To the southwest lies Three Rivers and Federation-controlled territory, Dan’Moread explained, while to the north and east are the Rim Mountains—which are also partially controlled by the Federation. The vast plains between Three Rivers and Greystone represent little in the way of strategic value, so the Federation has opted not to advance their efforts to bring them into compliance. The only non-Federation territories of note are across the Rydian Sea to the far west, and in the uplands to the northwest. Phinjo’s task takes us in a westerly direction, so it would seem that our purposes are at least temporarily aligned. We wish to avoid Federation persecution, and in order to do that we must travel in the direction Phinjo has pointed us.
“So we keep to this road until we get to the False River,” Randall mused, idly fingering the medallion around his neck. It was called a Flylrylioulen, and it had been instrumental in establishing the telepathic communication he and Dan’Moread now used. Phinjo had suggested it would somehow ‘awaken’ some of his blood’s hidden, latent gifts—gifts which, if his great grandmother was to be believed, might include some sort of precognition. “And we can decide what to do once we’ve reached this ‘structure’ where the tablet is supposed to be.”
Which means we have no choice in the matter at this particular juncture, she said in a decidedly irritable tone.
“I get it now,” Randall said knowingly, “you were content to let me ‘make the decisions’ because we can’t make any decisions just now.”
I would applaud you if I had hands, the sword said dryly.
“Yeah, yeah…” Randall grumbled, “nobody likes a smart-ass.”
Chapter II: The Glu-Trap
Mid-morning, 3-1-6-659
“We have secured the structure, Glu,” Tol’Jennin reported on bended knee after the pale, herculean Glu’Rada entered the strange keep. The keep was built beside a dry riverbed—the same riverbed across which he had seen in the Grey Blade’s vision. The river was nearly a thousand feet across, and it appeared that there had originally been a keep on either end of the bridge which spanned it. But even from this side of the river, it was clear that the other keep was little more than a pile of rubble.
This side’s keep, however, was in remarkably good condition. The roof alone was in such poor repair that it was less a shelter and more a deadly hazard. But the stone battlements, the four story main house’s stone walls, and the perimeter walls were all in what appeared to be working condition.
“Inhabitants?” Rada rasped, his voice a harsh whisper owing to an old wound to his throat.
“None,” Jennin shook his head. “There is sign of recent, but temporary activity in the main house ten days ago, likely from drifters and vagabonds.”
Rada swept the courtyard with a purposefully malevolent gaze, “We set the trap here. Well done, Jennin—already you exceed your predecessor.”
“Glu,” Jennin acknowledged with the proper respect before rising to his feet. “We have searched the ruins across the bridge; there is nothing of value there. The buzzards picked it clean long ago.”
“How many in your party?” Rada demanded after seeing a foursome of scouts come out of the keep’s main house.
“Twelve, Glu,” Tol’Jennin replied.
“Our quarry is on his way,” Rada said, eyeing the dormant Grey Blade hanging from his belt and recalling just how much pleasure he had taken by forcing the rebellious weapon into submission to his will, “you will lead your scouts to observe his approach and, if needed, to guide him here—where I will await him,” he said with a dark, toothy grin.
“Yes, Glu,” Jennin nodded, “we will leave at once.”
Rada’s new Tol turned and gathered his scouts, prompting Rada to enter the main house as a sense of inevitable victory suffused his every pore. As the chosen of the Rotting God, Rada’s powers had grown with each day he held his god’s beating heart within his chest. The Rotting God’s body was still too weak to rise, and a strong host was needed to carry the god’s heart until it was time to rejoin it with the corrupt flesh of the Rotting God itself.
Still, when Rada had first found the Grey Blade beneath the mountains, he had nearly lost the initial contest of wills which had ensued. Ahsaytsan was strong—stronger than any human, of that much Rada was certain—but Rada had emerged victorious in that contest and each one of its ilk which followed. With each victory, Rada’s mastery of the weapon had increased to the point that it was now a foregone conclusion that he could bend the blade to his will whenever he wished.
But after dominating the blade for the purpose of reviewing the vision which had brought him to this forsaken place beside a dead river, Ahsaytsan had unexpectedly gone silent. The great, red eye at the base of the blade was shut and unmoving. If the Grey Blade’s power was waning, it would be of limited use to Rada in his quest to resurrect the Rotting God. But if he could succeed in that all-consuming goal, the loss of a single weapon—no matter how formidable—was a trivial thing.
Rada ascended the stone staircase and saw rotten, moldy wood planks scattered across reasonably sturdy-looking beams. It was clear that much of the wood had been scavenged—likely to fuel the fires which had blackened the house’s interior stone walls—with only the hardest wooden planks, and those too large to easily remove, remaining in place.
He looked up to see that the third and fourth floors of the structure were inaccessible. The stairway from the first to the second floor was made of stone, but those which went to the upper levels had been of wood and, like the floors and roof above his head, had mostly been scavenged.
He looked down through the gaps in the floor and tested a nearby wooden beam with his weight. The beam creaked, prompting him to check another. It also creaked, but the third beam he tested was silent and sturdy.
Rada sneered as the details of his trap sprang into the fore of his mind, and he felt the sword stir at his side. Its red eye fluttered open and slowly focused on their surroundings as its slithery voice filled his mind, Where have you brought me?
“You still think yourself my master?” Rada spat. “Your mind is weakening, Ahsaytsan. Take care that your edge does not do the same or I will put you back where I found you—alone and in the cold, black of the underworld.”
I meant only—
“I know what you meant, sword,” Rada grunted derisively. “Our prey approaches and we must prepare to receive him.”
The Blooded with the star metal blade draws near? Ahsaytsan hissed, her baleful eye narrowing as a predator’s in preparation for the kill.
“What is that blade to you?” Rada demanded.
It is an abomination, Ahsaytsan said, but there was something duplicitous running through her words and tone. It destroyed the Demon Blades crafted from my shards—it must be found and brought to the Forge to be sundered!
“The Forge?” Rada repeated, his curiosity piqued. “Where is that?”
Ahsaytsan was silent for several seconds, prompting Rada to grip her hilt and extend his will until it surrounded the blade entirely. With a whimper of resignation, she bent to his will as she had so many times before, It is to the north along the dry riverbed. The Federation controls the Forge and uses it to produce their foul machines, but they do not know its true purpose.
“You will take me there after we have brought this Blooded to the Rotting God,” Rada commanded.
You cannot enter the Forge—
Rada squeezed her hilt tightly in his massive hand and brought her eye up to the level of his own, “You would be wise to obey my will, Ahsaytsan.”
His eyes caught on the Grey Blade’s jagged pommel, which had clearly been cleaved at some point in the past, and he realized the truth.
“The star metal blade sundered you,” he mused, examining the jagged base of the sword’s hilt and realizing that Ahsaytsan’s true form was much larger than the fragment he held in his hand. Her baleful eye began to snap back and forth fearfully, which emboldened him to continue, “That is why it could destroy your Demon Blades�
�and it is why you seek revenge against it…” He soon concluded something even more profound about this mysterious star metal blade, and when he realized the truth he chuckled darkly, “It is like you—it is a living sword just as you are!”
I am unique, Glu’Rada, she insisted, but her pathetic attempt at deception had long since become transparent to Rada. I am the Grey Blade, Ahsaytsan, and I alone can grant you the gift of foresight which you will need to vanquish this Blooded scion!
“You grant me nothing, Ahsaytsan,” Rada tightened his grip on the blade and brought her eye close enough to his that his lashes actually touched the glassy surface of its vertical iris. “I take what I will—and very soon I will take that star metal sword from my prey’s lifeless fingers. If you are fortunate,” he hung the blade on his belt as a grim smile spread across his horribly scarred features, “my first use of it will be to end your miserable existence. But if you continue to defy me, I promise there will be no end to your suffering at my hand.”
He laughed triumphantly as he imagined his moment of vengeance against the Blooded who had killed Rada’s wife so many weeks earlier, and the Grey Blade wisely did nothing to interrupt his ruminations.
His laughter echoed through the ruined keep house until rain began to fall, and from a nearby window Rada watched Tol’Jennin’s team set off down the road which had brought them to this place—a road which would soon deliver Rada’s quarry to his certain doom, and his intriguing weapon to Rada’s waiting hands.
Chapter III: Refugees
High Noon, 4-1-6-659
“I never said I don’t enjoy exercise,” Randall sighed.
Then why do you always require my urging to engage in it? Dan’Moread demanded. In battle any weakness, real or perceived, will be exploited by our enemies. A few hours per day of exercise is a small price to pay to deny our enemies the most obvious types of weakness. Be realistic, Randall, she continued in her patronizing tone, you are not the strongest warrior the ever set foot on a battlefield, and you are certainly not the best conditioned. Your only exceptional physical tools are your agility and quickness; everything else is well below average.
“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?” he asked witheringly.
I do not care how you feel, Randall, she quipped. I care how we perform when our enemies come against us.
“We’ve done all right,” he said defensively. “We took down that beast man back at Greystone.”
We were lucky against that abomination, Randall, she said grimly. And without me you would not have lasted three blows against him.
“Hey now,” he protested, “without my ‘only exceptional tools,’ there’s no way we would have evaded that crazed beast man long enough for you to get back in the fight. Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “that brings me to another question: why was I able to pick up the long sword during that fight? Every other time I touch another weapon’s hilt or handle, you shock me. Are you consciously choosing to do that whenever you see me with another weapon?” he asked.
Why would I consciously choose to harm you? she asked before pausing. In truth, I do not know why you were able to wield another weapon…it should not have been possible. Kanjin said that, even if we were separated and he gripped another weapon’s hilt, he would receive the same jolting sensation which you describe.
“Huh…” Randall shrugged. “Well, I’m just glad we made it through that fight,” he said pointedly.
As am I, the sword allowed.
Randall smelled something on the wind and pulled up on Storm Chaser’s reins, “Wait…I smell fire.”
Where? she asked.
“To the north,” he said as the gentle breeze coming down from the mountain range carried another waft of the faint, ashen smell to his nostrils. There was a small but well-worn path leading in that direction, so he turned the black warhorse in that direction as a vaguely foreboding sense washed over him. “I think there might be someone there who needs help.”
We should not tarry, Randall, Dan’Moread insisted. The sooner we reach our destination the sooner we can regain control of our fate.
“I know,” Randall allowed as Storm Chaser’s metal-shod hooves quickened their pace in response to his rider’s heels digging into his flanks, “but this won’t take long, and I can’t just pass by when there might be people who need our help.”
Your compassion and generosity are touching, the sword said coolly, let us hope they do not expose us to unnecessary trouble.
“Have a little faith, Dan’Moread,” Randall said with as much cheer as he could muster as the warhorse crested a short hill and a grizzly scene was revealed beyond. “River’s tears…” he whispered as he counted nine farm houses scattered across the plains which gently sloped up to the base of the mountain range to the north. Each of the farm houses had been burned to the ground, with only two of them still actively burning judging by the faint wisps of smoke coming from the blackened ruins.
Fleshmongers, Dan’Moread growled. They must have raided every community near the main road, and they did so no more than two days ago.
“Slavers…” Randall seethed, “what a bunch of animals!”
We should go, Randall, Dan’Moread urged. Fleshmongers leave no survivors in their trail.
“I won’t accept that,” Randall insisted as he spurred Storm Chaser down the hill, “it’s our obligation to investigate and look for anyone who might have escaped those bastards.”
If we must, Dan’Moread sighed. But I would prefer you draw me if you intend to dismount.
“No argument there,” Randall muttered as he approached the nearest farmhouse.
“Nothing,” Randall said grimly after investigating the last farmhouse. “I don’t even see any tracks leading anywhere.”
You are a skilled tracker now? Dan’Moread asked archly.
Randall ignored the quip, “But I think you’re right about the fires being started two days ago. Most of the coals are already cold.”
We should return to the road, Randall, the sword insisted. We have spent enough time here.
Randall heard something faint in the distance. He cocked his head and heard it again; it sounded like the rustling of tall grass. He looked in the direction of the noise and saw the barest hint of motion in the hip-high grain field behind the farmhouse he had just finished examining.
Gripping Dan’Moread’s hilt tightly, he moved with careful deliberation toward the noise. “Who’s there?” he called out in a raised voice, but no reply came. “We’re here to help,” he called out.
’We?’ Dan’Moread repeated. To anyone watching you, you are alone with your horse—I doubt that announcing you have unseen allies will do anything to allay whatever fears that possible survivors might have.
“Good point,” he muttered under his breath. “But if they’re not survivors, and they’re really Fleshmongers, it might give them pause to come after us.”
Unlikely, she said dismissively before adding, but possible.
“Look,” Randall said as he held Dan’Moread up pointedly, “I’m putting my sword away.”
Do not do that, Randall, the sword warned, and he felt a familiar thrumming, jolting sensation hit his sword arm. He stood there with the sword raised before himself like some kind of saluting statue for several seconds as Dan’Moread refused to give him control of his own arm.
“I want them to come out,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “they’re more likely to do that if they see me put you away.”
I do not like it, she objected. If there are archers hidden in the grass I will be unable to deflect their arrows if you put me in my scabbard.
“That’s a risk we’re just going to have to take,” Randall said before adding, “didn’t you say you preferred for me to make most of these decisions, anyway?”
In non-combat situations, yes,” she grudgingly admitted, but this could easily turn into a fight.
“Trust me, Dan’Moread,” he said, and thankfully she released her
control over his arm.
I will do so this time—but only under protest, she added with obvious dissatisfaction.
Randall finally slid her back into her sheath, and after he had done so he turned to face the patch of field in which he had glimpsed movement. “It’s ok, you can come out now.”
Thankfully, this time he saw a head pop up from the sea of amber grain. The hair on that head was a nearly identical shade to that of the grain itself, which meant it most likely belonged to a half-elf like Randall.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Randall said as he took a deliberate step backward. He waited for several minutes before the head rose up, and he saw with surprise that it was just one of many—fifteen, to be exact—which was revealed to have been hiding in the grain field.
“He might be one of them!” a girl’s voice cried out from the left of the line of mostly children.
“Fleshmongers eat half-elves like us, Sissy,” a boy on the right side of the group shouted back, “one of us would have to be crazed to take up with them!”
“How do we know he’s not crazed?” the girl, Sissy, retorted as Randall finally glimpsed her face amid the tall grain crop. “He was talking to himself the whole time he stood there brandishing his sword! People who talk to themselves aren’t right in the head.”
“Might’ve been nervous just like we are,” a third voice belonging to a young boy suggested as Randall went red-faced from realizing the children had heard him talking to Dan’Moread.
“I’m not crazy,” Randall said as he held his hands up in an attempt to quiet what was clearly a band of children, “and I’ve actually fought the Fleshmongers before.”
“See?” the first boy said triumphantly as he began to move out of the grain field. “He’s one of the blood and he’s stood up to those damned slavers—he’ll be able to help us, Sissy!”
“What can he do?” Sissy asked sourly as the rest of the children came out of the field while she stubbornly remained rooted in place. “He’s only got the one horse—and he was talking to himself.”
Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2) Page 2