PRESENT DAY

  Tristan was stalking after a groundhog, a dagger in his right hand. He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly, the blade jutted out behind him so that he could bring it down in a harsh stroke when he got close enough. He never was quick enough to catch those groundhogs. He came mighty close a few times. He had caught a few rabbits before, but those had been away from the house and over the hills.

  Tristian Blackthorn was fourteen years old with a head of moody brown hair. It had been ten years since he had been held in the arms of King Tarren, tears stinging his eyes as the small escort of knights returned home from Northrock short-handed. Tristan's father, Gareth, had not returned.

  Tristan’s eyes were dark, like his fathers. He had a thin frame but he was starting to fill out. He had grown nearly four inches in the past six months, which was something he had taken great pride in. He always told his mother that he would be taller than his father was.

  “I’m going to be tall as a giant and have thick, strong arms just like father, or Uncle Bodry!” said Tristan. His mother, Mildred, her face long and tired.

  “Uncle Bodry hasn’t been by in a while," said Mildred. "I truly hope all is well with him."

  “Can we go find him?" asked Tristan. "I can go look for him!” Tristan was already out of his seat, leaving a full bowl of stew on the table.

  “No, Tristian," replied Mildred. "Today’s adventures are over. It’s getting dark and we don’t go out alone when it’s dark." Mildred's gaze shifted toward's Tristan full bowl of stew. "Eat your stew before it's cold.”

  Tristan reluctantly brought a spoonful of stew to his mouth.

  “I’m getting tired of stew,” said Tristan, entirely unaware of the effort that went into supper.

  “You’re not hungry?” asked Mildred, frowning.

  “I'm hungry, but not for stew. I want to go out and catch you something, Ma. I’ll ask Uncle Bodry if I can borrow his bow next time he’s here. I bet I could kill something big with that thing."

  “I don’t think that bow is for hunting, honey. That bow is for other…things,” Mildred said.

  “Like what? Killing…people?” asked Tristan, an innocent look spread over his face. Mildred smiled at him, admiring the face that reminded her so much of Gareth. Their resemblance was uncanny sometimes.

  “Yes, like killing the bad guys,” said Mildred.

  “Was father killed by bad guys?” asked Tristan.

  Mildred was bringing a spoonful of stew to her mouth but now she paused. She lowered the spoonful slowly. Her eyes dropped to the wooden-planked floor, formulating her thoughts. She fought back tears. Tristan shouldn’t see this…couldn’t see the tears. Those could wait for tonight when Tristan was sleeping.

  “No, he wasn’t killed, sweetie. He left our world attempting something…amazing,” she said. Tristan had heard bits and pieces before, but he was always begging for more of the story.

  “Like what?” asked Tristan.

  “That’s a story for another time," said Mildred. "Eat your sup.”

  Tristan knew that would be the end of that conversation.

  --

  The next day was a typical early spring day. The weather was still chilly. There was some ugly weather pushing through. Cold winds and spitting rain made for a dreary day, but that didn't stop Tristan from going outside. Their modest home was on its own, away from the other townsfolk. They were on the other side of Twin Hills. The foot of those Twin Hills was an acre from their home. Behind them was a half acre of green grass followed by a thin stretch of trees that eventually turned into woods.

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  Tristan pulled out his wooden sword from the lean-to behind their house. It was an old lean-to built by Gareth many years ago. The wood was rotting now and the color of the wood had dulled from years of rain and ageing.

  Tristan's wooden sword was a gift from Uncle Bodry. Tristan twirled and thrusted his sword, dancing around log stumps and tree trunks. He imagined dueling other knights in battle, wearing the scaly black armor of Windem. He imagined a billowing crimson cloak--Windem’s colors. He dreamed that one day he would fight for Windem, possibly even as Lord Commander of the King’s Armies, just like his father had.

  He spun around a tree, flailing his sword as if someone were exchanging a flurry of blows with him. He put his back against the tree again and then spun out the other direction. The rain added to the drama of his imaginary battle, men being slain all around him. The hopes of Windem rested on this one man. Their Lord Commander, Tristan Blackthorn.

  He leaped up onto a fallen tree, walking along the base of the trunk and holding his sword held out to duel imaginary opponents. He imagined he was dancing along the parapets of Castle Rarington. The rain slashed down, his hair matted to his forehead. His main enemy would not die. In Tristan's mind, he was the greatest warrior Windem had ever seen, just like his father.

  “You cannot best me, Dark One!” shouted Tristan. The rain was coming down now in heavy sheets. Tristan enjoyed it. It was adding to the atmosphere of his made-up story. Dark One was an imaginary foe that Uncle Bodry had told him about.

  Tristan’s foot slipped on the side of the tree trunk. He tumbled to the ground, his sword toppling softly onto the wettened grass. He quickly took up his sword again, staggering to his feet and imagining the Dark One approaching. He maintained a steady grip on the hilt of his wooden sword and then continued the duel for some time.

  Eventually, an hour had passed. And then two. And finally, after Tristan was winded from all of his play-pretend sword fighting, he dropped his sword to the ground and sat on a tree stump, catching his breath in ragged breaths. He remembered the words of Uncle Bodry. If you want to be a knight someday, you’ll have to become strong. Do you know how to become strong, Tristan?

  Tristan had enthusiastically nodded. He began demonstrating the physical workout routine he'd been going through, glancing up at Uncle Bodry, until he saw some note of approval on his face. Wasn’t this what he’d meant?

  “Physical strength is important, Tristan. But I’m talking about a different kind of strength," said Bodry. He was holding a staff made of fine oak. He put it down, leaning it against a tree trunk. “I am speaking of strength from within.”

  Bodry slowly raised a bony finger to his chest, placing his finger over his heart and tapping on it gently. “And here,” Bodry raised his finger to his head and held his finger against his head. Then he tapped it twice. “You must have both to be a Knight.” said Bodry, stroking white beard. He still maintained a healthy crop of white hair.

  “Is that what being smart is?” asked Tristan.

  “Yes, you could say that," said Bodry. “You will see as you grow older that being strong is in the mind,” Bodry tapped his head again. “It is here. But yes, physical strength is of importance too. To carry out the will of the mind, the body must be strong.” Bodry reached inside his brown cloak and withdrew a long wooden stick that had been fashioned into a sword.

  "It's for you, Tristan," said Bodry. He held the sword in both hands, as if he were handling a real, sharp-bladed sword. Tristan received it the way he’d seen other knights do it. He took it by the hilt, testing its balance and swinging it a couple of times.

  Just then, Mildred poked her head out of the front door, craning her neck around the corner.

  “Look Ma! A sword!" said Tristan. "It’s just like father's sword!” Tristan was twirling the sword through the air wildly.

  Mildred smiled, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

  Uncle Bodry grabbed his staff and the two dueled with their wooden sticks, laughing often and exchanging cheap dialogue that fit with whatever storyline Tristan had picked out for this particular scene. Bodry played the role of the Dark One’s henchman. His walking staff was a magical staff and Tristan was the last remaining warrior from the Kingsguard that must prevent this evil henchmen from advancing past Tristan and into King Tarren’s “Tower of Terrors”. That tower did exist, and Bodry had many (far too many) real-life memories in that tower. Some of those memories were honorable. Others he would rather have forgotten and never remembered again. But, for Tristan’s sake, he played along. The boy’s innocence was a breath of fresh air. He felt a twinge of guilt as they played, thinking that perhaps he ought to stop by more often.

  By the end of the scene, Bodry pretended to have dropped his staff and allowed Tristan to plunge his sword into Bodry’s stomach. With a great roar of laughter, Bodry had broken character and yanked Tristan off his feet, hoisting him onto his shoulder and parading him around the yard and shouting like a mad man. Tristan doubled over, laughing until his stomach hurt.