LLOTF - Chapter 49: A clash of steel and hatred

Tristan used the same hidden key as before and opened the cellar door. He listened intently as he slowly descended, hearing the characteristic sound of dishes clinking together, indicating servants were present.

Hurvun put a hand on his shoulders, “You do your blending spell, I’ll walk in like I own the place – because I do – and you just shadow my movement.”

Tristan nodded, spun his crucible, and performed the spell gesture before whispering the spell phrase. “Ilmentää muodon ympärille käärinliinan, joka sulautuu ympäristööni.” (Manifest a shroud around my form that will blend me into the surroundings). His body became transparent, and he followed his grandfather.

Hurvun walked into the scullery, past the servant who gawked as he walked by, and Tristan was his unseen shadow in the dimly illuminated place. They went through the kitchens and up into the familiar dining room which was being polished by a servant.

“Girl, where is my son?”

“I’m sorry, m’lord? Who are you?”

“I am Hurvun Anorox, progenitor of the bloodline and family head. Where is Fawkes?” he filled his words with malice and ill-intent.

The young man gulped and pointed, “Th-the s-study,” he whispered out as he shook in place.

Hurvun nodded and Tristan followed his intimidating patriarch through the foyer and to the study. He wrenched the doors open, and Fawkes was inside; seated on a couch smoking a pipe. “Boy, get your ass off of my fucking couch!”

Fawkes stood up rapidly, “Father? You are back from your hun-”

Hurvun moved fast and grabbed his son by the collar, “You sent the Black Company after me, didn’t you!”

“No, I did not,” Fawkes said as he glowered but maintained his composure.

“Tristan is dead!” Hurvun said.

Felicity clapped her unseen and unheard hands, “Oooh, he’s being tricky! I love that.”

Fawkes let out a laugh, “Finally! The bastard child is out of my hair.”

Hurvun threw his son against the wall and pointed an accusatory finger, “You sicced those mercenaries on him, didn’t you! They cut him to pieces and smashed his brains in right in front of me!”

Fawkes got up from the ground and brushed off his robes, “Father, I am telling you now; I did not send anyone after you.”

“Stop playing pedantic, boy. Tell me true.”

Fawkes walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle as he stared into the flames and took a deep breath, “You asked if I sent them after you. I did not. I did not send them after you…but that half-breed bastard that somehow became a full-blooded Elf? Well, that’s a whole different matter.”

Hurvun unsheathed his blade and pointed the enormous sword at Fawkes, “I disown you. You are no son of mine.”

Fawkes let out a barking laugh, “Please, old man. I’m the only male heir you have now. Tristan is dead and gone by your own admission. Bertram was disowned because he dared chase some Drakonid tail off on an adventure, and Gisele is married off to another noble family.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Hurvun said with a smile. “Tristan, get out here.”

Fawkes’ face paled as Tristan dropped the spell, “You said he died!”

“I lied, boy. I have named Tristan my heir, and given him the mark of the family head for his crest.” Hurvun chuckled, “Now get the fuck out of my house.”

Fawkes grimaced and shouted out, “No! I refuse!”

Tristan heard movement behind himself, and saw the Black Company mercenaries who were guarding the gatehouse entering the foyer. He drew his sword, spun his crucible, and pushed the essence into his armor and sword. “Grandfather, we have company!”

“Deal with it, son.”

Fawkes let out a frustrated scream of hatred, “He is not your son! I am!”

Tristan moved to engaged the Black Company whilst Felicity flew up to the chandeliers hanging above the foyer that illuminated the space. She began blowing them out, which gradually draped the room in darkness. “You can see in the dark, they cannot!” she shouted.

Tristan moved forward with lethal intent, skewering one of the mercenaries through the heart before pulling the blade loose and slashing another across the throat. Two down, eight to go. A third was in the middle of the door, and Tristan charged him, stabbing forward with the blade and killing him with another stab to the heart, sending the man flying backward as Tristan stopped his momentum.

The other seven were approaching the patio, but stopped and drew weapons as their ally tumbled down. Tristan let his Disguise Form fade and scowled, “I am Tristan Anorox, heir to the Anorox family name. Leave, now.”

The mercenaries glanced at each other before all moving forth as one. Tristan slammed his fist into the patio floor, “Ich beschwöre eine Wand aus Eis herauf.” (I summon forth a wall of ice). He willed the walls to form a single hallway from the door, down the patio steps, and out to the front lawn so that they would be forced to come at him one at a time. Blading his stance, he held his long, thin blade out like a rapier and waited for the first to approach.

The sudden use of essence-weaving caused three of them to run off. But the others seemed to jostle for their position in line as they awaited a turn to try and kill an elf. Tristan smiled under the armored faceplate as the first approach. Their weapons had far less reach than his, and he simply dispatched the first with a simple thrust that went under his guard and impaled him through the stomach. Pulling his blade back, the man was pushed to the back of the queue.

The others looked at each other after seeing the ease at which Tristan had greviously wounded the man, and Tristan let his hatred of his father come through his voice. “Flee or die. Two options. Pick one.”

The men turned and fled, picking up their injured companion but leaving the dead ones. Tristan returned to the foyer and heard the sounds of combat in the study. Running over, he saw that his father and grandfather were exchanged in a heated duel. His father had a fire poker in his hands, and his grandfather was wielding a smaller dagger as the large, two-handed blade was too small for the space.

I can’t get in there without risking injuring grandfather, Tristan thought as he stood, helpless to help unless his grandfather moved away. But he was worrying for no reason, as his grandfather got a good slash in on Fawkes that cut across the throat, sending the man reeling backward, gurgling as he floundered.

Hurvun looked over at Tristan, grabbed his sword off the ground, leaned it against the wall of the foyer, and walked over to the young dragonslayer. “Good job, son. I’m sorry your father had to die, but, well, he was no longer a part of our family.” The man frowned, “I did not know that he disowned and disinherited Bertram…and I would ask that while I clean up this mess, you go out and find him. Bring him home.”

Tristan nodded and Hurvun pulled him in for a hug, “Of course, grandfather.” He closed his eyes, “I’ll do anything you ask.”

“You’re my son, now. More of a son than Fawkes ever wa-”

“Tristan!” Felicity shouted. “Watch out!”

Hurvun’s face screwed up in pain and he let out a gasp. Tristan also felt a horrible pain spread through his stomach and was able to turn his head enough to see Fawkes Anorox holding his grandfather’s blade as he pulled it out. His neck was covered in red, and Tristan saw the shattered remains of a vial on the ground in the study behind him. A healing elixir? Tristan thought as his grandfather sagged in his grip.

Fawkes let out a barking laugh, “You fucking old bastard! No one disowns me! And now…no one will believe you. My word will be truth.” He looked at Tristan and growled, “You’ll die soon enough, bastard. Then I’ll take the symbol from your nec-”

Tristan let out a scream of rage, hatred, sorrow, and anguish. He felt his crucible spinning faster than it ever had before. He felt the cool expand through his whole body, mixed with a heat that surged through his blood and felt like it was setting him on fire from the inside. Smoke, ice, and flame poured out of him, and Fawkes stepped away as Tristan clutched his grandfather’s corpse. The flames began to lick across his body before the cold immediately doused them.

Tristan looked up at his father, the man who scorned him for over half of his life. The person who sent mercenaries to kill him, told assassins about his mother’s lineage resulting in her death, and never cared about him as his child. “I’ll fucking kill you!” he screamed as he stood up and took a shaky step forward. But, he had to put his blade into the ground and lean forward on it as he clutched his stomach wound.

Fawkes chuckled, “That’s a grievous wound. Bastard.”

Felicity flew up to Tristan – unseen – and spoke rapidly. “Helmet back, mouth open. Now!”

Tristan let the essence cease to the head portion of the armor, and the helmet receded. He opened up his mouth, and began gulping down as Felicity poured three healing elixirs down his throat. He felt the heat settle in his stomach and tried to focus on the essence around his stomach. I need to stop the bleeding.

Fawkes kicked the sword out of Tristan’s grip and it went clattering to the side. “I will enjoy killing you. I can always have more children with a real woma-” He reeled back in pain as Felicity clawed at his face – missing his eyes but gouging gashes in his cheeks as he went reeling back.

“Hurry up, Tristan!” she shouted.

He put his fist against the bottom of the gash at the base of the cut. “Ich beschwöre eine Wand aus Eis herauf.” (I summon forth a wall of ice). Letting the smallest amount of essence flow into his fist, he felt a cool, soothing chill as his stomach wound firmed up from being sealed over by the tiny ice wall. Standing up, he recovered his sword and pushed essence into the top of the armor, manifesting his helmet again. “Now, Felicity!”

She pulled away, and Fawkes dashed towards the kitchen. Tristan glanced at his grandfather’s body, “Put him in the storage dimension! I’m going after him!” She gave him a little salute before doing so.

Tristan ran after his father; through the kitchen and scullery, up and out the cellar doors as he turned in the open space to face Tristan. “Father! I’m going to kill you for what you did!”

“You can try, mongrel bastard.” Fawkes quaffed down another healing elixir and his face was cured almost instantly. “Come and taste my steel.”

Tristan dashed forward and stabbed, which was deflected by the flat of Fawkes’ stolen sword. The man pushed forward with his blade along Tristan’s edge, and the young dragonslayer had to duck as the sweeping blow was aimed at his torso. After getting under the sweep of the blade, he moved forward and shoved his shoulder into Fawkes’ chest, pushing him off guard as he brought his sword up for another stab.

Fawkes parried the stab and returned with a riposte; stabbing forward with the large blade. Tristan batted it to the side with his gauntlet, and pushed essence into his cloak. “Kneel and freeze!” he shouted out with rage as the Thrice Command spell went off.

Fawkes squinted and growled, “That won’t work on me! I drank demon dragon blood!” He rushed forward and cut across Tristan’s guard, forcing the young dragonslayer to back up.

Felicity came flying up and circled around, “I can’t get a good opening.”

“Storage! I need my other weapon!”

Fawkes looked at Tristan with anger mixed with curiosity, “What in the fuck are you talking about?”

Felicity opened up the storage dimension and dropped the maul directly on top of Fawkes. The man was hit on the shoulder and let out a scream of pain as he backed away. Tristan sheathed his blade and ran forward, grabbing the maul before it finished falling, and swung it in a wide arc. Fawkes barely got the flat of his blade in the way.

Tristan pulled back and screamed out as he hammered the guard over and over, yelling between swings. “You hated me since I was born! Before I manifested my heritage! Well guess what? I’m a full-blooded Elf now. And I will carry on the Anorox legacy!” Each bash continued to push his father back further and further, forcing the man to lose footing until eventually he was pushed off balance.

Tristan used that moment drop prone, spinning out with a kick that took away his father’s footing and sent him crashing down to the grass. Tristan scrabbled over, drew his knife, and stabbed down into the man’s torso over and over again, screaming out his hatred. “I hate you! You don’t deserve life!”

Fawkes tried to gurgle out a response, but he stilled and went silent as the light left his eyes and his body went limp. Tristan kept stabbing, feeling tears streaming down his face as his hands grew slick with blood.

Felicity tapped him on the shoulder, “He’s dead. People are coming. We have to run. Now!”

Tristan was sucking in breaths and fished around in his father’s pockets, finding another healing elixir. He uncorked the glass vial and quaffed it down. His whole body was filled with a flush of warmth, and the ice on his stomach was pushed out onto the grass as his flesh mended. Highest quality, he thought as he stood up. Grabbing the maul and his grandfather’s sword, he put those into the storage dimension, giving a quick glance over his grandfather’s corpse before turning away. I’ll bury him later.

He ran for the wall on the edge of the estate, clambering up and over before running through the apple orchard. He did not go talk to the kindly, older neighbor – instead going to the stables, unlocking the two destrier’s from their pens, and quickly saddled both up. He left behind the bits and bridles, instead grabbing each gently by the side of the head and pulling them close. “Listen, you two. It’s going to be a long, long ride. I’ll ride one of you at a time, and when you get tired of carrying me, let me know, and I’ll swap. Okay? Just nudge my leg or buck up a bit. Got it?”

Both horses nodded, and Tristan led them both outside before mounting the one he had been riding the whole trip. Spurring the horse into a canter, he fled the countryside estates and raced across the shadow-dappled landscape.

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