Tristan fell into a comfortable routine. He had grown greatly over the course of another year. He was eighteen and three months old now. His shoulders had broadened, he’d grown a few inches and was now six feet three inches, and he’d even shot his first buck. Tristan had gotten the longbow from Dalko nearly a year ago now and he’d waited a week before he tested it out. He was avoiding the longbow since every time he saw it, all he could think about was Dalko’s cold face, those piercing blue eyes and sharp face.
It had taken Tristan nearly a month before he had killed anything at all with the bow. The first week had resulted in a fruitless hunt every day of the week. He’d settled for target practice to improve his aim--setting a target against a thin tree in the woods where the trees became forest. He put his strength training on hold that week to dedicate the hours between sunup and sundown to aiming and firing. The bow felt foreign in his hand at first and so did the arrow. Over time, the mechanics of holding a bow and releasing the arrow became more natural. More fluid. A week after his intensified, focused training he’d killed a rabbit. Thinking it’d get easier from there, he was mistaken. He didn’t catch another thing for six days, despite long and patient hours in various hideouts deep in the forest behind his house. He had gone so far into the forest that he was close to Windem’s far border with Solaria. There was no luck to be found. He’d hardly seen as much as a toad jumping along the forest floor.
Just as Tristan had been prepared to work his way down a tall tree that he’d shimmied into six hours prior, an opportunity fell into his lap. A giant buck with antlers that could ram a house down had mozied its way right below him. His palms instantly became sweaty and shaky. HIs breath became shallow. He couldn’t feel his feet. It was a shocking experience. He didn’t know he could be so nervous as the one who had the bow in his hand, but he was. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that the fear of failure usually led to failure. That had steadied him significantly, but he still was unsure how it had actually been possible that the arrow he had tethered to his bowstring had struck home into the base of the buck’s head. It ran twenty yards, fooling Tristan into thinking it would just keep running through the forest with an arrow in its head. He knocked another arrow. He aimed, released, fired. It hit the buck in one of its hind legs. It collapsed. Tristan could not quantify the immense satisfaction that followed his successful shot. His shooting training was paying off.
From that point forward, Tristan became a marksman in his own woods. It took a while to learn how to skin and drain the animals he killed but once he had done it a few times he felt more confident in that as well. He had set up a cooking area outside with a circle of rocks and a roasting setup where he’d hang his meat from a stick and let it roast over the fire until it was tender and juicy. He knew Ma enjoyed his cooking as well. She, too, was tired of carrots and cabbage.
The best words that Tristan had heard in a long time came after one of his long days that had included hunting and strength training. The days were getting shorter and the weather colder. Fall was turning to winter. Tristan pulled open the door, a large draft following in behind him with a gust of dead leaves.
“You look strong,” said Ma. She smiled gently.
Tristan broke down into tears. He cried like a child, and he did not understand why. He just wept, and wept. Old memories came flooding into his mind. His only memory of his father came first. It was the day he’d left for Northrock. Ma had said there was no way he could possibly remember that, but Tristan did. His father had grabbed him under his armpits and hoisted him up into his arms with a roar like a great boar. It always made Tristan laugh when he did it. Tristan could remember the feeling of his coarse hair in between his fingers. His father had him sitting on his shoulders as he talked to Ma and exchanged kisses. Tristan grabbed his father’s hair, holding and squeezing it until his Ma had to rip him away. And then there was the memory of their return. Thirteen men came stumbling back. Only seven survived out of the thirteen. There were no horses with them and no packs. And, of course, no Gareth Blackthorn.
Ma rubbed Tristan’s back.
“I love you.” Tristan gave her a hug. He’d been cold to her for a while building up to this moment.
“I love you too.”
It had been a month since Tristan had visited the Graycloaks, as Dalko’s Company was called. By that time, he had nearly forgotten his duty to them as an informant when Loren came to find him. He was in the middle of chopping wood to keep himself and Ma warm. Winter was on its way and soon they would need a large reserve of wood to keep burning all the time. He raised his hatchet and let out blow after blow, chopping each piece of wood into a smaller block. He felt the heat rise through his body. It was a workout in and of itself--chopping wood. Earlier that day he had skinned a couple of rabbits that he’d killed with his bow, brought five pails of water from the creek back home for drinking, and also danced around the yard with his sword. His focus with the sword had been on balance and coordination. He walked along thin logs and fallen trees, attempting to thrust and duck blows all whilst keeping his balance. It was tiresome work, and now he was letting off steam with his wood chopping.
He thought of that day Elric had come and forced himself upon Ma. She still wasn’t the same since then. He also knew that Elric had been an artificial presence in his life before that too. He’d clung to Mildred after Gareth’s death, and Tristan remembered the confusion he had felt by that. Elric was always cold toward Tristan. Wanted nothing to do with him. That’s not how father’s should be, Tristan would think. When he was young he used to think that Elric was supposed to be his new father since his old one never returned from Northrock. He was seven when he figured out that wasn’t how it worked.
He slammed his hatchet down, burying it into a striation of wood and sending the block of wood flying into two different directions. Next piece. The hatchet went up and then came down with strong force. Tristan’s arms were strong and swollen. One large vein ran up his right arm. He was strong but he was also lean. He would eat berries for breakfast, skip lunch, and then eat whatever he caught for dinner. If he found some nuts then those would suffice as a snack. He didn’t mind being hungry. The hunger pangs he felt seemed to comfort him, in some strange way. The longings for food in his stomach matched his emotional pain. He missed his father more than he ever had, and he couldn’t place why. For some reason, his mind would come back to Elric. How do I get my vengeance on the Lord Commander of the King’s Armies? He would think. By becoming a warrior. His thoughts would drift to Uncle Bodry, in here…he could see Uncle Bodry tapping a finger to his temple. Mental strength was what Bodry had referred to, and Tristan figured his daily beatings of his own body would contribute to that source of strength. He didn’t seek comfort and numbness like his Ma. He wanted to express his anger…his passion.
Loren was upon him without him even noticing. “Hello Sword Maker.”
Tristan nearly pulled his back as he was coming down on a stroke with the hatchet. He was without a shirt and his long, thick hair was drenched with sweat. He tried to rub his eyes as he lifted his head but his fingers only rubbed more dirt and swear into his eyes.
“Ah..what are you…I’ve got dirt in my…oh, man…” Tristan was too busy trying to clear his eyes to stand still. Loren approached him, a gentle smile spread across her face. She wore her blonde hair loose, flowing down her back in cascading waves. Her green eyes only added to her ethereal beauty. She was dressed in a leather cuirass that was adorned with intricate engravings and pauldrons that kept her shoulders looking buff. She had on leather leggings and knee high boots.
“Stand still, Sword Maker.” Loren grabbed him by the shoulder with one arm and used the other hand to wipe his eyes. She quickly doused her fingers with water from her canteen that hung around her chest.
“Ah, wow…thanks. I wasn’t expecting m’lady Loren Bjornsfear here today. What brings you to my home? How did you know I lived here?” Tristan’s voice was both excited and yet anxious. He was happy to see Loren but her presence just reminded him of Dalko and the Graycloaks. They weren’t supposed to be here in Sesten. His mind shifted to Crowley Begg’s face and his swirling gray mustache.
“It’s time. Besides, the tax collector will be back soon. Did you have enough last time?”
“No.” Tristan grabbed his linen shirt and dried his body with it before sliding it on.
“You will this time if you can do something for us.” Loren was uppity, but objective. Tristan could tell she hadn’t stopped by to chit chat.
“Do I have a choice? Because I’d rather--”
“Not really. Dalko chose you because you’re a Blackthorn. You must do as he says.”
“Yeah? And why is that? Because my father was killed in Northrock and now it’s suddenly my fault?” Tristan was yelling now. His temper had come on without warning. “While I sit here and try to provide for my widowed mother, all your warband is worried about getting the help of some dead warrior’s son to do their peasant’s work for them while they plot against Windem.
Well, guess what Loren. Perhaps I’ve wanted to fight for Windem since I was a child and I don’t want to contribute towards your group’s agenda. I’ll fight for Windem, die for Windem someday as a warrior. I’ll swear on it.” Tristan’s eyes were wild and his breath came ragged. He paused, realizing that Loren had caught him at a bad time. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking…through a lot of stuff. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I understand,” Loren replied. Loren wasn’t taken aback or shocked by his temper, Tristan found. A new warmth towards her festered inside of him. “Come. Let’s walk a while.”
Tristan found himself burying his hatchet in a tree stump and following after Loren. She didn’t wait for him. She just went. Tristan looked at the skyline. The sun was already getting low in the sky. It would be dusk soon.
As they walked, butterflies fluttered from their place among the tall grass and crickets sang their songs. Dragonflies were beginning to shine their little yellow lights as they danced amidst the dusky air.
“Where are we going?” asked Tristan.
“Wait and see,” came the reply. Loren giggled, and then took off running through the tall grass. She was incredibly fast and light on her feet. Tristan felt sluggish. He was fatigued from his day and all of the muscle he’d put on weighed him down. His dark, frazzled hair flowed behind him. His dark eyes were small almonds on his dirt-smeared face. He laughed as he ran. The way Loren had taken off running without warning had struck him funny.
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Loren shouted behind her as she ran. “If you’re going to be a warrior one day you’ll have to be faster than some girl from Denderrika. You’re running awfully slow!” She giggled again.
Tristan’s amusement turned to determination as he fought the tangled weeds and grass. Why is it so hard to run through this? They were running parallel to the Twin Hills, having turned right. They were soon past the Twin Hills, through the long meadow of twisted weeds and tall grass, and then into a small groove of gnarled trees that twisted and looped in many directions. There were thousands of fireflies now. Tristan nearly swallowed one as he ran.
Loren and Tristan emerged from the groove of trees and then made up a hill that was so steep that it was nearly a ravine at the bottom where they started from. Loren seemed to have no problem running straight up, but Tristan felt his weight start to drag him backward. He almost fell.
“Come on, Sword Maker! Almost there!” shouted Loren. Tristan pressed on, a stitch forming in his side. “You need help, aye?” Loren’s accent was thick.
“No, I’m obviously fine,” wheezed Tristan. Loren descended back down the hillside anyways and grabbed hold of his heavily-calloused hand. She yanked him up the side of the hill, her strength surprising Tristan. Her touch was nice, he thought. Even if it was just some girl from Denderrika who was yanking him up a hill that he struggled to climb.
“Are we done sprinting and leaping and bounding yet?” Tristan had both his hands on his knees, hunched over.
“We can be, if that's all you can handle, Sword Maker.” Loren laughed. “Wait, I have a new name for you…”
“No more nicknames. Tristan is fine.”
“That’s so ordinary, and I don’t find you to be ordinary. I’m going to call you Wind Sucker. All you did that whole time was suck wind!”
Tristan hit her on the arm playfully. A wry smile was spread over his face as he caught his breath. “You know, I could have just stayed by my wood pile and watched you sprint away. That would have been nice too.”
“You couldn’t help yourself. You’d been away for too long,” said Loren. She instantly regretted those words. She had come on too strong. In truth, she didn’t want anything other than a friendship, but her playful nature couldn’t be suppressed. Not now, and not ever. She didn’t get the chance to be so carefree around the Graycloaks.
“I suppose you’re right,” replied Tristan. “I could use a friend.” They both sank to the ground, knees up to their chest. They were at the top of a flat plain that overlooked a rural landscape. Trees and farmland were spread dottily down below. The sky was turning a dark purple and the moon looked like a ball of cheese. The stars were out tonight, glimmering beautifully overhead.
“Why’d you bring me out here? I thought I had a task to complete?” asked Tristan.
“You do have a task to complete. I figured it’d be best to start the task tomorrow and just relax for a bit first.” Loren’s response was so genuine that it humbled Tristan. It also baffled him. He’d never really had a friend, let alone a friend of the opposite sex. Is this what friends did? Is this what lovers did?
“That makes sense,” answered Tristan. They sat in silence for a minute. “What's the task?”
“It’s about the tax man. Dalko wants to know what day of the week he comes, what time of day he arrives, and who else comes with him,” replied Loren.
“Well that’s easy. I can tell you that right now.”
“He wants you to wait until he comes a second time to make sure he comes at the same time he did the first time. But there’s another task he wants you to do for him. He’ll pay you double for it,” said Loren. Tristan nodded for her to continue, staring at her cascading blonde hair. It was hard not to look at. Loren continued, “He wants to know how many forgeries and how many blacksmiths are in Sesten.”
“In Sesten? All of Sesten?” asked Tristan. “I can’t cover every blade of grass in Sesten to find out. That’d take a year, at least.”
“No, just downtown Sesten. He needs to know it for something that he’s planning. It will take some time to plan.”
“Why don’t you just count them up on your way back to the Graycloaks?” asked Tristan.
Loren put a finger over his lips. “Sshhh…stop thinking too much. He’ll pay you for it in gold. Don’t you want to get paid?”
Tristan did. But it still bothered him why they couldn’t gather the intel themselves. Besides, what could they be planning that involves Sesten? Sesten was a small enough town as it was. Overpowering it wouldn’t take too much moxy or guile. The people would likely flee at the first sight of attack.
“Okay. I’ll do it. Let me ask the questions now,” said Tristan. He turned his head toward Loren. They locked eyes for a moment. Tristan’s stomach did a flip. He noticed a scar that ran around the side of her neck and up behind her right ear.
“Ask away,” came Loren’s reply. She glanced up at the stars. The sun was fully down now and the stars were a mesmerizing sight.
“Why are you with the Graycloaks? What’s in it for you?” asked Tristan. He settled himself down onto his back, placing his hands underneath his head. Loren followed suit, but she lay the other way so that her head was backed up against Tristan’s.
“I fled Denderrika when my father died. I was scared. Afraid. I had no family. I never knew my mother.” Loren paused. Tristan thought she was getting choked up, and maybe she was. He couldn’t tell because she then continued as normal. “The land is ruled by a powerful High Lord, and he will steal away any child that is without a father and mold them into his own slaves. I feared that life, so I just fled. And wound up in Brantley before I met a couple of Brantish folk, Jareth and Kieran.
I had no direction, no place to go. Jareth and Kieran said they had heard of a rogue group of outlaws that could make us rich. I believed them. We went west into Windem and that’s when we found Dalko and the Graycloaks.”
“Was it true, did they make you rich?” asked Tristan. He thought he knew the answer. He was picturing all of the gold he had seen in the attic of the lodge house.
“Yes and no. The wealth we have is a collective wealth. It belongs to the group--Dalko, really. He makes all the decisions. Once I got involved with the group, I was intoxicated by his vision…his plan. I could eventually have everything I ever wanted, and all in the name of Denderrika.”
“What do you mean?” Tristan was beginning to feel uneasy. This group was definitely dangerous, and certainly no friend of Windem. What exactly was their end goal?
“There are thousands of warbands in Windem by now, all fighting under the same banner. It’s Denderrika’s war. The High Lord of Denderrika wants world domination. He’s a twisted man. He’s got a sorceress and everything. He likely knows who you are, Tristan Sword Maker.”
A chill went down Tristan’s spine. “What? How?”
Loren laughed. “It’s the same way Dalko knows a lot. He has a special intuition. He’s an Ascendian. The High Lord is as well, and it all stems from a special magic that his sorceress weaves with her bright blue rubies and mystic spells.”
“How can you stand behind such vile methods? I always wanted to be a Knight of Windem someday so that I can find evil such as that. I want to be a warrior, even still.”
“Evil? It’s not evil. If you’ve got the magic in your hands, why not use it?” asked Loren.
“Just because you have the ability to use it, doesn’t mean you should. Careful what you say, Denderrikan. I am Tristan Sword Maker, you know.” Tristan’s tone had grown comedically menacing. Loren laughed harder than Tristan had ever heard her laugh in his short time with her. “So then what? What happens after the Denderrikans dominate the world? You’re going to take your share of gold and plunder and sail off into the sunset?” Tristan said wryly.
“Not quite, Wind Sucker.” Loren gave a harsh look. They back on their butts with their legs spread out in front of them. Their hands were stretched behind them, almost touching. “Most Denderrikans are Hedonist, which means we believe whatever brings us pleasure is what we should pursue in life. I want my share of wealth, and I want someone to share it with. I want to find that person who I can live with forever and have children with.”
“How many children?” asked Tristan.
“As many as I can. Ten. Fifteen,” said Loren.
“What?” Tristan was incredulous. “That’s ridiculous…I mean, erm, there’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. I want children as well. Preferably more than one. Don’t want my kid to end up like I did.”
“How’s that?” asked Loren.
“Alone.”
And for the first time that night, Loren’s hand moved, ever so slightly. Her finger brushed Tristan’s pinky. He froze. Was he supposed to do it back? He wasn’t sure, so he did nothing.
“If I die in battle someday, I want my children to have a mother who will fight for them. I want my children to have each other’s back. All of that, I suppose.”
“Well, I suppose our ideas aren’t that different after all,” joked Loren.
“Can I ask an unrelated question? It’s about Dalko…” Tristan couldn’t help but ask about Dalko. He had far too many questions about the cold, blue-eyed Ascendian.
Loren hesitated. Tristan thought it odd. He hadn’t expected her to be reluctant to talk about Dalko Riven. “Erm…yeh, why not?” Her accent was thick. Tristan wondered if it was because she was nervous.
“Is he human?”
The silence was deafening. Tristan dared not breathe until she spoke.
“Are you being serious?” Loren’s voice was high pitched.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I was joking.”
Loren pursed her lips. She nodded. “Yeah. He is.”
“Then what it is about him that seems a bit…powerful.” Tristan had no other word to describe him. He just had an aura about him. “There’s got to be something. I can sense it when I’m near him.”
Loren shook her head. “That’s how everyone is when they first meet him. He’s not very friendly. As I said, he was trained at birth to be a cold blooded killer. Before he embarked on this quest in Windem, Dalko had already killed a lot of high profile nobles and politicans in Denderrika. He was the High Lord’s sword. No one ever saw it happen. They just knew that unexplained deaths occurred when the High Lord was conspired against. Everyone feared him because of that. People still do.”
“And that is how the High Lord got so many people to swear allegiance to his cause, isn’t it?” asked Tristan.
“There is that, yes. But there is another, darker, reason that people feel compelled to serve him without reserve.” Loren had grown very dark. Very serious. “He has a Sorceress. I dare not speak of her lest her wrath come down upon me. Dalko’s gets his intuition and his knowledge from her. That is likely what you are sensing.”
“A Sorceress? Like in the stories? What sort of magic does she wield?” Tristan was intrigued, wanting to stop at nothing to learn more about this Sorceress.
“We shall stop now before we’ve spoken too much. She has great power. I reckon she can sense when we speak of her,” said Loren. She looked up at the stars.
“Fair enough,” replied Tristan. He joined Loren in staring at the dizzying display of glowing stars. “The moon looks like a block of cheese.”
Loren laughed. Tristan was made warm inside. He loved her laugh–loved making her laugh. Loren spoke, “I love cheese.”
“Oh, there it is!” said Tristan excitedly. “Loren Cheese Lover! Now you’ve got a nickname.” The two laughed together and then enjoyed some silence together. Their hands came together–though Tristan couldn’t remember who had initiated it.
When they awoke it was still dark out. A blade of grass had blown in the wind and tickled Tristan’s nose, prompting him to sneeze. Loren jumped, gasping.
“It’s okay, I just sneezed,” said Tristan.
“I was having a bad dream. I’m glad you woke me up. Let’s go home, Tristan. It’s probably only a few hours until sunrise.”
“You’re right,” replied Tristan, rising to his feet and flipping his long, tousled brown hair behind him.
“Do you remember what you need to do to earn your next paycheck?” asked Loren.
“Intel on the tax collectors and the number of forgeries and blacksmiths in Sesten.” Tristan hadn’t forgotten. How could he? He needed the coin badly, and soon. Sir Crowley Begg would be back in a couple days time.
“You got it. Goodbye, Tristan. I’ll see you sometime soon.” Loren smiled warmly, and then departed. Tristan turned left and made for home. He smiled the entire way home. He had a friend.