Armor clattered. Boots pounded against the earth. Shouts rose over the din—frantic, desperate. Men shoved past each other, some sprinting for the gates, others wheeling around with weapons half-raised, their faces pale with confusion.
Nothelm stood in the thick of it, jaw clenched, voice raw from shouting. “Form up! Shields! Shields!”
No one listened. A man in a tattered crimson cloak staggered past him, eyes wild, a cut splitting his cheek. Behind him, another tripped over a discarded spear, crashing into the mud. Someone grabbed Nothelm’s shoulder—an armored knight, breath ragged. “We—we need to fall back—”
The Denderrikan war horn split the air, a deep, guttural note that sent ripples through the panicked mass. The ground trembled under the march of their vanguard.
From the walls, the heavy groan of iron hinges rang out. The gates slammed shut.
Half of Windem’s army was locked outside.
The Denderrikan war horn bellowed again, and then they came—figures clad in dark, weather-worn armor, their war horses charging at them with spears pointed--shields locked, swords and spear-tips glinting in the dim light. Windem’s disheveled line barely had time to brace. Dalko, Xenotho, and Enfallio were the first to make contact with Windem’s messy array of men, burying their weapons into everyone in their path. Dalko’s horse reared, its hooves coming down upon a Knight of Windem who had slipped in the mud and trampling him mercilessly.
A black-helmed knight of Denderrika drove his axe into a man’s collarbone, splitting him open with a single, brutal stroke. It was Kenton. His scars no longer blazed with agonizing stinging sensations. Basidin’s influence had fled.
Another Denderrikan warrior slammed his shield into a farmer who had no more than a rusted dagger to defend himself, sending him sprawling into the dirt before running him through.
Screams rose over the chaos. A boy, no older than sixteen, swung wildly with a stolen sword, only for his wrist to be caught and twisted. He shrieked as the Denderrikan soldier wrenched his arm back and buried a blade deep into his gut.
Nothelm fought his way toward the crumbling front, his sword flashing in quick, desperate arcs. A crimson-cloaked Knight of Windem staggered beside him, his helmet knocked loose, blood running from a gash across his forehead. “Nothelm—” he gasped, before a spear punched through his chest from behind, the tip bursting out between his ribs. The knight’s body slumped forward, his crimson cloak pooling in the mud like spilled wine.
The retreat had become a rout. The gates loomed just ahead, locked tight, the panicked pounding of fists from those left outside echoing off the wood. Some still fought, but many ran—ran for their lives, only to be cut down in the mud by merciless Denderrikan steel.
Nothelm turned, his breath ragged. There were too many. The Denderrikans were cutting through them like reapers in a field of unready grain.
A Denderrikan in heavy-plated war gear charged toward Nothelm, towering over him as his form covered the sun. Nothelm raised a sword in helpless defense, knowing he had seen the warrior coming too late. An arrow buried into the man’s neck. And then another. He crumbled to the ground. Nothelm glanced back and saw it--those who had made it inside Rarington were lining the walls with their longbows. Others filed in at the arrow loops, which were narrow slits along the wall that were just big enough for them to fit their bows through without being able to receive fire or projectile against them. The engineers that were hired by Elric had designed them.
Nothelm heard it before he saw it. The sound of an army approaching from the east. He glanced to the crest of a light foothill, which rose up from the direction of the eastern woodlands where they had advanced on the empty castle a day prior.
Akar’s men return? Thought Nothelm, surprised. He parried the attack of two Denderrikans, gutting one with his shortsword and then yanking a spear from his grasp and embedding it into the other Denderrikan, who had lost his footing and given Nothelm the chance to kill him.
Nothelm looked to the east again, noting the colors of the army who approached. It was not Akar’s men.
“Look!” came a shout from the ramparts. “Riders from the east!”
“Whose men?” shouted Nothelm.
The Denderrikans seemed to pull back momentarily, waiting to see whose army had just appeared.
The army was dressed in silver-plated armor with white cloaks and a sigil on their banners that appeared like a fox.
“Feynram,” muttered Nothelm. “They’re our men! They’ve come to aid us!”
Hope drew up within the hearts of Windem’s army. The tide of the battle changed, and suddenly the Denderrikans were being battered back as if the people of Windem had been given a boost of strength and stamina.
Atop the foothill stood three figures, an army of a thousand men and women at their back. Vaya, Loren, and none other than Bodry Tenthill--standing at the ready with an army of Windem’s refugees and victims of the war from across the realm.
Bodry unsheathed, which was beautiful in splendor and long as a spear.
“Today we fight,” he shouted, his army rattling their swords, spears, and axes against their shields. “We fight for the fate of Windem! Those men have ravaged our land, have sided with a Sorceress whose banner is pure filth, and evil! Attack the rearguard, and take down their High Lord, Maltor!”
Vaya looked to Loren, pursing her lips. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
Loren smiled, squeezing Vaya’s hand. “I’m sure. I want to fight for Windem. For Tristan.”
Vaya smiled before pulling the visor of her helmet down. Loren did the same, her blonde hair flowing out of the back of her helmet.
Without another word Bodry kicked his white horse into motion, the sigil of Feynram’s banner flowing behind him as his lieutenants followed him fearlessly with spears drawn.
High Lord Maltor squealed as the army approached. Bodry’s army was composed of those most affected by Denderrika’s war efforts and they were prepared for a slaughter. They swung around to the rear of Denderrika’s army, leaving them exposed from both directions.
Maltor swung his fists down on the arm rests of his throne, “Stop them. Stop them!”
Maltor was still screaming orders when the first arrow thudded into his chest. He gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His hands clawed weakly at the shaft protruding from his armor.
A second arrow struck him in the throat, silencing his cries with a sickening gurgle.
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Vaya wheeled her horse away, already nocking a third arrow. She loosed, and the shaft found its mark—a clean shot through Maltor’s skull. His body slumped, and the heavy throne beneath him wavered.
Then it collapsed.
The weight of his corpse sent the entire platform crumbling, snapping ropes and toppling siege weapons. A trebuchet tilted and groaned before crashing down, crushing Denderrikan engineers beneath its bulk. A catapult misfired, launching a flaming boulder wildly into their own ranks. The command tents caught fire, adding a hellish glow to the battlefield.
Maltor’s death shattered the last thread of discipline holding the Denderrikan ranks together. What had once been a coordinated assault now unraveled into chaos. Soldiers turned their heads at the crumbling command platform, seeing their High Lord’s lifeless form sprawled amidst the wreckage. The banners of Denderrika, once held high, wavered as uncertainty rippled through the ranks.
As Bodry pressed his army forward toward Castle Rarington, where Nothelm was leading Windem’s resistance alongside other Knights of Windem, a tightly bound unit of Denderrikan warriors was striking down Windem’s best warriors with relative ease.
Xenotho was sweeping his double-sided pike around like a weightless wand--the purple markings etched along its shaft dancing with an ancient magic that had been engineered by Saphira in days long ago. Enfallio wielded twin blades, their edges glowing red-hot from the sorcery woven into the steel. Dalko kept Kenton and Asherin near him, hacking down Windem’s bravest men--their death cries instilling fear into any men who witnessed the moment.
Rarington’s front gates creaked open and a figure stepped through. Initially he was a silhouette against the roaring firelight of a section of the battlefield that had lit ablaze. Then Windem’s army saw him--Tristan Blackthorn. He had a new suit of fresh armour--thin chainmail covered by thin plates of armor and a fresh crimson cape unstained by the throes of battle. His armor gleamed with an ethereal magic--strengthened by the gleaming weapon of bright white light which glowed hotly in his hand.
Men raised their arms up to cover the light, which was blinding. Xenotho turned, his bloodstained lips curling into a grin. Enfallio said nothing, but his grip tightened on his glaive, muscles tensing.
Tristan wielded Myroniad--which he had reformed inside Rarington. The blade was the same as the blade that had been tethered to his spear by leather bindings, but it was now attached to the hilt of his father’s sword---the one that Basidin had wielded and which had been a gift to his father all those years ago. Myroniad was no longer a spear of ordinary power, but a sword of ethereal magic and power. Tristan’s eyes glowed with white light, appearing as though the sun had consumed him and spit him back out onto the earth like a hot coal.
Dalko lifted his head slowly, knowing the prophecies were true. Fate could not be changed. Tristan had achieved his destiny as the Ruler of Windem, Wielder of the Sword. Enfallio and Xenotho would not accept Tristan’s fate. They’d come to far…had trained their entire lives for this moment--to capture Windem and start their empire. And with Saphira and Maltor dead, they would be the rulers of the empire. But their was one man standing in their way…the last heir of the Blackthorn lineage.
Xenotho and Enfallio lunged, blades flashing toward Tristan in a whirlwind of death.
Tristan deflected Enfallio’s twin blades, sending one spiraling from his grasp. Xenotho tried to attack Tristan’s blindspot but he turned quicker than Xenotho could have anticipated. Tristan’s sword splintered Xenotho’s weapon into a thousand pieces. Xenotho growled, attempting to leap at Tristan and cut him with his dagger but Tristan merely adjusted his grip on Myroniad, driving it up and under Xenotho’s sternum and twisting, the tip of his blade protruding out of his back. Enfallio cowered, but Tristan had no mercy for the Ascendian. He swung Myroniad in a wide arc, the sword of bright white light bursting with power and cutting Enfallio at the waist.
The two Ascendians were dead. The rest of the Denderrikans stopped fighting. Dalko was the first to drop his sword. Asherin and Kenton followed suit. Then everyone else. The sound of thousands of weapons thudding to the ground rang out across the clearing. Windem’s army coalesced with Bodry’s army, spreading into a circle so that there could be no escape.
Dalko knelt, falling onto one knee. “Kneel to the Ruler of Windem,” he shouted. “The Wielder of the Sword, and the last of his name. Behold, Tristan Blackthorn!”
The Denderrikans followed obediently, kneeling and bowing their heads in homage to Tristan, whose power was undeniable.
Tristan entered the circle, walking amongst the Denderrikans with Myroniad sheathed in its scabbard. His face was crusted with blood and dirt despite his new garments of sparkling armor.
“I want to usher in a new era of peace--to form an agreement amongst our peoples,” Tristan paused, striding confidently through the Denderrikans. He paused as he passed Asherin, meeting her eyes with a look of confidence and dominance. “Basidin has been defeated, at least for now. And Saphira is dead. Our battle has been won. Let there be no more battle. No more death.” Tristan approached Dalko, signaling for him to rise. “Swear to me that your men will stand down, and return to Denderrika. Take all of your troops, and be gone from Windem within a fortnight.”
Dalko nodded, extending his hand. Tristan shook it, staring into Dalko’s cold blue eyes. Tristan released Dalko’s hand, but the weight of his decision lingered between them. Dalko studied him for a long moment before giving a solemn nod and stepping back. The battlefield was eerily silent now, save for the distant crackling of dying fires and the groans of the wounded.
Then, from the ranks of Windem, a single voice rang out.
“Victory to Windem!” It was Bodry. “Victory to Windem!” the cry was taken up, rolling through the ranks like a crashing wave. Swords and shields were raised, a clamor of celebration rising into the night air.
Tristan turned, scanning the sea of faces, and his gaze fell upon her. Mildred.
She stood amidst the warriors, her hands clasped over her heart, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She took a hesitant step forward, as if afraid this was all an illusion, that if she reached for him, he would disappear. But then Tristan moved, closing the distance between them. He grasped her hand, his grip firm yet gentle.
“I never thought I’d see this day,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Tristan smiled, weary but warm. “Neither did I.”
For a moment, there was nothing but the two of them in the vast, blood-soaked field.
Bodry’s hand clapped down on Tristan’s shoulder, his voice gruff yet full of warmth. “You did it, lad.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “By the gods, you did it.”
Tristan turned to him, something raw flickering in his expression. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said. “Or them.” He gestured to the warriors of Windem, to those who had fought and bled for this moment. Nothelm stood among them, waving with a grand smile spread across his face.
Bodry chuckled, sheathing his sword. “Aye, but it was you who made them believe.”
Loren and Vaya emerged from the crowd of Windem’s warriors and citizens, who were standing and watching in awe of their new hero.
Loren ran to Tristan, wrapping him in a big hug. “Tristan Sword Maker,” she whispered in his ear. Tristan laughed, looking down at his sword. “I suppose I did make this myself. Although it was quite simple really. I just slid Myronia’s blade into the hilt and it forged together on its own.”
Loren brought a finger to Tristan’s lips, shushing him. “You can tell me all about it later, Sword Maker.” She giggled, bringing her big head of blonde hair to rest against his chest. Tristan pulled her tight, scanning the field. Dalko was beginning to round up the Denderrikans and preparing to leave.
Vaya Mora stepped forward from the ranks, the dim firelight flickering against the dark steel of her armor. Her crimson cloak, torn and tattered from the battle, billowed slightly in the wind. Her bow was slung across her back, but her fingers hovered near the hilt of her dagger, as if she were still ready to fight, still caught in the throes of war.
She reached up, fingers grazing over the bruises and cuts on his face as if committing them to memory. Tristan leaned into her touch, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
“You’re alive,” she murmured, as if she needed to remind herself.
“I am,” Tristan whispered.
Vaya ran a finger over Tristan’s lips, staring at them with her dark, enchanting eyes. Tristan pulled away, conscious of all the eyes that were on them. Vaya smiled softly, sending flutters through Tristan. She made him more nervous than anything he’d felt on the battlefield that day.
“Stay with me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stay at Rarington.”
Vaya smirked, brushing her fingers against his jawline. “I was never going anywhere.” She strolled away, standing amongst the Knights of Windem again and watching Tristan with those big brown eyes that made his chest flutter.
“So,” said Nothelm, stepping into the circle and clasping Tristan’s shoulder. “What now?”
Tristan smiled, pulling his friend into an embrace. He held Nothelm by the shoulders, beholding his friend who had been with him since Feynram.
“Now?” began Tristan, taking a moment to think. “We rest. And then we rebuild this place.” Tristan’s gaze swept over the landscape. It was still blackened from Basidin’s mists, from the Rot. The casualties of war littered the field as groans escaped those who clung to life.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do.”