When they arrived at the croplands Kael Voryn was waiting for them. As Tristan’s group had neared the croplands, signs of the fertile croplands of Ashara had already begun to show themselves in the form of scattered farmers and clusters of servants who were indebted to the crown. People were tending to cloves of flowers, beans, and giant fields of wheat where people were as stiff as scarecrows. Locals eyed Tristan and his group wearily as they passed, but most couldn’t muster enough energy to care. As long as it wasn’t one of the men with a whip in hand and the crest of Windem on their chest, they dared not waste energy worrying.
Kael Voryn stood where the blackened road gradually turned to grass, and then to golden wheat. It was like a painting where the colors had been melded into a fine blend of black, green, and then gold. Kael stood in tattered clothes and a pendant hung around his neck. His fingers twiddled around anxiously, his eyes glinting and evil. Snorting in derision was his flesh-rotted corpse of a horse, a fabled Cropkiller. A Veracifer was tethered to a pitiful gnarled tree two feet from where Kael now stood.
“Don’t look,” said Tristan, holding out a hand to stop his companions from advancing without heeding his warning. “The creature that you hear will bring your senses to null if you allow yourself to meet its gaze.” Nothelm was the only one who was not aware of what a Veracifer was. He shuddered, groaning with fear as his legs reluctantly took him forward toward the dreadful enemy that stood before them.
Kael’s pendant of a gnarled, twisted tree eerily resembled the tree that was containing the Veracifer now. His pendant glowed a dull red, as white and black mists gently drifted from it like some ancient, forbidden magic.
Kenton cried out in pain, crumbling to his knees.
“It’s my scars, they’re burning,” said Kenton.
Asherin knelt by his side. “Come on, Kenton. We’re nearly there.” She tried to hoist him to his heat but he was too heavy even for Asherin.
“Leave him,” said Tristan. “He’ll need to rest anyways while we deal with this.”
“We should proceed with caution,” said Loren, a weary gaze in her eyes. “He was waiting for us…expecting us. We can’t know that he didn’t lay a trap for us.”
A distant rumbling echoed through the sky. It was mid afternoon but the clouds had turned a bleak gray and black like black destriers charging through a blackened field of ash.
“Storm’s coming,” muttered Nothelm.
Somewhere off to the east the distant sound of wolves howling drifted through the light wind. The air was damp and chilly. Asherin shot a concerned glance at Kenton, who was now clutching his side, his face contorted with pain.
Kael Voryn's cold laughter echoed across the croplands, sending a shiver down their spines. "I knew you would come," he called, his voice smooth and mocking. "But you’re too late. Your friend there…he’s been marked by my master.”
“Our friend is no one’s business but our own. Stay away from him,” warned Asherin sternly. They were still far enough from Kael that they had to shout above the whistling wind.
“He was marked by wolves, am I right?” Kael cackled, a look of insolence spread across his foul face. “Kenton Wolfsblood.”
“How do you know that?” gasped Asherin. She rose to her feet, drawing her sword. “This one will die by my sword, and my sword alone.” Asherin had taken no more than a step before Kael was whispering words of a language that was dark and ugly, like some unearthly, otherworldly anthem. His Cropkiller horse snorted wildly, then encroached forward to where the wheat field began.
“No!” shouted Tristan.
Kael laughed.
The horse leaned down, its mouth opened wide to exhale its breathe of death and decay upon the croplands.
Tristan grabbed Myroniad, testing its weight in his grasp before launching it like a javelin. The spear sailed through the air and then came down in a sweeping arch before it’s blade, which was really a sword’s blade tied to the spear by leather, came down and punctured the horse on top of its neck.
The earth seemed to tremble as Myroniad's blade sank deep into the rotting flesh of the Cropkiller, and the creature let out a horrific scream that echoed across the croplands, a sound like a thousand souls crying out in agony. The horse staggered back, thrashing its head in fury, its eyes bloodshot and wild, as though it had been roused from some long-forgotten nightmare. Tristan watched with grim satisfaction as the horse recoiled, blood dripping from the wound.
Asherin moved fast, her sword already drawn in the wake of the disruption. With the wind howling around them and the smell of decay growing stronger, she locked her gaze on Kael, her heart pounding with a mix of fury and fear. "This ends now," she growled, taking a step forward.
Kael dropped to all fours with an unsettling fluidity, his body shifted and warped, his muscles rippling as if some dark force was remaking him. His mouth, once human, stretched open in an impossible grin, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. He shrewdly licked the earth beneath him, his long tongue dragging across the ground as his eyes gleamed with wicked delight.
A cold, malevolent mist, black as night and thicker than smoke, flowed from Kael’s mouth like a curse given form. It spread across the land with terrifying speed, flowing out in all directions. The ground beneath it seemed to writhe, as if reacting to the ancient, dark magic Kael was invoking.
The croplands were no longer a place of fertile earth, but a charred, rotten land of disease and foulness. The mist spread like wildfire, and in its wake, the earth itself began to churn and buckle. From the cracks in the soil, tendrils of weeds and vines shot up, twisting and writhing like serpents.
Loren was the first to feel the press of the vines. They snaked up from the ground, wrapping around her ankles, pulling tight as they sought to constrain her. The pressure on her legs increased, and soon they were coiling around her torso, forcing her to the ground. Her breath came in sharp gasps as the vines tightened further, cutting off her movement.
Asherin wasn’t far behind. She moved to help Loren, but the vines reached for her with terrifying speed, wrapping around her sword arm first, then curling around her waist and neck, pulling her into their unyielding grip. She shouted a battle cry, slashing with her free hand, but the vines only grew thicker, more vicious, as if the very earth had become Kael’s ally.
Nothelm cursed as the same fate befell him. The vines snaked around his legs, wrapping like chains, pulling him to the earth. His sword was ripped from his grasp, the hilt torn away as the vines drew him into a tight knot of vegetation. His muscles strained, but the more he struggled, the stronger the vines became.
Kael’s sinister nature took on a new form. His eyes were empty, and devoid of even an emotion of mockery. His form became human again, his body no longer contorted and his teeth no longer jagged and feral. His eyes were black mists and his hands like wands as he manipulated and distorted the rising red smoke from his pendant.
With a flick of his wrist, Kael whispered an incantation in that twisted language of his. The black-and-white mist swirled, and it shot out in long tendrils of smoke, coiling through the air like a serpent. Kenton staggered back, feeling the smoke invade the air around him, curling toward him like a taunting whisper. The black-and-white mist poured into the mark on his ribs and on his leg, the scars left by the wolves' bite. The pain was sudden, intense, like an inferno burning through his veins. His scars began to burn brighter, the mark of the wolves pulsing like a heartbeat that was no longer his own. The black-and-white mist had seeped too deep.
“No!” Tristan shouted, but Kenton was no longer listening to him. The tendrils of Kael’s magic had reached too far inside Kenton’s soul, and now, every movement he made was under the sway of the twisted dark power. Kenton’s arm moved like a puppet on strings, his blade slicing toward Tristan with terrifying precision.
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Tristan glanced around, noticed he was the only one of his group besides Kenton who had not been bound by the vines of the earth. The land we stand upon has turned against us, bound itself to his will. He withdrew his sword, readying himself for Kenton’s blows just like Dalko had trained. Their countless hours of training swirled through his head, like a three-month memory reel rolled into the span of three seconds. Different cuts, stances, thrusts, jabs, parries, blocks, postures, and emotions flashed through him like the moment one sees death before their eyes and they see their whole life flash through their mind. Tristan pursed his lips, his brow furrowing with determination. He whirled his blade around in his hand as if it were just another limb attached to his arm.
“Kenton, this is your last warning. If you’re in there somewhere, you must stop before it’s too late,” said Tristan.
“Kenton, no!” shouted Asherin, protesting against the vines that held her still.
Kael continued his incantations, whispering in that foul language with the pendant clutched close to his lips.
Kenton growled, then yelled, as he advanced on Tristan. He slashed his blade down over Tristan’s head and was met with an equally impressive block. Tristan deflected the blade successfully, and then advanced on Kenton with a few slashes of his own. He caught Kenton on the inside of his arm, which cut through cloth more than skin. Kenton spun, detaching himself from the spell of Tristan’s strength and beginning a new series of jabs and blows from a new angle. Tristan was equal to the task, allowing Kenton to tire himself before he land a harsh blow that sent Kenton staggering and blinking confusedly.
“Where did he…” Loren trailed off, confused.
“Dalko,” whispered Asherin, who was all too familiar with this style of sword fight.
Black vapor rushed through Kenton’s mouth and attacked Tristan’s face, blinding him momentarily. Tristan tried to brush the vapor aside like a spider web, and found himself sputtering as Kenton landed a side blow with the flat of his sword. The hit knocked the breath from Tristan’s lungs. He backed off with a quick jerk, buying himself enough time to straighten up before Kenton was at him again.
"Kenton!" Tristan shouted, trying to break through to his friend. "Snap out of it! We’ve got bigger problems!" Tristan’s shouts fell on deaf ears. Kenton had no interest in stopping now.
Meanwhile, Kael sauntered over to the Veracifer, slashing at its rope which held it tethered to the gnarled tree. It let out a chilling scream, advancing on the two dueling men.
Its wild pink tongue thrashed around like a blind snake, searching for something–anything, that it could slobber and prepare to consume. The creature was starving. Chains had replaced its arms and they dragged over the ground, churning up black mist and dust clouds. A spiked ball was attached to either chain, which both slowed it down and also bore menace. It spun its limbs in a circular motion suddenly, the spiked balls whirling around in perpetual motion like something from a nightmare.
“Don’t look at it!” shouted Loren, mainly to Nothelm who had never seen a Veracifer before. His gaze quickly dropped to the ground. His eyes shut as he trembled with fear.
“Tristan! The Veracifer!” shouted Asherin. She remembered when Dalko had kept a Veracifer captive in Sesten and unleashed it on Windem’s Spy, Skorja. Tristan had attacked it with his sword, Drakiler, and met the gaze of the Veracifer without losing any of his senses. He was immune.
Tristan was tied up with Kenton, blades ringing out across the plains like a song of swords. The Veracifer advances past the two men, disinterested in wild prey when three tasty humans are tied up and waiting for him like a gentle gift. The Veracifer wailed like a grizzly bear, its eyes rotating around in spinning circles like some crazed being that had crawled up through the ground and emerged from the underworld. Kael stood still as stone, fingers still twiddling his pendant, eyes glowing red with concentration, and his lips moving slightly as he whispered incantations to keep Loren, Asherin, and Nothelm bound to weeds which held them at bay like helpless prey.
A thought suddenly clicked in Tristan’s mind, despite the chaos of the moment which had, up until this point, left him with no room for any thoughts besides sheer instinct. Kill Kael, save Kenton. Kill Kael, save Kenton. The words kept sifting through Tristan’s mind, as if planted there by some other force…some other being. But no–this voice was Tristan’s voice. The voice of the Wielder of the One Sword. The One Ruler of the Land of Windem, as Kenton himself had proclaimed the last time they were in the vicinity of a Veracifer. He noted the dull, hypnotic look in Kenton’s eyes. Realization dawned on Tristan, and suddenly, it all made sense. He needed to buy enough time to get to Kael without Kenton hacking him to pieces. And he needed to get to the Veracifer before it got to his friends.
The Veracifer approached Asherin first, its tongue lolling around in a sloppy mess. Saliva dripped from its mouth and wetted the ground, making a hiss sound as it clashed with the blackened rot that had churned the ground and turned it void of life. Small tendrils of steam rose up before it was overclouded by dust from where its chains were dragging carelessly along the ground. It roared again–this time, the sound of rage, fury, and unsatisfied hunger culminating into one short breath of death.
Asherin closed her eyes, desperate to avoid the eyes of the Veracifer. She thrashed and thrashed, trying to wiggle her way out of the bind. It was no use. The weeds were too tight.
Tristan deflected a wild slash, Kenton’s long silvery hair dancing with each jerky movement. Tristan’s arms were throbbing and exhausted. He parried another blow, feeling his strength begin to wain.
Dalko’s words echoed in his head, “The arms are of some value, but most just for brute strength. The wrists are what controls the skill of your swordsmanship–use them.”
Tristan advanced on Kenton now–mustering his last ounce of strength. He engaged his wrists and generated as much power as he could through his arms. And don’t forget to move your feet. Many people do, echoed Dalko’s voice in his head. Tristan’s feet moved quickly. He walked as Kenton backed up, a look of apprehension across his scarred, battle-tested facial features. His food snagged a root that jutted up from the ground, and he fell. Kenton landed on his back, his sword clattering from his hands and landing three feet to his right.
Tristan turned his attention to his friends, and his face fell. He was too far away. The Veracifer had made it to Asherin. Its tongue swooped up in a tall arc, preparing to cover Asherin with its slobber before her untimely fate was decided.
And then everything changed.
Two arrows simultaneously whizzed through the air from the east and thudded with a soft sound into the Veracifer’s brain. The creature cried out in agony, before crumbling to the ground. Its soft, pink tongue lay motionless outside of its mouth, its head resting upon Asherin’s boots. Asherin slowly opened her eyes, half expecting to already be dead and a part of the afterlife. Instead, she saw Tristan, standing with his mouth agape and a mix of pure shock and confusion spread across his face.
“Look!” shouted Loren. She was looking to the east, where a small host of soldiers in thick-plated armor and tattered crimson capes sat upon horseback. A woman had dismounted and still held her longbow before her like she was in an archery contest and the crowd was admiring her form.
“It’s Salafar and his people,” said Nothelm in awe.
Tristan wasted no time celebrating the arrival of the rogue force of knights. He still had Kenton and Kael Voryn to deal with. He ran to Asherin, Loren, and Nothelm–cutting them loose from the vines that had wrapped around them like moss to a tree.
“You three,” Tristan, in a hurry, “Take Kenton. I need you to buy me a few seconds.”
Nothelm was the first to react, sprinting toward Kenton with his dagger in hand and his face set in a grimace. He lacked his sword, which he had given to Tristan after he’d launched his spear at the Cropkiller horse. Asherin and Loren followed, although Asherin came slower than the rest, not wanting to do Kenton any mortal harm.
Tristan brushed past the busy Kenton, who was now busy deflecting a flurry of slashes from Nothelm and eventually Loren. Kael Voryn snapped out of his gaze of sorcery, a look of surprise flashing across his face. Tristan plummeted his sword into the stomach of Kael Voryn, withdrawing with a loud grunt. The Servant of Basidin was driven to his knees, his hands clutching his stomach. Blood pooled at his mouth, and then he fell forward onto his face. And he was dead.
Behind him, Tristan could hear shouts of panic, followed by a squeal of relief, as Loren caught Kenton before he toppled to the ground. The frenzied look had gone out of his eyes and his scars were no longer glowing with Kael Voryn’s dark magic. His body was shutting down, emptied of all energy after having been forced to do Kael’s will.
Asherin rushed to Kenton, dropping to her knees and nudging Loren aside to tend to Kenton. She brushed his long silvery hair out of his face, leaning over to kiss his forehead.
“You’re okay,” whispered Asherin softly. “Thank goodness.”
Loren was tearing up, a soft smile spreading across her gentle face. Nothlem sheathed his dagger, turning to greet Tristan with a wry smile.
“We did it,” said Nothelm. His smile faded as he noted Tristan’s troubled look. “What is it?”
“We didn’t do anything,” said Tristan. “Look around you. The cropland is ruined. The last main source of food for the people of Windem and for the Denderrikans…it’s gone.”