Day 17, 18 & 19 - 26nd November 2025
New word count total is 17137, an increase of 4109 since the last blog post.
Writing Chapter 4 has been an interesting experience. In many ways it was both much shorter and at the same time much longer than I originally planned. The first section involves Tristan and the child emerging from a magical portal, now far from the Capitol, only to find themselves in a ghost town. The rebellion has already passed through this once quiet little trading post town, and left nothing in its wake. All the people who did not join the revolutionaries are dead, and everything that could possibly supply an violent mob of peasants has been seized and carried away. It's very much a ghost town.
It's meant to be an interlude in the story. A quiet moment for both the characters and the reader to relax after all the violence and battle that took place at the Capitol. It's also supposed to give a reader a better sense of who Tristan and the prince are, as well as begin laying the foundation for what will quickly become a familial bond.
But unfortunately I'm not very good at writing mundane scenes that carry emotional weight, at least not when I'm trying to write as many words as I can as fast as I can. So after a few pages of peace and quiet we're back to the action again. This time with Tristan having to contend with bandits instead of thousands of disgruntled townfolk.
I actually felt very funny writing this chapter, because halfway through I was very tempted to just erase it all and start over. There's this whole scene where Tristan has to remain hidden from these bandits who are looting the town for wine and other indulgences, only for the apprentice mage to inevitably be discovered. But just as I was almost finished writing the sequence I realised I had made a massive error.
Sure, having an unprepared mage hiding from bandits has some dramatic tension, but how much more tense would the situation have been if I had been smart enough to have Tristan take the child with him? I can picture it now. A young man cowering in a kitchen pantry, peeping out through a crack in the wooden door, unable to move for fear of disturbing the toddler, who could give away his position and ruin everything just by crying?
I feel like I should slap myself over the back of the head for not writing it that way from the beginning.
Read it for yourself and see if you agree with me...
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Following the incident in the tavern, Tristan relocated. While he had still seen no signs of human life since setting foot in Whisperwood, logic dictated that such a settlement would not remain abandoned for long. There would be survivors, refugees, bandits, revolutionaries, any one of which could ride into town at any given moment. With a screaming child to take care of, Tristan could not risk so much noise drawing the wrong kind of attention. A small abandoned cottage on the outskirts of town became his new hideout and base of operations, if one could call a building inhabited by a child and mage as such. Located far from the edge of town and half-concealed within the secluded woods that dominated the west side of the city, it was as good a place as any to sit, wait, and observe.
Not that he had nothing to do. In fact it was very much the opposite. While most of his efforts went to tending to the prince, he used the few hours in which the child slept to great advantage. The first priority was to disable the magic circle in the centre of town, the squat black stone building in which he had first arrived. No one else had attempted to open a portal since his arrival, but Tristan honoured his master’s final wishes all the same, disengaging the runes that had been carved into the black stone structure, one by one by one. The opals, though smaller than those built into the Skybridge, were still substantial, and the mage apprentice took every precaution in removing them. Hesitant to destroy such powerful magical catalysts, he buried them in the woods, under the largest oak tree for many miles. He only hoped he would one day be able to retrieve them.
Next came supplies. Though the packs he had been given upon leaving the Capitol were loaded with rations, water, and medicine, such supplies would not last long unless he supplemented it by hunting or scavenging. Considering he was hopeless with a bow and had never snared so much as a rabbit, he decided that scrounging would have to be his method for now.
Using his familiar to scan the city from above, the apprentice mage was able to draw a basic map of the city and highlight points of interest that were likely to contain the goods and materials that he needed. His first few attempts to find food or spices were a complete waste of time. It was although the city had been stripped of anything that could possibly fill one’s belly. Even the livestock had been rounded up and forced out of the city, their footprints still obvious even to somewhere with no talent in the art of the woodcraft. What little remained was more often than not spoiled or rotten, though not all was lost. With the right spells and a small prism of amethyst he had stored in his bag, he could rejuvenate the food… to a point. The result, while nourishing, was not particularly appetising, and Tristan dared not overuse such arcanery. Cast a spell with a catalyst too many times too quickly, and the focus would degrade, eventually becoming useless all together.
Still, that didn’t mean his magic wasn’t useful in other ways. By locating items of a similar nature to what he was looking for, it was not hard to prepare a tracking spell. With a little bit of salted meat and some magic he was able to craft himself akin to a compass, the piece of park guiding him to a hidden cellar beneath a house on Molvard Street, cleverly disguised beneath a mat in the pantry. The larder there was well stocked and preserved, and bolstered his stores considerably.
There was also the matter of outside interference. While he never spotted anyone directly, Tristan found himself going absolutely still as heard the creak of a floorboard, or the clatter of tin being knocked down onto the floor. Was he really alone in this city? But then why had they not revealed themselves? For all the efforts Tristan had made to be quiet, anyone who was skilled in stealth and observation would have quickly been able to hone in his presence. It made no sense, and so he tallied up such sounds to his own nerves and paranoia.
But then on the third day Tristan was interrupted by others, ones who did not slink or hide in the shadows, but rather who rode openly on thundering hooves. So used to the eerie quiet of this ghost town, the apprentice mage almost didn’t realise what he was hearing until he was almost too late, concealing him in a nearby house as the riders came barrelling down the main road.
There were fifteen of them in total, at least as far as he could tell. Peeking from between a crack in the wooden planks that formed the house’s wall, he watched, curious and apprehensive, as these new strangers formed up near the town’s water fountain. They were a motley crew, wearing no uniform and flying no banner. They wore a variety of clothing, including mismatched armour, and wielded a variety of weapons, including swords, axes, daggers, and even a couple of crossbows. They’re lack of discipline and coordination had Tristan name them bandits, and his suspicions were proven correct.
“Eugene, Tomantha, watch the horses. Everyone else spread out and fill out our list. You know what to look for.” One man called, with a beard and wearing tricorn hat, seemingly taken from a dead officer, for it was still stained with old blood, a sign of its violent history. Notably their leader did not join the others in their search, insteading a sip from his flash before ambling in the direction of the mass graves to the north.
Tristan grimaced as he watched the men spread out, sickened by how callously this group began to ransack the place, kicking open doors and overturning furniture as they looted anything of value they could find. He did not make the connection that for the past few days he had been the one scavenging and plundering the Whisperwood. The difference was in the motivation, he would have argued.
Still, this presented a problem. His magic was formidable, and under the right circumstances he was certain he could best these thieves and killers, but so many things could go wrong. With the men spread so thinly, it would be impossible to take them all out at once, and survivors could easily stalk him or escape and return with reinforcements. However, if he failed the act he might well find himself engaging in battle with these men anyway, and under less favourable circumstances. And there was the prince’s safety to consider. Right now the bandits seemed to be content pillaging the most central buildings, but who knew how long he had before they began eyeing up the buildings out on the edges of the city. If they stumbled upon the homestead he had been using as a base then all would truly be lost.
But for now it was best to just wait, watch, and listen. He was safe for the moment, and that meant time and the element of surprise was on his side. Best to remain where he was and see just how this situation played out.
It was an exhausting tense vigil he held, having to remain aware of all the strangers’ positions as they picked the bones of the town clean, constantly looking this way and that, remaining very still, very quiet, aware that even the slightest sound might give him away. When he caught a glimpse of one of the scavengers heading towards his current hiding place, he nearly tripped over his own feet as he crouch-walked over to the back door, carefully tip-toeing down the backstreets, alert for the sounds of any others that might sniff him out. Two more times he had to adjust his position, as the bandits entered and search houses seemingly at random, moving backwards and forwards, sometimes one group inadvertently searching a building another group had already cleared, seemingly by accident. There was no coordination, no plan, no cohesion. Just men taking what they wanted as if it were their right. After all, who here was going to stop them?
Hours passed, the midday sun transitioning to afternoon, and from then into twilight. Inside Tristan bristled. Just how much longer were these men going to spend here in this forsaken place? Perhaps he would have been better off fleeing while he had the chance…
And then it happened. Calamity.
It began with hooting and hollering, and the sounds of firewood being gathered nearby. Then the sounds of corks being popped and bottles being opened. Clearly the group had found a stash somewhere, and we're now gathering in the main street to enjoy the fruits of their labour. It was quickly becoming clear to Tristan that these people weren't going anywhere, at least not tonight. He quickly decided that it was time for him to leave. The risks of staying here far outweighed the risks of slinking away into the night.
But Tristan’s troubles were just beginning.
No sooner had he crept out from his bolt hole than he heard the sound of more hooves against stone, a second group riding into town. They came so quickly and suddenly that the apprentice mage had no choice but to crouch behind a nearby drain pipe, there literally being nowhere else for him to go. As he pressed himself up against the cold rusty metal, Tristan was troubled to hear the riders calling out in greeting, and the scavengers responding in kind. Evidently these two groups were familiar with each other, and seemed intent on celebrating the night together. Peeking around the corner, the apprentice mage counted them, and at quick glance at least it appeared that the group had doubled their numbers. Some of them were dancing around the bonfire now, decorated in necklaces, rings, and other fine jewellery, taking swigs straight from the bottle. Clearly they were having a grand old time.
Satisfied that they would be too distracted to notice him sneaking away into the night, but then heard heavy footsteps coming in his direction.
Backing further into the alley, Tristan quietly opened the backdoor to the building next to him, seeking an escape. That turned out to be the worst possible move.
Stepping into what had once been a post office, the apprentice mage creeped further back as the heavy footsteps came closer. Realising that this individual, whoever they might, was not going away, and was in fact following his path into the building, Tristan began to panic. With the no other doors or windows to flee through, he looked around for cover. Seeing a nearby storage closet, he took three quick steps over to it, opened the door (thankfully its hinges were well-oiled) and slipped aside, crowding in amongst the paper, inkpots, quills, and jars of wax. Appropriate wares for a local post office.
He didn’t have much time to inspect them, for a moment later the door opened and the bandit stepped into the building.
He was young, certainly not yet 18, and that was perhaps the reason he had been saddled with this chore while his seniors drank and laughed. Carrying half a dozen saddlebags, the boy could just barely be seen over the top of the cotton and burlap sacks in his arms, staggering over to a nearby bench and dumping his cargo all over the wooden surface, revealing a mousey haired boy with greasy brown hair and pox-marked skin. Wiping some sweat and dirt from his cheeks, the boy took a moment to stretch, looking over his shoulder as if listening to the sounds of the revelry taking place outside. Then they went to work.
Separating the saddlebags, they began to extract some of the goods held within. Sleeping bags, wash clothes, rations, water bottles, extra clothes, boots, flint and steel. Setting up a little nest for each traveller in a different corner, it was clear that this was a well-rehearsed ritual that had been practiced many times. Tristan could only watch with barely contained dismay, it quickly becoming obvious that this was not going to be a short stay. This boy was prepping bedding and amenities, the bandits were going to be staying right in this very room. Moving away from the peephole he had been using to spy on the young bandit, the apprentice mage began to rummage through his spell pouch, looking for the right catalyst or implement that could get him out of this situation. Would a piece of Astrophyllite be enough to let him phase through the wall behind him? Or some selenite to put this boy to sleep and sneak past him…
Unfortunately in his haste and panic his usually dextrous hands were not as deft as they usually were. A slight shift in his posture, a clumsy untying of the ribbon that held together his spell pouch, and before Tristan could even realise what had happened a number of stones were clattering down onto the floor, the apprentice mage cursing silently at his error.
The noise echoed throughout the room. With the sound of the party distant, there was no hiding or disguising how loud a sound he had just made. Immediately the sounds of things been organised outside ceased, the boy clearly hearing the noise and going silent, straining as if to better hear what had caught his attention. Knowing he had just given himself away, Tristan began to rummage faster, more haphazardously, uncaring for how he threw his carefully organised collection into disarray.
The sound of a weapon being drawn, the approach of slow careful footsteps that grew closer and closer to the storage closet he was hiding in. Tristan could also picture the boy’s pox-marked face, full of fear and paranoia, clutching a dagger with a white-knuckled grip, his blue eyes attempting to bore a hole through that wooden plank door with their intensity.
The door flew open. The small dark storage closet suddenly flooded with light. A half-formed shout of alarm already bellowed from the boy’s throat.
Right before the bandit was engulfed in a river of flames, the magically conjured fire swallowing the boy and stampeding out into the room beyond. The bags and belongings that been so meticulously spaced out just moments before were now fuel for a great fire. The sorting booths, postboxes, and all the other vestiges of the small post office were gone in an instant, a tinderbox waiting to explode. The bandit fell back, stumbling about and clutching at their face, trying and failing to scream. Tristan did not delay. Seeing an opening he barged past the enemy he had so terribly maimed, closing his eyes so as not witness any more of the boy’s agony.
There had been nothing subtle about the spell had cast. Within seconds the whole building was filled with fire and smoke, all the paper and wood just more fuel for the flames. Stumbling outside of the building, Tristan ran through the backstreets, fleeing from the shouts of alarm and dismay as the other bandits witnessed what was supposed to be their sleeping hall being completely incinerated. Coughing and spluttering, casting aside his singed outer layer of clothes, there was nothing careful or precise about Tristan’s retreat. He cared only for getting as far away as fast as he could. No longer a mage, simply a man fleeing for his life.
Navigating the dark streets, Tristan ran for what felt to him like an hour, though in truth he had completely lost track of time. He only stopped to catch his breath when he saw the familiar homestead of him, though only for a moment, for just a few seconds later he heard the loud cries of the prince echoing from the house and across the field. The apprentice mage instantly felt shame for being away so long, even with all that happened. He couldn’t imagine how the poor child must feel, being left alone in a cold dark house.
Opening the door, Tristan swept into the room, lighting a lantern as he closed the door behind him. He immediately went to the prince’s side, humming a tune as he tried to calm the poor exhausted child, still screaming and crying. To the surprise of all involved, Tristan found the boy holding onto him, burying his face in the man’s shirt. He supposed he must be a much more welcome sight after everything they had been through.
For a few minutes he stood there, rocking the child back and forth, simply enjoying this small moment of peace. But it was not to last.
Something caused Tristan to approach the farm window, looking out into the dark fields beyond. He frowned as he saw flickering lights, too close to be the fire he had started in Whisperwood. Leaning in closer, he could saw the lights dip and bob, moving about in a steady pattern. Torches, torches that were being carried by men, men who were coming in this direction. Evidently his escape had not been as clean as he would have liked, his pursuers had followed him here.
The apprentice mage cursed. He had led the bandits right here, right to his charge. This was the exact opposite of what he had wanted to happen. The only choice was to flee.
He moved as though he were in a dream. His small collection of supplies were gathered, his extra set of clothes fetched from where they had been drying near the window. In 30 seconds he had his pack in one hand and a sniffling infant in the other, the wooden cage holding his familiar strapped against his back. Time to go.
Stepping outside, Tristan ran to the shed where had been keeping his pack animal. A mule of poor breeding, the apprentice mage was about to do one of the most terrifying things he had ever done in his life. Ride an unsaddled animal through the middle of the night while armed men hunted him.
The beast resisted. Used to hauling supplies but not people, the poor animal did not understand what was being ask of it, shaking its head this way and that was Tristan tried to climb on top of it. Finally the usually placid animal relented, and the two of them were on their way. Carefully guiding the creature up the trail towards the main road, Tristan took one look back at the up until recently abandoned town of Whisperwood, and the slowly approaching riders, and quickly urged the mule onwards, into the night.
“Horses.” Tristan muttered. “May the Seven Gods protect me from ever doing this again.”
It quickly became apparent the difference between mules and horses, and why one the mount of choice when it came to those who chose to ride such animals. The pack beast did not gallop, but rather trotted, a respectable pace that was faster than he could have ran with his present burden, but far from the speeds he had seen a thoroughbred mare.
And so it was no surprise when he heard someone shout a challenge from behind. The bandits had caught up with them.
Tristan shouted and jeered, urging the mule forward while he pulled out a wand. He had hoped to avoid further death today, but it would seem universe was once again forcing him to choose between someone else’s life and his own. Gripping the bar of iron, his eyes hardened, so be it.
A ruby in his hand, Tristan muttered words of power as he rode, having to start over three times as the uneven pace of his mount caused him to bounce and jolt in place. The whole time he heard the sound of hoofbeats and cries to go faster, coming closer and closer. The bandits made no attempt to convince him to come to a stop or otherwise cease the chase, eyes wild in the dark. After what he had done to one of their number they were out for blood. There could be no negotiating with that.
But that just made the apprentice’s mage decision easier. And as the four riders behind him closed to 50 feet, then 30, he unleashed his magic.
The first lightning bolt went awry. His mule running over a small bump in the road, Tristan missed entirely, the electricity arcing up harmlessly into the sky, though the mere presence of the spell was enough to give his pursuers pause, clearly unsure about whether to continue the assault.
He didn’t give them the chance to make up their minds. A second lightning bolt was loosed upon the world, this one taking the closest bandit in the chest. The man was thrown from the back of his horse, disappearing back into the darkness, as he landed with a sickening crack. His steed did not fare much better. The animal smoked and convulsed, screaming as its body briefly held more electricity than the eye of a storm. The horse collapsed to the ground, tongue lulling from its mouth.
Tristan did not have time to either enjoy or bemoan his victory. Whatever hesitation the riders had had before, his spell had stripped them of it. Perhaps the man he had killed had been particularly well liked, or perhaps they thought the only way they lived was if he died. Spurring their horses to new speeds, one drew his bow and arrow while the others brandished their sword and club.
A third bolt of lightning coiled into existence, taking out another rider and his steed. But before he could strike again an arrow plunged into his mule’s flank, the creature unleashing a terrible scream as blood flowed down its speckled hide. A second arrow nicked Tristan’s arm, tearing his sleeve causing blood to trickle down his fingers. As the rider with the sword closed in, Tristan found himself having to duck and dodge as the bandit swung wildly. The man coming in close, the apprentice mage raised his wand in a last ditch attempt to defend himself, the incredibly valuable catalyst exploding in a flash of magic that briefly stunned both riders, the tool destroyed in exchange for Tristan’s life.
For a few seconds the riders parted, both clutching their eyes and ears at the brief but powerful thunderclap the destroyed magical artefact had created. But Tristan’s reprieve was strictly temporary. More arrows were loosed, and the sword-wielding bandit was already closing the distance for the third and final time. The apprentice mage would need more than luck to survive this encounter.
Fortunately what had happened with the wand had brought to mind an idea. A plan that was desperate, stupid, and costly all at once. But with death inches away and there being no time to cast anything more than the most minor of magics, Tristan took action.
Grabbing one of his spell pouches, Tristan hurled into the face of his enemy, visibly wincing as the bag ruptured and dozens of tiny minerals and gems were scattered through the air, a small fortune of materials when it came to magecraft, something he was likely to never see again in this life. And as a rainbow of crystals scattered through the air, Tristan cast a burst of force. A weak inconsequential thing that did nothing to harm the bandit, but that shattered just a few of the gemstones he had so carelessly thrown.
The destruction of these stones set off a chain reaction that soon set off every gemstone Tristan had placed in that bag. The air was filled with sparks, swallowed by mist, entrenched in darkness, and filled with half-formed illusions all at the same time. The dirt road beneath became mud, the grass to either side hardened and became glass. A nearby tree suddenly took on the texture and shape of a dozen different wild animals, and screamed as its chimera body flopped to the ground, too malformed to stand and even breathe. These were just a few of the wild magics that Tristan’s desperate act had brought into being, the result of mana released without runes or instruction. A terrible cost. Archmage Ferdianx would never have approved.
But in the end it did the job. The bandits yelled as their horses became bogged down in the mud, the thick treacle like substance coming up their horses flanks, trapping them while Tristan made his escape into the night. The man could not help but laugh, his nerves and relief both too much to express in words.
At least until another arrow took him in the shoulder.
For a few moments Tristan did not even realise what had happened. He felt no pain, just a dull heavy thud, and a strange weight in his left arm. Turning his head, the apprentice mage nearly bit his tongue in half as he did so, pain suddenly flaring through his body as he tried to pull it out, the awkward angle only aggravating the wound. More arrows followed, the bandits loosing everything they had before their enemy rode out of range, seemingly more concerned about seeing their foe fall than to try and save themselves. Tristan wasn’t sure if they were remarkably brave or just incredibly foolish.
Their yells were drowned out by the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, and the screams of his own mount. Two more arrows were sticking out of the mule now, hardly fatal, but enough to bleed the animal, just as the arrows bled Tristan. As the beast began to limp, the apprentice mage reached into his one remaining spell components pouch, his bloodstained fingers trying to find something, anything, that could function as a focus for a heal spell. Such an effort was pointless, and he knew it. No mage had ever successfully managed to heal themselves of a mortal injury. The cost on the human inevitably caused the subject of the spell to collapse long before the spell was complete.
And so Tristan could nothing but continue to ride further into the night, holding the prince close to him, the young boy still safe in his sling. His only thought now was to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as he could. If he could just reach another village or maybe a crossroads, there was a chance that they might stumble across someone, anyone. If not in time to save his own life, then certainly in time to save the prince’s.
Their pace slowed further and further, until even the terror of being struck with more arrows was not enough to motivate the mule to take another step. The beast stopped, heaving for breath, before collapsing headfirst onto the road, Tristan just barely managing to stumble out of the way. He watched as the creature struggled to breathe, whinnying pitifully, clearly dying.
Tristan could do nothing to save the beast. He couldn’t even save himself. The only one he might still be able to save was the boy.
Gathering up his belongings, he began to slow. His steps slow but steady. He did not look back, but every now and then he thought he heard the distant sound of men calling out to reach other. Were his pursuers still looking for him even now?
Walking under the light of the moon, the apprentice mage’s vision began to blur, and he began to feel the cold more keenly than he ever had before. His legs and arms were shaking, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. The arrow remained protruding from his shoulder, the man too weak to even consider removing it.
How long he walked, he did not know. But finally he could walk no further. Slowly, so as to not disturb the child, he save down next to an old fence post, now overrun with weeds. Holding the prince close, he closed his eyes and waited for the end to come for him.
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