Tristan was struggling to grapple with the facts that had been set before him by Dalko. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with this. He wanted nothing to do with the Denderrikans and their atrocities. He felt like a different person--like he'd left his old self behind and stepped into a new reality. And that reality frightened him.

  “Your mother was seen leaving on horseback from Sesten late last night," said one of Dalko's men. "There was a man of high ranking on the horse in front of her. Appeared to be either a member of the Kingsguard or might have even been the Lord Commander himself.”

  “See,” said Dalko. “Nothing to worry about. Your mother has been rescued and taken out of Sesten.”

  Tristan's jaw twisted with derision. Elric. If there was anyone who had known Mildred was here and in danger, it would be Elric. The thought further infuriated Tristan when he realized that Elric knew must have known of Denderrika's takeover of Sesten, but taken no action against them. Instead, he had betrayed Crowley and Bodry and left them in the hands of the enemy.

  Thoughts of bitter malice welled up in Tristan, knowing his father would have stood bravely and fought. He would have led a charge on the Denderrikans, driving them out Sesten and putting anyone to the sword who dared stand against him. Gareth Blackthorn would have given his life to protect and serve the citizens of Windem.

  Tristan was also upset about Bodry. Did Bodry think that Tristan had betrayed him? Tristan had not had a chance to speak to Bodry. He was now being held in a designated make-shift prison area in the a shadowy corner of Sesten. A host of Denderrikan warriors had quartered off that section of the town, standing by with spears in hand. Some were standing on the rooftops, scanning the area surrounding Sesten for any sign of the King’s armies.

  Dalko wasted no time setting a perimeter. He sent messengers to Denderrika to call for more men, eager to begin placing a new between Sesten and the rest of Windem. He was equally eager to find the fabled sword of Blackthorn--which Tristan was still confused about. In fact, the entire past few days confused him. He felt like a fraud. He was no King, no Lord Ruler, no prophesied savior…he was none of those things. All he had wanted since his childhood was to be a mighty warrior like his father, to become a Knight of Windem, and to exact vengeance on Elric Drakonstone. If the vengeance he sought cost him everything, including his dream to become a Knight of Windem, he was okay with that. Tristan understood that there would be a price for killing the Lord Commander of Windem.

  The first part of Dalko’s plan went into effect within two days of the takeover of Sesten. Firstly, a gigantic war chest was created. It was an arsenal large enough to supply an army of a few thousand. Before Tristan could figure out where Dalko was going to find enough men to man the huge array of weapons, his question was answered. A host of five hundred Denderrikans arrived, marching like one well-drilled unit. They were led by two men of ominous appearance, their cloaks a dull gray in most lighting but gleaming a dull purple in the light. Their eyes were a mixed hue of purple and blue--unlike any eye color that Tristan had ever seen.

  Both of the two imposing figures were Ascendiens and of similar stature to Dalko. They weren’t very tall men, but close to six feet tall with a strong, lean build. The first man, named Xenotho, had dark, smooth skin and a shiny bald head that remained concealed beneath his hood. He carried a double-sided spear with obsidian blades at the ends. There were purple markings along the spear, which shined and glowed mystically.

  The second Ascendian held a less menace, his eyes a beautiful blue that sometimes grew in size and would turn a bright purple. Whenever his eyes turned purple, Tristan found it was hard to look away, unable to ascertain as to whether there was some magic behind the attraction. He saw it in others as well. Loren stared openly, unashamedly admiring his purple eyes. His name was Enfallio, Tristan had learned. He wielded two short swords, which were longer than daggers but shorter than most swords Tristan had seen. The hilts were beautifully crafted--made of a fine laden wood with leather grips secured round the handle. His hair was shaggy and blonde, which reminded Tristan of a pony.

  With the new men arriving and over one hundred Sesten men kept as slaves, the wall was built within a few days. it was hard labor. The wall was three feet high with parapets for men to lodge their crossbows and longbows. The blacksmiths were ordered to help men arm themselves, and to forge new weapons for those who required it.

  Thousands of arrowheads were built and stockpiled by the women who had been captured. These were the women who decided to resist the Denderrikan takeover and fight for what they had rightly owned. Dalko had insisted on their well-treatment, providing ample clean water and two meals per day. Dalko depleted every tavern, inn, and shop within the constraints of the downtown area, insistent that they ought to treat the slaves well. After the food stockpile began to run low he had hunting parties gather fresh meat outside Sesten's confines.

  A couple of Denderrikan warriors were ordered to watch Tristan at all times. One of these warriors was Asherin Unsworth, who was clad in all black with her hair up in a scraggly bun. Her shoulders were twice as broad as Tristan's, also standing a head taller. The other guard kept his crossbow loaded with a bolt at all hours of the day, bringing Tristan mild amusement and something to tease about. Even Asherin failed to suppress a grin once the guard became defensive of his diligence with the crossbow.

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  Three days after the invasion Tristan was allowed to observe a sacred moment within the Denderrikan invasion plan. Loren came and found him, firstly assuring Asherin Unsworth that she was here to collect Tristan under the orders of Dalko, Xenotho, and Enfallio. Tristan followed Loren into a dimly lit building that was a former vendor’s shop. It had been emptied besides a small bed in the middle of the room. Dalko lay on the bed flat on his back, his hands folded over his sword. Lanterns lay at each corner of the room as three men in dark brown robes with hoods drawn stood around Dalko, muttering something that Tristan could not hear.

  This was the day that Tristan’s eyes were opened into the sort of power that Dalko was involved in. He was tapping into a connection with the sorceress, Saphira. His eyes were closed and his face was whiter than a sheet. Sweat rolled down either side of his temples, his face quivering and shuddering with sharp gasps. Every muscle in Dalko’s face seemed to twitch with angst. All his features were shrinking. His limbs, his face, his ears, his nose…everything shrunk until he became a wrinkly, pitiful semblance of his former self. He began to convulse, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  “What's happening?" whispered Tristan. "Is he dreaming?”

  “He is in Verr Seeing," said Loren calmly. "It’s a form of magic." They stood by the doorway alongside the rest of Dalko’s inner circle. Asherin was the last to shuffle inside the room, crossing her arms and sniffling softly.

  “What’s Verr Seeing?" asked Tristan. "I don’t trust magic. Its evil.”

  “If you can’t handle it, then you can leave.,” said Loren. “Or you can be a man about it and just watch. He is in a dream-like state, but what he is seeing is real. Saphira is controlling his visions.”

  “How does he know the visions are real?” said Tristan.

  “Saphira's visions have never proven false. Dalko's known her since he was a boy.”

  "Saphira? You mean the Sorceress who trained him since into an Ascendian?"

  Loren nodded.

  Dalko found himself standing before the High Throne of the High Lord of Denderrika. He was plump and obese as ever, his skin emanating a rotting odor. His lips were more red than a rose. Dalko shifted his gaze. Exiting the side of the throne and approaching Dalko was Saphira, the most beautiful woman Dalko had ever seen. He’d always thought it, but he knew the looks of a sorceress were deceiving. She could appear as she chose to appear. He’d known her since he was a boy, and he’d been taught strictly to suppress all feelings of attraction. Women were not to get in the way of an Ascendian’s main objective--to become an invincible, deadly warlord for Denderrika's army.

  “I seek…” said Dalko, pausing and inhaling deeply. “I seek the sword...the sword of Blackthorn…the sword of Tristan Blackthorn’s destiny. I know it is here…I can feel it.” said Dalko, gasping for air now. Saphira circled him, smiling. She was zapping him of his strength, depleting him. She needed him weak when he approached her, lest he grow akin to his own power and defer from her wisdom.

  “You are right, Lord Dalko Rivien. The sword is near, and your men are searching. They have claimed to have found it numerous times. Is this correct, Lord Dalko?”

  “Yes,” stammered Dalko. His vision field was growing smaller. High Lord Maltor stared at him feebly, tapping a finger on the arm of his golden throne.

  “I will show you where it is. But I will caution you--do not be too quick to assume control of this weapon. This is a sword unlike any other…it has power that would be best left…alone.”

  Saphira and the High Lord faded from Dalko’s vision. The room swirled, turning into a blurry, spinning room. He screamed, cried out. It felt as though his limbs were being ripped off. It felt like an eternity, but it had only been seconds. Finally, it stopped. He was floating in the red skies of Sesten. It was blood-red, even more so than a burning sunset. He was slowly zooming in on the location of the sword. He coveted it greatly, and he could feel its power drawing him in like a drug.

  The zooming stopped. His body hovered over a small courtyard. A fountain had been dug up and removed. Men stood in a pit, digging with backs hunched and skin soaked with sweat.

  “I think we’ve got something!” shouted a man. Asherin and Kenton approached the spot where the man’s shovel was stabbing it. It clanged like metal on metal.

  Asherin and Kenton peered into the hole. He gave it another stab to demonstrate that he’d hit something solid. He stabbed it. He went flying. He slammed into a building at the other end of the courtyard and a blue hue filled the hole. The other workers who had been digging quickly scampered off, terrified.

  The vision ended, Dalko sat up on the wooden bed that he lay on. He was gasping. Perspiration clung to his body in small beads. He groaned and strained. He was dying.

  “Quick,” he managed. “Before…too…late.” Asherin and another man, presumably a Brantish man based on his features, dug through a small pouch at the foot of the bed and found a small vial with a blue-tinted potion. It became purple when the lid was opened. They strained a drop into Dalko’s mouth. His body grew. His limbs returned to normal size, as did his nose and his ears. His skin gained its color back. There were black spots all over his skin that took a few minutes to go away. When he was finally recovered, he lept down off the side of the bed. The liquid in the vial had evidently tasted foul.

  “It’s here,” said Dalko. Those who were in the room looked at him, puzzled. “The sword,” exclaimed Dalko, “It’s here. I know where it is.”