Dalko’s men dragged the spy into the center of the clearing, throwing him to the ground shrewdly and spitting on him. Coiled rope was wrapped around his arms to bind him tightly.

  “So,” began the spy, “there is a secret stronghold in Sesten, and its forces are manned by none other than Dalko Rivien the Ascendian." The Spy's face was curled into a smug look. He was down on his knees facing the Dalko. "We thought your existence was Denderrikan propaganda.” The spy's laughter rattled noisily before a Denderrikan kicked dirt at his face, causing him to sputter and cough violently.

  Dalko's most trusted warrior approached the spy, his face heavily scarred. He was of average height with a strong, lean build and Denderrikan blue eyes. His hair was not gray yet, like Dalko’s, but it was a silvery blonde that ran down to his shoulders. He held a sword in his right hand that was longer than any sword Tristan had ever seen. His name was Kenton, Tristan had learned.

  “Is it true?" asked Kenton, edging closer to the spy. "King Tarren sent you to Sesten?”

  “The Chief of Spies sent me,” said the spy, still coughing between words from the dirt he inhaled.

  “What's your name?" asked Kenton. "Answer well or I cut your throat." Kenton pressed his blade against the soft flesh of the spy's throat.

  “My name’s Skorja.” said the spy, desperate to put some distance between his throat and Kenton's sword.

  “Skorja?” questioned Dalko, pacing slowly. The rest of the Denderrikan force were gathering in a semi-circle around the spy. Tristan found himself at the front of the semi-circle with Loren to his right and Kenton to his left. On the other side of Loren stood another formidable warrior, Asherin Unsworth. She wore black war gear and had a sword hung across her back.

  “Skorja isn’t a name of Windem descent.” said Kenton accusingly. “Why do you serve King Tarren of Windem?”

  “Father was Denderrikan and I never knew my mother," said Skorja. "My father moved to Windem before I was born."

  “A traitor then,” said Kenton. "This man’s life is an insult to Denderrikan lineage." Kenton looked at Dalko, “May I?”

  Dalko nodded, placing his hands behind his back. Kenton lifted his sword high into the air, coming down with a precise cut, detaching Skorja’s right ear from his head. Blood squirted like a gushing fountain. Skorja thrashed around wildly, crying out in agony.

  “I will give you all that you want to know!” Skorja shouted. Dalko shifted uncomfortably. He had been trained from birth as an Ascendian never to show pain.

  “Then tell me,” began Dalko, “who is the Chief of Spies?”

  “He’s an older man…with a walking staff!” Skorja shouted. Kenton was cleaning the blood from his sword, eyeing Skorja as he did so.

  “A name, please,” said Dalko.

  “Bodry,” said Skorja. “Bodry Tenthill.”

  Tristan felt his legs go numb, his stomach lurch.

  “Bodry,” said Dalko, testing the name. “Does Bodry know that we are here, in Sesten? Does the King know?”

  Skorja hesitated, “Um…he…”

  “Do they? Or do they not?” growled Dalko.

  "Bodry knows. The King does not.,” said Skorja.

  Dalko dropped his gaze to the ground, pacing with his hands behind his back.

  “He will know soon enough, but it will be too late by then.” Dalko crouched, his eyes level with Skorja. “Perhaps we ought to tell you why we're here before you die. In Denderrika we consider that a courtesy."

  Skorja was quivering with fear, speechless.

  He knows he’s going to die, thought Tristan, a blanket of guilt covering him. This was Bodry’s man, and he had led him here to his death. A sudden instinct to leave ran through Tristan, but he knew Dalko would never allow him to walk out of here alive. Not now.

  "Windem is running out of food. This land is dying." Dalko leaned down, pinching some soil and running it between his fingers. It left a smear of black ink-like substance on his fingers. "Cropkillers will soon be upon this land, spreading their pestilence and damning this land with its shadow. This land will be uninhabitable by the time your King is done with it.”

  Skorja murmured like a low-pitched mouse squeak.

  "What was that?" asked Dalko. "Couldn't hear you."

  "Why destroy Windem if you can just have it yourselves?" asked Skorja. "Better yet--what does Denderrika want with Windem? Land? The land is dying. You've just said it yourself."

  “We are not destroying Windem," said Kenton. "The destruction is coming from your end--from your own King and whatever foul darkness he has lurking inside his castle walls!"

  "I don't answer directly to my King," said Skorja. "I answer to the Chief of Spies. Whatever is transpiring within Castle Rarington is none of my business." Skorja turned toward Dalko. "Who do you answer to anyways, Ascendian?" Skorja spit the last word with contempt.

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  "I answer to the High Lord Maltor and his sorceress, Saphira. My freedom depends on it,” said Dalko. "And I don't question my orders. I follow them."

  Skorja turned his head toward Tristan. "And what's he doing here? A man of Windem dwelling amongst the Denderrikans. He looks like he's still a boy anyways."

  "That's Tristan," said Dalko. "He's helping us take Windem," said Dalko.

  Tristan shied back a step, wishing not to be associated with the fall of Windem.

  "Tristan Blackthorn, son of Gareth Blackthorn." Dalko smiled. “Windem’s future Lord Commander and Wielder of Saphira's Sword...he was right here in Sesten the whole time--an unguarded, unheeded secret.”

  Skorja glanced at Tristan blankly, his face pasty white and his body quaking with dread.

  “You mean the prophecy that came from that ancient sorceress? Saphira?" managed Skorja weakly. "Her power is false--merely tricks and falsehoods."

  Tristan's breath became shallow. He could hardly breathe as his vision began to blur. It was all too much. He suddenly he wished he was home with his mother, Mildred, on the other side of Twin Hills.

  “You say Saphira's prophecy about the Blackthorn boy is false...I'd like to test that theory” said Dalko. He gestured for Asherin to go get something. When Asherin returned, the sound of a vile creature was slowly emerging from around the corner. Tristan heard the sound of chains rattling, dragging in the dirt. There was also a low whirring noise that was slowly getting closer.

  "You recognize that sound?" asked Dalko.

  It’s a Veracifer, realized Tristan. He’s bringing out a Veracifer. Tristan face drew into a tight grimace. The Lord Ruler of Windem? The Wielder of the One Sword? Those things weren't him. He'd never heard a prophecy from a sorceress named Saphira...who was Saphira? He panicked, suddenly filled with dread and anxiety. What am I supposed to do? Run? Fight? Stand still?

  "That's a Veracifer, another one of your King's vile pets that he seems to keep losing his leash for," said Dalko. Skorja squirmed restlessly against his constraints.

  The creature turned the corner as the Denderrikans shielded their eyes. Tristan followed suit, recalling horror stories he'd heard in the taverns of Sesten. Men lost all senses except for touch when making eye contact with a Veracifer.

  The Veracifer was built like a man with a horrible hunch in its back. It had swirling black and white eyes were hypnotic. Its tongue was long and terrible. A sloppy, wagging pink limb thrashed wildly from its mouth where its tongue should have been. Each arm had been amputated at the elbow. A cupped piece of metal armor was screwed in where the arm met the shoulder. A spiked ball was tethered to the end of the chains, which took the place of normal limbs.

  Skorja closed his eyes, unable to shield them with his arms because they were bound at his sides.

  “I will not look at that beast!" shouted Skorja. "I will not!”

  “You will,” replied Dalko. The Veracifer dragged its long chains, moving slowly toward Skorja. The low whirring sound grew louder as its tongue drooled sloppily all over the ground. The saliva hissed as it hit the ground, dissolving the dirt like acid. Dalko stared at the creature, allowing his eyes to gaze upon every aspect of the creature. He’s immune, thought Tristan.

  The beast stopped short of Skorja, letting a foul, inhumane roar escape its huge mouth. A jagged set of a hundred miniature teeth sharpened like mini staves lined its mouth.

  Dalko stood behind Skorja, withdrawing a dagger and holding the blade to the nape of his neck.

  “Open your eyes and stare upon the beast, or I will carve them open for you.” A minute passed. Skorja's eyes were still closed. Dalko began to dig his dagger into Skorja’s eyelid. Skorja opened his eyes, screaming.

  His eyes burned up almost immediately, as if on fire. The creature’s limb-like tongue ran all over Skorja’s face, wetting him in slobber, which burned Skorja's skin until the flesh was completely gone. Dalko untied the ropes from Skorja, throwing him face down onto the ground. Skorja didn't move.

  Dalko turned to Tristan. “Your turn, Tristan. Face the Veracifer.”

  Tristan’s face paled, unable to speak. He felt no special powers, and took on no hidden strength. He significantly doubted Dalko’s claim that he was specially prophesied warrior. Seers had mysterious ways and hidden power, but no man was born with a destiny that he didn’t create on his own. At least, that’s what Tristan had grown up believing.

  The creature turned on its heels, slowly dragging its arms of rusted chain along the ground. The spiked balls kicked up a cloud of dirt behind it as it approached. Loren nudged his side, whispering to him that he would okay. Tristan looked at her and saw that her eyes were still closed tightly.

  Courage rose up within Tristan. Where it came from--Tristan knew not. Perhaps his father's bravery rained down on him from above. Tristan let out a fierce shout, raising his sword Drakiler to the sky.

  The Veracifer stood before him, its tongue working in all different directions like a starving dog. The livestock on the compound were mightily disturbed. The horses neighed, the chickens clucked, the cows mooed.

  Tristan opened his eyes. He met those swirling, hypnotic eyes that weren’t even eyes. They had no sockets, just two swirling circles like miniature portals into another world. The Veracifer took a step back. Then another. It stopped its whirring sound, then gave a mighty roar like an angered mother bear when its cubs were threatened.

  Tristan raised his sword again, shouting with might. He did not know why he shouted, but it felt good. He could feel the awe of those around him, unable to watch but knowing that Tristan was not blind, mute, or deaf.

  “So it is true,” muttered Kenton to himself. Two Denderrikan warriors came up behind the Veracifer and placed a metal collar around its neck and slipped a bandana over its eyes. They yanked at its neck, pulling it away from Tristan and leading it back behind the lodge.

  All went quiet amongst the Denderrikans. Kenton was the first to speak.

  “To the future Lord Commander and Wielder of Saphira's Sword!” Kenton raised his sword high into the air. The rest of the Denderrika’s did the same. Steel hissed from their scabbards and rallied into the air. Some raised scythes, pikes, or spears. Capes and cloaks fluttered as dark clouds rolled in overhead and a cold wind blew through the land.

  “We are not at his service just yet,” said Dalko, motioning for the Denderrikans to lower their weapons. “Indeed, he has the blood of a Blackthorn, Tristan's loyalties may still be tested.”

  “Today we take the town of Sesten,” announced Dalko. “Do not kill unless you are met with resistance. Let the Veracifer empty the streets. Most will flee. The rest we can deal with afterwards. From now on, our new war camp will be in Sesten.” Dalko started up the steep hill and towards Sesten, his gray cloak fluttering behind him. Dalko turned, pointing at Tristan with a crooked finger.

  “You need to make a decision, Tristan. You’re either with us or you're against us. Your choice.” And then Dalko started up the hill, his men grabbing up their weapons and prodding the Veracifer up the hill. Tristan stood alone in the center of the clearing and letting Loren and Asherin pass him by.

  Tristan's hand slid to the hilt of his sword, Drakiler, which was aptly named after the words "Drakonstone Killer."

  Tristan stood a while, taking in a deep breath.

  "I choose vengeance," said Tristan. He broke into a jog, catching up to the Denderrikans–eager to bring destruction to the land that Elric had sworn to protect when he took his office as Lord Commander.