The next morning was a stark contrast to the night before where wild boar and ale were aplenty and men were huddled around a fire singing old tales and learning new ones. The group travelled through the Bogs of Barator--miserable and wet. The stench of the marshlands was one of the rare smells that could overpower the Rot, which had found itself right at home with the bog.
The air hung thick with the acrid scent of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, as the Knights of Windem trudged through the wet bog, tucking their capes and folding them over so that they didn’t drag through the muddy areas. Some areas were deeper and more than mere mud. Strange creatures swam through the knee height water in some areas. Tristan watched an eel glide past his leg, darting after a frog but missing it by an inch as the frog leapt onto a miniature embankment.
At one point Nothelm had gasped when a black cottonmouth snake slithered past him. Nothelm winced again moments later when a cluster of garter snakes were all wrapped up like a pile of string that had gotten tangled.
Another time Loren almost slipped, but was saved by Tristan’s strong hand. The ground beneath their feet was uneven, shifting and unstable, as if the very earth was alive, breathing in shallow gasps. Tall reeds reached above their heads, swaying in a breeze that seemed to have no origin. The wind was gradually growing cooler again, the unusual warmth of the past couple days was starting to wane and the temperatures would soon reflect Mid-Winter.
The journey through the Bogs of Barator took a full day’s worth of travel. Salafar had assured the group that this was the only way to Stormhold without being seen.
“There are citizens of Windem that are being coerced as informants in return for food. Others are working as mercenaries in exchange for food,” said Salafar. He was briefing the group at first light before they set off toward Stormhold. “King Tarren’s armies are a bit scattered due to the loss of Solarian and Brantish armies, but travelling along the main road through Wehadon is still a risk we can’t run.”
Nothelm’s face fell when he heard that the Brantish had gone home.
“You spared my life, Tristan,” said Nothelm. “So I want to pay that back, and it is my honor to follow you to Stormhold. But part of me was hoping my reward at the end of the journey would be to reunite with my Brantish brothers and follow them home.”
“You can still head home to Brantley, Nothelm,” said Tristan, perplexed by Nothelm’s debacle. “I won’t hold you here against your will.”
“I mustn’t go back on my word,” said Nothelm. “I gave you my word.”
Tristan clasped Nothelm’s shoulder, gripping him tightly and drawing him into a friendly embrace. He’d had an instant bond with Nothelm since the day he’d encountered him all that time ago near Feynram. He saw himself in Nothelm’s eyes that day, and that had been enough to convince Tristan to spare him.
They came out of the deepest section of bog, where the muddy waters had risen to their waist. Men drew their breath tight when the water went above their lower region, grabbing their swords and their spears and holding them above the water as they went to keep their blades from rusting.
They were not walking through mud, rather than water. Their boots still sunk an inch into the mud with each step, but they were able to travel much faster this way. The horses were also much happier. They were being led by their harnesses, moving at a leisurely pace.
Eventually Loren had fallen behind and Tristan found himself walking close by Vaya Mora, the archer. She smiled at him, glancing side-on at him as they navigated the slippery terrain. Tristan ran into a tall reed, sputtering as it caught in his mouth.
Vaya reared her head in laughter, licking her lips as she wiped a strand of hair from her face. Tristan had found her to be stoic and gloomy when he’d first seen her--after she’d unleashed an arrow on the Veracifer. But now she was cheerful and full of light. Tristan found he loved her spirit, entranced by her brightness and realizing it batted away his own darkness--those hidden shadows of his mind that tried to cover his spirit like a veil and withhold all the happiness that every person deserves in their lives.
Vaya was like a breath of fresh air. Tristan smiled at her, feeling that even amidst the rank smell of the marshlands she was able to make this place feel light and without burden.
“I heard you have a special sword,” said Vaya as they walked. She made a big leap, jumping over deep hole in the ground where minnows swam in the puddle.
“Oh, Drakiler?” said Tristan. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe one of these men had it with then.”
“I found it,” said Vaya nonchalantly.
“You--you found it?”
Vaya nodded. “I’m good at finding things…seeing things. Just like how I saw that Veracifer from atop the hill. I’m a good shot too.”
“And so I noticed,” said Tristan. They walked on in awkward silence until Tristan changed the subject. “Why are you with these men? The Knights of Windem?”
“I want to fight the darkness,” said Vaya, shrugging. “The Knights of Windem refused to be a part of King Tarren’s army, so they left. I followed.”
“What was it like?” asked Tristan. “You know--when the darkness took over.”
Vaya pursed her lips, pondering Tristan’s question for a while. “It was like…” she trailed off, thinking and bringing a finger to her chin. Her other hand held her longbow. “The feeling is like when you can see something falling and you can’t stop it. Like a boulder falling from a mountain, or a book falling from a shelf that is too high to reach. Windem was falling, but the darkness went to deep, and too high for me and anyone else to do anything. All we could do was get out of the way.”
“I see,” said Tristan. “How did you get so good with a bow?”
“My father taught me. He was a good man.”
“What happened to him?” asked Tristan.
Vaya paused, her gaze dropping to the ground. “He fell…” she broke off, gathering herself and then pulling herself together. She batted away the emotion well, Tristan noted. “He fell to the darkness. He stayed behind when others left. Wanted to remain faithful to the crown,” Vaya lifted her face, meeting Tristan’s eyes with her own. “Wanted to continue serving his king.”
“So he’s still in Windem?” asked Tristan, curious.
“He’s the Steward of Rarington,” said Vaya. “His name is Halson. Halson Mora.”
At last, two hours after the sun’s last light shone upon the land, the group walked their last upon the marshlands and came to a stretch of weeds and blackened grass where the Rot had taken its toll on the land. It was eerily silent. No animals roamed, and no birds chirped. The sound of owls and creatures of the night were absent, and only the distant howl of the wind could be heard. The stars were out, shining through the black mists which plagued the sky.
“We camp here for the night,” announced Salafar. “We make for the Cliffs of Valtor in the morning.”
The Cliffs of Valtor loomed in the distance, the black jagged rocks contrasting starkly against the outline of the morning light. It was dawn, and it had been a night of restless sleep for the members of Salafar’s knights. Tristan had slept for most of the night. And though his dreams were full of faces he’d known and loved--Bodry, his mother Mildred, Dalko, and his father, Gareth--nothing had made sense. The location of the dreams shifted from Sesten to Northrock, to Stormhold, to the Whispering Wood, to Feynram, and back to Sesten again--where he’d seen Bodry mount an uprising against the Denderrikans who held him hostage in Sesten.
The uprising had made perfect sense. But, as most dreams, do the progression that followed made no sense, with Tristan’s mother and father arriving in Sesten to greet Bodry as he walked free. The land had suddenly frozen over, and the fabled Orc-eel of the north was looming underfoot as Bodry explained his escape to Mildred and Gareth Blackthorn.
Tristan awoke with a shudder. Nothelm was shaking him and Loren standing over him, a perplexed look strewn over her face. Her blue eyes were narrowed, her hair billowing in the wind like a kite that had been cut into thin, wavy strips.
“We are close enough to Stormhold to set up a base here,” said Salafar. “The horses stay, as the journey through the cliffs will be too perilous for them.”
“So we’re just supposed to walk up to the ramparts of Rarington with nothing but our swords and spears?” asked Loren in disbelief. “Then why did we even bring the horses this far, you know, through the Bogs of Barator and all?”
“The horses will serve their purpose in due time,” said Salafar. “We may need them if things go south at Rarington. This base camp will serve as an outpost for us if we must retreat. I am asking Vaya Mora to stay behind with a small host of men to man our base camp and look after the horses.” Salafar looked upon the group of knights, who stood with their weapons and armor in-tact and ready to go. Tattered crimson capes fluttered in the wind. It was cold and bitter this morning. The temperatures of Mid-Winter were returning after a brief and uncharacteristic wave of warmth.
“If anyone else wants to stay behind, speak now.” Salafar allowed time for anyone to speak up. He peered around the group, Knights of Windem standing with their helmets tucked between their arm and hip.
Loren looked to Vaya the archer, whose eyes were red and etched with tears. She had faced a difficult truth as soon as she had woke--realizing that Salafar and his men were going to march on Rarington. Her father served as a Steward of Rarington, and she could not face the possibility of seeing him killed. Loren felt a pang of empathy, remembering her own hurt that had resurfaced after talking to Tristan and recounting her own father’s death.
“I’ll stay,” said Loren, directing her gaze to Vaya. Tristan stood with his mouth agape.
“Loren,” began Tristan.
“I can stay,” confirmed Loren. “I want to help you exact vengeance, Tristan. I really do. But my place is here, with Vaya and these other brave men. If things go wrong, I’ll be a bigger help here with our base camp than I would be at your side at Rarington. This is your battle to fight.”
Tristan nodded assuredly, seeing how passionate Loren felt about her decision.
“Very well then,” said Salafar, pleased that Vaya had a companion.
The Knights of Windem said their goodbyes. There were ten staying behind, including Loren and Vaya. Tristan and Nothelm exchanged long hugs with Loren.
“Promise me you’ll be smart,” said Loren to both Tristan and Nothelm.
“We will,” said Tristan. He looked up and saw Vaya eyeing him from across the camp. He smiled, walking toward her.
“Well,” said Tristan. “I haven’t known you long, but you’ve been lovely in our short time that we’ve spoken.”
“And you as well,” said Vaya. She slung her longbow over her shoulder and threw herself around Tristan, surprising him and nearly rocking him back. “Extra strong hug for extra luck.”
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Tristan chuckled, squeezing her tight. He bit back his hesitant feelings, reminding himself he might not ever make it back to their base camp. When you were approaching the heart of darkness, you didn’t worry about coming on too strongly. He figured that’s where Vaya’s mind had gone too.
“You’re a Blackthorn,” said Vaya, her dark eyes searching him with great warmth. “I hope we serve a Blackthorn again someday. These men talk about your father often with fond memories. They’ve been lost since the day he left.”
Tristan felt tears threaten to roll down his face. He exhaled audibly, biting back the emotions. “I hope to honor him…to take back what was taken from him.”
Vaya came closer, bringing her lips to Tristan’s ear. “You’ve already honored him. He’d be so proud.” Vaya took a step back, searching his face again and pursing her lips together. She ran her hands down his arms. “These men were lost before you came…manning the Granite Ford, wandering the land without a symbol to stand behind…and then you came, Tristan. You came, and they found reason to take a stand. You’ve already done more for Windem in your short time here than most men do in a lifetime. Take courage, and be proud.” Vaya pulled Tristan close and kissed his cheek slowly and softly. A tremor ran through Tristan as he pulled away slowly, trying to decide whether a kiss of her lips would be too bold. Vaya eyed his lips, her thoughts echoing his own.
“Thank you,” said Tristan in a hushed tone. The rest of the knights had already finished their goodbyes and were headed toward Valtor.
“You coming, Tristan?” shouted Salafar, pausing at the edge of camp.
Tristan and Vaya held each other’s gaze, despairing that they must be apart.
“Come back when you’re done,” whispered Vaya, “and find me. I’ll be here.”
“I will,” promised Tristan. “Stay near to Loren. The two of you can take care of each other.”
“I know,” said Vaya softly.
And then Tristan was gone, walking briskly to join Salafar and his men. He chanced one last glance, smiling warmly at Vaya as she watched him go. Loren had moved to stand beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. They both waved, wondering if they’d ever see Tristan again.
The air grew colder as they went, as though the Cliffs of Valtor had decided to greet the knights with a blast of arctic wind to convince them of their folly for coming this way. The wind howled like a living thing, clawing at Tristan’s cloak and lashing his face with icy gusts as he pressed forward along the jagged spine of the Cliffs of Valtor. Below him, the abyss yawned, a sheer drop into a vast expanse of sharp black rock. The cliffs stretched for miles, a broken, uneven expanse of knife-edged rock that threatened to crumble beneath their weight with every step.
Salafar moved ahead, his crimson cape snapping in the wind. Tristan followed behind him, having been fitted with the armor of the men who had stayed behind with Vaya and Loren. He was given his own crimson cape, and a fine scabbard to keep Drakiler at his hip. Myroniad was across his back over the top of his cape. He’d even been fitted into a pair of shin-height black boots and a thin breastplate that fit snuggly but was designed elegantly so that its weight was not burdensome and heavy to its wearer. A few blood stains marked the plated armor, as well as chink in the top right where his chest met his shoulder. Tristan had decided against a helmet, explaining that he wasn’t used to wearing one and feared it would only impair his vision. Others had seen his logic and followed suit, leaving their helmets behind in favor of better vision. It would also help to travel lightly, and have fewer things to carry with them.
A sudden gust sent loose stones skittering over the edge, vanishing into the abyss below. Tristan forced himself to keep his gaze forward, away from the dizzying drop. His heart pounded in his chest as he moved with slow, deliberate steps. He could hear the ragged breathing of the others behind him, the tension in the air thick as black mists drifted overhead. The black mists hadn’t gone away since they’d first appeared. As they came closer to Rarington the mists thickened and the air became harder to breath. Tristan had been the first to notice, as Salafar and his men hadn’t been far enough south to have known any different.
The cliffs were ancient, their surfaces jagged and split from centuries of relentless wind and water. In places, the rock had fractured into sharp spires, rising like blackened fangs toward the sky, forcing them to weave carefully between narrow passes where the walls closed in, the path barely wide enough for a single man to pass. Other sections had crumbled entirely, leaving gaping voids where the only way forward was a leap across treacherous gaps, where a single misstep meant plummeting to certain death.
Vultures wheeled in the sky above, their dark forms circling like omens against the storm-laden clouds. Black bats flew close to their heads, forsaking their nature as creatures of the night. The birds of the sky had struggled to find food as of late. Many animals were dying quickly and decaying into a pile of bones. Herbivores lacked vegetation, and omnivores lacked living animals to feast on. The vultures now paid the price, stalking after Salafar and his men like impatient tax collectors--hoping to collect what they believed was rightly theirs.
The Rot had done strange things to the creatures of Windem. Some of the oddities made sense, such as the bats coming out during the day. But others changes were inexplicable. One such instance occurred as a vulture wheeled out from behind a large crag, widening its wings into the span of a small dragon and cawing terribly like a dinosaur. Its eyes were red and its size was over ten times the size of the largest vulture one could imagine.
“What the hell is that?” asked a man incredulously. Tristan recognized him as the man with the scar across his face that had confronted his group at the Granite Ford.
“How do they get bigger when there’s a famine across the land?” added another.
“Stranger things than we can know,” muttered Salafar, glancing at the vulture before returning his focus to a loose spot of spilling rock and pebbles. “Watch,” said Salafar to another man, who nearly stepped right through the widening gap in the path, potentially falling to his death below.
“We’re halfway,” Salafar called over the wind, his voice steady. “No time to falter now.”
Tristan nodded, though his legs ached from the strain of climbing and his hands were raw from gripping the stone. The path only grew steeper ahead, where the cliffs rose into towering ridges of obsidian-like rock, their surfaces gleaming with moisture. The path through the Cliffs of Valtor had been mostly horizontal with some elevation, but now they were mostly moving vertically as they climbed to a higher elevation. Beyond them, shrouded in mist and storm-clouds, lay their destination—Castle Rarington.
“I don’t like that red hue that seems to be rising up from the towers,” said the man with the jagged scar on his face.
“Basidin,” said Tristan. A few men looked at him, unsettled by the mention of the name. “He has Servants…ones with powers like a sorcerer. Their power is emitted in black or red mists…I’ve seen it firsthand.” Tristan looked to the men, noting their fear. “Do not be afraid,” said Tristan boldly. He saw their posture straighten, their faces draw firm. These men are looking to me. “I have faced one of Basidin’s Servants, and defeated him! They are all beatable, Knights of Windem--Basidin too. There is no power or force placed here in this realm that cannot be defeated…this is our destiny,” shouted Tristan, his voice growing in confidence. “This is our fight, our war. Have every confidence, for we are merely taking back what was ours to begin with. Windem is ours, and so is Rarington. Let us not echo murmurs of fear, but only bravery and courage. That method has gotten me this far, and I don’t imagine it will hold me back now.”
Murumers of agreement rang through the men. Salafar met Tristan’s eyes, gave him a reassuring nod. That’s why we needed a Blackthorn, thought Salafar. He’s a lot like his father.
A sudden crack split the air as a loose boulder gave way under the feet of one of the knights behind Salafar. The man let out a startled shout as he lost his footing, arms flailing. Tristan turned just in time, locking his hand onto the knight’s wrist before he could plunge over the edge.Tristan hauled him back onto solid ground, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before he released him. Tristan gave him a subtle nod, continuing on as if nothing had happened.
The path ahead narrowed to a perilous strip of rock barely wide enough for a single man to stand. To either side, the jagged walls of the cliffs loomed, dark and sheer, offering no handholds, no mercy. But it was the drop beneath them that truly gnawed at the nerves. A five-hundred-foot descent into the chasm below, a void of lifeless rock and dust. The wind had died here, leaving only the suffocating silence of the abyss.
Tristan’s breathe caught in his throat, as a quiet and familiar whisper carried through the gentle breeze and reached the ears of him and his men. A figure stood hundreds of feet below at the bottom of the chasm, a pendant in the form of a gnarled tree clutched in his hands. He whispered an incantation and stared blankly up at them, his eyes glowing red and a slow, swirling black mist emanating from his mouth.
It was Festal Crowe, one of Basidin’s Servants. The ground began to tremble. It was faint at first, a subtle shiver beneath their boots, but it grew into something terrible. A deep, guttural groan echoed from below, as if the earth itself was whaling against the coming terror, of something vast awakening beneath the surface--something that went against the very nature of created order.
A thick coil of something enormous broke through the dust--dull brown and slick with earth. It moved slowly, deliberately, like a thing that had long slumbered and now woke with hunger. More of it emerged, its body endless, uncoiling from the depths of the ravine like some forgotten horror clawing its way back into the world. At first it appeared like a worm, and then it’s head could faintly be made out amidst the heavy shadow of the ravine.
It was a snake. Its presence sent a primal chill down Tristan’s spine, as the snake sat waiting. Watching. Coiled beneath them in silent anticipation.
“We need to move. Now,” said Salafar.
His voice was ice, sharp and absolute. No one questioned him.
Tristan pressed forward, heart hammering, every fiber of his being focused on balance, on movement, on ignoring the gaping maw of earth below and the serpent that lay in wait.
But the rock was treacherous. And somewhere behind him, Tristan heard a knight’s boot scrape hard against the slick stone. He slipped, losing his balance and shrieking a horrible sound that Tristan never forgot from that day forward.
The knight’s crimson cloak flared as he tumbled, arms grasping at nothing, vanishing into the void below. The Knights of Windem were frozen in shock, watching their brother slowly absolve into a small figure no bigger than a coin by the time he reached the bottom of the chasm.
The snake surged from the dust, its colossal form rising as its jaws yawned wide in the shadows--striking the knights with its fangs and dragging his body across the chasm floor and back into the hole from which it came. It left the body there, then returned to its place below the narrow crossing, waiting and hoping for another piece to freefall to its death.
Tristan had no words. Salafar watched in shock, then shook himself into action, shaking his head furiously and making for the other end of the crossing with careless effort and making it across before anyone else. As soon as he was at the other side of the crossing, he beckoned the rest of his men onward like a mad man, his voice rasping and oozing with a determined passion.
Festal Crowe eventually stopped his incantations once all of the men made it across, tucking his pendant back beneath his cloak where it hung from his neck like an evil charm. The snakes slithered across the chasm, returning to its hole beneath the earth and wagging its tail contentedly as the last of its appearance left the men grimacing with disgust.
“We’re almost past these cliffs,” said Salafar, his energy drained and his voice nearly gone now. “Let’s move.”
They descended another crudely carved path through the cliffs and soon came to the point where the jagged black rock met a long field of blackened, crusted dirt. A grove of gnarled trees and decayed forest sat before them, and then on the other side was the east tower of Rarington, rising up from the castle like a looming symbol of Basidin’s watchful presence.
“We make it past that forest and we’ve arrived at Rarington,” said Salafar. His men nodded eagerly, desperate to put the incident at the cliffs behind them.
“The ramparts will be manned by guards, right?” asked Nothelm, who had gone white in the face since they’d seen the giant snake.
“Yes,” confirmed Salafar. “We’ll watch from the woods for a while until we know their schedule. Once we find out when they swap shifts, we’ll come up with a plan on how we’re getting in.”
“We never found hooks or grapnels, did we?” asked the knight with the scarred face.
“No,” said Salafar. “But we won’t need them. From what I remember, the stones that make the curtain wall jut out from each other. We’ll just need to be able to climb.”
“What if they see us?” said Nothelm. “I mean, from the forest to the castle is a large clearing. I’d assume that even at night, they’d have ample time to see us coming.”
“We’ll deal with that when we get there,” said Salafar. “Come on, let’s go. We need to get to Rarington before that…”
“Servant,” said Tristan.
“Servant,” said Salafar, continuing on, “makes it back and tells Elric that we’re coming from the east.”
The men nodded, understanding the assignment. They trekked on, weaving through the forest of gnarled, blackened trees and trying their best not to make too much noise. They were only a mile from Rarington’s walls.
When they arrived at the forest’s edge, Salafar watched in disbelief, he mouth open in confusion.
“What is it?” asked Nothelm. “Castle walls bigger than you remembered?”
“No,” replied Salafar. “They’re not only bigger--they’ve built an entirely new wall. It’s rounded, and there’s a moat.” Salafar turned to one of his men, his face twisted with perplexion. “Since when did Rarington rebuild its entire defenses?”
Tristan frowned, “Um, Salafar?”
“Yeah?”
“This might just be me…but I haven’t seen a single guard standing atop the ramparts since we’ve started watching.”
The men watched on, waiting for the first signs of sentries or watchmen. Twenty minutes passed. No one appeared.
“Look,” said Nothelm. “You can see from here--the front gate…it’s open.”
“What?” said Salafar, incredulous. It was difficult to see from their angle, but they craned their heads to the right and could just about make out the main gate sitting ajar, providing a simple walkway across the moat and into the castle.
“Well,” said Tristan. “Either they’re trying to bait us in with a trap, or something’s happened internally, and the castle is vacant.”
The Knights of Windem sat and discussed their next move through the course of the day’s remaining light and into the first groanings of night, utterly dumbfounded and indecisive as to what they should do next.