They spent the next week on the road, cutting through the Woodmaple Forest instead of traveling through town; Sander was likely a popular man in these parts and avoiding people seemed the best way to prevent unnecessary conflict.

The forest was on flat land, and the weather was warmer here than in the mountains, but the air was still crisp and cool with the changing of the seasons. Leaves of every shade of red and yellow hung from the trees and carpeted the ground, crackling under their horses’ hooves during the day and cushioning their sleep at night.

The question of whether Sander would hold his tongue hung over Sam like a hangman’s noose. But if Tristan stole more glances in her direction, the glances held no malice, so Sander must have kept quiet, at least for the time being.

In fact, Sander was a model prisoner: he never threatened escape and was unerringly cheerful. The only complaint he voiced was that Tristan wouldn’t let him fight off demon attacks, which grew more and more frequent the further west they traveled.

“I can help,” Sander insisted. “I feel so damned useless.”

“If you think I’ll allow you a weapon, you’ve lost your damned mind,” Tristan said.

It was an oft repeated exchange over the course of the week, and the outcome always remained the same. Sam could tell Sander was not used to sitting out a fight and did not enjoy being idle, but he (mostly) kept up his cheery façade. Sam, for one, was disappointed she didn’t get to see him in action. The High Commander’s skill in battle was legendary, and she wanted to know if Sander was of the same caliber. She doubted it.

It was on the eighth day after they had left Luca that a man on horseback came to meet them in the middle of the forest. His dark cloak and wide-brimmed hat were nearly identical to the High Commander’s man in Luca, his features as nondescript. The man raised his hand, deliberately curling his first two fingers to his thumb, and then reined his horse near theirs.

“Checking up on me?” asked Tristan with a frown.

“Just making sure you do your part.” The man’s gaze slid past Tristan and settled on Sander. “I’ll inform the High Commander of your success.”

“You do that,” said Tristan, his tone unfriendly. “Is that the only reason you came, or do you have another message to relay?”

“Nay,” said the man. “The High Commander is a few weeks behind you. He’ll find you at the Diamond Coast and will take Sander from your custody.”

“Did he say what his plans are for Sander?” Tristan asked.

The man fixed him with a level gaze. “He did not, and that is not for you or me to ask.”

Tristan’s eyebrows rose at that. “I shall ask the High Commander whatever I please. Are we done here?”

“Aye,” said the man. “Good day, Paladin Lyons.” He tipped his hat in farewell and then galloped past them in a whirlwind of leaves.

As soon as the leaves had settled, Tristan spat on the ground. “Those men are slime,” he said. “They should be held to the same code of honor as the rest of us.”

“They’re not?” asked Sam.

Tristan shook his head. “They serve the High Commander but are given free rein to execute his orders however they see fit. Their only guiding principle is that the end justifies the means.”

“You sound like you disapprove,” Sander spoke up.

“I do,” said Tristan. “That surprises you?”

Sander shrugged. “It’s not an uncommon philosophy among men of war.”

Braeden, who hadn’t cast a friendly look in the Uriel leader’s direction since that first night after Luca, turned curious eyes on Sander. “And you? Are you not also a man of war?”

“Aye, among other things,” Sander said. “But it is not my philosophy either, and I hope it is not my men’s.”

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “Only moral conduct can produce a moral outcome. It’s why rules and law were created and it’s why they ought to be followed.”

“Oh, I disagree on that,” said Sander. “Sometimes doing the immoral thing is the moral thing to do. I would lie and cheat and steal to protect the ones I love.”

Sam and Braeden traded guilty looks, and then their eyes bounced apart. Sam’s cheeks burned, and Braeden’s face was flushed, too. Damn it, Sander.

“What know you of love? Your wife is dead,” Tristan said. Sam winced at the harshness in his voice. His sudden anger had come out of nowhere.

Red crept up Sander’s neck, and for once his chronic smile retreated. “Aye, she’s dead,” he snapped. “Not a day goes by that I forget it. But my capacity for love did not die at her graveside. I will love her always, and I would cheat the gods themselves in order to protect our daughter.”

“You have a daughter?” asked Sam.

Sander’s face softened. “Aye, she’s as beautiful as the day is long and as full of fire as her mama.”

Tristan passed his reins from hand to hand, and his mouth curved downward. “I didn’t know you had a child,” he said accusingly.

Sander laughed. “A child? Addie is a woman grown, not two years younger than you.”

“Who will care for her while you are...absent?” Tristan asked.

“As she reminds me daily, she needs no keeper, though she misses me when I am gone,” Sander said. “If I should meet an unfortunate end, I will be sad to leave her alone.”

It had not occurred to Sam that Sander was more to anyone than the leader of the Uriel. His grief for his late wife and fatherly love for his daughter did not fit with the image she had formed of him. Unease settled over her, and she questioned, for the first time, whether they had been right to follow the High Commander’s orders.

Tristan clucked at his horse. “Come, let’s go. I hadn’t realized the High Commander was so close behind us. I want to arrive at the Diamond Coast before him.”

Sam kicked her horse into motion. Still caught up in her unease, she called out to Tristan, “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“What’s odd?”

“You only wrote to the High Commander about Sander’s dinner invitation one fortnight ago. If he left shortly after he received your letter, he should be months behind us, not weeks.”

“He was probably already headed West. His responsibilities regularly take him away from the Center. I hope your misgivings are not the result of his influence.” Tristan jerked his thumb at Sander.

“I’ve said nothing,” said Sander.

It was true – after the first night, Sander had made no further attempts to persuade her to change her mind about the Uriel. If they talked, it was of small, inconsequential matters. Perhaps he had already shown all his cards and was biding his time. The man was an enigma.

Tristan picked up the pace of his horse – and Sander’s by default – and Sam and Braeden fell in line behind them. The forest flew by them in a whir, until the heavy canopy of trees thinned and finally ended. They were out in the open once more, at the very edge of what Sam thought to be a village, though there was no sign of chimney smoke in the darkening sky or fresh horse tracks besides theirs.

Tristan’s face was a grim mask, devoid of emotion. “Finchold," he said. "Home sweet home."

****

It had been more than ten years since Tristan had set foot in Finchold. The village was now abandoned, its human inhabitants replaced by wild ones, the land barren from neglect.

Tristan won his first fight and received his first kiss in Finchold. He stole puff pastries from the baker with his gang of friends, although it wasn’t really stealing since Master Croft made extra ones just for them. He danced around the Maypole during the Midsummer festival and tugged at Lynsey’s beribboned braids when her back was turned to him. He stood at his brother’s side when Danny pledged to cherish and honor his bride for all their lives.

Those were not the memories that replayed in his mind’s eye. He did not see the empty, colorless houses, the dried-up waterway or the sandy road that had lost its shape. Cruel images from the past were superimposed over the present, dark flashes of violence and chaos painting his world red. He saw bodies lying in the street where there were none and heard screaming where there was silence. The stench of death filled his nose and lungs. He thought he would choke with it.

He didn’t realize he had fallen to the ground until Sam’s hands closed around his shoulders. The world righted itself as Tristan blinked up at him. “What happened?”

Sam sagged backward, sitting onto his heels. “You tell me,” he said. “You froze like a statue and tipped over out of your saddle.”

Gods, how embarrassing. But Tristan saw no mockery in Sam’s expression, only concern. “I’m fine,” Tristan said, pulling himself to his feet.

“You fell off your horse,” Sam pointed out. “That’s not fine.”

“Let it be, Sam,” Braeden said from atop his horse. His hat hung around his neck on a string, and his peculiar eyes pierced into Tristan. In Braeden’s unguarded gaze, Tristan could see the same darkness that clouded his own.

“Your concern is flattering but unnecessary,” Tristan said. He climbed back onto his mare. “Let’s find lodging for the night. We’ll leave again on the morrow.” He didn’t want to stay in Finchold any longer than he had to.

The sight of his own house shocked him. From the outside, it looked the same as he always remembered it. The two storeys and triangular cross gables were topped by an uneven, sloping roof with slated eaves and a massive chimney. The wood framing of the house was exposed, filled in with beige wattle and daub and tall, narrow windows.

Tristan jumped off his horse and tested the old oak door, which swung open with a slight push. “We’ll stay here,” he said, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. “The stables are in a separate building around back.”

“How do you know that?” Sam asked.

“This is the house I grew up in,” Tristan said.

Once the horses were settled, Tristan returned to the front of the house. His right foot hovered over the doorway, but he did not enter. Braeden looked at him questioningly. “Sorry,” said Tristan. “Give me a moment. You go on ahead.”

Sucking air into his lungs, Tristan stepped over the threshold and into the house that had borne witness to his first fifteen years. He closed his eyes against the memories that assaulted him. It was no use – he saw blood, so much blood, trickling down pale, pale skin. Human bones that had been licked clean and discarded like the leavings of filleted fish. Flesh riddled with holes where sharp teeth had stabbed it. And then darkness.

He could still hear them in the dark. The screams had faded away until just one remained, and eventually it, too, stopped. The stomps of hooves and paws and claws sent vibrations through the walls and floors. Something shattered – glass, by the tinkling sound of it.

“Tristan!” A voice pulled him from far away. “Tristan!”

His name on Sam’s lips brought him back to the present. He took in his surroundings, noting the broken furniture in the front hall that had been pushed together into a corner. He touched long dead flowers, and they crumpled to dust beneath his fingers. “At least I managed to stay upright this time,” he said.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Sam.

“Perhaps I have,” Tristan said. He steeled his nerves. “I’ll show you to your bedrooms.” He led them to the second floor.

Sam threw himself backward onto the four-poster bed – Danny’s bed, and for one month, Maira’s, too. “Amazing,” Sam sighed. “I haven’t slept in a real bed in months.”

Tristan’s brother had died in that bed, and his blood still stained the mahogany panels. The sheets had been replaced, though – Tristan had seen to that before he left. He had cleaned everything before he left.

Sam said, “Your childhood home is really nice, Tristan. And here I thought you’d grown up a farmer, like Sander.”

“My father was Lord of the Manor,” Tristan said.

Sam located a pillow and fluffed it behind him, sending a layer of dust into the air. “So we should be calling you Lord Lyons.”

Tristan shook his head. “My brother would have taken over Father’s title, had he lived. And there’s nothing to lord over here anymore.”

Sam’s face fell. “I didn’t know your brother died. I’m sorry.”

Not just his brother; his brother’s wife and his parents too. All of Finchold had perished in a single night. Except him. “It was a long time ago.” It felt like yesterday.

Tristan tossed the boy a sword. “Sleep with this tonight, and be on guard. Braeden will be in the bedroom beside you and I’ll be right down the hall.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam said. “Goodnight.”

Tristan showed Braeden to his room – his own old bedroom – and took Lord Lyons’ master bedroom for himself and Sander. “You can have the bed,” he told Sander. He wasn’t showing kindness towards the Uriel; he just couldn’t sleep in that bed. He couldn’t sleep anywhere underneath this roof. If demons attacked, this time he’d be ready for them.

“I don’t suppose you’d untie my wrists, too?” asked Sander.

“Not a chance.”

Sander sat down on the edge of the bed. “It was worth a shot.” After a pause, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Whatever it is that happened in this house. I know the look of a haunted man.”

Tristan leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll pass.”

“The telling of it releases the toxin, you know. I won’t think you weaker for it,” said Sander.

Tristan’s temper rose. Who was this man to lend his ear without his asking? Perhaps Sander had never been a prisoner before, and Tristan had certainly never before taken one, but he was damned well sure this charade of compassion was not the norm. “Why should I want to talk to you about it?”

“I think I’m more likely than most to understand,” Sander said. “I left the home my wife and I shared because I couldn’t bear to be in it without her. My daughter visits sometimes, to pay her respects, but I haven’t gone back since she died.”

Tristan sank onto the carpeted floor, his legs suddenly tired. “Look, I know your wife meant a lot to you--”

Sander’s eyes grew fierce. “She was my world, Tristan. And when she died, I stopped living. If it weren’t for Addie, I’d have given up right then and there.”

Sweat coated Tristan’s brow as buried memories resurfaced, and he swiped his hands against the carpet surreptitiously. “I didn’t witness a death or two, Sander. I witnessed a holocaust. I don’t see why you need me to retell it. The world knows what happened to Finchold ten years ago.”

“Aye, we all heard about Finchold, and Linmoor and Valfort too.” said Sander. “But the retelling is for your benefit.”

Tristan swallowed. “There’s not much to tell." He hesitated, and then the words spilled from his mouth, at first in starts and stops, and then in a torrent. "It was the dead of night when the demons came. I wasn’t asleep because I was fifteen and stupid, and I had it in my head that I was going to sneak out to meet friends." Tristan licked his lips, and continued in strained tones. "Maira caught me – that was my brother’s wife – and she brought me downstairs to the dining room so she could give me a proper setdown without waking the whole house.”

He swallowed again, shutting his eyes against the pain. “I heard Danny cry out first." He looked up at Sander. "My brother." He smiled weakly. "Complete shite at fighting. He was always rescuing me from whatever scrape I got myself into and bandaging up my knees and elbows, but he was utter rubbish with a sword. He had no chance, even if he’d kept a knife at his bedside.

“Maira and I rushed upstairs, or tried to. The entire hall was swarming with demons, twenty of them or more. I’d never even seen one before, but Maira had. She asked me if I had a knife, and I produced the one I’d tucked into my trousers. ‘They won’t die until you cut off their heads,' she told me. 'Remember that.’ I told Maira there were too many of them, that there was no way we could win. We needed to leave the house or they would kill us both. She refused: ‘I’m going to get Danny,’ she’d said.

“I confess I was a coward. I turned around to go back down the stairs with every intention of leaving. Maira could be a fool if she wanted to; I wanted to survive. But it was too late – the demons were on the first floor of the house, too, and were crawling up the stairs.

“Somehow, Maira and I managed to make it to Danny’s bedroom unscathed. We didn’t stop to fight; we pushed our way straight through. It didn’t matter. Danny was already dead. His corpse lay in the bed he shared with Maira. A demon – a horrible creature with the naked body of a human man and the head and tusks of a wild boar – knelt by Danny’s side, gnawing at his belly and intestines, grunting and snuffling like a pig.

“Maira grabbed the knife from my hands and ran at the demon. I don’t think she’d ever held a knife before except perhaps to clean it, but fear and anger made her strong. She put the weight of her body into the thrust of her knife and drove it straight through the demon’s neck.

“It wasn’t the end of it though, not by half. Demons poured into the bedroom, attracted by the smell of blood and dying. Before I could react, Maira shoved me into a dark closet and closed the door.”

“The door had a small keyhole, and I put my right eye to it. The demons advanced on Maira, and she bravely held up the knife. She snarled at the bastards and swung her knife without art or practice.

“They got her, too, eventually, and she died slumped against my closet door. Her bloodied head blocked off my keyhole, and inside the closet was pitch black. But I could still hear the demons rip into her.

“I don’t know how long I stayed in that closet. I fell asleep at some point, after the screaming had stopped. Daylight filtered through the crack where the closet door met the wall. I pushed the door open with great effort and nearly swooned at the sight of my sister-in-law’s half-eaten carcass.

“The demons were gone, presumably because they’d killed every last living human except me. We had a large household, and none of my family or any of the servants had been spared. The dead were strewn about the house – a few demons, but mostly humans – and their faces and bodies were so mauled that I couldn't identify them.

“I was in shock, I think, but I had the sense to leave my house and go for help. But all of Finchold was much the same. Every home looked like mine, and dead bodies littered the street. The vultures had already come calling, gorging themselves with the demons’ leftovers.

“I stayed in my house another week before hunger forced me to leave. There was no food here, and the waterway was tainted with blood and excrement. So I packed up a few spare changes of clothes and my father’s sword and what little money I could scrounge up, and I left. This is the first time I’ve been back."

His story finished, Tristan looked over at Sander to gauge his reaction. The Uriel was silent, pity absent from his gaze. If he had to judge Sander’s expression, he’d characterize it as angry. “Say something,” said Tristan.

“How did you end up joining the Paladins, after that?” Sander asked.

“The High Commander found me in an alcove just east of Luca. He fed me and brought me back with him to the Center. He took me under his wing and saw that I received proper training. He has a knack for guessing at gifts, and he saw that I had talent for the sword.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Sander. His voice shook with fury. “Where were the Paladins on the night Finchold was attacked? Where were they when Linmoor and Valfort were decimated?”

“I don’t know,” said Tristan. “Other cities were attacked that night.”

“So it was decided that Finchold, Linmoor and Valfort weren’t worth the effort? Why? Because those towns are land rich and cash poor?”

“I don’t know,” Tristan repeated, gritting his teeth. “I was a boy when it happened, and the Paladins afforded me the opportunity to avenge my family. It was enough.”

“You’re a man now,” said Sander coldly. “It’s time to open your eyes and grow up.”

A/N: So...this chapter's a bit of a downer, eh? I'm not sure if I liked how the retelling of Tristan's story worked, so I'm open to suggestions. Did you find it interesting, or too much backstory? You know I love your comments, so please comment! And vote!

A/N #2: Also, if you are over the age of 16 and you like raunchy humor, check out my Paladin spoof "The Untold Restricted Stories"