Page 69 of Tristan
The queen produces something long and wrapped in layers of purple, silken cloth; she hands it to the king. I check in with Corrik; yep, he’s still burning with unleashed rage, better to keep focused on the king’s boots and whatever he’s got wrapped in that cloth. Although I think if he gave me three guesses, I’d get it on the first try.
“You come from dragon’s blood, and you have trained all your life to be a warrior. Be that as it may, a Markaytian is defenseless against an Elf and that is why I had this made. This is for you.”
Before me, he unveils a sword like I have never seen before. Forged with Elven magic, the blade glistens without the help of sunlight and upon its surface are words written in Elvish.
“He who wields this blade…”
I make out but cannot read the rest; I’ll have to consult with Cupper’s book. The hilt and cross guard are simple in design but made of fine Elven gold and steel. The pommel rounds at the end, carved as part of the hilt. Without touching it, I can feel a power from within—it is not just forged with magic but imbibed with it.
I look wide-eyed at the king.
“This will protect you, my new son, when others cannot. Take it.”
I rise at the king’s urging. Corrik growls again but will notdishonor his father by speaking out. I can scarcely believe I’m being given this sword, even as I hold it in my hand and unsheathe it. I can’t help but swing it around and circle it in arcs and before I realize it, I’m showing off a bit; my glee is undeniable. The balance is fluid, the weight perfect for my height; I couldn’t ask for a better sword and I happily admit it’s far better than the one I had back home. I get lost in the dance and I swing around, smack into Corrik. He stops me with one hand firm around my wrist, his nose half an inch from my forehead, close enough to feel his hot breath.
“Put it away.”
I nod carefully and sheathe it, pulling the baldric around my head to allow the sword to rest at my left hip. I keep my eyes to my feet not wanting to challenge him now.
“We will arrive at Port Gilkara in the morning, what do we do until then?” Corrik demands of his father, while his eyes still rest on me. “We don’t know where they’re coming from, and we don’t know how to stop them.”
“A constant vigil of course, as we’ve always done. There’s not much more we can do than that, Corrik.”
I finally look up to catch something passing over Corrik’s eyes, a light, like they’ve been scanned by a sunbeam.
“Something’s wrong.” He runs out the doors, with me close behind him—I let a few of the guard filter out in front of me and when I exit, I see what he felt.
A massacre: fallen Elves and the strange humans everywhere, Corrik already fighting.
“Tristan!” It’s the king. He grabs my arm. “Go. Find Diekin. We need every Elf available.” I nod, my sword announcing its arrival with the ring of steel.
I keep hidden as I make my way to the lower deck where Diekin’s chambers are. I doubt he’s there, but it’s the only place I can think to start. The halls of the ship are lit with the natural light of the sun but feel eerie in their emptiness.
I listen for footsteps, but the chance of me hearing anything isslim—Elves are slippery and able to move silently, beyond the hearing of mere humans. If there are any around, they’ve most likely heard me already. I press against a wall and hold my breath. I will be strong, I will be brave, I will—
“Mmmph!” So much for that plan. With a hand over my mouth, an Elf drags me into a room I don’t recognize, fortunately, the voice I do.
“Shhh. It is me, Junior Warlord. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
He’s out the door before I get the chance to say anything else. I hear the clanging of swords and the squelch of a body being run through. I close my eyes and hope it’s not Diekin.
It's not.
“Come with me—keep your sword out.” He looks happy to be able to say that to me. I’m certain Diekin would love to see me fight.
Keeping close to him, I remain quiet until I see the smoke. “Diekin, look over there.”
“They’ve set fire to the ship,” he says.
We run now, and Diekin fights through Rogue Elves as we go, not letting them get at me. It’s now that I notice he’s only half dressed—he’s not wearing a shirt and I can see he’s got a surface wound across his broad chest. It glistens with blood.
When several Elves surround us, Diekin throws me a worried look: he thinks as Corrik does, that I can’t fight Elves and I know from my first experience that they’re right. It doesn’t mean I won’t die trying. I stand back-to-back with him; it reminds me of when Lucca and I fought. I pretend it’s the same.
They descend on us and Diekin fights like I’ve never seen him, but this time, he can’t keep them away from me. I bring my sword up in time to prevent one from taking my head.
“No!” one of them yells at the one about to slice me. “He must be alive!”
It gives me the distraction I need, and I run him through, my new sword tastes blood for the first time, the impact of it igniting hits me and I’m thrown back into the circle of Elves. Two of them reach tograb me, but I’m suddenly stronger and faster as I hold the sword in my hand and swing at them with long practiced strokes. They look as surprised as I feel.
