That is what I said, she said while making an unmistakable sighing sound.
Randall crossed the room in search of the meat locker, but found nothing after crossing the entirety of the floor. “I don’t see it,” he mused, “maybe it’s outside?”
Unlikely, she said confidently, a keep like this one, strangely-located though it may be, was built for some sort of noble. A noble would never permit her meats to be stored away from her watchful eye.
“Not even if it was still within the walls?” Randall asked dubiously.
Meat is easier to poison than most foodstuffs, Dan’Moread explained. And if it is properly cured then certain poisons can remain undetectable for months, or even years. It is a security issue, Randall.
“Well,” he sighed, after finishing his second inspection of the largely empty cellar, “you would know more about that than me.”
Correct, she agreed haughtily, drawing a scowl from Randall which he decided to leave at that.
Then his foot landed on a flagstone and he felt something subtly different about it as the ball of his foot came to rest on it. He pressed the sole of his foot down and realized that this particular flagstone was warmer than the rest. He knelt down and saw a three foot by three foot flagstone and declared, “I think I found our meat locker.”
Most perceptive, Dan’Moread said approvingly, and Randall realized that her constant switching back and forth from condescension and approval was starting to get on his nerves.
“There’s no middle ground with you, is there?” he asked wearily. “You’re either impressed at something I do or you’re irritated that I’m so inept.”
Correct, she agreed.
“Can’t you ever just try to be…I don’t know,” he said as he found a handhold on the edge of the flagstone, “accepting?”
That is a truly terrible idea, she said in surprise. Randall, in life there is no middle ground. Either something is good or it is bad. An action can never be ‘acceptable,’ it can only ever be superior or inferior.
“Compared to what?” he grunted as he barely managed to lift the stone high enough to slide it over.
All life is competition, Randall, she explained. In competition there are winners and losers. We must never lose sight of that fact, lest we lazily drift into the latter category and lose what little edge we might have honed.
“Yeah, but,” he heaved the stone aside until, sure enough, a metal ladder was revealed beneath, “don’t you ever stop to take a breath?”
I do not breathe, Randall.
“Smart-ass,” he snorted. “You know what I mean.”
Did the beast man stop to take a breath during the fight in Greystone?
“That’s different,” he said dismissively as he considered whether or not to descend the ladder, “that was a battle to the death. I’m talking about regular, everyday things.”
The better one becomes at mundane tasks, Dan’Moread said patronizingly, the less she must rely on extraordinary efforts to save her.
“Meaning?”
Meaning that if you had built up your grip strength—as I instructed, she added haughtily, then you would not have been disarmed on the Greystone rooftops and you could have possibly defeated the beast man on your own without relying on me to save you.
“Possibly?” he repeated skeptically, very much doubting that he could have defeated that Guardsman no matter how strong his grip was.
Possibly, she repeated, her mental tone making clear that she shared his doubts.
He peered down the narrow shaft which plunged into the darkness below, feeling his focus begin to waver as his flyl’s light briefly, but noticeably dimmed, “Should we investigate down there?”
Not without a proper light source, she said firmly.
“It looked like there was some wood scrap left in the upper floors,” Randall suggested. “We could make up a torch, maybe?”
A shaft of wood is hardly enough to make a torch, she chided.
“No,” he said as he recalled finding some beeswax and oil in one of Storm Chaser’s saddlebags, “but it’s one of the most important parts.”
Well played, she said approvingly, and Randall returned to the horse to build a pair of torches.
Glu’Rada sat cross-legged in the dark of the underworld beneath the keep. His grip on Ahsaytsan’s hilt was loose as his mind ran with the increasingly chaotic foresight which was the Grey Blade’s true power—a power which now belonged to Rada.
The coming battle unfolded in his mind precisely as it had done a dozen times before in the days he had awaited his prey. Every thrust, every parry, and every riposte was etched in his mind—all except the final stroke, that is, which once again teased him as the battle’s conclusion drew near in his mind’s eye.
But, just as the other times he had employed the Grey Blade’s foresight, when the battle’s end finally came there was a blinding flash of light which stabbed into his mind. The psychic backlash struck with such force that he snarled in anger and slammed Ahsaytsan’s tip into the warm, unyielding surface of the underworld where he had found her.
Please, Rada, the blade pleaded, do not make me—
“Of what use are your visions—or you—if they do not show me my victory?” he seethed.
I cannot foresee the battle’s end, Ahsaytsan whimpered as he tightened both his physical and psychic grips on the mighty weapon. But it is clear that you will emerge the victor—
“Clear to who—you?!” he rasped. “Perhaps this is some trap of yours? Perhaps you deny me because you are in league with these pathetic creatures? Do you take me for a fool, Ahsaytsan?” he growled, extending his powerful mind into the blade. His psychic might encircled and constricted the Grey Blade’s mind—its very soul—and he slowly began to crush the life out of it. “I will not be slain so easily…and the Rotting God will prolong your suffering if you further defy his herald.”
Rada, please—
“Show me what I would see, Ahsaytsan,” he snarled as he tightened his grips on the weapon, cutting her words short as a cry of agony filled his mind’s ear, “or you will beg me to finish what that star metal blade began.”
Wordlessly, the blade bent to his will and the battle began to replay itself in his mind’s eye. Rada cleared his thoughts and focused on every detail of the battle, knowing that before the day’s end he would defeat the foolish whelp who—without permission—had slain the wife of a Glu.
This time, however, the battle did not reach even the mid-point before the vision was broken. “Ahsaytsan,” he growled, only to hear a faint grinding noise in the distance.
They are here, the Grey Blade said, her voice fainter than usual.
“Then we will receive them,” he sneered as he stood and made his way to the place where the vision had shown the battle would begin.
Crude…but effective, the sword observed as Randall lit the first hand-built, misshapen torch.
“It’s good enough for who it’s for,” Randall retorted as he brandished the torch in his left hand and gripped Dan’Moread’s hilt with his right hand.
I am inclined to take that remark personally, she said frostily as he felt a faint jolt run up his arm.
“Don’t start,” he quipped as he made his way across the cellar floor to stand at the top of the concealed ladder. “Why are we investigating this again?” he asked, the question sounding even stupider to his own ears than he imagined it would.
That is yet another good question, she sighed. Pity you are well-stocked with questions but barren of answers.
“That makes two of us,” he retorted.
Fair enough.
As Randall looked down the narrow shaft, he felt a strange sense of familiarity. It was as though he had stood here, torch in hand, and gazed into the flickering darkness a thousand times before. It was déjà vu, that much was certain, but there was something more to it…it was a sort of foreboding thirst which yearned to be quenched.
For the briefest instant, he thought he heard a
voice echo up from the darkness. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
I heard nothing, she said warily. What do you hear?
“I don’t know,” he said as he cocked his head and focused on his super-human hearing. Nothing but silence filled his ears for a long, pregnant silence before he finally shook his head, “It must have been nothing.”
He climbed down the ladder, which was about fifteen feet tall, and came to a room which was barely large enough for him to stand in without hitting his head. Brandishing the torch left and right, his suspicions were confirmed as he saw a line of rusty meat hooks dangling from the ceiling.
“The meat locker,” he concluded just as something odd caught his eye. He moved toward it and saw a perfectly circular hole in the far wall—a hole that was just under three feet in diameter. “What is this?” he muttered as he felt warmth radiate out from the hole.
I have never seen anything like it, Dan’Moread said as he felt his sword arm and legs begin to tingle. But, as before, his left arm which he presently used to hold the torch did not experience the same precursor sensation to Dan’Moread’s assuming control over his body. Look closer, she urged, and he knelt beside the hole to see what looked like short, shallow grooves carved in the inner surface of the circular tunnel—a tunnel which stretched well beyond the light of his torch.
“Have you seen anything like this?”
Never, the sword said firmly, but it does not look as though these marks were made by hammer and chisel.
“You’re right,” he mused, seeing that they had a decidedly organic appearance, “they were made by something alive.”
A living creature that can burrow through solid rock is dangerous, she warned.
“As if anything we’ve run into isn’t dangerous?” he quipped. “I don’t think we should go any further; let’s just go retrieve that tablet and leave.”
For once, Dan’Moread said grimly, we are in complete agreement.
Then Randall heard the same voice he thought he had heard while standing at the top of the ladder. This time it seemed as though he could make out the words, and when the voice spoke for the third time he heard it clearly say, “Help us!”
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
I heard nothing, Dan’Moread said warily. What did you hear?
“There’s someone trapped down here that needs help,” he explained as he went down on all fours and began to crawl into the tunnel.
That is unlikely, Randall, Dan’Moread said, but thankfully she did nothing to stop him from crawling down the tunnel. This tunnel has not seen recent use, nor has the house above it. Your mind may be playing tricks on you, Randall.
“It’s possible,” he admitted as he slowly crawled his way down the tunnel, “after all…I do talk at some abnormal length with my sword.”
I can assure you, she said coolly, that there is nothing abnormal about your length.
“Hey!” he snapped, rearing up and bumping his head into the stone of the tunnel. He glowered as he continued to crawl down the increasingly warm tunnel, “What would a sword know about length, anyway?”
I would think that a sword would know more about length than most men, she retorted.
“Yeah, well,” he grunted as he finally came to the end of the short tunnel, “it’s not just the size that counts.”
When all other variables are comparable, size is usually the decisive factor.
“I can’t believe I’m talking about this with a sword,” Randall muttered as he crawled out of the small tunnel, only to find himself in another—much larger—tunnel. A faint, greenish light not quite bright enough to see by pulsed from this tunnel’s walls. He brought the torch nearer the tunnel’s wall and saw that it was covered in some kind of blue moss. After scraping away the moss from a patch of the circular tunnel’s wall, and then from another patch of the wall, it appeared that the walls were covered in lines of green light which brightened and dimmed rhythmically as though with a strange type of heartbeat.
I have seen a place like this, Dan’Moread said as Randall felt her exert control over his body, we must leave, Randall—now.
“Help us!” the strange voice cried from far down the tunnel.
“Can’t you hear that?” Randall demanded, as this time the voice was so loud he was certain even a partially deaf human could have heard it.
There is no voice, Randall, Dan’Moread assured him, your ears are my ears, and I heard nothing.
“We have to investigate,” Randall insisted, pointing with his left hand which held the torch, “there’s someone down here in need of help.”
We can barely help ourselves, Randall, Dan’Moread said as she stood firmly in place, refusing to move in the indicated direction. Our union is complete, but we have not yet honed our bond. There is still much dross to be discarded from us if we are to become what we need.
“Right now I don’t care about what we need,” Randall snapped. “I care about helping someone who’s obviously in pain. Don’t you remember when you helped me with my leg after the Fleshmongers poisoned it?”
Of course I do, but—
“And then I helped you by fixing your hilt,” he said, looking pointedly at her dragon tooth hilt and wickedly brutal—some would even say insane—four-pronged cross-guard which looked nearly as dangerous as her blade. “Well right now someone down here needs our help just like each of us needed it.”
Silence ensued for several seconds before Dan’Moread replied, You are my wielder and I am your blade. While I do not think this course is wise, it is your well-being in which I am interested. If you insist on pursuing this course, I will help you in doing so—but this is a bad idea, Randall.
“Duly noted,” he nodded, “now let’s go see who needs our help.”
Like a passenger in a carriage, Randall watched as Dan’Moread guided the motion of his arm and legs as they made their way down the tunnel. As they did so, he realized there was something different about how his body moved while under her control. There was a slight bend ins his knees, the alignment of his shoulders and hips was always square, and she never crossed his feet as she walked.
“Help us!” the voice cried, and Randall felt his heartbeat quicken as they drew nearer to the source of the sound.
“There,” he whispered, noticing that the tunnel was getting significantly warmer the further they went, “we’re getting closer!”
There is no voice, Randall, Dan’Moread protested, though she guided his feet down the tunnel with a quickening pace which brought them to a three-way intersection with a perfectly symmetrical fork in the way before them. Moss covered the walls so greatly that it blocked the pulsing, green light which had dimly lit the passageway behind them, and Randall suddenly had the feeling that they had walked into a trap.
Then, with a blinding flash which somehow overwhelmed all of his senses at once, his Flylrylioulen flared with such intensity that it outlined a figure in the rightward passage—a figure so large and pale that he easily dwarfed any other which Randall had seen, including the beast man in Greystone. He brought a massive, grey blade over his head in a vicious, would-be death stroke as he sprinted toward Randall and Dan’Moread.
“It’s a trap!” Randall cried, but Dan’Moread was already sweeping forward in an arc which intercepted the far larger sword wielded by their enemy—a sword which had a red, serpentine eye situated near the hilt. That eye snapped back and forth as the swords clashed and, much to Randall’s horror as Dan’Moread successfully blocked the attack, that malevolent eye turned toward him in a moment which would forever be seared into his memory.
“Now,” the massive, pale-skinned figure growled as Randall’s flyl dimmed, casting the tunnel into near total darkness as he dropped the torch in order to help Dan’Moread with his left hand, “you are mine!”
Chapter V: A Duel in Darkness
11-1-6-659
You! Dan’Moread hissed as she blocked the opening blow of the battle.
Yes, the Grey Blade
’s slithery voice replied as her wielder brought her up and over in a series of repeated blows—any of which would have easily cleaved Randall’s modest frame from collar to crotch, we meet again.
Dan’Moread could barely block the hammering blows from the larger, heavier Grey Blade as she was forced to give ground against their much larger opponents. But she managed to protect her wielder as she backpedaled away from the onslaught of the mysterious, badly-scarred warrior who now carried the sundered Grey Blade.
I destroyed you, Dan’Moread snarled as she retreated into the leftward passage to her rear—which was not the passage through which she had come.
You could never destroy me, the Grey Blade hissed as a series of precise, perfectly-executed attacks continued to keep Dan’Moread on her heels as she continued to give ground to their enemy. I was crafted in Father’s Forge, with Mother’s mandate to guide the men of this world—I AM A GODDESS!
The herculean warrior wielding the Grey Blade lashed out with a kick that landed squarely in Randall’s chest, robbing them of their wind as Dan’Moread barely managed to avoid the follow-up stab of the Grey Blade’s wedge-shaped tip.
Dan’Moread felt a rib break from the impact of the pale warrior’s massive foot, but she kept her focus and composure as she gave ever more ground to the oncoming attack of their foe. She finally managed to author a counterattack against her adversary by stabbing her tip toward his thigh, but he improbably blocked the attack with the back of the single-edged Grey Blade. Her blade turned aside, Dan’Moread executed a roll which, if she was be honest, only Randall of all her wielders could manage in the middle of combat. The roll took them past the pale warrior’s left leg, which somehow perfectly timed a stomp on Randall’s calf just before she withdrew his leg from the danger zone.
She lashed out with her tip and scored a minor hit to the pale warrior’s arm, but it seemed that even this was predicted by her opponent as he smashed his sword-arm’s fist into Randall’s shoulder. The brute force of the blow was enough to drive Randall into the nearby wall, where Dan’Moread barely managed to roll away from in time to avoid a killing blow from the Grey Blade’s massive, razor-sharp edge.
Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2) Page 4