suppressing his anger. It angered him the way that she acted so shocked that he didn’t know about the Shadow. He wished she would just answer his question and be done with it the way Uncle Bodry did.
“That’s shocking, I’m sorry. Word of the Shadow has been around for ages, even before there were rumors that it's back in Windem.” Loren looked side-on at Tristan as they ducked below a fallen tree. Their boots crunched under foot on dead leaves. Tristan’s were less noisy. He was wearing his hand-crafted moccasins. “The Shadow is not as much an actual shadow, as it is an evil spirit from the depths of the northern reach. When my father was still alive he used to take me to the taverns in Dendarrika where men sat around with pipe and ale and listened to entertainers speak in poems about the thing.” Loren said “thing” decidedly, feeling oddly uncomfortable mentioning the Shadow too many times. “All I know is that in the stories, he was always depicted as a man with a sword on either hip, both of them razor sharp and filled with the power of an ancient evil. One of the swords, that is. If I am remembering this correctly, one of the swords is evil and the other is rendered useless, as the Shadow cannot get it unsheathed from his scabbard. He roams the lands looking for one who has the power to unsheath his other sword, so that he can wield the power of both swords at once,” Loren and Tristan exchanged glances. She saw he was interested and irritation had gone from his face. “When he finally has both swords at his disposal, it is said that he can overthrow any ruling power and any government. But of course, it is a tale out of Windem folklore and the stories handed down suggest he’ll overtake Windem first, and then slowly take over the rest of the realm with his power.”
“Are there variations on the tale?” asked Tristan.
“Eh…the tale I heard as a child suggested he would take Dendarrika first and then mount a siege on Windem as his first act. They’re all just stories though.” Loren looked side-on at Tristan.
“What do yeh think? Yer awfully quiet you know.”
Tristan furrowed his brows, perplexed. “Is the Shadow…real? I mean, the stories and all?”
“I can’t speak for the stories. Mostly just drunk men sitting ‘round a warm fire with a pipe and telling tales for the fun of it. Although, I do think the Shadow is real. I believe he’s out there…somewhere.” Loren chewed her lip.
“And what of the two swords?” asked Tristan.
Loren raised her voice, laughing as she spoke. “And wouldn’t you like to know, Sword Maker? You’d just love to be the a shining Knight of Windem in your claret cape and bright armor, pulling that sword from its scabbard and uniting with the Shadow to fulfill all your wildest dreams.”
“No, it’s not that. Look, I don’t need you picking on me when I ask questions. Not everyone grew up with a father who took you to taverns to hear tall tales and breathe in the aroma of pipes and stale ale.” Tristan took a deep breath. That had come out far more aggressive than he intended.
Loren ignored him. “We’re almost there, Sword Maker. Before you know it, you’ll have your bow and you can be rid of me.”
Tristan stayed quiet. He felt bad. He hadn’t meant to offend Loren. Truth be told, he had no idea how to make friends. The mention of his father back in downtown Sesten was still bothering him. It was like an old scar had been reopened and it was gnawing at the back of his mind. He actually liked Loren, and hoped to keep her as a friend once he had his bow. He figured he would wait and see. Perhaps he would still have to resort to thievery after all and steal the bow and run. Surely Loren couldn’t catch him. He was used to running in the woods and his adrenaline would carry him all the way home.
They arrived. It was one of those moments that shocked Tristan so badly that he had completely forgotten all other thoughts that were swirling around in his head. Stealing from Loren, getting his new bow, arriving home before sundown, his father’s death, the way his moccasin boots were almost noiseless on the leaves underfoot, Loren’s pretty eyes…all of it, squashed. Him and Loren stood at the top of a wooded hill that dipped abruptly. Thin crooked trees painted the downwards slope below and then flattened out into a cozy clearing that was about three acres in all directions. A crackling bonfire was set up in the middle of the clearing, hungry orange flames reaching into the spring air. The smoke rose high into the sky, but was still concealed well by the treetops. A wooden building with a large, overhead door sat with its back to the right-most side of the clearing. The mouth of the wooden building opened toward the rest of the property. Tristan could see men in black, gray, and silver cloaks and high-legged boots entering and leaving the open building, which looked like it was a farmhouse turned lodge.
Part of the land farther off was enclosed by gates to keep livestock inside. He saw goats, sheep, chickens, and pigs. There was a stable where he counted at least six horses, and there were a further seven or eight horses grazing on hay just outside the lodge. The grass on the property was beaten down and much of the ground was just dirt.
Tristan shuttered. These men weren’t supposed to be here. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. The cloaks and the boots that they wore were not of Sesten, he knew that. They didn’t even look like men from Windem. The land had obviously been overtaken from some poor farmer and his family.
“What are we doing here?” asked Tristan skeptically.
“This is my home.”
“Who are those people?” Tristan thought he knew. If they were from the same land as Loren was, they were Denderrikans. Windem had been at odds with Denderrika since the old days before there were wagons, forgeries, and other advanced technologies. Uncle Bodry had told him about legendary battles of old that had occurred between Denderrika and Windem in the dividing land of Brantley.
“My people. Denderrikans. We’re outlaws in Windem. We’re not supposed to be here. The King would have us killed.” Loren looked at Tristan, her face neutral. Tristan couldn’t help noticing her delicate cheeks and beautiful green eyes. It brought an awful mix of feelings into the pit of his stomach. He had come all this way to do a favor for Loren, not to meet her outlawed Denderrikan family.
“I assume your father isn’t…down there,” said Tristan awkwardly. He remembered she had mentioned he’d died.
“No, he’s not. That’s not my actual family. I’m not related to any of them and none of them are true blood family either. We just stick together for now, at least until the war is over.” Loren said “war” casually. Tristan frowned.
“War? What war?”
“The war between Windem and Denderrika. It’s only just getting started now. King Tarren is too worried about his borders with Solaria and Brantley to notice us for now, but we’ve got warbands spread all over Windem, hiding in dormancy and waiting patiently.”
Tristan noticed a man carrying a pile of brush and branches towards the pile of burning wood. He paused briefly, glancing to the top of the wooded hill that Tristan and Loren stood upon. He stared for a while. Tristan was unsettled by his cold, menacing stare. He couldn’t make out any distinct features from this far away but it was enough to know that his presence was known now. He considered giving Loren a quick shove down the hill to give him a head start before he sprinted away. Or, maybe he could just tell Loren he was leaving and be done with it. Let her know that he didn’t need a bow after all.
“Why is there a war brewing? And why did you bring me here? I just want my bow and I’ll be gone. I won’t ever speak of this…camp to anyone.” Tristan didn’t know how true that actually was. He figured he would at least try to find Uncle Bodry and tell him. He would probably tell Ma too, although she probably wouldn’t care.
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“I brought you here because Lord Dalko needs an informant. Someone to keep an eye on things out there in Sesten. If you agree, I might be able to convince him to pay you for your services,” said Loren. “You don’t have any coins, remember?”
Tristan directed a defeated look at Loren. “No, I’ve completely forgotten that I don’t have any copper, let alone silver or gold…and who is Lord Dalko? Is he down there?” Tristan pointed down below. The man who had fed the bonfire was tethering a horse to a wooden post now. He stuffed some straw into its mouth and gave its snout a good pet.
“He’s down there alright. He’s feeding that horse right now. He’s our leader, one of the Ascendians. In case you aren’t caught up on your Dendarrikan lore, they’re a specially bred warrior that our High Lord in Dendarrika began training thirty years ago. They’re trained from birth to be emotionless, painless, cold-blooded killers. From what I’ve seen of Dalko so far, there is not a weapon in this universe that he hasn’t mastered. It’s kind of scary.”
“What’s he like?” asked Tristan.
“Cold. Distant.”
“That’s all? Cold and distant?”
Loren chuckled. “If I gave away anything more than that, it would ruin the surprise. Come, you’ll have to meet him and the rest of the group.” Loren grabbed Tristan’s hand. “Oh, and make sure you don’t call them a ‘warband’. That’s what the rest of Windem calls them. They don’t like that term.”
Tristan pulled away from Loren’s hand, despite its soft delicate touch which had sent his flesh to goosebumps all over. “Wait, I can’t do this. I think I’ll just be going now. I’m sure I can manage without a bow–”
“--not a good idea,” interrupted Loren. “Lord Dalko already saw you. He’ll think your disloyal if you leave now.”
“What? I think I’ll take my chances…”
“No.” Loren was firm. She yanked his arm toward her. “Let’s go. You’ll get your hunting bow if you play your cards right. And if you really play your cards right, you can set up a deal with Lord Dalko and start earning some coin for your services. You’re going to need that, by the way. Taxes are getting raised by nearly double what they have been. The King is sending a representative from the Kingsguard once a month to personally collect. You won’t want to be empty handed when that happens.”
Tristan had more than a few questions but no time to ask. Loren had pulled his arm so hard that he felt himself falling down the steep wooded hill. He was practically gliding as he ran down the steep side of the hill, narrowly missing trees that would have split his head in half. Loren seemed to have no trouble keeping her balance and avoiding trees, roots, and hidden brush.
When Tristan and Loren arrived into the clearing down below, Dalko was staring coldly at Tristan. He had a sharp, chiseled jaw and a short nose that led up to piercing blue eyes. They weren’t merely…well, blue, they were piercing, as if they were driving a fierce cold wind through Tristan’s whole body as he stared back. His ears were small, and tucked close to his head. His hair was short and black, and came to a point in a widow’s peak. Tristan felt small compared to him, even from the thirty yards that stood between them. But the odd part was that Dalko was actually shorter than Tristan by a few inches. Tristan guessed him to be five foot eight, but with a sturdy build. He appeared dense and strong even beneath his long smokey gray cloak. He wore a light blue shirt that was tucked into black pants. His black boots came up to mid-shin height. It was unusual for Dalko Rivien to be wearing anything other than grays and blacks, but he was sporting his leisurely attire and hence the light blue shirt.
“Dalko,” shouted Loren as she approached with Tristan at her side. He was already staring at them. His eyes were not kind. In fact, he actually held a discrete scowl. He fed his horse another bit of hay. “Dalko, this is Tristan…Tristan Blackthorn.”
“Hullo, lord.” Tristan sensed his coldness and had not the slightest incantation towards warmth. He didn’t trust this mysterious figure. He found himself feeling distrusting of this whole place, even of Loren. This wasn’t his home, and anywhere outside of his home was foreign. Alien.
“Dalko Rivien of Denderrika. Just Dalko will do.” Dalko held a tight face. Tristan thought he saw Dalko’s jaw tighten. His cold stare did not relent. Tristan half expected a handshake of some sort, having already lifted his arm for it. He sheepishly lowered his arm. He was embarrassed, and that angered him. He hated feeling embarrassed. At home he never had to face embarrassment. Ma and Uncle Bodry would never make him feel that way.
“Dalko,” said Tristan, testing the name out loud. “Fair enough. Right then, I’m here for a longbow. Loren promised me back in town that I ought to follow her here for it…” Dalko just stared. Tristan shrugged. “That’s it really. Nothing else to say.” Dalko appeared to study Tristan’s appearance. He stared at his wooden sword, a confused look spread over his face. Tristan pulled his oversized green cloak over it.
“Blackthorn,” said Dalko. “I knew of a Blackthorn.” He let a long silence sit. Tristan’s mouth was agape but nothing came out. He dared not interrupt. Dalko looked like a dangerous man. “Mighty warrior, they say.”
“Yes, that was likely my father you are thinking of. He was Lord Commander of Windem.” Tristan’s chest puffed out a bit at the thought. It gave him confidence that a man such as Dalko might credit him with some of his father’s prestigious reputation.
“I hate Windem. We will go to war soon.” The words bit like frost coming from Dalko’s lips. Tristan felt his own teeth clench tightly.
“What are you doing here? Hiding out in the woods like a coward and speaking ill of my father’s lands? He fought for these lands…like a warrior and not a coward.” The temper had come from nowhere, and fast. Loren put a hand on his arm, trying to calm him discreetly.
“Let him speak.” Dalko was looking at Loren. His small nose was snarled upward at Tristan’s words. “What do you know of Windem’s conspiracies?” His question was accusatory.
“Conspiracies? I do not know what that word means, lord. I only know that this is the greatest and noblest land in the realm. Denderrikans have been jealous of our land for generations, just like the Brantish and the Solarians. I’m told that the Clendien Empire doesn’t dare bring their southward expansion up north because of our armies.” Tristan spoke with a false confidence. He hoped he hadn’t made up the part about the Clendien Empire. He recalled his Uncle Bodry saying something about them before.
“Still a child, I see.” That was all Dalko had to say. He turned, striding toward the open-mouthed lodge which was now visible to Tristan. There were half a dozen wooden round tables spaced evenly through the first half of the high-ceiling building and the other half (the far half) looked like a hastily put together version of a king’s court. A long rectangular table was horizontally sat across the floor like a high dais. A large armchair sat behind, propped up on something to make it taller than the rest of the seats in the room. Along either side of the rectangular trestle were stairs that led up to a second level, which had formerly been the second story to a barn before the room had been converted to a banquet hall.
Tristan noted there were at least eight men seated inside the building with tankards in hand, talking quietly in the dimly lit lodge. Outside there were two women (one dressed like a warrior) and two men, who were busy tending to the pigs which were squealing and squirming around in the mud.
“They’ll be ready for butcherin’ in a couple weeks time, I reckon.” The wind had carried the words to Tristan’s ears.
Tristan watched Dalko dissolve into a darkly-outlined shape as he entered the gloomy lighting of the lodge. He followed after Dalko before Loren could react.
“I’m no child, you know. And you’d do well not to get too comfortable here.” Tristan paused, still breathing heavily from the courage it took to raise his voice to this cold, hard man. Dalko had stopped in his tracks but was still facing away from Tristan. The group inside the lodge who were seated with tankards in hand had now taken an interest in the odd spectacle. “This place won’t remain a secret unless I keep my mouth shut. I am a Blackthorn, you know.” The last words from Tristan’s mouth had come out involuntarily. He immediately regretted them, realizing he might have taken the sting out of his association to a Blackthorn. Suddenly, he did feel like a boy. A sixteen year old boy from the outskirts of a small town called Sesten.
Dalko turned, gave a long neutral stare, and then briskly strode up to Tristan, bringing his face within inches of Tristan. He kept his face there, his eyes piercing Tristan and making him feel entirely ill. Up close, Tristan noted multiple faded scars. One ran over his lips. Another ran down his forehead and over his eye.
“I fear no man. Not even a Blackthorn.” Dalko held his face close to Tristan’s. His features were dark and unfriendly in the dim lighting. “You’ll come with me. Now.”
Tristan followed Dalko up the stairs to the second level of the converted barnhouse like a child following his father after he was in trouble. His hand went instinctively to the wooden sword at his hip. It would be no good against this man. Besides, he feared what would happen to him once he used it. He doubted Dalko would even flinch, let alone feel the pain if he were to bring the wood down over his head.
They arrived at the second level. Dalko opened a latch and suddenly they were stooping their heads as they stepped in an attic space that was riddled with spider webs and dust. Tristan hadn’t noticed that Loren was following them. She came in too, closing the latch behind her. Inside the attic was an array of weapons and wealth. There were goblets, gold, silver, gold and silver trinkets, treasures, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, jewelry. It was a dazzling collection.
“You’re only seeing this because you’ll never take another breath if you try to take anything. I’ll see to that myself.”
Tristan felt a lump in his throat. He suddenly feared his hands would betray him and he would snatch a piece of gold and then his legs would run without his consent. Dalko had properly instilled a fear in him.
Dalko looked to Loren. “Be done with it. Quickly.”
Loren crossed the room, hardly able to find a spot to place her feet as she did. It was incredibly crowded. A wide variety of weapons lined the walls from halberds to spears to longbows and crossbows, to longswords, shortswords, daggers, maces, and clubs. Loren found a row of longbows that hung by their bowstring on a wall and grabbed one. It was a small recurve bow with polished bronze wood and a beautiful gray handle that had swirling white coloring painted onto it. She grabbed a quiver that was leaning against the wall. Tristan counted eight feathered arrows. She handed both to Tristan.
“Have a seat,” said Dalko. He gestured to an old snare drum that was presumably the farmer’s who owned the place before the Denderrikans had moved in. “You will be our eyes and ears. Up there,” he pointed. “You will come here twice a week, Tuln and Dros, when the sun is low in the sky. Do not be seen coming here.” Dalko held up a golden coin. “This can be yours, if you give us the intel that we want.” Dalko grabbed a silver dagger that was sitting amongst the rubble of riches. “This will go here, if you betray us.” Dalko mimicked the dagger going into his heart. “You work for the Dendarrikans now.”
Tristan was speechless. He was given no choice, and he didn’t feel brave enough to deny Dalko. Perhaps, If he went home and never came back they would never find him. He considered it and decided to revisit that idea later once he’d finally gotten out of this mysterious place.
Loren looked at Tristan with a smile. “You won’t have any problems getting your fair share over to the Kingsguard when they come knocking. Prices will be higher than before. The Shadow and his rot have come.”
“The Shadow…” whispered Tristan to himself. He felt like he was dreaming. His head was fuzzy and murky now.
Dalko now talked more than Tristan ever thought possible. “The Shadow is here in Windem. The King plans to do nothing about it. Perhaps because he is in league with the Shadow…someway, somehow.” His voice was like a low growl mixed with a forced whisper. “All the more reason to move quickly on the kingdom. The Denderrikans don’t stand a chance if the Shadow’s power is rallied across all Windem.”
“I thought King Tarren was a noble King,” said Tristan.
“He was.” Loren was standing with her arms crossed. “He’s lost his wits. Disease is returning to the land. Crops are dying. Food is becoming sparse. The Shadow’s plague is spreading.”
“I haven’t noticed anything yet,” replied Tristan. In truth, he hadn’t.
“That is why we’re waiting,” said Loren--who seemed to have taken over from Dalko now. “Sesten is clean for now. Other warbands have already started their raids. At the first sign of rot and stink, warbands are taking over villages and small towns all across the kingdom. Another reason why your taxes are doubling.”
Tristan looked at Dalko, who was still standing before him with a cold, distant look. “Why is disease spreading and crops failing? And isn’t Windem fighting the Shadow? Does he even have an army?”
“The Shadow needs no army. He will spread from within, like a contagious illness. I have no doubt he may already be poisoning the mind of the King as we speak. His physical form is quite…repulsive.”
“How do you know this?” asked Tristan.
“He’s an Ascendian. They’re a secret guild of masterminds. They know a lot that normal people don’t know. Some call it skill, others call it intuition. Every company has one.”
“You mean every warba--” Tristan stopped himself, remembering Loren had told him not to speak of warbands. Dalko either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“So…why me?” Tristan turned to Loren now. “What makes you trust me? You could have picked anyone in Sesten to do this for you…and now that I think of it, why don’t you do it, Loren? Just dress like the locals and go see what you can find.” Tristan’s tone had turned whiny. He hadn’t asked for all this. He suddenly wished he was back home in the yard with his logs and his branches doing his strength training. With more of that he might even be able to take on Dalko and walk away with all of the gold that was sitting in front of him.
“Because you’re a Blackthorn.” Dalko’s voice rattled like rusted steel escaping a scabbard. “A Blackthorn started this mess with the Shadow, and with a Blackthorn this mess will end.”
“So you speak poetry too, huh?” Tristan’s humor was two-fold. He was annoyed. It also amused him. This cold, emotionless Ascendia could spit a history of the Shadow at him and also give prophetic lines about his bloodline. “What can’t he do?” Tristan looked to Loren for answers. She wasn’t smiling. Tristan leaned forward, hands out in front of him like he was holding an imaginary ball. “Okay, answer me this. If you’re trying to take down the Shadow, why are you warring against Windem? Shouldn’t you be partnering with them to save the realm from this darkness that can diminish our food and spread disease? If you win this war, you’ll inherit a desolate land.”
Dalko smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile, but one that sent a chill down Tristan’s spine. “That’s the plan.”
Tristan was surprised to find that it was only early afternoon by the time he arrived back at the top of the Twin Hills with a recurve bow in his hand and a quiver across his back. He also had four shekels of silver in his cloak pocket and a half loaf of cold bread in his other pocket. He felt a deep anger burn within him like hot embers. The sight of his house from this angle reminded him of Elric Drakonstone seated on his horse, a betraying smile on his face.
He fingered the silver in his pocket. He wouldn’t buy food with it, but he would start saving some of it for tax day. The rest of it he would save for a sword--a nice, long sword with a hilt like the warriors used. That was the first day that Tristan felt more like a Dendarrikan than a citizen of Windem.