Chapter 3: Trystan

Ashtown, Heartlands of the Twin Kingdoms

The village of Ashtown was home to a few dozen farming families and tradesmen. It stood but a mile from Ashtree Hall, the stout, three-storeyed keep that lorded over the surrounding lands. Like most villages in the Heartlands it was built around a stone temple to The Burned God, an austere structure of cold rock with a high tiled roof and bell tower. Surrounding it were the thatch homes of the common folk, enveloped by the farmland they tended to, and a mill to the north on the banks of the great Eber. The farmers had already begun working the fields for the autumn harvest, while livestock grazed lazily in the unused meadows.

A warm, cloudless midsummer morning had graced market day. The children ran through the square, marvelling at the travelling merchants’ wares while the townsfolk busied themselves with bartering and gossip. The sun beat down mercilessly, yet no one seemed to mind the heat. Market day was always a grand event for the townsfolk. Calvyn the brewer, a burly, kind-smiled man with a substantial gut had brought in his wagons and set up a makeshift bar in the town square. He passed out iced beer to the men, joshing them in his booming voice, while his neat-boned, mousy wife, Imelda, gossiped with the farm maids and fishwives, sharing a bottle or four of sweet wine.

Around the Burned God’s temple, colourful stalls and tents had sprung up by morning, with wagons and carts from across the Twin Kingdoms displaying their wares. Market day signalled the end of the summer season, and in the flat and forested fiefs of the Heartlands it was a momentous occasion for the simple peoples of those lands, who lived quieter lives than the restless goings-on of the rest of the realm, and they took quiet pride in it. A caravan had stopped on its way from the city of Roserock, and the townsfolk had welcomed the strangers warmly. They seemed to hail from almost every corner of the realm. A pair of traders from Sandhill, bearing the livery of Merchant Lord Wenrain; three coins, one gold, one silver and one bronze on a checkered blue and white field, offered all kinds of spices and delicacies from lands across the Southern Sea. A party of merchants from Icarae promised discounts on their wares, which had made their way from east to west, and there was even a dwarven smith, travelling with a company of his people. This last fellow in particular caught Trystan’s eye. He had left his mother’s company and gone straight for the smith, his mouth agape. He marvelled at the white-steel greatswords, and the enamelled helms and vicious morning-stars set on racks. The dwarf was short, shorter even than Trystan, yet thrice as broad. Muscle corded his entire frame. Even his forearms were like barrels, thicker than Orrick’s, the local farm boy the townsfolk claimed was born of a giant. His exposed, hair-covered chest heaved as he hammered away at his anvil, and each blow shook the ground as sweat trickled down his brow and into the great bush of his beard, which covered most of his face. On the bulk of his left bicep was tattooed a pair of crossed hammers over an anvil circled by runes, marking him as belonging to clan Hammerhard.

“Oi! Get this bloody beast away from me!”

Trystan jumped at the booming voice behind him.

He spun around to see another dwarf, dressed in a green woollen tunic, with the Hammerhard symbol embroidered in silver thread. Long bell sleeves trimmed with runes and leather boots with pointed tips graced his feet, buckled in silver. His braided reddish beard reached to his knees, decorated with steel rings and brass ornaments, yet for all the pelt that covered his face, arms and hands, there was not a hair on his head. He seemed quite distressed by the brown bloodhound who sniffed and jumped around him.

“Here, Arl, to me!” Trystan called, and the dog came, wagging its tail and breathing heavily.

“Wolves belong in the woods. Not in ploughin’ towns,” the dwarf reprimanded, eyeing the hound warily.

“He’s not that big!” Trystan protested.

“Neither am I, if ye dinnae notice that,” the dwarf huffed.

Trystan looked him over critically. While short in stature, the dwarf had the air of one who’d be capable of uprooting a tree with his bare hands.

“Leave off the boy,” the smith chided, looking up from the chunk of iron he was moulding into a horseshoe. “Yer just a wee puss, Bilbar.”

“Feck off Gonnr!” the first dwarf muttered, going red and stomping off towards Calvyn’s wagon for a beer, thoroughly offended.

“Forgive me brother, young lord,” the smith said with a gentle smile, “a few seasons back he ran afoul of a wolf pup he’d taken in. Doted on it like a father would, even let the thing eat off his own plate. I told ‘im, I said: ‘Bilbar, that thing’ll grow bigger than you one day, and when it does, it’ll make you its next meal. No plates required.’ But he huffed and puffed as he always does an’ paid me no heed. Then one day he wakes up to the brute chewing on his left foot. Never appreciated the sight o’ dogs since.”

“It’s quite all right,” Trystan replied, smiling at the image of the ravenous wolf.

“Come for a gander?” The dwarf returned his smile.

“Did you make those?” Trystan asked, pointing at the weapons and armour.

“Not all of ’em,” the dwarf replied, his voice raspy, deep and friendly, and his smile somewhat embarrassed now. “The pretty ones I bought. I just resell them to ye humans for thrice the price.”

He laughed, then added in a low voice, “Don’t tell no one I said that.”

“Who made them?” Trystan wondered, inspecting a beautiful chest piece. A striking lion with ruby eyes roared at him from the enamelled plate.

“Picked that one up at Aêrad. It’s the only Forge City my people make armour for ye lot.”

“So what do you make?” the boy asked, puzzled.

“Mostly nuts an’ bolts. Horseshoes, locks, hinges and the like.” The dwarf sighed. “Anything yer townsfolk need.”

Trystan tried to hide his disappointment.

“Not all of us are Orryn Silverfinger, ye know.”

Trystan nodded, running his finger across the blade of a stout arming sword.

“Careful with that. She holds an edge.”

“How much for it?”

“Sellin’ swords to children ain’t usually me business, lad,” the dwarf said with a chuckle. “Besides, with yer spindly arms I doubt ye ’ave the strength to lift ’er.”

Trystan’s cheeks burned and he shot the dwarf an angry look.

“Oh, come now, don’t be cross. I might have something for ye.” The dwarf stepped away from the anvil and rummaged in a chest by his cart. He eventually returned and produced a dagger.

The handle was white leather, and the pommel was fashioned as an eagle’s head. Trystan took the blade with care, admiring the stone sheath which was covered in golden runes.

“For me?” Trystan asked breathlessly.

“Aye, but don’t tell yer ma,” the dwarf replied with a wink.

“Don’t tell me what?”

Trystan spun around, hiding the knife behind his back.

“Nothing, Mama,” he stammered.

Lady Seleyn towered over him with a knowing smile on her lips. Her curls fell about her in a cascade of gold and her bright green-gold eyes had a playfully suspicious look about them.

“I hope he shan’t cut himself with it, master dwarf,” she said, smoothing slender hands over her turquoise dress trimmed with silver.

“Nay, m’lady,” the smith assured her. “The blade is quite blunted.”

“Good,” she said, as she bent to hand the dwarf a gold coin.

“M’lady, I could never,” the dwarf refused, bowing so low his nose grazed her silver slippers. “It’s merely a gift for the little tyke.”

“Very kind of you,” Lady Seleyn said sweetly, then beckoned to one of her guards. “Bennard, are we in need of any supplies or refitting at the castle?”

Big Benn, as he was known, was a portly, easy-going man with a long moustache and receding hairline. He gave her a short nod. His tabard he bore the grey ash tree which was the sigil of House Odare.

“Indeed, m’lady, I believe we do. The lads need some new mail, and there is the matter of the door to the Lord’s solar.”

“Right. Oh, and do not forget the candelabra in the great hall,” she reminded him gently.

“Of course, m’lady. I shall ask Brother Talvard if there is anything else we need,” Big Benn added with a nod.

“Good. You may escort the master dwarf to the castle later. And make sure he is paid adequately for his services.” She smiled. “We all know our dear godsman is quite the penny pincher.”

“He is that, m’lady,” the guard sighed.

“Now come, Trystan,” his mother said, offering her hand. “Let the smith work.”

Trystan followed her, still caught up in admiration for his new knife.

“And what do we say, dear?” Lady Seleyn reminded him.

“Thank you, master. Your gift is most kind.” Trystan nodded, remembering his manners and looking at his mother for approval.

The dwarf smiled under his bushy beard, “Oh, it’s quite all right, young lord.” Then, with a wink: “Just don’t go sticking that into anyone just yet.”

As they walked through the market, Trystan trailed behind his mother, still enraptured by his gift, while Arl lapped at his heels. Lady Seleyn stopped by nearly every stall, admiring the wares there and speaking to the townsfolk and merchants.

“Dear Molly. How is your little Edd?” she asked the miller’s wife.

“Already recovered, m’lady,” the woman said beaming. “Your herbs did a wonder. Now, if you have a tea to stop my husband being such an arse, I would much appreciate it.”

“Unfortunately there is no remedy for husbands, I’m afraid.” Lady Seleyn laughed, pressing the woman’s hand affectionately.

“And, Peytar, how are you managing?” she asked, moving on.

The old farmer clasped her delicate hands in his calloused ones and kissed them lightly.

“Many thanks for the grain, m’lady. Twas sorely needed.”

“I hope your crops grow good and strong this year,” she answered.

“Aye, twill be a good harvest looks like.”

“Let’s hope the rains hold off till winter,” a young farmhand named Ronnard added.

“For we ’aven’t been able to trade with the other villages this season, what with the Heartland Raiders waylaying the roads an’ all.”

At his foreboding words, a dark murmur spread through the assembled townsfolk.

“I will send some men to help dig your ditches,” Lady Seleyn promised.

“Pa will be grateful.” Ronnard bowed. “He still goes on about that flood from three years past.”

“And rightly so, boy,” Elenn, the cobbler’s wife, chided him, “we lost half our harvest that year.”

“And t’were it not for the good lady we would have starved for certain.” Yaren, whose farm was furthest from town, smiled warmly at Lady Seleyn.

“Might I trouble you with this nice trout, m’lady?” Old Will approached, presenting her with the fish in his wrinkled hands. “Caught it this morning.”

“Ah, Will, I’m glad to see you’re still spry as a cat,” she said, admiring the trout as she rummaged in her purse.

“Please no, m’lady.” The old fisherman shook his head. “Ts a gift. I hope it graces his lordship’s table upon his return from Hardhall.”

“It will, and please give my regards to your wife. I hope she is not still abed?”

“We fear she won’t leave it,” the old man said as his face filled with sorrow.

“I shall stop by on the morrow. Mayhaps I have something to ease her pain,” Seleyn said.

“Ah, a visit from you is sure to raise her spirits, ma’am.”

As his mother spoke to the townsfolk, Trystan saw his chance and slipped away. He’d noticed Miqal and Pete, the tanner’s boys, whispering to each other as they walked past. They had been helping their father unload his cart, and were now heading towards the back of the temple to the Burned God.

“… all the way from Tanavere. Hal said they’ll be gone in an hour,” Trystan overheard Pete tell his brother.

“We’d best hurry or we’ll miss it,” Miqal replied excitedly.

Trystan followed from a distance. He always felt a certain apprehension around the village children. Father would reprimand him and his brother if he caught them mingling with those beneath their station. The boys rounded the corner at the back of the stone temple where a commotion could be heard and Trystan followed silently. His pulse quickened when he saw the cause of the disturbance. All the village children, and even some of their parents, had gathered around a brightly coloured minstrel’s wagon, where the puppeteers had draped two banners on either side of the box stage where the puppets danced and fought. One was a pearl white field on which a scarlet phoenix soared, the royal banner. The other was tattered, patched and somewhat burned. It had been purple once, but the colours were muted now; still visible, though, was the griffin of the traitor House of Vermariel.

Trystan leaned against a tall wooden pole a few feet away from the other children, and observed with rapt fascination as the puppeteers retold the tale of the Black Duke’s Rebellion. Nearby, a troupe of songsters plucked away at a lute and fiddle, as another beat a drum.

A scowling puppet draped in black armour, baring a griffin on its chest, strutted about the stage.

“Hark, ye of evil hearts,” the puppeteer bellowed from behind the drapes, “for I am Arion, Duke of Farts!”

A roar of laughter came from the audience, as a loud flatulent noise emitted from behind the stage.

“The Graveyard Lord they name me. Usurper they proclaim. For if my arse do not sit upon the throne, I will consume the realm in flame!”

The crowd booed and cursed the puppet, some hurling rotten tomatoes at the stage.

Then, the scenery was deftly replaced with that of a glorious castle atop a rock at the center of a great lake, draped in violet banners emblazoned with a white star.

“To Starlake, did the Black Duke come, with murderous intent. Arrived to shatter the life and love of two young newlyweds.”

A puppet depicting Sir Lucian Vayne, clad in purple armour with a falling white star on his chest, trotted out onto the stage.

“Fair Sir Lucian, of just six and ten, pride of the noble House of Vayne. Brother to good Queen Arianna, though not nearly half as vain.”

The crowd laughed, and some even shot the puppet queen dirty looks, as she and Sir Lucian’s young bride watched the joust.

“The young knight was fierce and valiant, the old duke an evil soul. Out of spite he murdered Sir Lucian, with a heart as black as coal.”

The fair young knight and the evil duke charged at each other, and as they clashed violently, Trystan and the crowd winced. When Sir Lucian fell, the crowd roared in anger, and someone threw a stone at the bard playing the lute, knocking him off his stool. The poor man was helped up by his companions, a line of blood trickling down his forehead. The songsters’ faces turned scared, and the voice behind the curtain faltered.

“Should’ve thought twice before singing o’ the war,” Trystan heard a burly, middle-aged farmer with greying hair say.

“Aye, Roran speaks the truth,” the man’s brother, Orren, replied darkly. “That wound’s still fresh, even after all this time. They’ll be lucky if they get out these parts with all their fingers if they keep flying that banner.” With that, he eyed the Vermariel’s griffin with loathing.

“To spite the Queen, Sir Lucian fell, a small victory for the Black Duke,” the puppeteers persisted bravely. “For insults made and broken vows, and for His Majesty’s rebuke.”

Then they changed the scene again; this time a battlefield was painted on the stage’s wooden backdrop.

“For all his treachery, misdeeds and crimes Lord Arion was judged. Yet in his heart, King Balian could not bring himself to punish the brother he had once loved.”

Now, two wooden armies, one white, bearing the king’s fiery phoenix, the other black, bearing the duke’s prancing griffin, clashed on the stage.

“Yet when the Black Duke burned through the realm, to raise his son atop the Starlit Throne, King Balian rode to meet him, and in the sky his phoenix shone.”

And with those words, a scarlet phoenix with a tail of fire flew over the battlefield, and the crowd cheered and hollered with excitement as the wooden figure of King Balian the Unbroken charged the evil duke.

“Armies will crumble and foes will yield,” the puppeteer’s grave voice intoned, “for if the phoenix flies above, our kings will always win the battlefield.”

This time, the Black Duke was the one who burst into splinters as the king rode him down. The crowed nodded with approval as children hurled insults at the fallen duke, and the songsters let out a breath of relief.

Trystan sighed, feeling somewhat disappointed. To his eyes, the puppeteers had left out the best parts of the story: the Council of Heresies, the siege of Tol Aedor, the Battle of Mud and Blood, the fall of Sir Rickard Vermariel and his twin brother, Sir Robert. And of course, the final duel between King Balian and the Black Duke, when the evil duke died in the weeping king’s arms.

Before too much of the crowd could wander off, the puppeteers – a pair of short, very thin and old men – came out from behind the stage with a large, feathered cap. Trystan noticed the sad eyes on one, and the scarred, yellowish face of the other, a survivor of the purple rot.

A few townsfolk dropped copper and iron pennies into the cap yet dispersed hurriedly when a group of older boys cornered the performers. Trystan knew two of them as friends of his brother. Ollivard and Geren were the leaders of the pack, as big and muscular as they were stupid. The others were an assortment of farmhands and young apprentices.

“Look here. We don’t want no trouble,” the puppeteer with the sad eyes told the lads.

Ollivard, who was a head taller than the man and twice as broad, simply gave him a violent shove.

“An’ none ’ere like to see traitor colours,” the boy said, pointing his finger at the Vermariel griffin.

“None will see it again. We swear!” The scarred one moved to take down the banner, but Geren, a portly boy a few years older than Trystan, blocked his way.

“Where you from anyways?” Ollivard demanded. “You from up north?”

“Nay, lad, we’s from Tanavere,” the scarred man said, scratching at his face nervously.

“Northern traitors still get the noose in these parts. Or worse,” the boy threatened.

Now Geren produced an evil-looking dirk from his belt. The blade was crude iron, and sharp.

“You lot murdered me granda’,” he snarled.

“But we ain’t north…” the sad-eyed puppeteer moaned.

“A pox on northern traitors!” his fellow exclaimed. “We ain’t them, we swear.”

“It’s said traitor blood runs black. Mayhaps we’ll draw some. Just to make sure.” Ollivard smiled darkly.

“Enough! Leave them be!” Trystan cried, his hackles up and Arl at his heel, growling.

“Piss off, lordling. This ’as none to do with you,” Ollivard warned.

“These men are in Odare lands, and under my father’s protection,” Trystan reminded them.

“Does it look like I care?” Ollivard’s voice held more than a hint of annoyance.

“You should,” Trystan spat. He was losing his patience. “Now leave, or I will have you flogged.”

“Say that again, you little shit,” Ollivard hissed, giving him a venomous look.

Yet his comrades did not seem so sure, some of them backing away from Trystan with scared expressions. Even Geren was pulling at Ollivard’s sleeve as he whispered something in his ear.

A rush of adrenaline coursed through Trystan’s veins. Were they scared of him? But then he noticed it wasn’t him they were staring at. He turned and was disappointed to find his mother making her way towards them, flanked by Arryl and Jedd, clad in mail and boiled leather. By the time his father’s household guards arrived, the boys had all disappeared into the din of the market.

“Is all well, sweetling?” Lady Seleyn asked, concern in her voice. “You look quite flustered.”

Before he could answer, the puppeteers fell to their knees before him.

“Praise be the young lord!” cried one.

“Praise be!” exclaimed the other, breathlessly.

Trystan felt his cheeks burn as Arryl and Jedd burst into laughter.

“And what is the meaning of this?” Lady Seleyn asked the men, as she glared at the guards, who fell immediately silent.

“The young lord just saved us, m’lady. From a band of miscreants,” said the sad-eyed one. “Indeed he did!”

“Aye, some wretches believed us to be northerners. Traitors. Wouldn’t listen to reason, until the young lord came, that is,” the other said.

“Is that so?” Lady Seleyn smiled down at her son. “You are my own brave little knight.”

“Mother …” Trystan growled, feeling himself redden.

She simply laughed and offered the puppeteers each a silver dragon, for which they thanked her profusely.

“Now come, Trystan. It’s high time we returned home.”

*

Arl ran through the woods, his snout affixed to the earth. Trystan hurried behind him, battling phantom warriors as he went. In his mind, he stood before Sir Robert Vermariel, brother of the Black Duke. The histories described the knight as a fearsome killer, equalled only by his twin. Trystan lunged with his dagger, now a great sword, as he parried and stabbed at the air. Sir Robert was clad in brilliant blue armour, and his brother, Sir Rickard, in crimson. He spun and slashed, each tree was a foe, a craven traitor in thrall to the despicable Duke Arion.

The verdant woods surrounding Ashtree Hall were alive with the smell of leaves and mud, trees and moss, birdsong and rustling leaves as the summer winds blew through them. Trystan and Arl had run off the main road as they accompanied his mother and their guard back to the keep. His mother had allowed it, the woods were small, and he knew them well, after all. Suddenly, Arl stopped and sniffed the air, growling at a thicket of trees up ahead.

“What is it, boy? What do you smell?” Trystan asked.

The dog bounded into the underbrush, with the boy doing his best to keep up. They crashed into a clearing, and Trystan saw what had the bloodhound in such a state of agitation.

A hare was caught in a makeshift trap. The poor thing was struggling to free itself, but went deathly still as Arl approached, saliva dripping from his jaws.

“Arl, no! To me!” Trystan commanded.

The dog circled the trapped hare but made no move to attack. Trystan approached and kneeled by the frightened animal. It was young, he saw, barely bigger than a kitten. Its body heaved nervously, and its eyes darted, hoping for an escape. It was so frightened, it made not a sound. Slowly, Trystan unsheathed his dagger, the blade glinting in the mid-morning sun.

He could kill it, he thought. Bring it to Mother perhaps. A fine trophy. He could boast to Varen about it when he returned with Father, his first kill. Mayhaps Father would even dine on it upon his return from Hardhall as he had on the boar his brother had brought down last spring. He lifted the blade over the hare, the point sharp, not blunted as the dwarf had claimed. He hesitated. The trembling creature was looking at him now, into his eyes.

It knew.

Bitter gorge suddenly rose in Trystan’s throat. He imagined the slick, dark blood, warm on his hands, just like the time Father had made him undress that stag after a hunt. He’d hated it. And that time the animal had already been dead.

The hare’s panicked eyes were staring into his soul now, pleading. The dagger wavered in his damp hands as he felt sweat trickle down his brow. The blade hovered over the hare’s heaving body. He just had to lower it, plunge it into the unmoving animal. Easy. He could make it quick, painless. Trystan closed his eyes. Just stab. Kill it. Do it. Just… do it.

*

The hare bolted into the trees the second he cut it free. And Trystan sighed in relief, wiping the sweat from his hands and his face. A great weight lifted off his chest.

“What have you done?” a voice cried behind him.

Trystan jumped. As he span around, he saw a young girl standing before him.

She had a very angry look on her face.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: The Wild Girl