The tax collectors that Loren and Dalko had warned about came much sooner than Tristan had anticipated. He was finally back home with his Ma and it had been three days since he had gone the opposite direction from home when he met Loren in downtown Sesten. The encounter with the warband from Denderrika felt like a dream. He hadn’t seen Loren or Dalko since, and he didn’t want to. Once the excitement had worn off, being back home felt like being under a warm, cozy fleece. He talked himself into thinking that avoiding downtown Sesten and Lorena altogether would spell an end to his dealings with the Graycloak Company, as they preferred to call themselves.

They were one of the many companies spread across Windem. Each company was composed of anywhere from ten to fifty mercenaries, warriors, and trained killers. At the head of each group, as assigned by Denderrika’s High Lord, was an Ascendian. Dalko was the Ascendian leader of his company, trained from birth to kill. He didn’t show pain, nor emotions. Incorrect, he couldn’t show pain or emotions. Although, Tristan would argue differently about the emotions aspect to that claim. He felt as though he had seen menace looming somewhere deep in Dalko’s eyes. He shivered as he recalled what Dalko had told him about the Shadow. And why was he, of all people, selected to be their eyes and ears in Sesten? Loren could easily spend her days in Sesten and Tristan doubted anyone would bat an eye at her.

Dalko had said it was because he was a Blackthorn, and his father had started all of this. That had angered Tristan…confused him. What had his father started? As far as Tristan knew, he had been the one who had lost his life while embarking on a mission for the King. The mission was for sport, anyway. The Orc-eel, which had turned out to be a dragon, could have been left alone and no one would have ever cared.

The discovery of Dalko’s warband left Tristan conflicted. Part of him wanted to run away to Uncle Bodry and tell him all about his adventures and make sure that the information was in safe hands. But something about Dalko’s nature left him afraid to even do that. Dalko would know. Tristan wasn’t sure how, but he would. The last thing Tristan wanted was to be on Dalko’s hit list. He wondered if and when Dalko planned on attacking Sesten. Sesten was rural and far from the societal and cultural influence of the Citadel. The politics of the crown hardly had an effect on Sesten, except in stories and poems like he had heard in Sesten’s taverns when entertainers came.

Tristan was finishing up his strength work outside when he spotted something, someone, out of the corner of his eye. At the top of one of the Twin Hills sat a man upon his horse, outlined like a silhouette against the sun. Tristan shielded his eyes with his forearms and knew immediately who it must be. Tax collectors. The only thing that was surprising is that the man atop his horse was not a traditional tax collector. It was a member of the Kingsguard. Those were elite knights, Tristan knew. His father had served for two years before being promoted to Lord Commander.

There were a few things that dignified the man as a Kingsguard; his claret cape, his scaly black armor, the emblazoned crest upon his breastplate that showed a lion holding a shield and a sword. The Knights of Windem only had a lion with a sword, but no shield. The shield represented the defense of the kingdom, and not merely the King as some folk believed. That’s what the Yeomen of the Crown were for. Protection, and nothing more.

Three more knights rallied up from the other side of the Twin Hills and pulled their horses in rank with the Kingsguard. They dismounted, removing their half helms and taking a seat in the plush grass while their horses grazed. They were resting, Tristan saw. They must have collected from everyone else already. I’m the last stop.

“Hullo there!” came a shout. It was the Kingsguard. He was descending the hill with his half-helm held underneath his armpit. A black feather protruded from the top of his half-helm, another symbol of his prestigious position as a Kingsguard. “I take it you didn’t hear the trumpet blast earlier. We’ve been collecting the King’s taxes since first light this morning. Are you deaf, blind, or both?”

Tristan struggled to find words at first. He took a deep gulp. His white tunic was drenched with sweat from his workout. He felt foolish–logs and branches with buckets hanging from either side were spread all across the yard. He was still panting. “Not blind nor deaf, sir. It’s hard to hear from this side of the Twin Hills, sir. We’re quite apart from all of it–the town and its happenings…sir.”

The Kingsguard had a bushy gray mustache that twirled at the ends. It was hard not to stare at. His face was flat and plump, although his build was strong and barrel-chested. He was about a head taller than Tristan. “Sir Crowley Begg.” The Kingsguard extended a cordial hand. Tristan shook it. “The King has doubled the tax that was collected once annually. We are now collecting that same amount monthly. The King had a notice sent to the town constables nearly a month ago by now. Is mother or father home?” He was looking past Tristan with a perplexed look about him. He seemed to raise his upper lip on purpose to increase the prominence of his bushy mustache.

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“My father was killed. You can do your business with me.” Tristan’s voice was cold. He realized he sounded eerily similar to Dalko. Sir Crowley didn’t need to know that, nor would he. Dalko’s presence was unknown by the kingdom and surely the town as well.

“Very well then. Eighty grams of silver.” Crowley held his palm out flat.

“Eighty grams? Who has that laying around?” asked Tristan, fiddling around with his pockets.

“Eighty grams shouldn’t be a problem for a citizen of Windem. Eighty grams of silver is equivalent to roughly forty percent of the average income for a citizen of Windem.” Crowley motioned for the payment to come forth. His palm was still out flat and his head was held high.

“Don’t have it, sir.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t have it. Are you blind, deaf, or both?” spat Tristan.

Crowley’s pleasant face turned into a scowl. Tristan thought his face oddly reminded him of a potato. “Watch your tongue, boy. If you haven’t got the payment then you’ll face the wrath of the King.” Sir Crowley pushed Tristan aside with his beefy arm and walked down the hill to the small hut that Tristan called home.

By the time Tristan regained his feet, Crowley was already opening the door. Tristan burst in behind Crowley, making for his secret corner where he hid his four silver shekels.

“Misses…do we have a name?” Crowley looked from Mildred to Tristan, and back to Mildred. “Name, ma’am?”

“Mildred, sir. Why is a Kingsguard coming around to collect taxes? What happened to the tax collectors?” Her tone was stern. Tristan paused as he pocketed his silver. He stared amusedly at his mother. She was finally showing some bite. Emotion…anger. It was something he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“This is serious business. The King is collecting double tax than usual. Dark times are coming upon Windem. Haven’t you heard, lady?” Crowley grabbed a piece of dried jerky from a counter and unwrapped it from the large green leaf that it was wrapped around. He yanked at a bite. His mustache bounced up and down as he chewed.

“I don’t pay attention to politics. I’ve been living in dark times for over ten years now,” said Mildred.

Tristan interjected, stepping in between Crowley and his Ma. “I’ve got this.” Tristan’s tone was hopeful.

“Not enough.” Crowley took another bite. He couldn’t have cared any less. He stopped chewing, looking at Tristan long and hard. For a moment, Tristan’s heart dropped. Was he somehow noticing that I’d been hanging around shady men? Dalko’s face popped into his head. He shivered.

“Say, you look mighty familiar. Where’s your father?” asked Crowley.

“Gone,” replied Tristan.

“Gone? Who was he?”

“He was your Lord Commander, most likely.” Ma interjected now. The look in Crowley’s eyes changed. His shoulders relaxed and his face became softer.

“Blackthorn.” Crowley’s lips grew firm, disappearing under his curly mustache. He bowed his head. “My condolences. He was one of the greats. Forgive me.” Crowley brought his half-helm to his chest in reverence and kneeled down to one knee.

“Arise, sir Crowley. You are forgiven. I only hope that you might forgive us our debts this once, until we have found a way to earn a wage.” Ma gave her saddest eyes she could muster. “The old tax only came to Sesten once a year and it was an easy payment. This new tax…this is unheard of.”

“I’ll see what I can do. For now, I’ll let it slide. But I’ll be back in a month’s time and I’ll be expecting the full amount. Eighty grams of silver.” Crowley was making his way out of the door slowly. “Next time I’ll have to bring you in before the King’s Justice. That’d be imprisonment or forced labor. I’d hate to be the one to do that to you. ‘Specially a Blackthorn. I would’ve jumped off a cliff to my death if Gareth had asked me too. Some man, he was.” Crowley looked at Tristan, then ran a hand through his long hair, tossling it like Uncle Bodry might do as an affectionate gesture. Tristan pulled his head away. This man was not family, he was the King’s dog. He served under Elric, the Lord Commander. He hated Elric. He ought to suffer for what he did to Ma, thought Tristan.

Crowley was halfway to the hill where his horse and his companions were resting in the spring breeze when Tristan’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“What are the dark times you spoke of…that are coming to Windem.” Tristan had decided to ask, spur of the moment. Crowley turned slowly, a pitiful look across his face.

“You’d best do some digging around if you want the details. You’d be just about the last to know by now. There’s evil afoot and there’s enemies a creeping. Some say those two groups are one and the same; others say its two separate forces of evil. Either way, both groups want to see Windem crushed to the ground.” Crowley turned to go and then added one thing, “You let me know if you see anything here in Sesten. They’ll be hiding and waiting for the ripe time to attack.” He pursed his lips, his mustache covering his mouth and his curls almost touching the corners of his lips. “I’ll be back in a month. Keep your eyes peeled.” And then he was gone.