Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “We are most clever at finding godstone,” it said with what could only be pride in its silent, telepathic voice which still somehow seemed more ‘real’ than Dan’Moread’s version of the inaudible communication. “It is our true purpose.”

  “Really?” his brow lifted in surprise. “Where was the last place you found it?”

  “In the—“ it began, only to have that same all-encompassing silence fill Randall’s mind for a moment before the words resumed, “where we were born.”

  “Where you were born…” he repeated before hazarding a guess, “you were born in the Underworld?”

  “What is ‘Underworld’?”

  “Well…it’s ‘under’,” he gestured toward the ground with Dan’Moread’s tip, “the ground,” he stamped his foot gently on the hard-packed gravel and dirt which surrounded the main house’s foundation.

  “Oh,” the creature said in what seemed like comprehension, “then yes, we were born in the Underworld.”

  Randall drew a sharp breath, realizing that he was speaking with what the Ghaevlians called a Hri’tza—another word for what humans thought of as ‘demons.’ But as he stood there conversing with it, Randall had difficulty ascribing any malice or evil to it—to the contrary, in spite of its bizarre appearance it seemed more like a lost, frightened child than anything else.

  “So where do you usually find godstone?” he repeated, hoping against hope that he had just made some sort of breakthrough in communication with the fascinating creature.

  “In the Underworld,” it said serenely, its tone perfectly duplicating the former answer it had given—although this time the silence was replaced with the word ‘Underworld’ just as Randall had hoped, “where we were born.”

  “Yes!” Randall pumped his fist in victory at having taught the Hri’tza a word. Then a thought occurred to him and he asked, “Were you the one who dug the tunnel into the cellar?”

  “What is ‘tunnel?’ What is ‘cellar’?” it asked, and Randall drew a deep breath as he engaged in what turned out to be a half-day-long conversation with the strange, yet seemingly harmless creature.

  “So you came from a faraway place which has no sun,” Randall surmised after both teaching and learning from the Hri’tza, “and your father, or mother, or whatever,” he shook his head in confusion after finally concluding that this particular creature’s species had no gender, “got separated from the rest of your kind while you were coming here. The reason your parent came here was to flee some sort of cataclysm, and he, she, or it already died so now you’re looking for godstone to eat, but you haven’t found any.”

  “Yes,” it replied, having emerged from the cellar shortly after the sun had darkened overhead, “we need godstone. May we eat it?” it asked patiently, pointing to Randall’s earring for what must have been the hundredth time since the conversation’s outset.

  Randall’s willpower was genuinely being worn down by its incessant yet polite request to consume the bit of jewelry. But he maintained sufficient resolve to shake his head, “No.”

  The creature made no reply, but retracted its slender, exoskeletal limbs. “Will you be our friend?”

  “You keep referring to yourself as ‘we’ and ‘our.’ But you said there are no others of your kind here?” Randall pressed.

  “We are alone,” it said sadly, “we are hungry, and we are lost. We would like to be your friend.”

  “I think I’d like to be your friend,” Randall said guardedly, “but I don’t think I can give you this earring.”

  “We are hungry,” it repeated without a trace of insistence or anger in its mental voice.

  “Will you survive without eating the godstone?” he asked, thinking he would be unable to deny its request if the matter was one of life and death. While the earring was a keepsake which reminded him of a lost life—not only his old life in Three Rivers, but the life of the soldier, Shannon, who had committed suicide shortly after leaving his bed—it was not worth enough to him to keep if it meant watching another creature die.

  “Yes,” it said simply, “but we will remain hungry.”

  “Then I’m going to have to refuse,” he shook his head emphatically.

  “We are hungry,” it repeated as Randall idly walked along the edge of the house.

  “I know, and I can promise that I’ll do what I can to help you,” he said, knowing that godstone was among the rarest of all substances in the known world. The chip in his earring was worth half a year’s pay for a commoner like himself, and the stones set into Dan’Moread were worth something on the order of a king’s ransom. “But for now you’re just going to have to be hungry.”

  He stopped when he realized that the Hri’tza was following him toward the front of the house. He looked up and realized that starlight was all that illuminated them, though the Wandering Moon—also called the Wanderer—could be seen at the edge of the night sky above. In a handful of days it would likely return for yet another passage, by which time Randall dearly hoped he could be rid of this place forever.

  “I need to go find something,” Randall said, pointing to the front of the house.

  “We would like to be Randall’s friend. Can we help?” the Hri’tza asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know…” Randall mused. “I don’t suppose you’re any good with riddles?”

  “What are ‘riddles’?” the Hri’tza predictably queried.

  “Forget it,” Randall muttered. “I just…it’s probably best if you stay back here for now.”

  The Hri’tza ceased its forward motion at once, “We will obey.”

  “No, that wasn’t an order,” Randall said firmly. “I was just…oh, you can come if you want,” he sighed, beckoning for the creature to follow.

  The Hri’tza’s tiny feet silently moved it toward Randall, which was more than a little disconcerting to him since he still had no idea whether or not he could trust it. Its insistence that it wanted to eat godstone, the most precious of all materials, had made Randall contemplate the unthinkable possibility that it might try to devour Dan’Moread’s godstones. Thankfully, none of his interactions with the curious creature had led him to believe it was dangerous.

  He made his way to the main house’s front door, mindful of the Hri’tza at his back as he did so, and entered the house to resume his search for the stone tablet which Phinjo’s notes described. He slowly paced his way around the four-way open hearth and shook his head as his eyes adjusted to the low light within the building.

  “Is Randall hungry?” the Hri’tza asked as it moved up the steps with surprising agility, given its inflexible carapace and relatively tiny legs.

  “What?” Randall asked in confusion.

  “Randall is searching,” it explained as it approached the hearth. “We search because we are hungry. Is Randall hungry?”

  “Not really…well, sort of, I guess,” he admitted as he scratched his suddenly itchy scalp. “I just—wait,” he thought as his hand went to Dan’Moread’s hilt. He realized that his scalp was not itchy, but tingly, which usually meant that she was trying to communicate with him.

  He closed his eyes and focused his mind, feeling his flyl warm against his chest as he did so.

  Randall? he soon heard her voice ask, sounding in his mind as though it was near the edge of his ability to discern.

  “I’m here,” he assured her as he breathed a sigh of relief. “You had me worried, Dani.”

  There was a pause, I told you I did not wish you to call me by that name.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “it’s just how I’ve come to think of you. I’ll try not to speak that nickname if you prefer, but I’m not sure I can stop thinking it.”

  How long have I been…unconscious? she asked after a brief pause.

  “Three and a half days,” he replied.

  “Who are you talking to?” the Hri’tza asked with childlike curiosity.

  What is that? she asked in alarm as he felt his body begin to tingle as it did when she
began to assume control of it. He held up his left hand—the only part of his body which it seemed she did not fully control when she…well, when she possessed him.

  That particular thought stuck out in Randall’s mind as he made to reassure her, “It’s a Hri’tza—or at least I think it is—and it’s hungry, lost, and alone.”

  A Hri’tza? she repeated skeptically. Hri’tza are not supposed to emerge from the Underworld except during a Darkening.

  “Really?” he asked in surprise before turning his attention to the Hri’tza. “I’m sorry; I’m talking to my sword,” he explained, pointing to Dan’Moread.

  “Why?” the Hri’tza asked as its strange, dome-shaped ‘eye’ seemed to rotated fractionally in much the way a dog cocked its head in confusion.

  “Well…because we’re good friends,” he said, briefly looking at Dan’Moread as he considered how best to broach the next subject. “Aren’t Hri’tza…umm…dangerous?”

  As far as I am aware, Dan’Moread said slowly, they are only associated with darkness. My knowledge of them stems from legends and the occasional allegory, but my impression from the total of that information is that their interests rarely—if ever—overlap with those of Ghaevlians, humans, or any other species of this world.

  “That’s encouraging,” he said with mild relief, having already become comfortable enough with the thing to turn his back on it—albeit briefly. “But it says it’s hungry and wants to eat my earring.”

  Your earring? she repeated skeptically, her voice growing stronger with each passing second as she released her hold over his body.

  “Yeah,” he said, suspecting she would be alarmed by what he said next but also knowing that he needed to say it so she was aware of the thing’s appetite, “it seems that it eats godstone.”

  He immediately felt the familiar jolt run up his sword arm, It can taste my godstones—after it has swallowed my tip!

  “I already told it the answer was ‘no’,” Randall assured her, “and it doesn’t seem to be too worried about the refusal. It’s not starving, and it seems to think that I’m hungry since I’m looking for the tablet. I think when it says ‘hungry’ it might mean more than just ‘wants to eat.’ ‘Hungry’ might have a more general definition in its limited vocabulary, which I’ve helped to expand since I started talking to it earlier today.”

  I am far from convinced of this creature’s innocence, Randall, she said warily as she caused his arm to point her tip toward the creature.

  “You and me both,” he allowed, “but while I don’t exactly trust it, I’m not sure I mistrust it either. I think it’s lost, alone, and hungry,” he sighed, irritated with himself for repeating its annoying self-description after working so hard to prevent the Hri’tza from doing that very thing. “I think it’s a simpler creature than you and I are, at least in the way it thinks.”

  I do not trust it, she hissed, pausing deliberately before returning herself to a more neutral position at his side and relinquishing control over his body, but I do trust you.

  “Thank you,” he said graciously, glad to have averted a potential fight with the strange creature from the Underworld. He returned his focus to the hearth as he resumed his attempt to find the stone tablet.

  “We would like to be friends with your sword,” the Hri’tza said as Randall began to climb one of the hearth’s stacked stone columns.

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Randall said as he sheathed Dan’Moread and scampered up the nearly vertical column.

  “Can we be your friend?” it asked.

  “If you help me find this stupid stone tablet,” Randall quipped, “then yes, you can be my friend.”

  “What is ‘tablet’?”

  River’s tears, Dan’Moread groaned. Is this how the rest of your conversation with this creature proceeded?

  “More or less,” Randall said as he climbed up to the second level, finding nothing of interest as he went.

  Perhaps it would be best to end its existence, she offered glibly.

  “Hey,” he snapped, only to realize she had been sarcastic. He scowled as he moved around to another face of the four-way hearth, where he began to examine the stones in line with the direction he had been examining. “You’ve got a sharp sense of humor, Dan’Moread.”

  A finer compliment can scarcely be paid to a sword, she retorted with open amusement.

  “What is ‘tablet’?” the Hri’tza repeated serenely.

  “It’s a piece of stone, probably like these,” Randall patted the hearthstones near his head as he looked down to the Underworld creature, “except it’s flatter and also probably has carvings on it.”

  He continued his examination of the chimney for another minute before concluding there was nothing new on this face of the hearth’s upper structure. Just as he was about to move to the third face of the chimney, the Hri’tza said, “I have found it.”

  “What?” Randall asked in surprise.

  He shimmied down the column and found the insect-looking denizen of the Underworld had dug out the thick layer of compacted ash on the bottom of the fireplace. Beneath it was a three-pointed tablet, flattened on the face and measuring about two feet on each side, with scrawling lines of Ghaevlian text spiraling outward from the middle. About three quarters of the tablet’s surface was covered in the writing, and Randall whistled appreciatively before nodding in approval.

  Impressive, Dan’Moread said grudgingly.

  “Indeed,” Randall agreed.

  “We are Randall’s friend now?” the Hri’tza asked hopefully

  He sighed as he drew Dan’Moread from her scabbard, “It looks that way…but all of my friends have names. We need to come up with one for you.”

  “What is ‘name’?” it asked with its usual, insufferable patience.

  Oh, by the Judge’s wrath… Dan’Moread cursed in annoyance.

  Randall ignored her and proceeded to explain the concept of a name—as well as selecting one which befit the strange creature perfectly.

  Chapter VII: Upriver

  15-1-6-659

  “I still don’t feel great about leaving Todd behind,” Randall said, twisting in Storm Chaser’s saddle the following morning as the mighty warhorse moved through the river keep’s landward gate. He had decided to name the Hri’tza ‘Todd,’ which in his mind was short for ‘Toddler’ since that was precisely the mentality he had come to think of the creature as possessing.

  The stone tablet was secured behind his saddle, wrapped with a criss-crossing network of leather straps and resting on the bedroll which Randall had only twice used since leaving Greystone.

  Such a strange creature has no place under the sun, Dan’Moread reiterated, but her declaration did little to assuage Randall’s sense of guilt. Besides, it properly belongs in the Underworld. We promised to visit with it if we return this way, and you even vowed to bring it godstone if you could manage to acquire some, but for now we have our own issues which require contention.

  “I always thought the Underworld was a myth,” Randall said sullenly. “But it’s an actual, physical place beneath our feet?”

  Indeed, Dan’Moread replied. I have visited it at least once before…it was there I fought Ahsaytsan for the first time alongside Rimidalv and Ser Cavulus.

  “At Mount Gamour?” Randall gingerly pressed, recalling just how bitter her mood had turned when prior conversations had led to that particular bit of her past.

  Yes, at Mount Gamour, she said bitterly. It was there that I learned I am truly unique…and it was there that Rimidalv took the life of my former wielder, Kanjin.

  Randall rode in silence for several minutes as he processed her revelation. It was only then that he realized he had not yet informed her of Ser Cavulus’ hand in retrieving them from the hot, dark confines of the Underworld where they had battled the pale warrior and his Grey Blade.

  He thought about withholding the White Knight’s appearance from her, but the more he thought about it the more he knew that t
o do so would be nothing short of a betrayal. He sighed and said, “Ser Cavulus found us while we were unconscious.”

  What?! she demanded.

  “It’s true,” he said through gritted teeth as he replayed his most recent meeting with Ravilich in his mind. “She didn’t even remember who I was…”

  Dan’Moread’s silence was deafening as they rode for nearly an hour without exchanging a single word. His thoughts were erratic as they turned from his life in Three Rivers, the journey to Greystone, meeting his great grandmother, battling the Grey Blade—and nearly dying—and finally settling on Rimidalv, ‘the Incorruptible,’ the color of whose heart seemed as unlike that with which he and his bearer had become associated as possible.

  Eventually, just before noon, she said, I am sorry, Randall. I know that Yaerilys meant something to you.

  “It’s not your fault,” Randall shook his head in negation. “You didn’t know.”

  I… she began hesitantly. That is not entirely true, Randall.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, pulling Storm Chaser’s reins up as his eyes moved down to Dan’Moread’s re-built hilt.

  I was not completely aware of Rimidalv’s methods, she said, and it was clear to Randall that discussing this subject was every bit as emotional for her as it was for him, but I was aware of the contempt he has for his wielders. He callously sacrificed the life of the real Ser Cavulus simply to gain victory over the Storm Lord beneath Mount Gamour—and that sacrifice was not limited to his own wielder.

  “He killed Kanjin?” Randall asked in a mixture of outrage and confusion—though the target of his outrage was not immediately clear to him.

  Not directly, she said grimly. But his actions caused his death as certainly as burying his blade into Kanjin’s chest to his immaculate ricasso would have done.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded resentfully. “I’ve shared everything with you…why wouldn’t you trust me with this?”