The mid-afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long, slanted shadows across the land, its warm light at odds with the chill that had gripped the region for weeks prior to today. A cool breeze swept through and rustled the small clusters of grass and weeds that sprouted from the dirt path with which they walked now. The sound of the river was distant, yet constant, as it added to the unsettling quiet of the day.
“You can hear the river from here,” said Eamon, his brows furrowed as he navigated a few tricky divot holes on the path. Either side of the dirt path gave way to a short steep drop off where one could easily ruin an ankle.
“We’re headed in the right direction,” affirmed Tristan. Eamon and Nothelm had done well to navigate them to this point after losing Tristan’s map. “We manage to cross the ford and then it’s just the Ashara Plains that stand in our way.” Tristan lifted his head with optimism and took in the beautiful sky. It was a mix of blue and green hues with soft but dissolving clouds.
“How can we be certain that we are getting to the cropland before Basidin’s men?” asked Nothelm. Tristan frowned. “Not questioning your confidence, by any means, lord…”
“I’m not your lord. I’m no one’s lord,” said Tristan. “But…to answer that question, we cannot know with certainty. If we are too late and they have infected the crop, we’ll hunt them.”
“Hunt them?” said Nothelm.
“Hunt them,” confirmed Tristan, nodding his head. “The intel that came to Dalko indicates these men will be a problem long after their attempt to poison the Plains of Ashara. If they are to follow Basidin’s wishes, they’re only getting started.”
The group journeyed onward along the beaten path for another hour, encountering no one besides a few galloping hares and some roaming cattle. Asherin and Kenton lagged behind--Kenton’s stamina still hadn’t been the same since the attack by the black wolf. Kenton Wolfsblood, the witch of Elaria had called him.
The air grew thick with the scent of wet stone as the narrow path began to open up ahead. The distant roar of the river was louder now, and it drowned out the rest of the sounds as they pressed on, every step bringing them closer to the Granite Ford.
Eamon walked beside Tristan silently, his hand resting on the hilt of a dulled sword he had stripped from one of Darwin’s bandits when he and his guards had attacked them. Nothelm trailed back a few paces, his pace slower and more deliberate. Tristan smirked to himself, remembering how silly it seemed that they had completely forgotten about him in the Whispering Wood. The blame fell squarely on the Rot, which was in the air that they now breathed. The other part of him wondered if anyone else in the group would have even cared if they had remembered by chance. Asherin and Kenton were cold toward Nothelm, still unforgiving towards anyone with an allegiance to the Brantish. They were at war with one another, after all.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” Eamon muttered, his voice low and tinged with frustration. He had been quiet for most of the journey but now the weight of what he’d lost seemed to break through. He’d lost the guardsmen that he’d brought along for the journey, and they had been some of his finest men. “The Takers were more than we’d prepared for. They had more men.”
Nothelm’s lips twisted into a smirk, his stride suddenly more than casual now that he had found an opportunity to speak up. “You thought Darwin would be easy pickings?” he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “He’s more than just a bandit, you know.”
Eamon’s eyes narrowed as he turned to scowl at Nothelm. “Says the man who was completely forgotten back at the Whispering Wood and nowhere to be seen for our entire expedition through Whisperton. I would’ve loved to see you run that tongue so smoothly back when we encountered Darwin and his men. Wouldn’t have been so coy then, I’d wager.”
There was a long pause, and Tristan glanced over his shoulder at Eamon. He could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his posture had stiffened at the memory, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. He knew Eamon would not forget those losses in a hurry. He took pride in protecting his men, his people. He was the Captain of the Guard, the Protector of a City, of Feynram.
“You couldn’t have known, Captain,” said Tristan softly. “You did what you could. You took back this,” Tristan tapped on his spear, Myroniad, which hung across his back. “And the horses, too.”
Eamon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I should’ve been sharper,” he muttered. “I should’ve staked out the compound longer…had more patience. I could’ve kept my men safe and still escaped with the same amount of weapons that I did.”
Nothelm quickened his pace, coming alongside Eamom whose pace slowed significantly. Nothelm’s eyes assessed Eamon with the sharpness of one who’d seen many battles himself, and experienced too many failures and losses to count.
“You’re not the first to lose good men, Eamon,” said Nothelm, his voice smooth but underlined with a trace of something darker. “This world’s a vicious place, and it’s no better when there’s a war. A war of blood and magic is what it is.” Nothelm paused, studying Eamon’s face. “But hey--you’re still breathing. And so are the rest of us. That’s what matters, I s’pose.”
Eamon chuckled bitterly. “It seems we’re walking to our graves, is all. The Takers, the Rot, and the city of Elaria--I wasn’t there for that but from what you’ve told me, it sounds like that witch was no good and the assassin who took her head is far worse. We’re barely alive as it is.”
The bitterness in his voice stung, but Tristan knew it was the truth. Vitarko’s loss, their weapons stolen, the shadow of the assassin lurking out there somewhere--it was harder and harder to keep up the illusion that they were heading anywhere but disaster.
Nothelm studied Eamon for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing something in the older man’s words. "You speak of death like it’s a guarantee," he said, voice low but steady. "But it’s not. You’re still here, Eamon. And so is Tristan. So am I. We mustn’t let Vitarko’s heroic act be in vain. He rescued us--brought us together, and he sent us on our way. That’s got to count for something."
Tristan caught Nothelm’s gaze and felt a flicker of understanding pass between them. For all the cleverness and cunning Nothelm hid behind, there was a deep loyalty buried beneath it. Nothelm wasn’t about to let them fall apart—not if he could help it. Nothelm wanted the war to end and his personal freedom secured just as much as anyone else did. His life had been spared by Tristan months ago, and he owed him his loyalty now.
Nothelm’s lips curled into something like a grin, but his eyes remained hard. "We’ll either keep moving, or we’ll fall behind. We’ve made it this far and I don’t reckon a bridge and a toll will be able to stop us. Not unless there’s an assassin waiting for us with his blade sharpened and his appetite wetted. Let us hope we’ve beaten him here."
"You’re right," Eamon admitted, the sharpness in his voice dulled slightly. "I’ve been caught in my own head, wallowing in what’s lost." He let out a breath, the tension easing from his shoulders. "But I’ve no intention of falling behind. Not yet.” He exhaled strongly, tapping the hilt of his sword. “As for the assassin, If we encounter him, I’ll hold him up. I fancy my chances with a blade in my hand and a killer in my sights.”
Nothelm nodded, a confident smirk spreading across his face—just slightly. "Then let’s keep moving.”
"Let’s get across that bridge," Tristan said, his voice firm. Eamon nodded, his eyes hardening with renewed resolve. The three men—each carrying their own ghosts—walked toward the crossing, determination set in their bones.
The road ahead narrowed to a jagged path that wound between craggy boulders, each step bringing them closer to the towering cliffs of Granite Ford. The river below, a raging torrent of frothy white water, carved its way through the valley, its roar deafening.The wind gusted sharply as they neared the bridge.
Not far from the ford, a ragtag camp had been set up, the dull glow of a fire casting long shadows across the rocky ground. Several figures stood guard near the fire, their eyes scanning the approaching travelers. They wore mismatched armor and tattered crimson capes, their weapons gleaming under the fading sun.
"That's the crossing," Nothelm muttered, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. His dark eyes flicked toward the group of guards standing watch. "I’ve crossed this bridge once before, years ago... and I can tell you, the toll here is not in gold alone."
Eamon Thorne, his brow furrowed in a rare show of unease, looked over the bridge and then back at the group. "There’s something off about this place," he muttered, voice low. "Keep your wits about you.” His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. A familiar strength suddenly showed in his mannerisms--the guilt and shame of the loss of his guards now forgotten.
“Hullo there!” shouted a smug knight as he left the dull glow of the fire and began strutting toward Eamon. His hand was rested casually on the hilt of his longsword. His crimson cape was fluttering lightly in the wind, revealing a hundred small tears and holes in its fabric. His armor was battered, his breastplate heavily indented which gave the appearance of a near-fatal hit from a spear in a jousting contest--at least, that’s what Eamon had gathered upon first glance.
The Knight sauntered over, his head naked in comparison to the rest of his bulky armor suit. His boots crunched softly underfoot but were drawn out by the rushing sounds of water down below. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard speckled with hints of red. His eyes were blue like a lazy afternoon sky and his hair had just enough length to be pushed over.
“Good evening,” replied Eamon, stiffening as he approached. “We seek passage across the Granite Ford. I take it we’ll have to run that by you lot first?”
“Name’s Salafar,” he held out a gloved hand. Eamon shook it.
“Eamon Thorne, Captain of the Guard of the City of Feyrnam.” He turned back to his companions. Tristan and Loren stood behind Kenton and Asherin as if escorting them as prisoners. “These are my--”
“--If I could be so direct, Captain,” began Salafar, turning his body to gesture a few of his knights into the conversation. “What is the Captain of Feynram doing so far from home? If word from the travelers around here can be believed--Feynram has fallen.” His tone held a hint of menace, but his bright blue eyes were still cordial.
“Feynram has indeed fallen to the Denderrikans,” said Eamon. “My friends and I here,” Eamon gestured back toward Tristan and Loren, “we managed to escape amidst the chaos of the siege. The Denderrikans outnumbered us, outwitted us. They had Ascendians with them.”
Salafar’s head tilted upward in understanding, his gaze holding Eamon’s tensely. His chin tilted down to eye-level again and a subtle smirk spread over his face.
“Who are they?” Salafar’s words came out like a statement, rather than a question.
“Denderrikans,” replied Eamon. “Our intention was to bring them to the King for questioning and whatever else they can be leveraged for…figured that might count for something.”
“The King is in no state to receive visitors, Captain.” Salafar spat the last word out like a poisoned cup of coffee. “And given that the city fell…on your watch? That’s a bad impression, wouldn’t you say?”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Agreed, Salafar,” said Eamon. “But please, Salafar,” Eamon brought his hands together in a praying motion, “we request passage through the Granite Ford. We haven’t got much else going for us at the moment. I’d sooner be reunited with the Windem front of the war and contribute in any way that the King or the Lord Commander sees fit.”
Salafar’s eyes narrowed. Two of his companions pulled rank beside him, appearing bored and disinterested despite their bulky armaments and glistening weapons. One of the knights was a blonde woman with short hair and a blunt face. She gnawed at an apple, her eyes glued on Eamon. The woman watched with mild curiosity at the members of the travelling party. There were countless travellers who had passed through this way, seeking sanctuary by the Capitol where food was most abundant. But this group was different from others--they were dressed like warriors and knights, and not like peasants or vassals.
Tristan eyed Salafar and the others with an uneasy apprehension. These knights didn’t strike him as loyal servants of the crown. The way they had greeted Eamon’s news of Feynram’s fall had seemed more like bitterness mixed with amusement rather than the dismay of someone who was passionate about serving their nation.
Salafar pointed at Nothelm with a gloved finger. ‘Who’s he?”
“Brantish man. He was serving at the side of Windem when his group was ambushed by Denderrikans,” said Eamon.
“We took him in,” chimed Tristan. Salafar seemed amused by Tristan’s interjection.
“And how about him?” pointed Salafar. “He looks like that young fella everyone’s been lookin’ for…what was the name…ah--yes, Blackthorn.”
“Name’s Tristan Drakiler,” Tristan lied. “I don’t know of anyone named Blackthorn, although I do recall the stories of our former Lord Commander, Gareth Blackthorn.”
“Fine warrior and leader of men, he was,” said Salafar. “I had the pleasure of fighting alongside him during many border skirmishes. We wiped away thousands of snots just like him,” said Salafar, pointing at Nothelm again. “Your kind disgust me, by the way. But glad that your people have come to their senses and joined the cause. Windem must stand amidst this hour of darkness.” Salafar straightened. He reached out a hand to the blonde knight beside him and she withdrew an apple from behind her back and placed it in Salafar’s hand. He took a massive bite, chewing obnoxiously and staring at Eamon the whole time. Eamon swallowed, shifted his feet.
“Well, what do you say?” asked Eamon. “We have no coin, as we were robbed during our journey here. I reckon from one Knight of Windem to another you could just let us pass this once and we’ll be on our way to Castle Rarington.”
“Stormhold,” corrected Salafar. “Rarington is no longer its name. As to your generous idea, no. We don’t stand guard here for charity. We require payment, as would the King.”
Eamon pursed his lips, frowning. Tristan’s mouth opened in protest, then closed.
“However,” began Salafar, pausing to take another big chunk out of his red apple. “Your form of payment need not be coin. Coins and jewels have little value in Windem at the moment.” He held up his apple, admiring it from all angles. “Perhaps, you have some food to spare?” Salafar eyed the horses that were tethered together and stayed obediently by Tristan and Loren. Loren pet one of the horses gently and it let out a soft neigh.
“The horses aren’t for eating,” said Tristan.
“The horses won’t cross here. Too narrow,” said Salafar. “Most get too spooked. If you wanted to get to Stormhold from Feynram, you’ve chosen the wrong path.”
“We’ll give you the horses. Will that be sufficient?” Eamon spoke with a firm tone and his face gnarled into frustration. Loren’s mouth sat agape and Tristan wave his arm in protest, before recognizing that Salafar was right and Eamon was playing his cards well, no matter how difficult the journey ahead might be without mounts.
“The horses are a good start,” said Salafar. “We’ll also need some stories.”
“Stories?” said Loren.
“You lot have travelled far,” said Salafar. “You’ve been in the front lines of a Denderrikan invasion. You’ve seen the war raging in the southlands--a war that is due to come north eventually. I reckon the Denderrikans plan to end their war at Stormhold’s front gates, if they can make it that far. What can you tell us?”
“What do you want to know?” said Eamon.
“We want information. Not for the King, not for Windem…but for ourselves. You see,” Salafar took one last bite of his apple and then launched it a hundred yards towards the stone bridge so that it bounced once on the stone and then plummeted over the edge and down into the rushing waters.
“We’re trying to figure this all out here. On the one hand, you’ve got the war with Denderrika. Their High Lord wants our land, our castles, our people. On the other hand, from our understanding as former Knights of Windem, Windem is at war with itself. We’re at war with our own people, our own land. Now how does that make sense?”
“You said former Knights of Windem. What do you mean by that?” asked Tristan.
“You heard me right,” said Salafar. “We’re no longer servants to the King. We abandoned our post long ago, once we found out the King’s not truly the one ruling anymore. And the Lord Commander, Elric Drakonstone, I reckon he’s got as much to do with it as the King himself.”
Eamon’s gaze hardened, his fingers curling into fists. The shift in Salafar’s tone and his admission left a bitter taste in his mouth. “You abandoned your post,” Eamon repeated slowly, his voice steady despite the swirl of questions that were now churning in his mind. “You swore an oath to protect Windem. To the King. And now you’re telling me you’re no longer bound to it?”
“And what of you, Captain?” Salafar turned on him, that menace returning to his face. “You let your city fall. That falls squarely on your shoulders. You want to talk about abandoning your post--how about you turn your party around here and march on back to Feyrnam. After all, you swore an oath to protect the city, didn’t you? To serve and protect the Lord Ruler of the White Walled City, and all of its citizens there-within?”
"Windem died a long time ago, Captain," Salafar said. His tone was far less conspiratorial than it had been, now almost matter-of-fact, as if speaking of something everyone already knew. "The King is a puppet, with no strings worth pulling. The real power is elsewhere now. You know it. I know it. Even the Denderrikans know it." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice so that only Eamon could hear, the others seemingly lost in their own thoughts. "Elric Drakonstone... he’s the one calling the shots now. You just don’t know it yet."
“You said you wanted stories…information,” said Tristan. “We can give you that. We may know more about the fall of Windem than you do. Elric Drakonstone isn’t the one calling the shots. At least, he may think he is. But there’s something else directing this darkness, lurking in the shadows.”
Tristan went on to explain their experiences in the Whispering Woods with the black wolves and then their time in the ruined city of Elaria and the witch who revealed many details to them about their own destinies and that of Basidin and his servants. It was the first that Salafar and his rogue knights had heard of Basidin.
“So you mean to tell me that Basidin sits the throne in place of King Tarren?” asked Salafar.
“He doesn’t rule like a King. His spirit and influence seeps through that castle like a poison,” said Loren boldly.
“And what of this death and decay that plagues these lands? Does Basidin step out from his hiding place like a gardener and sow poison into the ground?”
“It’s called the Rot,” explained Loren. Tristan chimed in where necessary, explaining what Cropkillers were and how Veracifers haunted the lands to the south where they could blind and nullify an entire town with its paralyzing gaze.
Salafar’s expression darkened with each word. The casualness in his demeanor had long since evaporated, replaced by the quiet intensity of someone absorbing a weighty revelation. His blue eyes, once bright with mockery, were now narrowed with a growing sense of disbelief.
"You say that this Basidin, whatever he is, is controlling the throne," Salafar muttered, more to himself than to Tristan. "And that this is what’s spreading the Rot?"
He turned his gaze back to Eamon, then to Nothelm and Loren, as if verifying the truth in their faces. The mention of the Rot seemed to hit harder than anything else, and the grimness in his posture spoke volumes.
The blonde knight, who had until now been disinterested, finally spoke up, her voice low and sharp. “I’ve heard of such things. Tales from the southern borders, where whole fields go barren overnight, and villages wither like plants in the drought. But I always thought it was just superstition. Stories to keep the peasants in line.”
“Stories?” Loren’s voice cut through with an edge of frustration. “It’s not a story. It’s real. And it’s spreading. There are things in the south—things like Cropkillers and Veracifers. Things that aren’t of this world. They’re tied to Basidin, and they follow wherever his influence spreads.”
“So you’re telling me that the Rot is not just a plague of disease and death,” Salafar said slowly. "It’s some kind of weapon. And Basidin is at the center of it?”
“Indeed,” said Tristan.
Asherin was still quiet, as was Kenton, who seemed to be clutching at his scars and grimacing tightly.
Salafar stood abruptly, his boots scraping against the gravel, and started pacing. His fingers drummed idly on the hilt of his sword. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about it,” he said, his voice tightening. “But one thing is clear—if Basidin’s controlling everything, the war between Windem and the Denderrikans aren’t just coincidences. They’ve been orchestrated. The Denderrikans... they’ve been manipulated. Just like us. We’ve been played, Captain."
“I don’t know if there’s any truth to that,” said Tristan. “The Denderrikans have their own agenda outside of Basidin. They’re led by a Sorceress, Saphira.” Tristan quickly shut his mouth, realizing he may have spoken too much.
“And how would you know that, boy?” asked Salafar. His eyes were rich with intrigue now.
“These two,” Tristan gestured toward Asherin and Kenton. Kenton leaned forward, struggling to keep his head up. Asherin stood with a stiffness and distant stare. “They told me. They were with the Denderrikans until we pulled them away during the invasion at Feynram.” Tristan spoke confidently, but was unsure as to whether Salafar would believe his lie. He heaved a sigh of relief when understanding seemed to dawn in Salafar’s eyes.
“Could it be,” began Eamon, who seemed to be piecing things together at the same rate as Salafar, “that the Sorceress is in league with this Basidin?” The two groups stood in silence for a while, brooding over this uncertainty. Finally, Salafar broke the silence.
“Alright,” Salafar continued, his voice gaining strength, “I’ve heard enough.” He gave a small wave of his hand, as if sweeping away the lingering uncertainty. “You’ve told us about Basidin, the Rot, and the creatures crawling out of the southern darkness. I believe you. And as much as I’d love to hear more stories, there’s no time for it.”
He turned to the group, his eyes scanning each one in turn, as though appraising their worth in a glance. “You’ve made your case. It’s sufficient payment for crossing the Granite Ford.”
Eamon’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension of the last few hours hadn’t fully eased. “So we’re clear then?” he asked, his voice edged with a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. “We’ll be able to cross without any more games, no more haggling?”
Salafar gave him a sharp look, his blue eyes glinting in the firelight. “I never said there wouldn’t be games, Captain,” he said with a half-smirk, but there was no mistaking the finality in his tone. "But this crossing, this night, you’ve earned your passage. For now."
With a brief glance at his comrades, he nodded, and the rogue Knights of Windem began to shift their positions, signaling the end of the conversation. The blonde knight tossed her apple core into the fire and stood up, stretching. She seemed to be in a hurry to get things moving, perhaps more eager to be rid of the travelers than to carry on with their strange and unwelcome tale.
One of the other knights standing by the fire, a tall man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping across stone. “The horses are yours to give, but the stories, those stay with us,” he said, his eyes narrowing on Tristan and Loren as though appraising them. “We’ll remember what you’ve told us.”
“You’re a fine group of liars, that’s for sure,” the scarred knight added with a low chuckle. “But the truth, that’s another matter.”
Salafar waved a hand dismissively. “Enough talk. We’ll take the horses, and in return, you get safe passage. It’s more than I’d give most.”
“Let’s go,” Eamon said, his voice firm, as he moved toward the bridge, his boots crunching on the stony ground.
The group left the horses with the knights and began their crossing over the blue and black hued stone bridge, a soft breeze fluttering their garments.
Salafar withdrew an Aetheris from his pack, admiring it in the palm of his glove as the Captain and his escort began their crossing, placing one foot in front of the other carefully as they went. It was the most valuable form of currency in all Windem, and he’d only ever held one once before in his whole life, and that moment had come just an hour prior to the Captain’s arrival.
“Who gave you that?” asked the knight with a jagged scar running down his cheek. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.
“You were taking a piss when he came by,” said Salafar. “Some man with a black and white spotted horse and a crooked grin. I told him his horse would be sufficient for payment and all he did was spit at my feet and withdraw a glittering obsidian dagger. Told me he’d pay me with an Aetheris, else I could expect to be slit from head to groin.”
“And you just took that?” asked the scarred knight.
“Eh,” said Salafar. “I could’ve taken my chances with him. But I’ve never held an Aetheris in my hand before. Once this whole war is over, I can buy a large plot of land with this. Maybe even some serfs.”
“Did he give his name?” asked the scarred knight, frowning. “The only men outside of royalty who get their hands on an Aetheris is an assassin or a formidable mercenary.”
“Didn’t get a name. But he did say he was passing through on official king’s business,” said Salafar. “I reckon he would’ve had some great stories to share.”