Part 3

The sky held a distant red glare as black clouds circled overhead like watchful black dragons over a forsaken, cursed land. Tristan and Loren had followed Salafar and his host of knights to a clearing where a small clearing of yellow grass had somehow evaded the unstoppable spread of the Rot. Kael Voryn had set his black magic on the last cropland of Windem, stooping to the ground and running his foul, damned tongue across the ground. He was dead now, but the rest of Basidin’s Servants were still out there, gathering Windem’s citizens and serfs and adjoining them to King Tarren’s Royal Army. War was brewing as Denderrika now held the south and King Tarren held the north.

Tristan and Loren sat upon a comfortably sized rock. The sun would sit in the sky for another two hours, but Salafar had decided it was time to set up camp before trekking onward in the morning. They were close to Stormhold, but the journey will still be strenuous and full of peril.

“A hoard of wild boar was spotted just on the other side of those foothills,” said Salafar. He rested his right leg on the rock that Tristan was seated on, resting his right forearm across his thigh. “We’re going to hunt. Could be the last wild game we see for a while…you coming?”

A wry smile spread across Tristan’s face, exchanging knowing glances with Loren. “I’ll be honest with you, Salafar. We need to rest. It’s been a long journey up until this point.”

“Understandable,” said Salafar. “Just thought I’d extend the offer, is all.” He held a black-shafted war spear in his hand. A troop of fifty men were readying themselves for the hunt, stripping themselves of their heavy armour so that they would be lighter for the expedition.

“So we leave for Stormhold in the morning?” asked Tristan.

“We do,” confirmed Salafar.

“We go through Wehadon, I assume?”

“No,” said Salafar, shaking his head. “Too risky. Wehadon is close enough to Stormhold that Lord Elric will have his men patrolling the main roads and most of the towns surrounding Stormhold.” Salafar glanced to the sky, noting the odd red hue. “We go the tricky way–the path that Elric and his men would never think to watch.”

“Which is…?” asked Tristan.

“We go through the Bogs of Barator, and then cross the Cliffs of Valtor. From there, it’s a straight shot toward Castle Rarington and the capital, Stormhold. We’ll be approaching from the east, so Elric’s men won’t see us until we’re less than a quarter mile from their eastern ramparts.”

“A perilous path awaits us,” said the archer, Vaya Mora, who had been listening discreetly from behind Salafar. “But nothing that a Blackthorn can’t handle.” Vaya smiled, her eyes meeting Tristan’s for a second that felt like a minute. Tristan’s heart fluttered and felt his cheeks go red. He furrowed his brow, annoyed with himself and with Vaya for making a moment of strategy and logistics feel like some sort of connection between himself and the archer.

“So,” began Salafar, “you guys were with the Denderrikans?”

Loren and Tristan exchanged an awkward look. “Erm, not exactly,” said Loren. “Well, I should admit that I was with them. Tristan didn’t exactly go seeking the Denderrikans, we just kind of happened to set up a war camp just outside his home town. Our paths crossed in downtown Sesten and I brought him back to our camp in exchange for a weapon.” Loren looked at Tristan, noting his apprehension. “It’s a long story.”

“I see,” said Salafar, grabbing his lower lip and staring through Tristan’s soul, who shifted uneasily.

“I spent some time with them, yes,” said Tristan. “But I just want to get to the root of this darkness that has taken over Windem–same reason as you. Windem is not the same as it once was. The Kingsguard has fallen.” Tristan shrugged towards Salafar, “the Knights of Windem have turned on their king, and rightfully so.”

Salafar nodded, but questions lingered in his head. “So you spent a sizable amount of time with the Denderrikans…what’s their angle on this war? What I don’t understand is how their invasion has coincided with the evil that has rooted itself inside the walls of Rarington. What’s the connection? Vaya and I haven’t been able to come up with a logical reason. Perhaps you know?”

Tristan shrugged, not really wanting to get into it. He’d heard a lot of things from being in Dalko’s camp, but he also felt like he was missing a lot of context.

Loren, noting Tristan’s apprehension, spoke up. “I’ve known Dalko awhile, and been in his inner circles too. He’s only leading Denderrika to war because that’s the only way he can secure his own freedom.”

“Freedom?” said Salafar incredulously. “What’s a prolific warlord like Dalko Rivien got to do to earn his freedom? As far as I know, there’s no Ascendian in this realm who could be stopped if he chose to walk away from his station…except, perhaps, if he was faced with another Ascendian of equal–”

“It’s not that,” said Loren. “Dalko was born into his training to become an Ascendian. A curse was placed on him by Saphira.”

“The sorceress?” asked Salafar. “You mean the one who visited Windem over a decade ago? I remember it was a huge deal in the kingdom. King Tarren declared a national holiday and we threw a huge feast. Her presence was like watching an actual goddess walk through the gates of Rarington.”

“Yes–that’s her,” said Loren, mildly annoyed that Salafar had to interject. “She cursed Dalko at his birth, binding him to her so that he must do her bidding. Only when he secures Windem for her will she free him from his curse.”

“And that bridges me into my next question,” said Salafar. He was tossing his black-shafted war spear from hand to hand, catching it in the middle of the shaft and then tossing it to his other arm just as soon as he caught it. “Why does Saphira want Windem? There has to be a reason why their invasion has coincided with this darkness that has enshrouded the realm. Basidin–they’re calling it right?”

“Basidin is a being, I believe,” said Tristan. “Some sort of ancient evil from the Old Days. I guess he’d been cast out over a thousand years ago but now he’s back. I don’t if I believe all of that, but that’s what I’ve been hearing.”

“Fair enough,” said Salafar. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Does Saphira have some sort of dealings with this Basidin?”

“Well if she did,” said Vaya, “wouldn’t she just meet Basidin at Stormhold instead of marching to war against him?”

“Unless,” began Tristan, “she’s got a pact of some sort with Basidin, and leading Denderrika and Windem to war with each other is just part of the plan. In order to fill a position of leadership, you have to create a need for it. Last I’ve heard–King Tarren has slowly lost his mind. We may need a new King if he doesn’t recover.”

“What about the Prince?” said Salafar. “Or the queen? Couldn’t they rule in his stead?”

“I don’t know,” said Tristan. “If the state of Windem’s land is anything to go by, I can’t imagine what the inside of Castle Rarington looks like.”

“Well,” said Salafar. “I can tell you that by the time the Knights of Windem vacated Stormhold, things were already turning sour. Lord Commander Drakonstone had his own agenda to fulfill that didn’t include Windem’s best interests.”

Tristan nodded, exchanging another awkward bout of eye contact with Vaya. Loren pursed her lips, deciding not to pursue the conversation any further. She was exhausted.

“Coming, Salafar?” came a voice. Salafar’s host of men were ready to hunt.

“Coming!” shouted Salafar. His beard looked more red than usual, the late afternoon sun shining gently. “Here,” Salafar withdrew a ration of dried bread from a pack that was sitting by his feet. “Help yourselves. We’re going to need our strength for tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll return with some boar as well. Pretty soon the boar won’t even be able to find food to feast on. The land is dying.”

“Thank you,” said Tristan, pinching the bread in half and handing some to Loren. The two of them nibbled hungrily as Salafar mounted his horse and rode off down the sweeping foothills and after the hoard of boar.

Vaya went with Salafar to hunt the wild boar, leaving Loren and Tristan alone on the large rock, which felt like a cushioned chair after all they’d been through since leaving Feynram. The journey felt like one big fever dream. Tristan looked around, sniffing the air and noting how oddly warm it was.

“We’re approaching Mid-Winter and it's too warm for a fur and a cloak,” said Tristan.

“It’s the Rot,” said Loren. “It has to be. We just made it through that storm a couple days ago. I thought we might freeze to death–and we probably would have if we hadn’t found the rock with an enclosure in the middle of it.”

“That was good thinking from us,” said Tristan. “But you’re right. The weather is odd, the clouds are black, and there’s that red glare in the sky.”

“It looks like it’s coming from Stormhold,” said Loren. “It’s making the sky hazy, and the air thick.”

Just then Nothelm appeared from nowhere, emerging from a group of rowdy knights who had been rolling their dice and their tokens to gamble their coins and gold. Nothelm held a wide grin, a handful of coins jingling in his hands and two new gold arm rings.

“These knights should know not to gamble with a Brantish man!” exclaimed Nothelm. He was chuckling, his eyes squinted as he smiled through his grizzly beard.

The sight of Nothelm in all his glory brought a cascade of laughter from Tristan and Loren, who had hardly seen Nothelm since arriving.

“I think you found your new group,” said Tristan.

“Hardly,” said Nothelm. “Once we get to Stormhold and siege the walls of Rarington, I’m uniting with my fellow Brantish men. In the meantime, I’ll gamble as often as I can until I have a small fortune to bring with me back to Brantley.”

“You plan to go back?” asked Tristan, his face drawn sternly.

“After all of this is done,” said Nothelm, “assuming, of course, that my lord Tristan will approve.”

“I’m not your lord, Nothelm,” said Tristan, smirking. “You think the Brantish are still at Stormhold?”

“That’s who they’ve sided with,” said Nothelm. “You should know–when you found me I was fighting alongside Windem with my Brantish brothers. You spared me on behalf of the Denderrikans.”

“You’re right,” said Tristan. “But we cannot be sure that the Brantish are still aligned with Windem, especially at Stormhold. A terrible darkness has overcome the King and that place. The Brantish and the Solarians might have changed their allegiance or just gone home to their respective lands.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad thing,” said Nothelm. “If we’re planning to siege Rarington, which, I’ll be honest, sounds somewhat foolish, then I’d rather hope we’re just up against Windem and not the Brantish, too.”

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“We’re not going to siege Rarington,” said Tristan.

“Then what’re we headed there for?”

“We’re going to find a way in,” said Loren. “Perhaps through a tunnel or by scaling the eastern ramparts.”

“We can scale the wall at night,” said Tristan.

“You have webbed hands and sticky feet?” asked Nothelm, laughing. “We’ll need to find grapnels and hooks if you want to scale their walls.”

“We can find those,” said Tristan hopefully. “Or maybe we can walk right up to the front gates. We are with former Knights of Windem, after all. Perhaps King Tarren and Elric have come to their senses and will let us in. They are Windem’s oldest serving knightly order, after all.” Tristan paused, Elric’s name on his tongue tasting bitter and reminding him of a deeply rooted agony that cried out daily but had to be beaten back down to the depths of his soul where it resided and rarely came up for air.

“Wishful thinking,” said Nothelm, glancing around at nothing in particular. “Alrighty then–I think I’ll be off to go sit around a warm fire before I turn in for the night.” There were multiple separate camps of men sitting around fires as the last of the evening sun was beginning to wane. Although it was uncharacteristically warm, it was still nearly Mid-Winter and the sun’s light didn’t last long–not like those long days of summer.

Dusk came and then an hour later it was dark. Salafar returned with his host of hunters and four fattened boar that had been slaughtered by arrows and war spears. Murmurs of excitement stirred the camp into a frenzy, preparing to skin the boars and roast them over a spit that had been made of sticks. Tristan watched as Nothelm joined in the preparations, eager to earn himself one of the first helpings.

Vaya stood back a pace, periodically glancing off into Tristan’s direction. Her dark eyes twinkled from the sparks of the camp fires, reminding Tristan oddly of his mother–Mildred, whose eyes were a similar shape and color. The memory of his mother stirred a longing for home within Tristan, suddenly feeling out of place and away from any form of comfort that would prove very welcome in this dark place.

“You like her?” asked Loren, who laid back on the smooth rock. Her left side was up against Tristan, who followed her lead and decided to lay back, bringing his hands behind his head as a pillow.

“I don’t know her yet. How could I say whether I like her or not?”

“I was just asking,” said Loren defensively. “You keep looking in her direction.”

“She keeps looking at me,” corrected Tristan.

“It’s both of you,” said Loren.

Tristan wondered if he sensed a hint of jealousy, and then felt immediate guilt for assuming either of them desired him in that way. Tristan and Loren were newcomers to the group. Vaya was bound to be curious about them. He knew Vaya had heard the stories about the Blackthorn lineage from Salafar. All of these men who his father–or at least, knew of him.

“How are you doing?” asked Loren, switching subjects. She grabbed his hand and Tristan opened it, allowing Loren to intertwine her fingers in his.

“Erm, fine,” said Tristan stiffly.

“How are you actually doing?” asked Loren. “We’ve been through a lot.”

Tristan breathed a deep sigh, looking up at the ashen sky. The stars were concealed by the black smoke which seemed to be the earth’s way of detoxing the poison of Basidin’s filth from its surface.

“If I’m honest–I’m exhausted. Not just physically, but in all ways.”

“I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” said Loren. “Do you still think of your father?”

“All the time,” said Tristan. “But my memories of him are vague and clouded.”

“Clouded by what?” asked Loren.

“My anger.”

Tristan squeezed Tristan’s hand, not wanting to press the issue. “I understand that.”

“No, you don’t,” said Tristan. He let go of Loren’s hand, pulling away from her. “Your father wasn’t betrayed by one of his closest advisors. And your father sure as fire and brimstone wasn’t embarking on a pointless expedition to fulfill the king’s legacy.”

“My father was killed,” said Loren. She spoke in a soft whisper–like a young child admitting to some reluctant truth after being scolded.

“He was…what?” asked Tristan, suddenly feeling remorseful.

“Killed.”

“Oh, I…I didn’t know he was killed,” said Tristan. “I only knew he had…you know, passed on. I’m sorry, Loren.”

“It’s fine, I just…I know how it feels to lose your father to something that shouldn’t have ever happened.”

“Yeah I suppose you do…”

“He wasn’t betrayed by Denderrika’s Lord Commander and he wasn’t on a journey to Northrock…but he was killed. And it haunts me every day.” Tears rolled down Loren’s cheeks. She sniffled, desperately trying to keep her sobs inside. “I never knew my mother, she died in childbirth.” Loren locked eyes with Tristan, concern spread over his face. “So when my father passed, Dalko heard about it and he brought me in.”

“Did Dalko know your father?” asked Tristan.

“My father was an Ascendian,” said Loren.

Tristan brought a hand over his mouth, shocked. “I never knew that…how come you never…”

“Same reason you don’t talk about your father,” said Loren. “Talking about him won’t bring him back.”

Tristan nodded, trying to think of something, anything, that could sooth Loren and return them to their comfortable vibe that had been so pleasant over the recent months that they’d spent together journeying from Feynram.

“Dalko and his war band became like a family to me after my father passed,” said Loren. She was still sniffling but the tears had stopped. She wiped away the dried stream of tears from her cheek. “They took me, gave me purpose…helped me feel like the work we were doing was a tribute to him.”

“Did your father have a quarrel with Windem?” asked Tristan. He winced, hoping he didn’t ask the wrong question. Loren didn’t seem to mind. Tristan felt the knot in his chest dissipate.

“He was supposed to be the first Ascendian to lead a war band from Denderrika into Windem–before Dalko had even been chosen to come.” Loren paused, gazing far off to the west where there were no Knights of Windem and no campfires, just open land that had been blackened and covered with soot from the Rot. “But my father never made it into Windem. He uh…he died suddenly, in his sleep.”

Tristan moved his hand to Loren’s thigh, a deeply sympathetic look in his eye. He stared at Loren intently, allowing her to take as much time as she needed. “He was poisoned by someone. It blackened his mouth, his throat, his entire neck…”

“I’m sorry,” said Tristan. He pulled Loren into an embrace, feeling as though that were the only appropriate thing to do. Loren pulled away, flashing a smile that told Tristan she appreciated the gesture, but wasn’t done talking yet.

“They never found out who did it. I never got answers,” Loren lifted her head from staring down at her lap, meeting Tristan’s eyes now. “That’s when Dalko came and found. He told me, and soon became the only person I trusted for a long time. He offered me a chance to join his war band–to take on the mission that my father was destined for before he was so cowardly poisoned. It could have been one of his own men, could have been a hired assassin…I’ll never know.”

“Well I’m glad our paths crossed,” said Tristan. “I’m sorry you never found out who did it. I wish there was something I could do.”

“Be grateful that you have vengeance in your sights, Tristan. That’s why I want to help you so badly,” said Loren. “I have this belief deep inside my heart–that if I can just help you get what you so deeply crave, what you desperately want in order to resolve the hurt inside of you–that I, too, will feel better. I want to help you kill Elric Drakonstone.”

Loren and Tristan shared a deeply affectionate gaze, a small tear rolling slowly down Loren’s cheek again. Amidst her hurt, Tristan couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. It wasn’t that he desired to have her in his bed, he merely couldn’t help but notice her shimmering, healthy blonde hair and bright blue eyes–the color of a blue emerald gem.

“Do you ever wonder…” began Tristan, gazing into the night sky for a few lengthy seconds. It felt like minutes to Loren, whose heart was beating rapidly now that they were discussing these deeply felt matters. “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean–should we have left with Asherin and Kenton after we confronted Basidin’s Servant at the Plains of Ashara?” asked Tristan. “He ordered us to return to him and go no further.”

“I suppose we had a choice to make, and we’ve made the choice that best aligns with what we want,” said Loren.

“I just feel bad, you know–especially after the way that Dalko invested in me, and trained me to become a warrior. That was three months that we spent together. I became close with him, despite his cold demeanor and lack of real human emotion.”

Loren giggled, making Tristan feel an overwhelming sense of passionate love for her. The feelings frightened him, and he quickly batted them away, trying to put them to the back of his mind. There was too much in front of him to get tangled up in his feelings now.

“Dalko is a steadfast, consistent leader. But showing emotion is not one of his strengths. In fact, he is incapable because of the way he was trained. But deep inside–he does care. He cared about me, brought me in. I owe him for that.”

Tristan nodded, pursing his lips.

“In that sense–yeah, I do feel bad that we didn’t go back with Asherin and Kenton,” said Loren. “But if we can get inside Rarington and bring Elric to justice, this whole thing goes down with him.”

“What–Basidin and all this darkness?” asked Tristan.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think so,” said Tristan. “This goes much deeper than just Elric.”

“How do you know that?” asked Loren.

“I don’t.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” said Loren.

“You saw the power that Basidin’s Servant had,” said Tristan. “That was terrifying power. He possessed real magic–black magic, literally.”

“You possess power, too,” said Loren.

“What–the power of a great last name and legendary ancestors?” asked Tristan dryly. “I don’t think so. I can wield a sword now, thanks to Dalko, and I can handle a spear. But I don’t possess any more power than an ordinary man.”

“So then what’s this immunity to Veracifers all about then?” asked Loren. “That’s some sort of magic, I’d say. Dalko said it was an answer to prophecy. The lady Saphira prophesied it over a decade ago.”

“It’s in my blood,” said Tristan.

Loren looked at Tristan with her brows raised, her face drawn in a “see, I told you so” sort of look.

“Does anyone truly believe in prophecy?” asked Tristan.

“I do,” said Loren. “Dalko does. The Denderrikans do.”

“Must be a Denderrikan thing,” said Tristan. “In Windem, prophecy died after the Old Days.”

Loren shrugged. “Must be a difference in beliefs, that’s all. I think you’re just trying to absolve yourself of responsibility by not believing. The sorceress has real power, you know. One doesn’t live for over a thousand years without some sort of magic or power.”

“Fine,” said Tristan.

Nothelm suddenly appeared, rising up before Loren and Tristan like a shadow and scaring both of them half to death.

“Aye!” shouted Nothlem drunkenly. He was waving a sword, mimicking a warrior with poor swordsmanship. “Fear my needle!”

“Where did you find ale?” asked Tristan.

“Amidst a rotting land where food is scarce and the ground is blackened to a crisp in most places–you’ve managed to scavenge enough ale to lose your wits?” Loren was laughing.

“While you sorry lot have been cozying up on a rock, I’ve been feasting on boar, filling my tankard, and teaching old Brantish songs to these knights ‘round a fire.” Nothelm held the sword out in front of him. A flicker of light from one of the fires shone on the blade, causing it to glisten impressively. “And I found this.”

Tristan squinted, then jumped off the rock immediately. “Hey! That’s my sword!”

“What, this?” Nothelm said, yanking the sword away. “I got this off one of Salafar’s men. He said he found it a while ago. One of Darwin’s thieves had it.”

“That’s Drakiler,” said Tristan incredulously. “Give it here.”

“No,” said Nothelm. “It’s mine now,” he said tauntingly.

Tristan shoved Nothelm, who fell clumsily to the ground amidst his drunkenness. Tristan yanked the hilt out of Nothelm’s grasp, not quite believing his luck.

“I never thought I’d see this again.”

“It’s a sign,” said Loren. “The Blackthorn blood!”

“Okay, enough about that,” said Tristan.

“No, really,” said Loren. “It’s a sign, Tristan. It’s a sign that we made the right decision to come here. After all, what does Drakiler even mean?”

Tristan smiled, a dark look spreading across his face. “It means Drakonstone Killer.”

Nothelm picked his head up from his place sprawled on the ground, meeting Loren’s eyes, who shook her head, unable to conceal her smile.

“Come on,” said Loren as she leapt off the rock. She took Tristan by the arm. “Let’s go eat some boar before it’s all gone. Stale bread isn’t going to hold us over for long.”

Nothelm tagged after them, humming a Brantish song to himself.

Across the clearing stood Vaya Mora, chewing softly on a piece of meat. She eyed Loren wearily, and then Tristan–whose warrior-like appearance made her heart flutter.

Her gaze hardly left Tristan for the rest of the night.