It was a little after midday and the sun was hidden behind dull gray clouds. It showed its face only in small glimpses, but soon it was no longer visible at all. The air had a bite to it. There was a brisk feeling that only comes when snow is not far from falling. Men and women of Sesten had no idea that the Graycloak Company would be marching onto the old yellow road and into the heart of Sesten shortly, nor did they have any reason to.
Some could feel it. It is an odd feeling that some claim to have before a phenomenon happens. The hairs on the back of your neck stick straight. A natural disaster strikes. A thief breaks in with a stave or a dagger. Your crop has been stolen, trampled, or cherry picked--a farmer may know before they even step out of bed in the morning.
This day was like that for the citizens of Sesten. They paid their taxes to Sir Crowley Begg and his men. Their hands felt extra heavy as they dropped their coins in his pouch. Crowley felt it too. He frowned, collecting from the final citizen of the town. He looked around. There was nothing to see. The sign for Arithea’s Meads swung lightly on its hinges. A single crow settled down on one of the trademark flat rooftops of a shop lining the old yellow road. The road didn’t seem as yellow as it had in the past. It was more gray and gravelly. A horse limped, pulling a small carriage down the road. Its owner tipped his hat, giving a curt nod of the head. Crowley only stared. He set his jaw, turned, and strode over to his own horse. He was only a mile out from town when he heard the commotion. It was a chilling sound. He was on his way past Tristan’s house at the bottom of Twin Hills to see if he had just missed Tristan by coincidence when Crowley and his host of twelve men reined their horses to a halt and listened. The twelve men slowly laid their eyes on Crowley after looking back at the town. The buildings were small shapes from this distance. There was no fire, no smoke.
Crowley returned a worried look to his men. He twirled an end of his mustache and then ran a hand through his slicked back gray hair. “Shall we?” he asked finally. His question needed no response. This wasn’t about taxes anymore. Crowley was a member of the Kingsguard and this was Kingly business.
The invasion of Sesten didn’t begin with a stampede of warriors, a looting of the town, or even by putting the entire town to the torch and trapping the citizens within. It began with the Chain Slinger. The Veracifer. The end of the old yellow road sloped down slightly where the downtown area ended and the more rural part of the road began. It was at that rest that one hundred and fifty-one men were laying on their bellies and waiting. The Chain Slinger would go first, flushing anyone who had any sense about them out of the town so that the Denderrikans would be met with the least resistance. Dalko was accomplishing a task, securing an outpost. He wouldn’t achieve anything by brutally attacking the locals and potentially suffering casualties.
However, he didn’t intend to let everyone get away. There were some that he would need for the rebuild of the town. Sesten was to become a city. A beacon of hope and strength. His garrison of men would hold down Sesten as a stronghold in the south, solidifying Denderrika’s southern entry into the kingdom. There was also immense strategic value to its location and its crop yield, of course.
Tristan watched as the Chain Slinger’s whirring noises filled the town. No one had peaked out from their shops and buildings yet. The sounds of blacksmiths working their craft and loud, rambunxious taverns still tuned it out. Because the Chain Slinger was walking away from them, the Graycloaks were able to watch. It walked with a heavy limp. The chains weighed it down, burdened it. Its tongue could be seen, even from their vantage point behind it, wagging side to side. It was busily searching, flailing, with no particular purpose.
The spiked balls that were attached to the end of the dragging chains were churning up dirt and the Chain Slinger went. It let out a few new shrieks that Tristan had not heard from it down by the compound. That hard surely broke through the townsfolk.
Tavern doors flung open. Hammering smithies paused their strokes. The bustle of trade shops and street beggars became null. The town had heard it, and now they were seeing it. A horror that was only talked about in stories had come to the small town of Sesten, and it was dragging its way down the old yellow road.
Bodry was riding atop his magnificent, well-muscled horse. His staff was tucked underneath his packs and rope on the rump of the horse. He yanked on the reins, giving a shout. The horse made no noise besides the snorting of its snout. It pressed on, hard as it could go. It knew that its master was in a hurry.
He patted his horse’s mane, leaning forward in the saddle. He groaned. He wasn’t as limber as he once was. The horse was coming from the west. The west side of Sesten was in plain view to Bodry as his horse carried them onward across the cropland. It was winter, and so the corn was still just seeds in the ground, although the dirt was already tilled in preparation for the spring.
He had awoken with a start this morning, assuming it had just been a troublesome dream. His instincts told him otherwise. He had been midway into a journey to the King to report all that his spies had compiled for him. At the top of the list had been,
Suspicions at small town of Sesten.
Curious routine by a young Windem boy, no older than 21 years.
Possible that the boy is in league with someone -- Denderrikans.
The report sounded mild, but Bodry knew how the pattern went. There had been dozens of similar reports across Windem within the past few months. All of them had turned out the same. Bodry had ignored the threat on account of the King’s disregard, and apparent lack of concern. As it had turned out in twelve out of fourteen cases, there had indeed been Denderrikan warbands camped out in secret. Windem had lost four towns, three cities, and four villages to these occupations. The Denderrikans were gaining a foothold, and this one concerned Bodry the most.
He knew of Tristan’s bloodline, knew of Gareth Blackthorn’s secrets. He’d been entrusted by Gareth with secrets--the most important one involving Tristan. It had prompted his frequent check-ins during Tristan’s upbringing, and now he was losing his grasp.
Should’ve known something was up. Should’ve seen it coming, thought Bodry. He bit his chapped lip, peeling a piece of skin so hard that it began bleeding. The wind dried it out quickly. The cold air was slapping at his face as his horse charged on.
“Go on, Snowsphere! Be gallant!” shouted Bodry. If he could make up for lost time, he might be able to catch Crowley Begg in time before he made a stupid decision. A decision about Tristan, Bodry thought, not about Sesten. They can have Sesten, but we can’t let them have the boy. Crowley won’t believe me. He never knew Gareth’s secrets, but he knows Tristan’s different than the others. That’s why he requested to be stationed in the south…for taxes.
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One man had scampered clumsily out of a tavern. His balance was already poor, likely from drinking, but the sight of a Chain Slinger with the eyes of a demon certainly didn’t help. It also didn’t help that the man made eye contact with the Chain Slinger. His eyes instantly locked. They were burned, charred, and then melted into the ground. His eye sockets curled up and swelled, like they had been cauterized. He dropped to the ground, squealing.
Two others, a man and a woman who were presumably married, came running out of Ivan’s Ales with the most naive escape method imaginable. They came out of the front door holding hands, their bodies turned sideways so that they could get a good look at the beast, then immediately lost all sight, hearing, and smell. Tristan felt his heart sink. They looked like good, well-meaning. He was surprised to realize that not everyone sat around taverns all day listening to the realm’s stories and latest happenings.
After the first three people who escaped were melted to the ground and devoid of all sense besides touch, the townsfolk seemed to wisen up beside the odd man or woman here and there who seemed to have completely lost touch with reality. Doors were boarded up and barricaded with all the furniture that places could possibly think of.
It was no use. The Chain Slinger did something Tristan did not know it was capable of. It swung its chains. The spiked balls gained some momentum after a few spins, and then it released the chain to its right, allowing the spiked ball to carry its entire weight and momentum through the wall of Artihea’s Meads. The building shook with trembling and terror. If it was possible for the air to become thick and suffocating with fear, it did just that. Tristan felt himself struggle to swallow. His throat was dry and his body was shaking.
He looked to his right where Loren lay beside him with her belly to the ground. She grabbed his forearm, rubbed it twice, and urged Tristan to fight back his emotions.
“This is war, Tristan!” said Loren. “Don’t let your nerves consume you now, we haven’t even taken the town yet.”
“Yes, exactly!” Tristan whispered and shouted simultaneously. Kenton elbowed him. He was lying to Tristan’s left.
Dalko slowly rose to his feet before anyone else did. His eyes glazed over his Company. He gave a slow, intentional nod. A row of twenty men along either outskirt of the group got up with their bows and their quivers. Tristan watched as they appeared to flank the town. When they arrived at the buildings they scurried up the sides of the rectangular, flat-roofed buildings and spread themselves along the roofs. Dalko had grabbed his longbow from his servant and slung it over his shoulder. His head angled to the right. He lowered his hand discreetly, then signaled us forward with two fingers.
The entire group rose to their feet quietly. Tristan was amazed at how little noise they made. The only sound he heard was the minimal sounds of clanging as swords, spears, pykes, and scythes were gathered up. The remaining one hundred and nine men lined either side of the old yellow road. Dalko walked down the middle of the road, slowly and assuredly. Kenton followed shortly behind him. They stopped where the road met the shops and taverns.
Kenton took a deep inhalation of breath and then made an announcement to whomever might be listening. As he spoke, people were spilling out of Arithea’s Meads and sprinting away from the town as fast as their legs would allow. Tristan could hear the creature’s chains dragging over stools and tables. He could hear the stunned swallows, grunts, and despairing pleads of people losing their senses.
“Listen here, town of Sesten! This town sits upon a rich plot of land--a plot of land that is important to us and our High Lord, lord Maltor of Denderrika. Come forth, citizens of Sesten, and show face.” Kenton paused, looking around at the buildings. A few people crept out cautiously. Dalko signaled for a small host of men to start filing through the town to weed out those who might stick around or plan a small rebellion. He didn’t need useless casualties.
“We ask that all blacksmiths remain in the town. We have the name of every blacksmith in Sesten and a map of your homes. Do not evade us. We will find you if you choose to run.” Kenton paused, letting that sink in. He repeated it once more. A few men with soot-stained faces and burly arms crept out from the local forgery. A few more came out from narrow alleyways that were connected to the adjacent streets. Denderrikan Graycloaks followed them from behind, spears and pikes dug into their backs.
“We will need a small host of men, preferably those with experience out in the fields with crop land and vegetation.” Kenton waited. A few men voluntarily emerged from local shops and alleyways.
Once all farmers and blacksmiths were rounded up, Kenton escorted them through an alleyway and out of sight. A host of twenty Graycloaks followed. They would be used to grow vegetation and keep the new stronghold fresh with crop supply. The blacksmiths’ skills would be utilized to build fortified walls and weapons for the defense of Sesten, should King Tarren decide to send an army this far south.
Dalko walked with his hands behind his back, sharp eyes darting along the ground. He stopped, raised his head. His men stood eagerly, awaiting the next orders. “Now,” shouted Dalko. “We must find the spot and dig. The sword of Gareth Blackthorn is buried somewhere…here, beneath the town.”
The Veracifer had finished its bout inside Arithea’s Meads. It emerged from the entrance of the tavern, blinding an unfortunate Graycloak who had been standing with his back to the door. He turned, oblivious to the obvious sounds of its whirring and chains dragging. He was blinded and disoriented, having made the mistake of looking into its eyes.
“Shoot him,” ordered Dalko. An archer from a rooftop took aim and fired. The arrow thudded into the back of the Graycloak’s neck. One hundred and forty-nine men now.
Most of the Graycloaks had dispersed down various alleyways and streets of Sesten, desperate to find a spot in the ground where, according to Dalko, there should be a low humming sound and a blue aura. The magical sword would be there, according to his visions. The sorceress Saphira had planted the vision there in one of his verrings. He could see it still, as vivid as if it had actually happened. The humming was quieter than the soft footstep of a leather boot, but it was there--had been audible. And the dirt was a tinge of blue. It was easy to miss, but still blue.
Dalko stood beside Loren, Asherin, Tristan, and the rest of his inner circle who had originally come to the Sesten before the rest of the Denderrikan warriors had shown up at the compound. Two things happened at once. A man came bursting around the corner, a wild look in his eyes. “We’ve found it, lord Dalko,” he said. Dalko’s attention was diverted. He pushed the Graycloak aside, squinting his bright blue eyes. In the distance were thirteen men on horseback with claret cloaks flapping in the wind behind them. Orange dust kicked up around the hooves of their horses. Their swords were drawn and held out at an angle, ready to strike.
“Ahhh…” said Dalko. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth raised. “I thought they might have already been here, hiding. I was wrong.”
Sir Crowley Begg reared his horse. His men pulled rank just behind him. They had their half-helms on and their visors down. Only Sir Crowley was without a helm. He wore a dark scowl instead.
“Release the boy and you can have the town. King’s orders,” said Crowley.
“No,” replied Dalko. “We’ll have both the town and the boy. You, on the other hand, won’t be leaving.” Dalko directed their glances up to the rooftops, where several archers had their bowstrings knocked and pointed. “Where is our other guest?” asked Dalko.
Crowley looked at his guard, confused. The confusion was lifted a moment later. Bodry was tossed from an alleyway and into the middle of the old yellow road between Dalko and Crowley. He kicked up a cloud of dirt and dust, coughing and sputtering blood. Three Graycloaks shouted abuse at him. They tossed his staff at him in spite. It was split in two.
Tristan gasped. “Uncle Bodry!”
Dalko’s taunting smile faded. It had only lasted a second. At the sight of Bodry, he bared steel for the first time since entering the town. His sword was magnificent and horrible. “The Chief of Spies…welcome to Sesten.”