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. “Verhoa minut hunnulla, joka maastouttaa minut.” (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 female 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 woman gulped and pointed, “Th-the s-study,” she whispered out as she 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. The mongrel that dared embarrass me in front of the cour-”

  Hurvun unsheathed his blade and pointed the enormous sword at Fawkes, prompting Tristan’s father to raise his hands. “I disown you. You are no son of mine.” Hurvun’s voice was filled with a deep resolve and a hint of regret.

  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 looked at Tristan, “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.” He turned back to Fawkes, “Now get the fuck out of my house, boy. I disinherit you. Leave and go beg your daughter for sanctuary.”

  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. I’m going to punish this boy.”

  Fawkes let out a frustrated scream of hatred, “He is not your son! I am!” In a swift motion he threw a small, metal dart that impacted Hurvun’s neck – nicking the skin. The older dragonslayer did not even let out a grunt of pain – he simply brushed the dart aside, sheathed his too-large-for-the-space great sword, and drew his dagger before advancing.

  Tristan had to tear his attention away as he moved to engage 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 beschw?re 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 approached. 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, clutching at his stomach wound that dripped viscous ichor.

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

  The men turned and fled, picking up their injured companion but leaving the dead ones. Tristan returned to the foyer and saw more of the mercenaries approaching the study from a back room – probably sleeping in between shifts – armed and armored. “Hey!” he shouted, hoping to distract them from the sounds of frantic combat, grunting, and cursing in the study. “Over here!”

  The Black Company mercenaries rushed Tristan, and he was pressed from the front. Ten combatants jostled for a position to swing at him, and he was only able to block two-thirds of the blows directed his way. His armor took quite a beating, and he could feel the slam of his armor impacting his skin and muscle. Going to be bruised tomorrow, he thought as he was able to find an opening and stab one of the men through the guts, sending him reeling back.

  Felicity flew down from behind, having grabbed a fire poker from the large hearth in the main hall, and slammed one of the men in the back of the head – dropping him instantly. This prompted a few of the mercenaries to turn around, and Felicity stuck out her tongue before blowing a raspberry and turning invisible.

  Tristan used that moment of confusion to dispatch another one of his foes, but he slipped on a bloody patch and his footing faltered for a moment. Enough for one of the mercenaries to bring an axe horizontally into his stomach; hitting the already-dented armor and slicing deep into his skin and muscle. He let out a gasp of pain. Spinning his crucible, he vented his essence to force his foes back with a blast of icy wind.

  “Helmet back, mouth open, and chug!” Felicity ordered. Tristan let the essence fade from his mouth, dipped his head back, and drank down the copious elixirs that Felicity had poured down his gullet. Swallowing it greedily, he felt the aches slightly lessen and his stomach did not bleed as heavily.

  The mercenaries still circled around him – six of them at this point, as Felicity had taken out another without Tristan noticing, harried as he was. “Run from me!” he shouted out as he channeled essence into his cloak and used the stored Thrice Command. The mercenaries, as one, fled to the back of the manor where Tristan knew a servant entrance was located.

  Shifting his attention to the study, he saw his grandfather fighting sluggishly – using a dagger against Fawkes’ short sword that he had produced from gods-knows where. What’s going on? Tristan thought. But that question was answered a split-second later as he saw a deep, pulsating, purple and green all around Hurvun’s neck. Poison! But he drank a poison dragon’s blood. It must be really potent. “Felicity! Panacea elixir!” Tristan charged forward, towards his father, to intercept.

  But he was too late to stop a fatal blow. He let out a scream of rage and sorrow as he saw the strike headed right for Hurvun’s neck. Fawkes lanced out with a piercing stab, and the elderly dragonslayer – weakened from whatever poison Fawkes had used on the dart – was impaled through the neck in-between the collarbone and his trunk. Blood fountained up in a purple and green geyser, and Tristan felt his essence crucible spin faster and faster as his emotions poured out of him in an unbridled torrent. He screamed his rage, his fury, at the man who fathered him for striking a vital injury against his surrogate father.

  Then, he felt a deep, cutting pain along the back of his leg. Spinning around, he saw one of the mercenaries that Felicity had brained had gained consciousness and chopped out at his leg. The armor caught the blow, but the metal was crushed inward and caused injury nonetheless. Tristan lashed out with a sweeping strike, lopping the man’s head off. By the time he looked up, his father had vanished.

  “Tristan! The kitchen!” Felicity shouted. “I’ll get gramps!”

  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 he began to chase his father through the manor, through the kitchens, out the cellar, and into the brisk, night air. “I’ll fucking kill you!” he bellowed.

  Fawkes wheeled around, throwing the short sword aside. During his flight, he had grabbed his dragonslaying blade – an enormous, two-sided great sword just like Hurvun’s. “You can try, mongrel. Come and taste my steel.”

  Tristan dashed forward and stabbed, which was deflected by the flat of Fawkes’ 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; piercing 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, “Enchantment just like your bitch mother!” He rushed forward and cut across Tristan’s guard, forcing the young dragonslayer to back up. “She tried to thrall me to her whims!” he slashed, and Tristan blocked the wild, horizontal swing. “Why do you think I put that fucking collar on her!”

  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 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!” Clang! “Before I manifested my heritage!” Slam! “Well guess what?” Crack! “I’m a full-blooded Elf now.” Bang! “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; dropping prone, spinning out with a kick that took away his father’s footing and sent him crashing down to the grass. He stood over the man and raised the hammer on high. “You don’t deserve life!” Slam! The sound of meat squelching into a cavity permeated the air as Fawkes’ eyes went wide. “You were never a father!” Slam! Another swing that pulverized his father’s groin. “And now you die!”

  Fawkes tried to gurgle out a response, but he said nothing as Tristan brought the maul down on his head, exploding the man’s skull all over the grass. He kept swinging, over and over, indenting the ground.

  Felicity tapped him on the shoulder, “He’s dead. People are coming. We have to run. Now! I flew back inside, found his armor, and got all of gramps’ stuff. Come on!”

  Tristan was sucking in breaths and glanced aside as he saw his father’s Greatsword vanish into Felicity’s pocket dimension along with the maul he had let slip from his grip, and Fawkes' body. “No evidence,” she muttered.

  He saw his grandfather’s body inside – the purple and black having receded as Felicity must have fed him a Panacea elixir, and the neck wound bandaged but still seeping red. “Did you give him-”

  “Everything we had left,” she said bitterly. “Now we have to flee. Hurry!”

  Tristan 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.