by Andi Neal
CHAPTER TWO
Tristan looked down at the blood that covered his hands. His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to burst out from it completely. There was so much blood, he thought, panic overwhelming his senses. So much blood.
He couldn’t stop the bleeding. His breathing was shallow and erratic. He couldn’t catch his breath. He dropped his hands to his side and stared at the body he knelt by.
Darius’s eyes were empty. There was no life in them. But his lips moved, and his voice lifted to Tristan’s ears. “Please. Find my son.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tristan cried. “I’m so sorry, Darius.”
“Protect my family,” Darius whispered.
Tristan nodded weakly. “I will. I promise.”
“Run,” was his final word.
Thundering footsteps raced toward him. When Tristan’s eyes rose, a sword swung toward him. The sharp blade would be the end of him, he knew.
Tristan bolted out of the nightmare gasping for air. He was drenched from his own sweat, and his heart pounded furiously inside his chest. He raked a shaky hand through his hair.
It had been two weeks since Darius had died in his arms. And every time he closed his eyes, the memory plagued him. He blew out a calming breath and lay back down. On his back, he stared at the sky overhead.
It was still dark, but he could see the beginnings of dawn peeking over the horizon. He closed his eyes and saw Quin’s grin. I thought you might like to get out of this castle for a little while. Spend a night under the stars. He could hear Quin’s voice as clearly as if he spoke the words again himself.
Tristan’s eyes opened. He stared at the stars he’d been sleeping under for weeks. What he wouldn’t give to be back in that castle, he thought. Or even the lands of Barico. He sat up and glanced over at his traveling companion who still slept.
He’d tried to convince Ryder not to come with him to the North. But his friend wouldn’t hear of it. He’d left his father behind with little explanation and set off with a man he knew little about. A man he believed despite the accusations against him. A man he called friend anyway.
Tristan pushed to his feet and stared at the gleam of metal that lay next to where he’d slept. He bent down to retrieve it. His hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword. It was heavier than it looked. He sliced it through the air experimentally.
He’d killed a man with it. He’d taken a man’s life. Maybe two. He hadn’t hung around to see if the second man he’d bashed in the head with a rock had lived. He struggled with the knowledge that he was a killer.
But they’d killed Darius. And they would have killed him. His hand tightened on the sword. He took the stance that Quin had taught him. Then he swung and thrust the sword through the air with determined ferocity using the movements he’d been shown. If he wanted to save Quin, he needed to learn to save himself.
• • •
If Barico had been heaven with its plush, green vegetation and forests and its majestic peaks, Tristan thought, the North might have been hell. It was a hard land. An unforgiving one. All red, jagged rocks and the menacing creepy crawlers that liked to hide under them. Scraggly brush dispersed randomly and sparingly.
After crossing the river that was the border between Barico and the North, Tristan and Ryder had walked for four days. The only thing that had saved them was Ryder’s basic knowledge of how to live off the land. Though even he had admitted the land here didn’t offer as much as he was accustomed to.
But their journey had finally paid off. They’d reached a village of sorts. As Tristan watched the men that sauntered through it, he debated sticking with the harsh land. Dirt pathways for men and horses weaved through the village. Red clay adobe dwellings were scattered along them.
“These men are as likely to kill us as help us,” Ryder warned him. The men he spoke of were large, long haired, bearded ones who seemed to have scowled for so long, so often that the expression was permanently etched into their faces. Their clothes were worn and covered in the red dirt that was the North.
“We’ll have to risk it,” Tristan decided after a moment of silent debate. “We can’t find Quin without asking questions.”
They ventured into the village with caution and suffered hard stares and warning glares. Yells and growls coming from a gathering circle of men hooked Tristan’s curiosity. Spotting an empty wooden crate, he tipped it over and stepped onto it to see over the men.
Two men were clasped together in a fierce battle. One stomped his opponent’s instep and rammed the heel of his hand into his face when his opponent drew back with a howl. The opponent stumbled back but rebounded quickly. The two men circled one another.
The man that held Tristan’s gaze had to be at least 6’5”. His powerful, wide chest heaved with deep breaths as his thick legs slowly shuffled in a sideways circle. He held his muscled arms out from his sides at the ready.
His coal black hair had been cut into a Mohawk of sorts. The wide strip on top of his head started longer in the front and gradually shortened as it went back. The front part was long enough to show a few waves that dipped slightly over his forehead. The back and sides of his head weren’t shaved, but the hair there was cropped very close.
His face held a full beard, but it was short and trimmed. The skin surrounding his beard tinged a little more toward a yellow, sun kissed glow rather than the weathered, red tan most of the other villagers boasted. Tristan’s eyes scanned the opponent and the men who watched the fight quickly before coming back to the man.
The opponent charged, and the man Tristan watched pivoted quickly. A clenched fist swung around and caught the opponent in the stomach. The man struck down on his opponent’s back with his elbow. The opponent collapsed. When he rolled slowly to his back, the man placed his foot on his opponent’s throat. The opponent tapped his boot.
A few groans mixed with yells of victory. Tristan watched coins swapping hands. He stepped down from the crate. “They’re fighting for money.”
Ryder nodded, his eyes continually scanning uneasily. “We should not linger here.”
They settled on what looked to be a tavern of sorts. When they stepped in, Tristan’s eyes widened. Scantily clad women served drinks to rough looking men who seemed as though they needed to be locked away from the general public.
He started to take a step further in but froze when a blade whizzed by in front of his face. His eyes slid to the side first, then his head turned to find a knife lodge in a wooden beam to his right. He looked to his left and saw a very large, bearded man chugging what looked to be a mug of beer.
Tristan swallowed hard but took the step forward. Then quickly took three more to make sure he was out of the line of fire. Behind him, he heard the thump of blade hitting wood again.
Tristan stepped to the bar with Ryder close on his heels. “Excuse me?” he attempted to grab the bartender’s attention. The man was occupied with something behind the bar. Tristan cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m sorry to disturb you but—“
The bartender’s hand moved fast as lightning. The knife in his hand came down and dug into the bar an inch from Tristan’s hand. Tristan stared at it with terrified eyes. His fearful gaze slowly rose to meet the bartender’s disgusted one.
“What do you want, boy?” he growled.
“I’m looking for someone,” Tristan managed. “I was hoping you might provide me with some information.”
The bartender’s eyes dropped to take in Tristan’s full appearance. “You don’t belong here, boy. Get out.”
Tristan’s wide eyes were drawn back to the door when it opened. The victor from the fight stepped into the tavern with assured steps. He cast a disinterested glance at Tristan as he took a table in the back of the tavern in the shadows.
A fist slammed down on the bar to Tristan’s right and had him jumping. When his head jerked around, he saw another long haired, bearded man staring at him. He returned his attention to the bartender but found himself abandoned.
�
��Got ourselves a couple of pretty boys here now, do we?” The man said.
Tristan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He tried to tell himself if he didn’t look at the man, he wouldn’t have to deal with him. The man leaned closer and growled at him, his foul breath souring the air. “You too good to look at me, boy?”
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Ryder hissed from behind him.
The man spared Ryder a glance. “Oh now, that is an understatement, pretty boy.” He grabbed Tristan’s arm.
Tristan yanked his arm free as his other hand went to the sword latched to his belt. He stepped back and pulled it free with one yank. Holding it out to ward the man off, his eyes darted around the tavern for a way out. But several men had risen and were quickly cutting off his escape.
From across the tavern, the victor watched. The two young men clearly didn’t belong. He’d seen the one watching the fight with wary fascination. He tagged the shorter of the two as Baricoan. His look along with his demeanor screamed Barico.
But he couldn’t quite place the light haired one. His clothes said Baricoan commoner, but his actions and speech were very different. The victor tried to ignore the young men. Better to mind his own, he knew.
But when Tristan pulled his sword, the victor’s eyes narrowed. He threw back the rest of the drink that had been served to him and slammed the glass down hard on the table. It halted the movements of the circling men as the noise rang throughout the tavern.
“Enough,” he said.
All eyes turned to him. All men froze at his order. All but one. The one who had started it. He sneered disdainfully. “Bugger off, Xander.”
Xander rose slowly and deliberately before stepping out of the shadows. He pinned the man with a slate grey stare meant to intimidate. His hand rested on the hilt of the dagger tucked in his belt. “I said,” his voice spoke softly but firmly. “Enough.”
The man stepped away from the bar and backed a step away from the approaching Xander. Then he turned his back and left the tavern. Xander’s gaze moved to the other men who had earlier circled. They still stood in a circle around the bar. As his eyes met theirs, they one by one returned to their seats.
Tristan stared at Xander. He wasn’t sure if it was a rescue or a prolonged attack that had switched leaders. Tristan took an involuntary step back when Xander’s attention shifted back to him.
Xander’s eyes lowered to the sword Tristan still grasped tightly in his hands. “Put that away before you hurt yourself, boy.”
Tristan glanced around nervously. But he reluctantly and slowly lowered the sword. Then he slid it back into the sheath attached to his belt. “Thank you for your help.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Xander told him. He grabbed a fistful of Tristan’s shirt and yanked him out of the tavern. Once they were clear, he shoved Tristan back two steps. “Who are you?”
“Hold your calm,” Ryder stepped between them and held up a hand. “Please. We mean no harm to any.”
Xander kicked out and connected with Ryder’s leg. When Ryder went down to his knee, Xander struck out with his elbow and downed him with a shot to his face. Then he grabbed Tristan. He slammed him against the outside wall of the tavern and lifted him off his feet.
“I asked your name,” Xander threatened. “And if you don’t answer me, I’ll throw you back into that den of wolves.”
“Tristan,” he managed. His hands gripped Xander’s wrists as he tried to push his way free. The man didn’t budge an inch.
Xander lowered him back to his feet but kept a firm hold on him. When Ryder rushed him from the side, he shot a hand out. Covering Ryder’s face, Xander pushed him back two full steps. Ryder stumbled back with the force, tripped over his own feet, and hit the ground on his backside.
Xander’s eyes never left Tristan. “Where did you get that sword?”
“I…” Tristan pushed harder against the hand holding him. Xander merely adjusted his grip and shifted his arm. His forearm pressed against Tristan’s throat. “It was given to me,” Tristan croaked.
The arm relaxed against his throat. “By who?”
“By the man who owned it,” Tristan coughed.
Xander stepped back and finally released Tristan. He studied the man before him with an intent gaze. “I find that very unlikely.”
“He was protecting me,” Tristan told him. “He died protecting me. I took his sword to defend myself.”
Xander reached out and snagged the hilt of the sword. He pulled it free before Tristan could react. When Tristan made to grab for it, he placed a hand on Tristan’s chest and shoved him back into the wall. He held the sword up to examine the blade and the crest that had been marked into it.
“This sword bears the mark of Barico,” Xander spoke softly. His eyes shifted to Tristan. “The royal mark. This belongs to the king of Barico.”
Xander looked to Ryder who had halted his attacks and stared skeptically at him. Then he looked to Tristan who couldn’t hide his surprise at Xander’s observation. Suddenly Xander lowered the sword and swung it around so that he offered it back to Tristan.
Tristan reached out hesitantly to take it. Xander glanced around them. “I heard rumor of the king’s death and the prince’s capture. I thought them boastful lies.”
“I’m trying to find him,” Tristan said. “The prince. Can you help me?”
Xander’s brow lowered. He remained silent for a moment. “Why would I help you?”
“Because you’re not like them,” Tristan gestured weakly behind him at the tavern. “You’re different. Different recognizes different.”
Xander’s eyes narrowed as he considered Tristan. “The one who helps a prince reclaim his throne would be handsomely rewarded…would he not?”
Tristan frowned. “I’m sure he would, yes.”
“Where did the rumors say the prince was taken?” Ryder asked.
Xander’s eyes slid to him. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “There is only one place they would take him. A place northwest of here.”
