Tristan and Mildred stepped into a whole new world when they turned the corner of the corridor that ran behind the high dais and toward the dungeon. The Great Hall of the King’s Palace was rancid with death and slaughter. The Knights of Windem were surrounded with their backs to each other in the center of the hall. They held their swords and spears in front of them as Akar the warlord and his men pressed in on them. Half of the Knights of Windem that Tristan had entered with were dead, lying along the outskirts of the hall.
It was not that Akar and his men had outnumbered the Knights of Windem–it had been an even fight. But Akar had used the element of surprise, slipping through hidden slots in the walls that had been engineered when Elric and King Tarren had hired the two engineers to make Rarington impenetrable in preparation for Denderrika’s mighty army, who were now marching on Stormhold and due to arrive any day.
Nothelm stood at the center of the knights, his face a mix of sweat and blood. He spotted Tristan, his eyes widening and his breath coming in fast waves. Tristan put a finger to his lips, yanking at his mother and pulling her down into a crouch. It was too late. One of Akar’s men saw them. He pulled back on his bowstring and aimed at Tristan, his arm twitching and his face trembling with a terrible battle stance.
“Don’t shoot,” said Akar. He strode across the clearing, ignoring the threats and curses from the Knights of Windem as he glided past them. His head was thick and bald, a green tint staining his skin as pink scars ran across his face like war paint.
“So Blackthorn lives,” said Akar slowly, studying him with unkind eyes. “And what are you doing here?” Akar gestured toward Mildred, who was half cowering behind Tristan. “A traitor, then?” said Akar, piecing together that Mildred and Tristan had emerged from the dungeon and Elric had not. Akar tilted his head back in despair, a loud shout of vexation erupting from him like molten lava from a volcano. Elric’s promises of glory and prestige as Windem’s new warlord could no longer be fulfilled.
“I was going to spare your men,” began Akar, his face drawn into a dark scowl. Half his face was covered in shadow, as the torchlight mostly guttered out amidst the chaos and the afternoon sun was blotted out by increasingly dark mists that obscured the sun. Spittle dribbled down the outside of Akar’s mouth like the foam of a rabid animal, his face shaking with rage. “But you will have no such luck, little Blackthorn. You will die like your father–helpless, and alone.”
Akar’s double bladed sword rattled from his duel-shaped scabbard as he advanced on Tristan. Mildred and Tristan took two cautious steps backward as Tristan withdrew Drakiler. He was weak and void of energy, having just given every ounce of fighting strength in his clash with Elric. His emotions were thin and his head reeling–having to put aside undealt with feelings of guilt and gloom. He had exacted vengeance on Elric, but felt no peace resultantly. He knew true peace could only come with the restoring of Windem. He had to save Rarington, and thus all of Windem. But he couldn’t do it alone, and he didn’t know how. They were surrounded.
The sound of war horns froze Akar and Tristan. Another blast followed before the ground began to shake with the rhythm of marching.
“The Denderrikans,” whispered Akar. ‘They’re here…” Azar turned, scanning the Great Hall in a panic. “Put them in chains and keep them together. They can’t go anywhere fast if they’re secured together.” Akar’s men looked at him with a puzzled look–knowing full well that the Knights of Windem would not allow themselves to be bound with ease. They were still prepared to fight, the look of determination had not gone out from their eyes as they stood with swords and spears pointed.
“You heard me, come on!” shouted Akar.
“M’lord,” said a soldier, tentatively, “these men have not yet been defeated. They stay to fight.”
“Drop your weapons,” demanded Akar, hoping to absolve the situation quickly. “Drop ‘em, or we shoot. Archers!” A line of archers formed a ring around the Knights of Windem, stepping in front of Akar’s infantrymen. They pulled back on their bowstrings, the tension making a creaking sound under the tension.
“Off me,” said Tristan, causing a moment of confusion. Akar’s hand had been raised and prepared to drop–signifying for his archers to loose their arrows. “Hold,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Offer you to who? Basidin?”
“No,” said Tristan, “Offer me to Basidin.” Mildred’s mouth dropped agape, her face twisting in bewilderment.
“Tristan, no,” said Mildred.
“Basidin doesn’t shake hands with hands nor does he speak in our tongue,” said Akar.
“He does. I’ve heard the whispers of his spirit,” said Tristan confidently. “The Denderrikan host approaches. You’ll need Basidin to hold them off. Offer me--and that will surely draw him to your side.”
“A bit conceded, Blackthorn?” snarled Akar. “Basidin had a pact with Elric. That is done now. For that, you will pay.” Akar raised his double-blade sword, which had a slight curve to it and a hilt that was like a piece of smooth, curved wood with a gripped handle.
“Listen to me,” said Tristan. “Did you not hear the prophecies? I am to be the Wielder of the Sword, the Ruler of Windem. Offer me to Basidin and he can ensure that doesn’t happen.”
“Or,” began Akar, smiling. “I can kill you right here. Right now…and you’ll never be the ruler of anything.”
“Basidin is dead!” shouted one of Akar’s men. “He would be here now--we would feel his presence. His power has grown weak…died out.”
“He’s right,” said Akar. His eyes narrowed as his scars grew hot with anger.
“You killed Elric…and you most certainly killed Basidin, our master,” growled Akar. He sweeped his double-bladed sword down upon Tristan, who raised his sword, using the blade to deflect Akar’s downstroke. Akar was lunging forward now, slashing at Tristan with his blade before landing a harsh kick into Tristan’s sternum which sent him sprawling.
Then the mist came. And then the smell. The war horns had stopped sounding outside Rarington and in its place came the dreadful hum of Basidin’s presence--which was felt before it was seen. Akar paused, his eyes growing wide with fear.
Tristan scooted away from Akar, scrambling to his feet as Mildred yanked him up and scurried away to a corner of the Great Hall. All eyes shifted to the long corridor that was immersed in deep shadow where something…terrible, dreadful slowly clicked along the cobblestone.
The clicking grew louder, echoing through the Great Hall like the slow, deliberate taps of bone against stone. A foul wind swept in from the corridor, carrying the acrid stench of decay, of something ancient and rotting yet somehow alive. The torches flickered violently, their flames shrinking as if in fear.
Akar staggered back, his hands tightening around the hilt of his double-bladed sword. His face, once twisted in rage, now bore the unmistakable mark of dread. His men shuffled uneasily behind him, shifting their weapons, whispering amongst themselves.
Then came the voice.
Low, guttural, seeping through the stone walls like thick tar. It was not one voice but many, layered upon each other, writhing with malice.
"You would speak of my death, Akar?"
The air grew thick, pressing down upon them like an unseen weight. Akar gasped, his body shuddering as if unseen hands were clawing at his skin. He tried to raise his sword again, but his fingers twitched, suddenly frail.
Tristan, gripping Mildred’s arm, felt his stomach churn. This was no mere presence—this was power, raw and untamed, curling in the darkness like a serpent ready to strike.
From the corridor, a shape began to emerge. Not a man. Not a beast. Something between.
A figure draped in tattered crimson robes, its form barely solid, shifting like thick smoke. Its face was obscured beneath a hood, yet the glint of something unnatural shone within. Black, charred fingers twitched at its sides, moving in delicate patterns as if plucking unseen strings.
Akar tried to speak, but his breath came in ragged gasps. Basidin had come.
Basidin smiled wickedly, revealing surprisingly white, yet jagged teeth. Black ooze dripped down his face, giving the appearance of a man without eyes, nose, or face--merely a head-like structure with a wickedly grinning mouth.
Akar’s breath caught in his throat as the figure stepped into the light, revealing more of its decayed form. The crimson robes swayed as if caught in a wind that no one else could feel. The air reeked of burning flesh and damp earth. Then, Basidin spoke.
"You worthless heap of bones and spit," he snarled, his voice no longer the layered whisper of before, but sharp and guttural and full of power. "You doubt me? You, who have scraped at my tabl, begging for scraps like a dog? You, who cower at the first sign of true power? I chose Kael Voryn over you, and he was weak.”
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Akar gritted his teeth, his hands trembling on the hilt of his sword, but he did not dare move.
"I should rip out your tongue for your insolence," Basidin continued, stepping closer, the heat of his presence making the air shimmer. Basidin turned, suddenly seizing Tristan by the scruff of his tunic. The room gasped.
Mildred surged forward, but as soon as she moved, tendrils of black mist coiled around her wrists, yanking her back with inhuman strength. The Knights of Windem struggled as the same oozing darkness slithered up their arms and legs, binding them in place like prisoners awaiting judgment.
Tristan thrashed, but Basidin’s grip was like iron. With one brutal yank, he dragged him past Akar and his men, past Nothelm and the Knights of Windem, his steps echoing through the Great Hall. The doors of Rarington flung open with a deafening crash, the torches along the walls sputtering and dying in his wake. He dragged Tristan through the lower bailey and past the two main gates before arriving at the other side of the moat of Castle Rarington.
The outside air hit Tristan like a slap to the face. Then, before he could react Basidin threw him, leaving gasping for air from the impact. Tristan tumbled through the dirt, landing hard in the clearing outside the front gates of Rarington. Pain shot through his ribs. His vision swam, the world spinning.
Then he saw them, standing off in the distance like a swarm of gray stone statues. The Denderrikan host were waiting in formation, nearly ten thousand strong. They stretched across the horizon, a sea of gray and steel, banners fluttering in the cold wind. Their spears stood like a field of sharpened thorns, their siege engines and catapults like huge towers of terror and symbols of power.
Boots crunched against the earth behind him. Akar and his men emerged from the gates, their weapons drawn, their faces grim. And Basidin, standing above them all, loomed like a shadow made flesh.
"Now, Blackthorn," Basidin sneered, his rotting lips twisting into something that might have once been a grin. “We have a lot to discuss.” He snarled, then broke into a deep-bellied laugh, though Tristan wondered if he had any stomach at all--and what he was actually made of.
“Your bloodline has been the bane of my existence for generations--since the Old Days!” Basidin bellowed at the top of his lungs, gnarling a gloved fist to the sky. “You are the last in a long line of Blackthorns, and now you will die the same way that your ancestor of old bound me.”
“I wasn’t a part of that,” managed Tristan weakly. His hands were bound behind him by a mystical black ooze. “That was nearly…” He trailed off, wincing and gasping in pain, “a thousand years ago.”
“And your father brought me back,” said Basidin, his voice thick with excitement. “He plunged this sword into the Orc-eel of Northrock.” Basidin held the sword outward, admiring it. “He freed me from an inescapable torture. I was an unwilling resident of a mindless beast.” Basidin rose from a crouch, scanning the horizon and lifting his hands in a summoning motion. “Servants of Basidin,” he shouted, “Come and join us from the four corners of Windem.”
The sky shook and trembled, a great bolt of thunder stunning the land.
Tristan struggled against his restraints, the mystical black ooze tightening like iron shackles around his wrists. He could feel its unnatural coldness seeping into his skin, numbing his fingers. His breath came in short gasps, his ribs aching from the brutal toss.
Then, the first of Basidin’s Servants emerged. First came Festal Crowe from the east, and then Breen Slate from the west. Behind each of them came Fed Moltec and Marsh Geral, respectively. And at their throats, swinging against their hollow chests, hung identical pendants—each depicting a gnarled tree, twisted and lifeless. The token that Basidin had been fashioned by Akar in honor of Basidin’s cause. The pendants pulsed with an eerie light, as if they held the last dying embers of a cursed fire. Behind the Servants of Basidin, in their dreadful wake, came the citizens of Windem. Hundreds. Then thousands.
Men, women, and children--hollow-cheeked, wrapped in rags, their ribs pressing against their skin from months of famine and suffering. They clung to whatever they could carry--rusted farm tools, chipped swords, makeshift clubs. They marched in solemn resignation, eyes fixed on the figures that led them.
Tristan's breath caught in his throat. These were not warriors. These were desperate people, the forgotten and the abandoned. The people of Windem had come to fight, although it was with great sadness that Tristan realized they did not fight for Windem. They fought for Basidin--for food, and water. The proud kingdom of Windem had been broken. And now its people had chosen to march beneath the banner of an ancient evil.
Basidin turned to Tristan, his grin widening. "Look at them, Blackthorn." His voice was thick with triumph. "They do not fear me. They follow me. Not out of faith, but because I offer them the one thing your father is not here to offer." His eyes gleamed as he gestured toward the ragged host. "Survival."
The crowd halted as the Servants of Basidin raised their hands in unison. Their pendants flared brighter. A deep, guttural hum resonated from their lips that sounded exactly like the humming that had drifted up from Basidin’s lair.
Mildred’s eyes darted wildly from face to face in the mass of people. She recognized some faces--faces that Elric had dealt with kindly. Faces that Gareth had served and developed relationships with. There were lords and vassals, townsfolk, and people of the Citadel, of Stormhold.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head against the black tendrils binding her wrists. "No, this isn't right. You don't understand what you're doing!"
One of the citizens, a gaunt man with a thick, tangled beard, turned to her as he walked past, preparing to join the formation of Basidin’s army. His expression was empty, his voice hoarse from hunger.
"Basidin feeds us,” he said. “I’m sorry. There’s no other way.” His eyes fell, a sob shaking him. “Windem has fallen.”
Tristan felt a cold dread curl in his stomach.
Akar, standing off to the side, let out a dry chuckle. "Your people have already chosen, Blackthorn." He spun his twin-bladed sword in his hands. Then he turned toward Mildred, perplexed. “And who let you out here?” He swiveled, scowling at the sight of the Knights of Windem.
“They will watch,” said Basidin.
The war horns groaned, their deep, guttural calls rolling across the field like distant thunder. The Denderrikan host moved as one, the ground trembling beneath the synchronized march of a thousand boots. Spears rose in unison, their polished tips catching the flickering torchlight. Shields locked together with a low, metallic clank—an iron wall stretching across the horizon.
Beyond them, the cavalry adjusted in their saddles, horses snorting and stamping, their breath steaming in the cold night air. The riders, clad in dark armor, gripped their lances tight, the sharpened steel gleaming under the pale glow of a storm-heavy sky. Further back, great wooden engines groaned as soldiers heaved catapults into position, thick ropes straining under the weight of oil-soaked boulders. Flames danced along the wicks of waiting torches, their light reflected in the steely eyes of the men below.
At the highest ridge, overlooking it all, three figures stood motionless, their black cloaks rippling in the wind.
Dalko watched the field with unreadable eyes, their piercing blue depths scanning the enemy lines without a flicker of doubt or hesitation. His narrow face, sharp as a whetted blade, remained impassive, betraying nothing—not the chaos stirring below, nor the shifting storm above.
Beside him, Kenton shifted his stance, his fingers grazing the hilt of his blade. Scars cut jagged paths across his weathered face, their pale ridges stark against sun-darkened skin. His gray-blond hair, tied loosely at the nape, whipped against his armor as he exhaled through his nose—a sound more like a wolf scenting blood than a man preparing for war. His scars still stung with a piercing white-hot pain--the presence of Basidin so close accentuating the acute pain.
Asherin stood at Dalko’s left, her gaze fixed on the growing storm above the battlefield. Her grip tightened on the black war spear at her side, the leather-wrapped handle creaking beneath her fingers.
“Do you feel that?” Kenton muttered, his voice a low growl. “The air’s gone heavy.”
Dalko said nothing, only tilted his chin slightly as if weighing the unseen pressure settling over them.
Asherin's lips barely moved. “It’s watching us.”
A gust of wind rolled through the valley, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else. Something rotting. The warhorses shifted uneasily, neighing nervously as Denderrikan soldiers did their best to pat their mane and calm them.
Atop a great black pavilion lined with gray and black speckled banners, Saphira watched Basidin’s forces materialize, her expression calm and poised. She sat poised on a throne of dark iron, the same throne that the King of Feynram had sat upon. It had been stripped from the Great Hall and brought here for Saphira to sit upon like a queen. Her robes, woven from fabric so black it seemed to drink the torchlight, cascaded around her like flowing ink.
Her skin was fair and smooth, despite her thousand years of existence. Raven-dark hair spilled over one shoulder, the ends kissed with silver as though frost had touched them. Her lips curled slightly at the edges in quiet amusement, as though she were watching something inevitable unfold.
She raised one hand, and a long, lacquered nail traced absentmindedly over the armrest. A ring adorned her finger, its gemstone the color of drowned emeralds, shifting like liquid in the dim light. Beneath her robes, something pulsed faintly against her chest. It was the pendant of a gnarled tree, its roots twisted and wrong.
Beside her, sprawled across a throne twice as wide as hers, sat the High Lord of Denderrika, Maltor. His body, a mass of flesh, oozed over the armrests, his thick fingers trembling as they clutched at a goblet filled with something dark and syrupy. His face, round and sickly, shone with sweat despite the cool Mid-Winter’s air. He wheezed between gulps, his breath a chorus of wet sounds and grunts. He lifted a pudgy hand and bellowed, “Go forth! Break their backs! Cut their throats! Do not let them—gllrrk—do not let them stand before us!” A string of spittle dribbled from his thick lips as he coughed, his voice breaking into wet, garbled noise.
Saphira did not acknowledge him. She did not need to. The true power of Denderrika sat with her, not the pathetic sack of flesh that sat lazily beside her. The days of helping him into his bath was done. The land that he planned to return to after this great triumph would no longer exist--he would no longer exist when her plan played out. She had whispered in his ear long before this night, planted the visions of conquest in his feeble mind, steered the war into motion. She recalled all of the nights she had spent conditioning him, having him work on his words.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting to where Dalko stood at the front of the ridge. All that remained was for Dalko to do what was expected of him. He looked every bit the warrior she had chosen—his sharp blue eyes fixed on the enemy, his mind bent on war. She had raised him that way. Enfallio and Xenotho stood to either side of Saphira, equally bound to her will through the curse of the Ascendians. They knew the balance of this war would decide their fate. Freedom would not come unless they took Windem.
Dalko inhaled deeply, squinting at the figure that was hunched over in front of Basidin. He couldn’t make out who it was from here. No one had heard word of Tristan, Loren, and Nothelm’s fate. He had only known what Asherin and Kenton had reported. They had failed to stop Kael Voryn, so now the land was just a big wasteland of rot and blackened earth.
Saphira smiled a coy smile, knowing that this war was not just Dalko’s to win. That his fate, no matter how much he struggled, was already sealed. For when Windem fell, Basidin would rise. And she would stand at his side, just as it had been promised long ago. Her true love stood at the other end of the battle field with his bride-price already captured.
It was the last Blackthorn. And he was preparing to die.