When Tristan had returned to the other side of the Twin Hills after heading back down the old yellow road through the heart of downtown Sesten, it only took him a few minutes to find the spot that he'd met Loren the day before. The clanging of mallets and hammers filled the morning air. It was a warm, sticky morning. Black bugs whizzed through the air, attracted to all the scents and sounds of the town. Tristan looked around. Loren hadn't arrived yet. It was the beginning of the week which meant the streets wouldn’t be bustling like the day previous, when folks were crowding in for an ale and some supper.

  An hour passed. Still no Loren. Tristan took a deep breath and looked around, desperate for anything to get a hold of his attention and distract him from his angst. It wasn’t that Loren made him nervous, but she did make him feel…different. He had never been close with a woman besides his Ma--not that he felt close with Loren. He didn’t even know if they were considered friends yet.

  The deal he bartered with Loren weighed on his mind. What did he have to do to fulfill his end of the bargain? Loren hadn’t given him the answer to that. The possibility that she was leading him into a trap crossed his mind, but he batted that idea away. She seemed trustworthy. He tried to think of what Uncle Bodry would say. He always knew what the right decision was.

  “What’re you smiling at, Sword Maker?”

  Tristan jumped, startled by Loren's sudden appearance. “Oh...hey,” said Tristan, trying to seem casual.

  “Are you that excited to see me, Sword Maker? You can’t keep that smile off your face huh?” said Loren. Her voice was unique thick with a Denderrikan accent.

  Tristan came to, realizing he had just been staring blankly.

  “I said, are you ready?” said Loren impatiently.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” Tristan replied stiffly.

  “Then let’s go. You look like you’ve just seen the Shadow,” said Loren.

  “The Shadow?” asked Tristan.

  “You’ve never heard of the Shadow?" asked Loren. "You know--the classic tavern tale...the Lord Commander of Windem took one hundred men to Northrock,” Loren paused, waiting to see if some recognition would dawn on Tristan's face. “Gareth Blackthorn, the greatest warrior in Windem's history...he never returned…" Loren trailed off waiting for it to click with Tristan. Loren's face brightened, making a startling realization. "Hey--isn't your name the same as--"

  “Blackthorn," interrupted Tristan. "Yeah, you’re right.” Tristan was white as a sheet, his gaze downward. An awkward silence passed between them.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--" said Loren dully.

  “It’s fine," said Tristan. "Let’s just get this over with.”

  Loren stood still, unsure how best to move on. The story of the journey into Northrock was so legendary and so well told that she never would have actually thought she was talking to the son of Gareth Blackthorn.

  They left the busy town of Sesten, Loren leading the way. They turned left off the old yellow road, trudging between rows of crops and through a small grove of thin trees which eventually grew into a heavily wooded forest. They continued on for two miles in silence before Tristan spoke.

  “You said I looked like I’d just seen the Shadow earlier…what did you mean by that?” asked Tristan.

  “You’ve never heard of the Shadow?” asked Loren.

  “No, I guess I haven’t,” replied Tristan, angered by the way Loren acted so shocked.

  “The Shadow is an evil spirit," began Loren. "It was contained years ago by an old hero named...erm, well...I forgot his name now..." Loren frowned, trying to remember. "But they say the hero of the Old Days bound the evil spirit's influence to the faraway land of Northrock," said Loren. The two continued through the forest, ducking beneath a tree branch.

  "What do you mean by bound?" asked Tristan.

  "He sent it there, using the help of an old Sorcerer. If I'm remembering correctly, the Sorcerer cast a spell that contained the evil being in Northrock for a hundred years," said Loren.

  "Has it been a hundred years yet?" asked Tristan.

  "They say its been nearly a thousand years, but most don't believe the tale is even true to begin with. It's been so long since that evil has been in our world."

  They walked in a brief silence before Loren continued her story.

  "When my father was still alive, he used to take me to the tavern with him when we still lived in Denderrika. Men sat around with their ale and talked about old legends...dark things that are best left unspoken. The story of the Shadow always stuck with me--the way he was depicted as this spirit who took the form of a man, desperate to gain power so he could rule with his bride."

  "His bride? Who was supposed to be his bride?" asked Tristan.

  "A Sorceress," said Loren. "When they found each other, he gifted her a great sword as her bride price. And if I am remembering this correctly, when the Shadow was banished to Northrock by the old hero, his bride was fled to the other end of the realm to hide. The old hero never found her."

  "Oh, wow..." said Tristan.

  Loren smiled, pushing loose, stray hairs out of her face and smiling warmy at Tristan, which brought a rush of color to Tristan's cheeks--who had only realized in that moment just how beautiful Loren was.

  "Some say the Shadow is just a spirit--a mindless force bent on unleashing chaos into the world. Others argue that he was once a real man and now his spirit is trapped here. And so now he seeks someone inhabit so that he can live again. Others argue he already found a life-form to dwell inside, and its not a human this time.”

  “You said this evil being dwells in Northrock?” asked Tristan.

  “I believe so..." Loren trailed off, looking at Tristan cautiously. "Hey--I'm no expert on my folklore and tall tales. I could be wrong."

  Tristan furrowed his brows, perplexed. “Is the Shadow…real? I mean, the stories and all?”

  “I believe the Shadow is real. I think he’s out there…somewhere.” said Loren, chewing her lip. They had paused their walk to consider this frightening possibility.

  “And what of the sword?” asked Tristan. "Is it still around? Who has it?"

  “And wouldn’t you like to know, Tristan Sword Maker!" said Loren, doubling over in laughter.

  “Well I was just curious," said Tristan, feeling inwardly grateful to hear genuine laughter. Most of his childhood had been void of laughter.

  “We’re almost there, Sword Maker," said Loren. "You’ll have your bow before you know it.”

  --

  Tristan and Loren stood at the top of a steep hill. Thin crooked trees painted the downwards slope and then flattened out into a clearing that sprawled wide in all directions. A crackling bonfire was set up in the middle of the clearing, hungry flames reaching into the spring air. The smoke rose high into the sky, partly concealed by the treetops. A wooden building with a thatched roof and a large, oak door sat to the side of the clearing. Tristan could see men in gray cloaks and high-legged boots entering and leaving the open building, which looked like it was a farmhouse that had been turned into a lodge.

  The borders of the land was enclosed by gates to keep livestock inside. Goats, sheep, chickens, and pigs roamed the property in peaceful harmony. There was a stable where Tristan counted at least six horses, and there were a further seven or eight horses grazing on hay just outside the lodge. The grass on the property was beaten down, most of it beaten down to dirt.

  Tristan shuttered. These men weren’t supposed to be here. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. These men were not from Windem.

  “What are we doing here?” asked Tristan skeptically.

  “This is my home.”

  “Who are those people?” asked Tristan.

  “My people--Denderrikans," said Loren. "We’re outlaws in Windem. If the King found us, he would have us killed.” Loren looked at Tristan, her face neutral. Tristan couldn’t help noticing her delicate cheeks and beautiful green eyes. It brought an awful mix of feelings into the pit of his stomach.

  He had come all this way to do a favor for Loren, not to meet her outlawed Denderrikan family. Windem had been at odds with Denderrika since the old days before there were wagons, forgeries, and other advanced technologies. Uncle Bodry had told him about legendary battles of old that had occurred between Denderrika and Windem in the dividing land of Brantley.

  “I assume your family isn’t…down there,” said Tristan awkwardly. He remembered she had mentioned her father had died.

  “No, we're not related by blood but that's my family now," said Loren. "We stick together for now until the war is over.”

  Tristan frowned. “War? What war?”

  “The war between Windem and Denderrika. It’s only just getting started now. King Tarren is too worried about his borders with Solaria and Brantley to notice us for now, but we’ve got warbands spread all over Windem, hiding...patiently for our chance.”

  Tristan noticed a man carrying a pile of brush and branches towards the pile of burning wood. He paused briefly, glancing to the top of the wooded hill that Tristan and Loren stood upon. He stared for a while. Tristan was unsettled by his cold, menacing stare. He couldn’t make out any distinct features from this far away but it was enough to know that his presence was known now. He considered giving Loren a quick shove down the hill to give him a head start before he ran off. Or, maybe he could just tell Loren he was leaving and be done with it. Let her know that he didn’t need a bow after all.

  “Why is there a war brewing? And why did you bring me here? I just want my bow and I’ll be gone. I won’t ever speak of this to anyone.” Tristan didn’t know how true that actually was. He figured he would at least try to find Uncle Bodry and tell him.

  “I brought you here because Lord Dalko needs an informant. Someone to keep an eye on things out there in Sesten. If you agree, I might be able to convince him to pay you for your services,” said Loren. “You do need coin, right?”

  “Who is Lord Dalko? Is he down there?” asked Tristan, ignoring Loren's question. The man called Dalko was tethering a horse to a wooden post now. He stuffed some straw into the horse's mouth, petting its snout gently.

  “He’s down there alright. He’s feeding that horse right now. He’s our leader, one of the Ascendians. They’re a specially bred warrior that our High Lord in Denderrika began training thirty years ago. They’re trained from birth to be emotionless, painless, cold-blooded killers. From what I’ve seen of Dalko so far, there is not a weapon in this universe that he hasn’t mastered. It’s kind of scary.”

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  “What’s he like?” asked Tristan.

  “Cold. Distant.”

  “That’s all? Cold and distant?”

  Loren chuckled. “If I gave away anything more than that, it would ruin the surprise. Come, you’ll have to meet him and the rest of the group.” Loren grabbed Tristan’s hand. “Oh, and make sure you don’t call them a ‘warband’. That’s what the rest of Windem calls them. They don’t like that term.”

  Tristan pulled his hand away from Loren’s.

  “Wait, I can’t do this," said Tristan. "I think I’ll just be going now. I’m sure I can manage without a bow–”

  “--not a good idea,” interrupted Loren. “Lord Dalko already saw you. I would advise against leaving now.”

  “What?" said Tristan in a panic, "I think I’ll take my chances and just--”

  “No," said Loren. She yanked his arm toward her. “Let’s go. You’ll get your hunting bow if you play your cards right. And if you really play your cards right, you can set up a deal with Lord Dalko and start earning some coin for your services. You’re going to need that, by the way. Taxes are being doubled because of the war. The King is sending a representative from the Kingsguard once a month to personally collect. You won’t want to be empty handed when that happens.”

  Tristan had more than a few questions but no time to ask. Loren had pulled his arm so hard that he felt himself falling down the steep wooded hill. He was practically gliding as he ran down the steep side of the hill, narrowly missing trees that would have split his head in half. Loren seemed to have no trouble keeping her balance and avoiding trees, roots, and hidden brush.

  When Tristan and Loren arrived into the clearing down below, Dalko was staring coldly at Tristan. He had a sharp, chiseled jaw and a short nose that led up to piercing blue eyes. His ears were small, his hair was short and black, coming to a point in a widow’s peak. Tristan guessed him to be five foot eight. He appeared dense and strong even beneath his long smokey gray cloak. He wore a light blue shirt that was tucked into black pants. His black boots came up to mid-shin height. It was unusual for Dalko Rivien to be wearing anything other than grays and blacks, but he was sporting his leisurely attire and hence the light blue shirt.

  “Dalko,” shouted Loren as she approached with Tristan at her side. He was already staring at them. His eyes were not kind. In fact, he actually held a discrete scowl. He fed his horse another bit of hay. “Dalko, this is Tristan…Tristan Blackthorn.”

  “Hullo, lord.” Tristan sensed his coldness and had not the slightest incantation towards warmth. He didn’t trust this mysterious figure. He found himself feeling distrusting of this whole place, even of Loren. This wasn’t his home, and anywhere outside of his home was foreign. Alien.

  “Dalko Rivien of Denderrika. Just Dalko will do.” Dalko held a tight face. Tristan thought he saw Dalko’s jaw tighten. His cold stare did not relent. Tristan half expected a handshake of some sort, having already lifted his arm for it. He sheepishly lowered his arm. He was embarrassed, and that angered him. He hated feeling embarrassed. At home he never had to face embarrassment. Ma and Uncle Bodry would never make him feel that way.

  “Dalko,” said Tristan, testing the name out loud. “Fair enough. Right then, I’m here for a longbow. Loren promised me back in town that I ought to follow her here for it…” Dalko just stared. Tristan shrugged. “That’s it really. Nothing else to say.” Dalko appeared to study Tristan’s appearance. He stared at his wooden sword, a confused look spread over his face. Tristan pulled his oversized green cloak over it.

  “Blackthorn,” said Dalko. “I knew of a Blackthorn.” He let a long silence sit. Tristan’s mouth was agape but nothing came out. He dared not interrupt. Dalko looked like a dangerous man. “Mighty warrior, they say.”

  “Yes, that was likely my father you are thinking of. He was Lord Commander of Windem.” Tristan’s chest puffed out a bit at the thought. It gave him confidence that a man such as Dalko might credit him with some of his father’s prestigious reputation.

  “I hate Windem. We will go to war soon.” The words bit like frost coming from Dalko’s lips. Tristan felt his own teeth clench tightly.

  “What are you doing here? Hiding out in the woods like a coward and speaking ill of my father’s lands? He fought for these lands…like a warrior and not a coward.” The temper had come from nowhere, and fast. Loren put a hand on his arm, trying to calm him discreetly.

  “Let him speak.” Dalko was looking at Loren. His small nose was snarled upward at Tristan’s words. “What do you know of Windem’s conspiracies?” His question was accusatory.

  “Conspiracies? I do not know what that word means, lord. I only know that this is the greatest and noblest land in the realm. Denderrikans have been jealous of our land for generations, just like the Brantish and the Solarians. I’m told that the Clendien Empire doesn’t dare bring their southward expansion up north because of our armies.” Tristan spoke with a false confidence. He hoped he hadn’t made up the part about the Clendien Empire. He recalled his Uncle Bodry saying something about them before.

  “Still a child, I see.” That was all Dalko had to say. He turned, striding toward the open-mouthed lodge which was now visible to Tristan. There were half a dozen wooden round tables spaced evenly through the first half of the high-ceiling building and the other half (the far half) looked like a hastily put together version of a king’s court. A long rectangular table was horizontally sat across the floor like a high dais. A large armchair sat behind, propped up on something to make it taller than the rest of the seats in the room. Along either side of the rectangular trestle were stairs that led up to a second level, which had formerly been the second story to a barn before the room had been converted to a banquet hall.

  Tristan noted there were at least eight men seated inside the building with tankards in hand, talking quietly in the dimly lit lodge. Outside there were two women (one dressed like a warrior) and two men, who were busy tending to the pigs which were squealing and squirming around in the mud.

  “They’ll be ready for butcherin’ in a couple weeks time, I reckon.” The wind had carried the words to Tristan’s ears.

  Tristan watched Dalko dissolve into a darkly-outlined shape as he entered the gloomy lighting of the lodge. He followed after Dalko before Loren could react.

  “I’m no child, you know. And you’d do well not to get too comfortable here.” Tristan paused, still breathing heavily from the courage it took to raise his voice to this cold, hard man. Dalko had stopped in his tracks but was still facing away from Tristan. The group inside the lodge who were seated with tankards in hand had now taken an interest in the odd spectacle. “This place won’t remain a secret unless I keep my mouth shut. I am a Blackthorn, you know.” The last words from Tristan’s mouth had come out involuntarily. He immediately regretted them, realizing he might have taken the sting out of his association to a Blackthorn. Suddenly, he did feel like a boy. A sixteen year old boy from the outskirts of a small town called Sesten.

  Dalko turned, gave a long neutral stare, and then briskly strode up to Tristan, bringing his face within inches of Tristan. He kept his face there, his eyes piercing Tristan and making him feel entirely ill. Up close, Tristan noted multiple faded scars. One ran over his lips. Another ran down his forehead and over his eye.

  “I fear no man. Not even a Blackthorn.” Dalko held his face close to Tristan’s. His features were dark and unfriendly in the dim lighting. “You’ll come with me. Now.”

  Tristan followed Dalko up the stairs to the second level of the converted barnhouse like a child following his father after he was in trouble. His hand went instinctively to the wooden sword at his hip. It would be no good against this man. Besides, he feared what would happen to him once he used it. He doubted Dalko would even flinch, let alone feel the pain if he were to bring the wood down over his head.

  They arrived at the second level. Dalko opened a latch and suddenly they were stooping their heads as they stepped in an attic space that was riddled with spider webs and dust. Tristan hadn’t noticed that Loren was following them. She came in too, closing the latch behind her. Inside the attic was an array of weapons and wealth. There were goblets, gold, silver, gold and silver trinkets, treasures, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, jewelry. It was a dazzling collection.

  “You’re only seeing this because you’ll never take another breath if you try to take anything. I’ll see to that myself.”

  Tristan felt a lump in his throat. He suddenly feared his hands would betray him and he would snatch a piece of gold and then his legs would run without his consent. Dalko had properly instilled a fear in him.

  Dalko looked to Loren. “Be done with it. Quickly.”

  Loren crossed the room, hardly able to find a spot to place her feet as she did. It was incredibly crowded. A wide variety of weapons lined the walls from halberds to spears to longbows and crossbows, to longswords, shortswords, daggers, maces, and clubs. Loren found a row of longbows that hung by their bowstring on a wall and grabbed one. It was a small recurve bow with polished bronze wood and a beautiful gray handle that had swirling white coloring painted onto it. She grabbed a quiver that was leaning against the wall. Tristan counted eight feathered arrows. She handed both to Tristan.

  “Have a seat,” said Dalko. He gestured to an old snare drum that was presumably the farmer’s who owned the place before the Denderrikans had moved in. “You will be our eyes and ears. Up there,” he pointed. “You will come here twice a week, Tuln and Dros, when the sun is low in the sky. Do not be seen coming here.” Dalko held up a golden coin. “This can be yours, if you give us the intel that we want.” Dalko grabbed a silver dagger that was sitting amongst the rubble of riches. “This will go here, if you betray us.” Dalko mimicked the dagger going into his heart. “You work for the Dendarrikans now.”

  Tristan was speechless. He was given no choice, and he didn’t feel brave enough to deny Dalko. Perhaps, If he went home and never came back they would never find him. He considered it and decided to revisit that idea later once he’d finally gotten out of this mysterious place.

  Loren looked at Tristan with a smile. “You won’t have any problems getting your fair share over to the Kingsguard when they come knocking. Prices will be higher than before. The Shadow and his rot have come.”

  “The Shadow…” whispered Tristan to himself. He felt like he was dreaming. His head was fuzzy and murky now.

  Dalko now talked more than Tristan ever thought possible. “The Shadow is here in Windem. The King plans to do nothing about it. Perhaps because he is in league with the Shadow…someway, somehow.” His voice was like a low growl mixed with a forced whisper. “All the more reason to move quickly on the kingdom. The Denderrikans don’t stand a chance if the Shadow’s power is rallied across all Windem.”

  “I thought King Tarren was a noble King,” said Tristan.

  “He was.” Loren was standing with her arms crossed. “He’s lost his wits. Disease is returning to the land. Crops are dying. Food is becoming sparse. The Shadow’s plague is spreading.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything yet,” replied Tristan. In truth, he hadn’t.

  “That is why we’re waiting,” said Loren--who seemed to have taken over from Dalko now. “Sesten is clean for now. Other warbands have already started their raids. At the first sign of rot and stink, warbands are taking over villages and small towns all across the kingdom. Another reason why your taxes are doubling.”

  Tristan looked at Dalko, who was still standing before him with a cold, distant look. “Why is disease spreading and crops failing? And isn’t Windem fighting the Shadow? Does he even have an army?”

  “The Shadow needs no army. He will spread from within, like a contagious illness. I have no doubt he may already be poisoning the mind of the King as we speak. His physical form is quite…repulsive.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Tristan.

  “He’s an Ascendian. They’re a secret guild of masterminds. They know a lot that normal people don’t know. Some call it skill, others call it intuition. Every company has one.”

  “You mean every warba--” Tristan stopped himself, remembering Loren had told him not to speak of warbands. Dalko either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

  “So…why me?” Tristan turned to Loren now. “What makes you trust me? You could have picked anyone in Sesten to do this for you…and now that I think of it, why don’t you do it, Loren? Just dress like the locals and go see what you can find.” Tristan’s tone had turned whiny. He hadn’t asked for all this. He suddenly wished he was back home in the yard with his logs and his branches doing his strength training. With more of that he might even be able to take on Dalko and walk away with all of the gold that was sitting in front of him.

  “Because you’re a Blackthorn.” Dalko’s voice rattled like rusted steel escaping a scabbard. “A Blackthorn started this mess with the Shadow, and with a Blackthorn this mess will end.”

  “So you speak poetry too, huh?” Tristan’s humor was two-fold. He was annoyed. It also amused him. This cold, emotionless Ascendia could spit a history of the Shadow at him and also give prophetic lines about his bloodline. “What can’t he do?” Tristan looked to Loren for answers. She wasn’t smiling. Tristan leaned forward, hands out in front of him like he was holding an imaginary ball. “Okay, answer me this. If you’re trying to take down the Shadow, why are you warring against Windem? Shouldn’t you be partnering with them to save the realm from this darkness that can diminish our food and spread disease? If you win this war, you’ll inherit a desolate land.”

  Dalko smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile, but one that sent a chill down Tristan’s spine. “That’s the plan.”

  Tristan was surprised to find that it was only early afternoon by the time he arrived back at the top of the Twin Hills with a recurve bow in his hand and a quiver across his back. He also had four shekels of silver in his cloak pocket and a half loaf of cold bread in his other pocket. He felt a deep anger burn within him like hot embers. The sight of his house from this angle reminded him of Elric Drakonstone seated on his horse, a betraying smile on his face.

  He fingered the silver in his pocket. He wouldn’t buy food with it, but he would start saving some of it for tax day. The rest of it he would save for a sword--a nice, long sword with a hilt like the warriors used. That was the first day that Tristan felt more like a Dendarrikan than a citizen of Windem.