Tristan was nervous. It was not his first time over Twin Hills before but he still felt something stirring in the pit of stomach. He was trudging up the steep slope of the east side of the Twin Hills. Tristian took a glance back as he walked. He knew somewhere inside Ma was sitting in her bed with the furs pulled up to her neck with that blank, dull stare. Or, she was sleeping. Either way, Tristan figured she wouldn’t ever know (nor would she care) if he ventured out beyond the Twin Hills on his own.
A part of him didn't care if he never returned home. He was ready for something new and eager to put the pain of his dull childhood behind him. Inwardly, he hoped that something would force him into fleeing and seeking refuge somewhere new. That would be exciting, at least. He felt neglected. That was her fault. That was Uncle Bodry’s fault. That was Elric Drakonstone’s fault. It was his father’s fault. It was anyone but his own fault. He did not ask to grow up without a father. It wasn’t fair. The world was not fair.
He quickly batted those thoughts away. Ma needed him. He couldn’t abandon her, despite the growing contempt he had for her and the bitterness he had for the world. He realized that his fists were clenched and his nails were digging into the palm of his hand. His teeth were also clenched tight. He relaxed his jaw and released his fists, continuing his slow trudge up the Twin Hills.
He wondered what it would be like to talk to someone. It felt an odd thing to wonder about, but he and Ma had stayed isolated ever since the incident with Elric, which was nearly a year ago now. The people of Sesten mostly kept to themselves. This far from the Citadel had the people far removed from a busy, bustling life. There was more land here. There were pastures for horses and crops for growing vegetables. Rows of wheat and corn dominated the landscapes beyond the rows of homes that lined the busiest road in Sesten. That road was down below.
Tristan stood atop the Twin Hills, overlooking the town below. He felt like a hero from some ancient story, overlooking the land of his people. His hand went to the wooden sword at his waist. A gentle breeze brushed his hair across his face. It had grown long over the past year and kept some of its waviness. The curls had started to vanish and it was no longer a mop on his head. Rather, it ran down the nape of his neck and rested below his shoulders. He liked it that way. It reminded him of someone from the Kingsguard--the King’s Knights and the King’s fiercest warriors.
Tristan’s father had been one of the Kingsguard before he was promoted to become the Lord Commander. Tristan remembered very little of those days, but he’d heard the stories. Uncle Bodry told them to him whenever he’d visit for a while. Some days, he was able to convince Uncle Bodry to stay with him until he fell asleep. Bodry would give a knowing glance to Mildred. It was a look that said I’ll do it, but only if you’re okay with it. She would nod with a warm smile. Tristan knew she liked it when Bodry did that. It was what a father was supposed to do with their young sons, only, Tristan didn’t have a father.
“If they are the King’s guards, then how come they go all over the kingdom to find the bad guys? Aren’t they supposed to guard the king?” Tristan would ask, his face a mess of confusion. Bodry’s body would shake with a deep belly chuckle before replying. His gray hair made him look like a wise old man.
“Well, they do guard the King! They guard the King by taking care of the trouble before the trouble finds the King.” Bodry would sit beside Tristan on his bed, his face wrapped in a know-it-all smile. He knew there would be a follow-up question.
“Then how does…” Tristan would trail off, deep in ponder. Bodry would smile, seeing the wheels turn. Tristan’s eyes would dart back and forth, staring up at the ceiling.
“Then how does the King stay safe if someone breaks into the Castle and gets past the sentries and the guards?” asked Tristian.
“Well, hopefully that never happens, my boy!”
“But…but what if it did?” asked Tristan.
“That is why the King has an escort of twenty-four men called yoemen.”
“What’s a yeoman?” Tristan was far from sleepy now. The topic was everything a young boy yearned to learn more of.
“A King’s yeoman is a more personal bodyguard. The Yeomen of Windem carry a lethal weapon at all times, in case something goes bad. For instance, if someone were to try to assassinate the King.”
“Oh, I see,” said Tristan. “What weapons do they use?”
A low rumble of laughter was building up in Bodry. “Full of questions tonight, are ye? Sleep will never find you if you keep this up, boy.”
“I want to know. Maybe I’ll be a yeomen someday, replied Tristan.
“If you are one of the King’s Yeomen, you’ll either carry a crossbow or a spear. Twelve of them use a bow, the other twelve use a spear.” Bodry could see Tristan’s eyes widen with excitement. “Which type of yeomen would you be, Tristan?”
Tristan weighed it up for a long time before answering, “I think I’d use both.”
The view from the top of Twin Hills was one that made Tristan wonder why he didn’t come to this high point more often. There was a lot that could be seen from here. The narrow road of Sesten split the middle of the town in half. The road itself was yellow and old. It was made of dirt and cracks appeared along its surface from decades of moving carts, carriages, and horses. The first row of buildings on either side of the yellow road were shops and taverns. Behind that row of buildings were other places such as forges, weavers, butchers, bakers, and drapers. Tristan thought he spotted the draper that his Ma had bought the linen shirts from years ago, but he wasn’t completely sure.
Beyond that strip of houses were people’s homes. They were packed so close together that Tristan wondered how anyone ever found any privacy. These rows and labyrinths of houses and alleyways went back at least six or seven rows. Beyond that was the open countryside where the pastures and crop fields were. If one followed the yellow road past the three mile stretch of shops, taverns, and houses, there were two mountains that mirrored the Twin Hills. Only, the two mountains that towered over the Twin Hills were much older and larger. It reached high and came to a tall pointed peak in the clouds, where Tristan could make out snowcaps that painted the mountain tops.
“Right then,” mumbled Tristan. He said it two times more, listening to the sound of his voice. It dawned on him that he would actually have to use his voice today, most likely. There was always the option of stealing and running off. If he was quick enough, he wouldn’t have to speak with anyone. He decided to keep that option in the back of his mind, just in case. “Let’s get a hunting bow.” Tristan started down the steep hill, skipping as he went.
It was three hours past noon when Tristan arrived in downtown Sesten. The smell of smoking salmon and baked potato drifted through the air. One of the local food places called “Seafood of Sesten” was offering a special on its salmon. Tristan walked past the rickety sign that hung outside its door. The door opened and out came a man with a large belly and a mouth of crowded, yellow teeth. The patron of the restaurant shut the door behind him. The sign that read “Seafood of Sesten” nearly fell off its hinges. On the other side of the road was a tavern that was also bustling with patrons. Someone was in town to entertain. Tristan could pick out the sound of someone inside speaking in a high voice. Every ten seconds there would be a roar of laughter followed by a second, even louder wave of laughter as the entertainer continued to make jests.
Tristan’s curiosity pulled him toward the rowdy tavern with the entertainer. He peered inside the tavern’s entrance. There was no door. He decided to step inside, but only barely. His eyes were wide and his posture was unsure. This wasn’t a place that he belonged. But his curiosity got the better of him and he stayed inside, just for a moment. He wanted to hear what all of the laughter was about.
Swordbelts and cloaks hung from hooks by Tristan’s head. The ground was dirt and the walls were made of worn-down wood. People sat along long benches facing a circular pit-like area at the front of the tavern. He could see all the way to the left, past the bathrooms, was a long hallway that broke off into a network of rooms for people to stay the night.
Some men and women stood behind the long benches, closer to where Tristan stood. These people stood behind the benches and sat their casks of ale and beer on a barrel. In all, Tristan estimated there were around forty patrons in all.
“And as I sat on my reddened knees, I gave thanks to the Maker that I was not made to be like thee!” the entertainer spoke in these sort of humorous utterances. Whom the entertainer was speaking of, Tristan was not sure yet. The entertainer went on…
“He is a slippery serpent in my way, changing his mind thrice over. We shall have taxes, yes we shall, he proclaims.” The entertainer paused. “And the next day we hear, ‘oh nevermind, no taxes shall be forced upon the people of Windem!’ This ever-changing news, oh how it stings.” The entertainer over exaggerated his supposed grief, appearing as though he might feint. Tristan found this part quite hard to watch. It wasn’t funny to him. Perhaps he lacked a sense of wit.
“This news of taxes hath made thee a most ugly man. I mean, look at me!” The entertainer made a hideous face. It drew light laughter from the crowd. Whatever had been so funny before Tristan peaked into the tavern must have passed. The people were becoming bored.
“But what is this, as I awake for another day in Windem? A knock on the door?” The entertainer mimicked someone slowly creaking open a door with a daft look on his face. “I knew it likely to be the King’s justice, come to bring me back to the noose for treason! But no…” the entertainer was looking around at all the faces in the tavern. He clearly wanted anticipation to build.
“I thought to myself…I am STIFLED with this smell of sin outside my door. In that case, no, this is something fouler than the King’s justice. It must be…the King himself!”
Laughter erupted. Such humor would not have gone unpunished closer to the Capital. But this was Sesten, and no town could be farther geographically from the Capital. “If truly the King stands outside my door, then truly there is not so ugly a fiend of hell as thou!”
Tristan had heard enough. He took his leave of the tavern and continued down the old yellow road. He ignored the dozens of restaurants, taverns, and shops that lined either side of the road and he swept down a narrow alley that was hardly wide enough for his shoulders. He knew that he was more apt to find a weapon for purchase in the second row of buildings. There were blacksmiths, forges, and other weapons manufacturers here. The narrow street with all of its sounds and hummings reminded Tristan of a distant childhood memory. He remembered walking down these streets with his Ma when the loss of his father was only a couple years past. She still had energy in those days.
Something caught Tristan’s eye along the right side of the narrow side street that gave him pause. It was a rather chilling sight that made the hairs on the back of his neck go straight up. The man standing outside the blacksmith’s shop was staring at him with small, beady eyes. They were completely black where his brown, green, or blue eyes should have been. His hairline began at the top of his head, where wavy hair ran down the back of his head. He had a beak of a nose and pointed teeth that stuck over the top of his bottom lip. His staring did not cease, despite Tristan’s acknowledgement of him. Tristan noted his longsword that hung at his hip, partly concealed by his draping black cape. His clothes were mostly gray with dark green trim.
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Tristan looked above the creep to see that the high-ceilinged shop was a forge. There were blacksmiths inside hammering away fiercely at red hot metal. Sparks flew. The lighting was orange-red inside. Loud cursings and orders were being barked by various bulky men. Each one of them held a big scowl on their face as they hammered away.
Unsettled by the stare of the man with a beak of a nose and black beads for eyes, Tristan walked so fast that he nearly broke into a trot. He felt the man’s eyes follow him as he moved past. Tristan suddenly felt like he was hundreds of miles away from his home. He sheepishly found himself missing the safe, remote shelter of his home. He had made trips this side of the Twin Hills before, but that was to the north or south of downtown Sesten. This was a place where busy merchants and tradesmen bought, sold, or traded their goods.
After browsing his options, Tristan spotted a small forgery that appeared quaint and underwhelming. There was only one blacksmith at work here, and he appeared short and thin. He was hammering away at a thin-bladed sword with a razor sharp point at the end. The man was hunched naturally, as if his body had morphed into a permanent hunch after years and, perhaps decades, of continued work with swords and welding.
The hunched man lifted his goggles, pausing his work to admire it. The sight of Tristan turned his attention. His self-satisfied look waned.
“Can I help you lad?”
“Yes…sir,” said Tristian, unsure of himself. “I am looking to buy a…” What was he looking to buy? A sword? A bow? “A bow. I’m looking to buy a bow.”
“A Bow? This is a forgery, lad. We’ve got swords, daggers, knives, spearheads, halberds…that’s about it. Besides, yer’ a bit young to be browsin’ ‘round here.” His accent was thick and milky.
“Could you point me in the right direction? I am in desperate need of a bow. My Ma sent me to buy one,” said Tristan.
“Yes boy…erm, you’ll want to make your way across the street there to find yourself a bow from the fletcher. He won’t string it fer ye though. For that, you’ll need to go back to the main road to find the only stringer in town. From there, he’ll send you to someone else to buy your shafts and arrowheads from. Got that boy?”
Tristan’s mouth hung open, a daft look spread across his face. “Yes, erm…I’ll just be going then.”
Tristan fled the town shops. If he was going to get a bow for himself, he wasn’t going to get it here. He had no coin and the men here weren’t friendly. They weren’t like Uncle Bodry. Not one bit.
Tristan made his way out of that strange town with its busy merchants, blacksmiths, entertainers, and beady eyed men with billowing capes.
Before he could completely exit the town, his attention was caught by a young boy and a father. The man looked incredibly familiar, and Tristan soon understood why. It looked like his own father. The young boy was around ten years old, reminding Tristan of a younger version of himself. A terrible sadness built up inside him. A coldness gnawed at him and tore all strength from his body. He was only a young boy when his father died in the northern reach. Most of his memories of him were stories told by Ma or Uncle Bodry.
There was a pile of hay sitting outside one of the shops at the far end of the old yellow road. Tristan allowed himself a seat, carefully withdrawing his wooden sword and laying it beside him.
“You craft that yourself?”
Tristan flicked his head to the right with a start. A girl about his age was staring back at him. “Well, did you?” she asked.
“Oh, um, this?” Tristan held up his wooden sword, suddenly feeling impish and small.
“Why yes, of course, that! I wasn’t asking about your massive cloak.” Her voice was shrill but strong. Her eyes were green and enchanting and her hair was in a sloppy pony-tail that sat high on her head. Strands of curly hair rested along either side of her face.
“I crafted it myself, yes.” Tristan stared back at her.
“Man of few words. I’d hardly call you a man, though, if I’m honest.”
“Yeah? And why’s that?” Tristan rose from his seat on the hay bale, his shoulders were pulled back and chest puffed out. The girl giggled.
“Apparently he’s got a massive pair of hairless balls on him as well.” The girl was half-laughing as she said it. “Where’re you from, sword-maker?” Her face grew serious. She turned her head this way and that, waiting for his answer impatiently.
“I don’t answer those sorts of questions. I don’t hang around downtown Sesten often…I’m kind of new here, I suppose, and I’d rather not give away any information that’s best held close to my chest,” said Tristan. He realized he was holding his wooden sword rather foolishly, and he tucked it into his string-made sword belt.
“Suit yourself then. I’ll just call you Sword Maker then. Pleasure to meet ya, my name is Loren. Loren Bjornsfear.” Loren held her hand out. Tristan looked at her hand doubtfully.
“Bjornsfear? Isn’t that a--”
“--a Dendarrikan name? Yes, it is,” Loren stared at Tristan with unwavering stare. Tristan dropped his gaze, staring foolishly at the ground and shrugging his shoulders. Loren continued, “My father was from Dendarrika before he found himself here in Windem. We were much closer to the Capital when I was child. We lived in Omniat, just outside the castle walls. Now I’m here, as far as Windem’s borders will allow.” She gave a light shrug and then pretended to be preoccupied with a couple of coins she held in her hand.
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Tristan, eyeing the coins in her hand.
“You asked, didn’t you?”
“I only asked about the name Bjornsfear. It doesn’t sound like a name from Windem,” said Tristan.
“Well, it is now. Anyways, it’s nice to meet you. Have a good day Sword Maker,” she turned to leave. “Perhaps I’ll see you around,” she said curtly. She spun on her heel and took a step…two steps…
“Wait, Loren?”
Loren paused mid-stride. “Yes, Sword Maker?”
“It’s Tristan. Tristan Blackthorn, if it please you.” Tristan held his mouth agape. He did not know whether that would bring Loren back or send her off quicker. Either way, he wanted her to stay. He was still thinking about the coins in her hand. She’s bound to have more than that in her pockets, thought Tristan.
“I just thought that perhaps you could show me around…help me get familiar with the area,” said Tristan.
“Aren’t you from Sesten? You don’t strike me as much of a traveler,” replied Loren.
“What makes you say that, Loren Bjornsfear of Dendarrika?” Tristan smiled. It felt good to say someone else’s name that he wasn’t familiar with. Loren was a breath of fresh air. He had completely forgotten about the heavy darkness that had been tugging at his heart. He couldn’t help noticing Loren’s beauty. It was a beauty that came without trying. She also seemed to know or care that she appeared beautiful. But then again, she had no lack of confidence. Tristan wondered if that merely had to do with his own lack of wit and charm.
“You’ve got your father’s cloak, a piece of string holding your breeches up, and sword made of wood that might leave me a splinter in my midriff If I was somehow caught unaware by your loud breathing and heavy footsteps.”
“My boots are quiet. I made them for hunting in the forest where the leaves are crunchy underfoot. See, look,” Tristan slipped off a soft boot and held it out for Loren.
“Are you really showing a girl your smelly, dirty boots?” Loren gave him a long look before snatching the boots from his hand. She examined it, flexed it, and then tried it on. The boot was massive on her small foot. Tristan smiled. It was cute. “So not only does Tristan Blackthorn make his own swords, he also makes his own shoes,” said Loren in a curious tone.
“Yes, I do,” said Tristan.
“Now what’re you doing here then? Are you looking to sell those items? No one is going to buy that wooden sword of yours, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“No,” replied Tristan, “I’m not selling. I’m hoping to buy a bow so I can hunt. I’ve got to make supper for myself and my Ma and I’m getting sick of cabbage and carrots. I need a bow,” Tristan trailed off at that, hoping Loren could somehow help him. Or perhaps, he could make her help him. He agreed to himself that he wouldn’t harm, wouldn’t touch her. She looked more than competent at defending herself. He might be able to snatch those coins from her though. He could see the bulge of her coins sitting in one of the low pockets of her leather and fur coat. There were nearly six pockets running up and down her coat, each one lined with a thin layer of white fur. It was an expensive looking jacket.
“What’s your price range? I can help you find something that fits your budget,” said Loren.
“Really? You would do that?” asked Tristan. He had genuine excitement in his voice, he didn’t have to fake that. If he could get her in a crowded store and “bump into her” by accident, he might be able to get his hand in and out of that pocket unnoticed.
“I suppose I could. I’ll want something in exchange, of course.”
“Like what?” asked Tristan.
Loren eyed him up and down. She tilted her head thoughtfully, pursing her lips. “If I find you a bow, you have to kill for me.”
Tristan felt a lump form in his throat. “Kill? Who?” His voice was watery and thin.
“You really do have small balls, don’t you Sword Maker?” said Loren.
“Tristan,” he corrected. “Its Tristan, and who would I be killing for you?”
“Not who, what. You’re going to find me my next meal with the bow that I help you find.” Loren stared at him with those sharp green eyes she had. The sun was setting and leaving a burning orangish-red in the sky. The reflection on the red tiled housing of Sesten was quite the sight for sore eyes.
Tristan let out a deep breath. This was going to become too much for obtaining a bow. He didn’t have a copper coin to speak of and now he was going to burden himself with the responsibility of catching dinner for this stranger he just met. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to properly use a bow.
“Look, Loren. I’ve got to be completely honest with you. The sun is starting to lower in the sky which means I’ll have to be getting home soon to tend to my Ma. She doesn’t like being alone past sundown and--”
“You’re more broke than a lame farmhand. You’ve not got a single copper coin, do yeh?” Loren tended to end her sentences with a thick accent. Tristan couldn’t make up his mind as to whether he liked it or not. He decided he didn’t, and then the next second he already changed his mind. It was different, and he was starting to like “different” if it meant he could finally get his hands on a bow.
“I’ve got this,” Tristan held up his wooden sword, which now seemed pathetic compared to all of the real-life swords that were being hammered into existence all around him. “And I’ve got this,” Tristan held his water canteen out with his left hand, a smirk on his face that suggested he’d take the pity. He had just put his cards down on the table. He had nothing.
“Are you a strong hand?” asked Loren.
“What’d you mean? If you’re asking if I’ve got strong hands, then yes, I suppose I do,” replied Tristan. Loren smiled, preparing an offer, “If you’re willing to put those strong hands to work and commit to a bit of labor, I supposed I could buy you a longbow today. I’ll even buy you a few feathered arrows with razor-sharp blade-tips, if your heart desires, Tristan.”
Tristan couldn’t tell if he was imagining it. His name had come out of her mouth somewhat seductively. He put it down to the accent and then weighed up the offer. He realized that this may be his safest, easiest way to obtain a hunting bow. Besides, it was all for his Ma at the end of the day. She had raised him on her own, and now that she was slowing down it was time for him to take care of her.
“I’m in, as long as I can return to my Ma today and fulfill my labor another day. I won’t leave her worried and alone past dark,” said Tristan. He knew she wouldn’t be missing him, but he wanted to close this deal before the day ended anyways.
“How about this, Sword Maker, I’ll buy the bow today, but I'll take it home with me. You’ll go home empty handed tonight and go see your Ma. Meet me at this same spot tomorrow at first sun, and I’ll have you follow me back to my place and help me out with a few things. Then, once you’ve done all that I ask, you can have your bow and be on your way…deal?”
Tristan was nodding his head, replaying all that she had said in his head. “Okay, deal.”
They shook hands. Her fingers were delicate and thin, but her grasp was firm.
“See you tomorrow, Sword Maker.”
Tristan opened his mouth to respond, but Loren had already started walking away. He was left staring after her, hoping she might turn around so that he could wave goodbye. She didn’t turn back.
He prepared to make his way home, back to the other side of the Twin Hills. Tomorrow, he would make quick work of whatever Loren wanted him to help her with. Once done, he could hardly wait to take his bow hunting. He was sick and tired of cabbage and carrots for supper.