The trip has not begun the way that Tristan would have hoped for. Looking back, he wondered if they should have entered the Whispering Woods at all. They could have taken an alternate route around the woods, but that would have tacked on an extra twelve hours, he guessed.

Tristan felt his breath become shallow and his heart rate quicken. What was he doing? He became very aware of how alien he had become. He was no longer than same boy who had grown up in Sesten. He missed his Ma, missed Uncle Bodry--who was locked away somewhere under the same regime as the one that he now served. His head spun. Waves of nausea washed over Tristan like an unwelcome ocean current, dragging him down and down below the salty waves. He was laying flat on his back with his head resting against his pack. The group were nearing the end of their rest and preparing to move forward, but Asherin had expressed her concerns after removing Kenton’s bandages and revealing the nasty cuts that Kenton had received from the black wolf.

“Those wolves weren’t normal wolves,” Asherin had said. “I mean, look at this,” Asherin said as she removed the bandages and positioned Kenton’s leg for Tristan to see.

“I don’t disagree,” said Tristan. “Not only was the fur jet black, but so were its claws and everything else.”

“The woods were black too,” murmured Kenton weakly. “The whole place…” Kenton grimaced, his hand clutching at one of the cuts on his rib, “place seemed diseased…sick.”

“Well there’s no doubt about that,” replied Eamon who had been seemingly scanning the horizon and not listening. He spoke again, still facing away from the group and with one foot propped on a rock. “Windem’s forces have merged with whatever crooked, vile thing it is that’s out there. The Shadow--as many call it. That’s just a bland name for whatever darkness it is that has spread from the north. We’re seeing the evidence here--even in Whisperton. And their most dangerous host is yet to arrive.”

“That’s what we’re after, right?” said Loren. She lay on her side with her elbow propping her up. Her hands twiddled with some twicks, then snapped them in half and tossed them aside.

“Yes,” said Tristan.

“What’s the use?” asked Asherin. “Looks like they’ve already infected the land. Kenton’s badly hurt, and he needs real medicine. I say we head back and avoid the Whispering Woods this time. It would be unwise to go any further.”

“No,” replied Tristan.

“No? That’s it?” Asherin was cross. “If we’re to continue onwards, I think we’re all owed an explanation or a justification of some sort.”

“We keep moving forward. We can’t turn back now. If we head back now, we’re accepting defeat.” Tristan’s lips were pressed firmly, a stern look upon his face.

“Besides, if no one takes down the evil that approaches, who will? We’ll run out of food. Windem will starve us out. That’s what they want,” said Loren, siding with Tristan.

“I’ll be fine,” groaned Kenton.

“You don’t look fine,” replied Asherin. She ran a hand over his forehead. “He feels warm.”

“We’ll get him on horseback and journey onward. His body can fight the infection,” said Tristan.

“And if it can’t? Then what?” Asherin rose to her feet, crossing her arms indignantly.

Tristan came to his own feet, moving his face within inches of Asherin’s. “Then we deal with it.” The two stared each other down for perhaps fifteen seconds before Asherin dropped her gaze.

“Dalko placed Tristan in charge. He has seen the visions. We ought to trust him, and trust Tristan to lead us.” Loren stepped between Asherin and Tristan, trying to rescue a mutual understanding. “Dalko calls Tristan the Wielder of the One Sword, now we must help him fulfill that.”

“But we’re not on this journey to help Tristan achieve his dreams,” said Asherin. She was chuckling now. “I am doing no more than we set out to do--and that is to confront the Servants of Basidin and rescue the largest cropland in Windem. That’s all. Beyond that,” Asherin brought her face within an inch of Tristans again, nudging Loren out of the way, “You’re on your own.”

The group managed to pack up their belongings and get Kenton laid across a horse. It was time to carry on. They travelled for a while, setting out a few hours after noon.

“We’ll go as far as we can until the sun sets, and then some,” said Tristan. Eamon was riding abreast with him. He nodded.

“As you command, Tristan.”

Tristan smiled. He liked the Captain of the Guard. He was stoic. Objective. His guards were well trained and followed along with no complaints. Tristan had hardly heard a word out of them since the journey began. Where their Captain went, they would go.

The horses cantered onward, their hooves clacking lazily atop the dirt road.

“Have you identified our next checkpoint?” asked Eamon. They had been cantering along the road for nearly an hour. Tristan unfurled his map, his finger hovering for a few second while he looked for the spot.

“Here,” said Tristan. His finger landed on a place called “Granite Ford.”

Eamon nodded his head approvingly. “Seems a good a place as any. It will be heavily guarded though, you should know. That bridge has had a toll since the earliest days--they’ve earned a fine coin off the citizens of Windem through the years. I think they’ve only doubled the size of the toll guard since the war began.”

“They don’t want Denderrikans having access to that crossing, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” agreed Eamon. “You and I will lead when we arrive. We’re from Windem and have familiar faces. It’d be best if Kenton and Asherin kept their faces obscured and hidden beneath their hoods.”

“Wait…where’s Vitarko?” Loren asked. She was riding just behind Tristan and Eamon.

“He split off before the Whispering Wood,” replied Tristan. “He’ll be taking a different route than us but he’s supposed to join up with us at some point.”

“Did he say why?” asked Loren.

“No.”

“Then why did Dalko bother sending him with us if he’s not going to be around to aid us in our journey?”

Tristan shrugged. “The Ascendians have their way of doing things. I’m sure Vitarko talked it over with Dalko beforehand.”

“You didn’t think to ask?” Loren’s tone was curious but still whiny.

Tristan ignored her, keeping his head forward.

The group made good time. It had been several hours and they had successfully exited Whisperton. The road was fairly deserted besides the occasional traveller headed the opposite direction. Since the war began, people mostly headed south toward the Capitol rather than away from it.

“We’re out of Whisperton, right?” asked Loren.

“Correct,” replied Eamon.

“Where are we now?”

“These lands belong to no territory or fief. We are passing by remote towns and villages that are littered to either side of the main road we now travel. Soon, we will be approaching Skalla.”

“Skalla,” whispered Asherin. Loren turned her blonde head of hair back, peering curiously at Asherin.

“You know of Skalla?”

“I’ve heard stories,” said Asherin.

“Stories of what kind?” asked Loren.

Kenton moaned wearily beside Asherin. She ran a hand along his cheek, then rubbed his forehead with her thumb. “You’ll be okay, I promise,” she whispered. She snapped back into the present, addressing Loren’s question. “Stories of its scum-like inhabitants. Dalko has sent men to Skalla before.”

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“For what?” asked Tristan. It sounded more like a strict statement than a question. He was growing tired of Asherin’s pessimism.

“To understand the land. High Lord Maltor has asked. The Sorceress has asked in Dalko’s dreams and in his visions. He keeps a detailed record of everything he knows about these lands.”

Loren harrumphed. Tristan grunted. Eamon said nothing. The group carried on, watching the sun’s light begin to drift into a soft, gentle blue and eventually a purple.

“We’ll stop soon,” said Tristan. They were coming up on the main road that passed through Skalla’s foothills. Thin green trees that crowded closely surrounded the road on both sides, rising and falling with the foothills.

“I’d recommend passing through these foothills before settling down for the night,” advised Eamon.

“Thieves?” asked Tristan.

“Bandits,” confirmed Eamon. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. “We call them bandits. Thieves are petty, thoughtless men in the cities.”

“And bandits?”

“Bandits are smarter. They take more. Let us hope we shan’t chance to encounter them here.” Eamon’s forehead was scrunched into a dozen mini wrinkles.

Half an hour passed. Tristan could make out a man standing along the side of the road. His head was hanging low and his shoulders were slumped forward as if he were about to tip over and faceplant. “Slow down,” said Tristan. He held out a halting hand.

“Weapons,” said Eamon curtly. His guards quickly, and in sync, withdrew their daggers from their scabbards. “Stay mounted, but be ready. This could be a trick,” said Eamon, talking to the entire group.

As they came closer Tristan could make out more details. He was a heavy man with a balding head of stringy, long hair. The edges of his eyes were red and his face blotchy. Blood was dried and crusted all over his brown tunic. His feet were barefoot and he was breathing in shuttering gasps.

“Pl--plea--please! Help me! Go no further. Only trouble awaits you beyond this point.”

“What kind of trouble?” asked Tristan. His hand slid discreetly to Drakiler, which was sheathed at his hip.

“There were men. B--bb--bad…men!” the man stammered and then his big, buggy eyes darted anxiously at their group. Asherin heaved an impatient sigh.

“Can you tell us where you saw these men?” asked Eamon. His mind was already planning and anticipating. Tristan looked at Eamon, recognize that fact, and realize he ought to be doing the same.

“Up there, right where you’re headed.” The man was pointing toward the direction they were headed. “Three of ‘em. They’ve got staves. They’re fit men, kinda like you lot here.” The man had calmed a bit and was studying them now. His eyes landed on Tristan and searched him head to toe. “Say--you look familiar.”

Tristan said nothing, pursing his lips. He gestured to Eamon, who was waiting to make sure Tristan didn’t want to take lead on this.

“Three men you say,” continued Eamon. He looked back at his group. His eyes fell on Kenton, who was out cold and shaking with fever. Beads of sweat lined his face. “Well, I’d say we could take three men pretty handily. Did they have any bows? Was it just those three and no one else?”

“Yes, just those three. Erm, one of them was holding a bow in his hand but his quiver was empty. He was missing most his teeth and the skin on his face looked pink and scarred. Rough lookin’ bunch, I will say.”

“Like most bandits,” confirmed Eamon.

“Can you help me?” asked the man. “They took my horse, my food, my water…surely men of your stature have food you can spare. I can see your packs there.”

Tristan pulled out a small pack of dry nuts. “Here.” he tossed the pack to the man, who snatched at it hungrily and immediately began piling the nuts in his mouth. “Oh, thank you kind stranger!” Tristan nodded his head and then nudged his horse onward.

The group remained alert in their saddles, scanning either side of the road for unusual activity. The road seemed deserted. It was eerily quiet. Not even the birds sang. The wind didn’t howl. In fact, it was a mild and calm day. It was neither warm nor cold. But as the sun continued to drift lower and lower, a slight chill began to gnaw at them. Asherin took her cloak and slid it over Kenton as a second layer. He was shivering badly.

Fifteen minutes later the bodies began to show up along the sides of the road. First it was one (badly butchered and arms decapitated) and then there were two bodies laid side by side and with throats slit. One of the bodies was stripped of its clothes except for a boot which clung to the corpses’ foot.

“Too late to turn back now,” remarked Loren. Her tone was oddly bubbly.

“What did I tell you? Welcome to Skalla.” Although his words sounded matter-of-factly and calming, Eamon was uneasy. He felt his heart rate begin to quicken and adrenaline begin to course through him. This wasn’t mere thievery. This was murder. Cruelty.

Tristan hardly noticed the corpses along the side of the road. He didn’t even hear Eamon Thorne ask him if they ought to quicken the pace and bear their swords, just in case. His mind was adrift and far, far, away. He didn’t feel like him. He wasn’t Tristan Blackthorn. He was just some man. Some man that was doing the dirty work for a Denderrikan war leader. He was supporting the wrong side of the war. Or was he? Windem was no longer what it used to be, he knew that. The Kingsguard had been wiped out, thanks to Dalko, and the Elric Drakonstone was the Lord Commander of the King’s Armies. And, from what he’d heard (and was now common knowledge across the land) King Tarren was no longer the same king he used to be. In fact, he was hardly in charge. There was some dark, vile sickness that had descended upon Castle Rarington--or Stormhold, as they were now calling it. Even the way they had changed it’s name had unsettled Tristan.

But he was torn. His father had died for Windem. He had died in an attempt to accomplish the impossible for King Tarren. Couldn’t Tristan honor his father by following in his father’s footsteps? Ought he to serve in the King’s armies and help to fight this war? He wondered if King Tarren would even remember that Gareth Blackthorn had a son out there. Tristan’s thoughts drifted to his Ma. Dalko had said that Elric had taken her away. He wondered whether that was true, or whether Dalko had just said that to put Tristan’s mind at ease. One thing was certain--Dalko knew who Tristan was and knew the significance of his bloodline. And that was something. That felt more like an homage to his father, to the Blackthorns. But what was he doing now, riding out to some vantage in South Windem with these riders? Outside of Loren, he did not know them well. He didn’t know Asherin nor Kenton very well. He’d only just met Captain Eamon, and he didn’t trust Vitarko--and didn’t know when or where they’d see him again.

All of these thoughts swirled through his head. They were thoughts that he would have preferred to keep somewhere far away in the back of his brain. But he couldn’t now. It all came gushing to the forefront like a storm front--thoughts of Elric, Ma, Dalko, his father, King Tarren--his purpose. What was he doing here? It all became so apparent now that he was removed from Dalko’s presence. The further he journeyed from Dalko, the more certain he became that he ought to just ride off in the middle of the night and leave his group. He could ride up to Stormhold’s front gates and announce that he was home. Gareth Blackthorn’s son had come home. Surely they would open the gates and welcome him with open arms. But now times were different. Tristan wasn’t sure how he would be received. There was new leadership in Windem. It was a leadership that was willing to starve its own people in order to win a war. Tristan figured that if a leadership was willing to do that, then it would be in no shape to welcome back an old face that had spent the past years in the shadows of Sesten and Feynram, working for the mastermind who was organizing the campaign to take over Windem.

“Tristan--hey. Are you with me? Tristan--” Eamon was nudging Tristan’s arm when he finally came-to. There was a man standing one hundred yards ahead in the middle of the road. He didn’t look hurt or mutilated. He looked confident. Expectant.

“Who is it?” asked Tristan. He felt like he had just woke up from a long and disorienting nap.

“It’s a stranger, that’s who!” shouted Asherin.

“We don’t know who it is, but it sure looks like it could be the dangerous men that the man back there was talking about,” said Eamon. Tristan could smell the stale jerky on his breath.

“Could be a different man than him. You said Skalla is known for its criminals and bandits.”

“Yeah, but Tristan--he’s blocking the road. I’m willing to wager there’s more just like him standing off to either side of the road, just hiding and waiting in the trees and the foothills. No man blocks the path of a group our size without some supreme confidence.”

“I say we kick it into top gear and run him down with our horses,” said Loren confidently. “If we go fast enough, it won’t matter who they have or how many of them there are.”

“I agree,” chimed Asherin. “If we stop now, it could mean more trouble than we’re prepared for.”

“Could have archers,” Eamon whispered to Tristan. “Best we play their little game and avoid unnecessary casualties.”

Tristan envisioned arrows flying through the air like a hoard of locusts. Kenton was already deathly ill. It only took one accurate arrow to end a life. “We’ll stop and see what he wants. Let us not presume he is out to rob us. He may have some warning for us just as the first man we encountered did.”

They slowed their horses and eventually stopped twenty yards before the man who stood in the road. His face was mutilated and burned. Must be the same man we heard about earlier, thought Tristan.

“Hello there,” said the man with a dreadful, toothless smile. He was holding a stave in his right hand. His clothes appeared old and tattered. His grin made Tristan’s stomach do a flip. Something wasn’t right about this guy.

“How can we help you, sir?” asked Tristan stiffly.

“You can start by complying with a few simple requests” he paused, studying the group and still flashing his ridiculous grin. Seeing no resistance, he continued, “we’ll need all your food and all your weapons. That’s all really. I told you it’d be simple!” The man chuckled heartily and tapped his stave repeatedly in his hands.

“That won’t be happening,” said Tristan.

“Okay then, I figured you’d say as much. Come on out boys!” he laughed again, this time snorting as he laughed, which made the same sound as a broken bell.

A wave of fifteen men came out from the cover of the woods on the right, and then the same number on the left. They were holding staves and axes. More men spilled out from the treeline behind those men with crossbows and shortbows knocked and ready to fire.

“Now,” began the man in charge, “shall we try that again?”

More men filed out of the woods behind them and enclosed the group from the rear. “Oh, and we’ll take your horses too! AHAHA!” The man found the last part to be particularly funny.