The tax collectors that Loren and Dalko had warned about came much sooner than Tristan had anticipated. He was finally back home with his Ma and it had been three days since he had gone the opposite direction from home and met Loren in downtown Sesten. The encounter with the warband from Denderrika felt like a dream. He hadn’t seen Loren or Dalko since, and he didn’t plan to. Once the excitement of a new experience worn off, he found that he quite liked being home. He talked himself into thinking that avoiding downtown Sesten and Loren altogether would spell an end to his dealings with the Graycloak Company, as they preferred to call themselves.

  They were one of the many companies spread across Windem. Each company was composed of a small host of mercenaries, warriors, and trained killers. At the head of each group was an Ascendian, who were cold-blooded killers trained from birth as part of a program created by the High Lord of Denderrika, Lord Maltor.

  Tristan shivered as he recalled what Dalko had told him about the Shadow. And why was he, of all people, selected to be their eyes and ears in Sesten? Loren could easily spend her days in Sesten doing his same work, and Tristan doubted anyone would bat an eye. Loren appeared more like a citizen of Windem than Denderrika, anyways.

  Dalko had said it was because he was a Blackthorn, and his father had started all of this. That had angered Tristan…confused him. What had his father started? As far as Tristan knew, he had been the one who had lost his life while embarking on a mission for the King. The Orc-eel, which had turned out to be a dragon, could have been left alone and no one would have ever cared.

  The discovery of Dalko’s warband left Tristan conflicted. Part of him wanted to run away to Uncle Bodry and tell him all about his adventures and make sure that the information was in safe hands. But something about Dalko’s nature left him afraid to even do that. Dalko would know. Tristan wasn’t sure how, but he would. The last thing Tristan wanted was to be on Dalko’s hit list. He wondered when (and if) Dalko planned on attacking Sesten. Sesten was rural and far from the societal and cultural influence of the Capital.

  Tristan was finishing up his strength work outside when he spotted something, someone, out of the corner of his eye. At the top of one of the Twin Hills sat a man upon his horse, a silhouette against the sun. Tristan shielded his eyes, knowing immediately who it must be once he was able to see. Tax collectors. The only thing that was surprising is that the man atop his horse was not a traditional tax collector. It was a member of the Kingsguard. Those were elite knights, Tristan knew. His father had served for two years before being promoted to Lord Commander.

  There were a few things that dignified the man as a Kingsguard; his claret cape, his scaly black armor, the emblazoned crest upon his breastplate that showed a lion holding a shield and a sword. The Knights of Windem had an emblem too, but it only had a lion with a sword, and no shield. Uncle Bodry had told Tristan during one of their many discussions about the Kingsguard and the Knights of Windem.

  Three more knights rallied up from the other side of the Twin Hills and pulled their horses in rank with the Kingsguard. They dismounted, removing their half helms and taking a seat in the plush grass while their horses grazed. They were resting, Tristan saw. They must have collected from everyone else already. I’m the last stop.

  “Hullo there!” came a shout. It was the Kingsguard. He was descending the hill with his half-helm tuck under his armpit. A black feather protruded from the top of his half-helm, another symbol of his prestigious position as a Kingsguard. “I take it you didn’t hear the trumpet blast earlier. We’ve been collecting the King’s taxes since first light this morning. Are you deaf, blind, or both?”

  Tristan struggled to find words, gulping anxiously. “Not blind, nor deaf, sir. It’s hard to hear from this side of the Twin Hills, sir. We’re quite a ways from the town and its happenings…sir.”

  The man of the Kingsguard had a bushy gray mustache that was twirled upward at the ends. It was hard not to stare at. His face was flat and plump, although his build was strong and barrel-chested. He was about a head taller than Tristan.

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  “Sir Crowley Begg,” said the man, extending a cordial hand. Tristan shook it.

  “The King has doubled the tax that was collected once annually. We are now collecting that same amount monthly. The King had a notice sent to the town constables nearly a month ago by now. Is mother or father home?” He was looking past Tristan with a perplexed look about him. He seemed to raise his upper lip on purpose to increase the prominence of his bushy mustache.

  “My father was killed long ago," said Tristan. "You can do your business with me.” He realized he sounded eerily similar to Dalko.

  “Very well then," said Crowley, unmoved by Tristan's cold tone. "Eighty grams of silver.” Crowley held his palm out flat.

  “Eighty grams? Who has that laying around?” asked Tristan, fiddling around with his pockets.

  “Eighty grams shouldn’t be a problem for a citizen of Windem. Eighty grams of silver is equivalent to roughly forty percent of the average income for a citizen of Windem.” Crowley motioned for the payment to come forth.

  “Don’t have it, sir.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Don’t have it. Are you blind, deaf, or both?” spat Tristan.

  Crowley’s pleasant face turned into a scowl, reminding Tristan of a potato.

  “Watch your tongue, boy. If you haven’t got the payment then you’ll face the wrath of the King.” Sir Crowley pushed Tristan aside with his beefy arm and walked down the hill to the small hut that Tristan called home. By the time Tristan regained his feet, Crowley was already opening the door. Tristan burst in behind Crowley, making for his secret corner where he hid his small hoard of four silver shekels.

  “Misses…" Crowley waited for Mildred to introduce herself. "Do we have a name?” Crowley looked from Mildred to Tristan, and back to Mildred. “Name, ma’am?”

  “Mildred, sir." Mildred looked to Tristan in an accusatory glance, as if Tristan had brought this trouble to their doorstep on his own. "Why is a Kingsguard coming around to collect taxes? What happened to the tax collectors?”

  “This is serious business," said Crowley. "The King is collecting double than normal. Dark times are ahead, woman. Haven’t you heard?” Crowley grabbed a piece of dried jerky from the counter, unwrapping it and taking a big bite. His mustache bounced up and down as he chewed.

  “I don’t pay attention to politics,” said Mildred.

  Tristan stepped between Crowley and his Ma. “I’ve got this. Here.” Tristan held out his hand, offering four silver shekels.

  “Not enough," said Crowley, taking another bite. He stopped chewing, looking at Tristan long and hard. For a moment, Tristan’s heart dropped. Dalko’s face popped into his head. He shivered.

  “Say--you look mighty familiar. Where’s your father?” asked Crowley.

  “Gone,” replied Tristan.

  “Gone?" repeated Crowley. "What happened to him?”

  “He was your Lord Commander,” said Mildred. Crowley's face grew soft as understanding dawned.

  “Blackthorn.” said Crowley with deep reverence, his lips disappearing under his curly mustache. He bowed his head. “My condolences. He was one of the greats. Forgive me.”

  “Forgiven," said Mildred quickly. "I only hope that you might forgive us our debts this once, until we have found a way to earn a wage. The old tax only came to Sesten once a year. It was an easy payment. This new tax…this is unheard of.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. For now, I’ll let it slide. But I’ll be back in a month’s time and expecting the full amount. Eighty grams of silver.” Crowley was making his way out of the door slowly. He turned before leaving. “Next time I’ll have to bring you in before the King’s Justice. That’d be imprisonment or forced labor. I’d hate to be the one to do that to you. ‘Specially a Blackthorn. Some man, he was.” And with that, Crowley left.

  Crowley was halfway to the hill when Tristan’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “What are the dark times you spoke of…that are coming to Windem.” Tristan had decided to ask, spur of the moment. Crowley turned slowly, a pitiful look across his face.

  “There’s evil afoot. A few folk have they've seen men afoot with strange accents...Denderrikan accents." Crowley turned to go and then added one thing, “You let me know if you see anything here in Sesten...anything at all.” He pursed his lips, his mustache covering his mouth. “I’ll be back in a month. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  And then he was gone.