Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “Aye,” the smith grunted. “Thought he’d end-run me to the Armorer’s Guild, did he? Yorys is a fine metal worker—gifted, even—but there’s more to Guild membership than just skill.”

  “Where can I find him?” Randall asked.

  “Should be down at the Guild hall,” Hostettler grunted, hesitating before gesturing to Dan’Moread. “Can I take a look at his work?”

  He had best avoid insulting me, Dan’Moread warned, and Randall snickered softly in reply.

  “Sure,” Randall nodded, drawing her loose of the scabbard and holding her out for Hostettler’s approval.

  The smith took her in his gnarled, meaty hands and examined the work done to her hilt. He tested her balance and grip with a couple of test swings and thrusts before shaking his head, “The look is fine, but the balance…something seems off.” He repeated a few practice swings before sighing, “I’d re-do the work for you if you’re unsatisfied with its weight distribution. It’s dangerously tip-heavy as it sits.”

  He is unaware that I have restricted the flow of my Titansand, Dan’Moread said haughtily. A girl cannot bare all of her secrets at the slightest touch, after all.

  Randall gestured for the smith to return her to him, and Hostettler obliged. After sheathing Dan’Moread, Randall shook his head, “Whatever flaws this blade might have, she’s saved my life on more occasions than I would have thought possible. I won’t be complaining about the Dragon’s Tooth, in any case, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “In all honesty,” Hostettler said sourly, “I’m more disappointed that Yorys thought he needed to go behind my back to do this work. He’s a fine bladesmith, and will have a long career once he finds a forge of his own, but arrogance like his has no place in a forge. Still,” he reluctantly sighed, “it’s a fine blade, and he did fine work with it. But I’m a busy man, and the forge fires need more tending than my wife ‘round her monthlies, so I bid you good day,” he nodded curtly before returning to his duties within the forge.

  The Armorer’s Guild… Dan’Moread mused. I think we passed it the night of our completed Union.

  “You mean when we fought the beast man in the Guardsman’s armor?” Randall asked for clarification.

  Indeed, she agreed. I think it is this way, he felt his right hand raise to point toward a nearby street leading away from a five-way junction.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t do that without warning me first,” Randall muttered as a small cadre of passersby gave him a weird look for having so abruptly ‘raised his arm,’ which had been Dan’Moread’s act and not his.

  But then how would I amuse myself? she asked devilishly.

  “Cheeky sword,” he snickered as they made their way to the Armorer’s Guild.

  “Eckol?” Randall said in surprise after arriving at the Armorer’s Guild’s front door. “What are you doing here?”

  Eckol, the blacksmith who had previously accompanied the White Knight’s retinue, turned and smiled when he saw Randall. “Randall? This is a fine coincidence!” The smith reached out with his hand, which Randall accepted and shook.

  “I ran into Ser Cavulus a few days ago,” Randall said, causing Eckol’s brow to lower slightly.

  “We were dismissed,” Eckol said with a sigh, “though, truth be told, my heart was no longer in the work we did. I think it is time for me to set down somewhere, and Greystone seemed the ideal place to come ply my trade. But the Guild,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “is as corrupt as any other protectionist organization.”

  “Corrupt?” Randall repeated in confusion. “How so?”

  “I have been a smith since before I got my man hairs,” Eckol explained. “I’m a better metal-worker than half of the shingled Guildsman in this city, but as a man of little means my only option for earning a shingle of my own is to undertake a lengthy apprenticeship working for one of the established smiths who belongs to the Guild. I’m not about to spend a tenth of my life filling another’s pockets while my back bends and my hands scar from the forge’s fires.”

  “But…can’t you just set up shop without the Guild’s permission?”

  “I could—and might, at that,” Eckol snorted. “But the city restricts access to the rare minerals used in the forging of Grey Iron, and only the Armorer’s Guild members can purchase them.”

  “I’m not sure I disagree with their stance on that,” Randall allowed, “since Grey Iron is a Greystone invention.”

  “But they aren’t restricting the methods or formulae which describe how to make Grey Iron,” Eckol shook his head angrily, “they’re restricting access to the rarer minerals needed to create it.”

  “Well…I’m on your side, then,” Randall decided, not just politely agreeing with the other man. “So what is your plan?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know,” Eckol sighed. “Drexil was looking into working for one of the mercenary companies that keeps offices here. They say the stone rumbles with rumors of war with the Federation, and the mercs are in a full-on recruiting drive. That life might suit Drexil,” he shook his head firmly, “but not me. I gave two years of my life in service to the White Knight where we righted wrongs and battled evil; I won’t use my next step to turn around and blindly sell my services to the highest bidder.”

  “Drexil is here?” Randall asked hopefully, remembering the often excruciating workouts which the armsman had put him through.

  “He is,” Eckol nodded, “he’s staying at the White Rock…well, ‘staying’ might not be the best word to use. He’s been spending his severance pay to drink himself under the table no less than twice a day since we arrived.” He sighed before adding, “And I think the barmaids have nearly fleeced him of what little he had managed to keep for himself.”

  “What about you?” Randall asked. “How are you for money?”

  “I have enough to buy basic necessities to set up in a forge,” Eckol replied. “But not enough to build a forge of my own, obviously.”

  Randall nodded slowly, “I’d like to help…but I’m just not sure how I can do that.”

  “I wasn’t asking for your help, Randall,” Eckol clapped him on the shoulder. “Though I appreciate the sentiment. No,” he glowered at the guild hall’s main doorway, “I think I’ve got to exhaust my options here before I come up with a new plan. That will take a few more days, in any event.”

  “We should have a meal together,” Randall declared.

  A fine idea, Dan’Moread said dryly. And with what coin will you pay for this meal?

  Pursing his lips irritably, Randall ignored her as Eckol nodded, “I would like that. I can probably convince Drexil to keep out of his cups long enough to get some food down if I use your name. He spoke fondly of you after we parted company, and even wondered what became of you.”

  “Good,” Randall nodded. “I’ve got some…thing to do in the morning,” he said, remembering the word ‘investiture’ coming up several times but still having no idea what that might mean, “but after that I’d love to get together with you two. Maybe we can meet for lunch?”

  “That would be grand,” Eckol agreed with a smile. “I think I’ve had enough of this place for one day, anyway; I might go join Drexil for a round at the bar.”

  “It’s good to see you, Eckol,” Randall said, and after shaking his hand the homeless smith set off down the stone-paved road leading toward the city gates where most of the inns were located.

  Randall turned and made his way into the Armorer’s Guild and was greeted by the steely-eyed glares of a pair of guardsmen—guardsmen wearing armor crafted from the much-vaunted Grey Iron for which Greystone was famous—who gave lengthy looks at Dan’Moread’s hilt as he passed through the door they guarded. He ignored them as he entered the lobby of the building, where a central counter was flanked by smaller booths each of which had a line waiting that was at least ten people deep.

  He sighed in desperation before he caught sight of Yorys, the apprentice smith who had helped him rebuild Dan’M
oread’s hilt.

  There he is, Dan’Moread put in unnecessarily, and Randall nodded before making his way to the young half-elf’s side. He was near the back of the line at the leftmost booth, sandwiched between big-bellied merchants who seemed more concerned with their own noses than with anything—or anyone—around them.

  “Yorys,” Randall greeted, prompting the other man to turn in surprise.

  Yorys’ eyes lit up as he recognized him, “Thank the Lady you are well. When the Nation’s envoy came to me…” he paused, lowering his voice before continuing, “I am glad to see you are well.”

  “I heard about your problem with Hostettler,” Randall commiserated. “I’m sorry if I was the cause of that.”

  Yorys waved his hand dismissively, “Hostettler’s got the Guild’s backing and I knew I was playing with fire doing as I did. The worst outcome for me is that I re-apprentice for another accredited Guild member for a year or two. And, truth be told,” he glared at the docent working the booth he was waiting for, “it looks like that might end up being the best option. I’m wicked good with a hammer and tongs,” he said sourly, “but it seems I’m ill-cast for politics.”

  “I just ran into a friend who was saying the same thing,” Randall nodded. “He’s a smith who worked with Ser Cavulus for two years, but even with that notch on his belt the Guild won’t let him set up shop.”

  Yorys nodded knowingly, “They say they put the membership requirements up to keep Grey Iron under Greystone’s control,” he explained, raising his voice significantly as he finished, “but anyone with a brain in his skull knows it’s to protect the Guild’s prices and to limit competition!” Several of the lobby’s occupants sent glares their way, but Yorys seemed to ignore them as he continued in a more conversational tone and volume, “Bah…it’s the way of the world. What can someone like me do except play by whatever rules they decide to write? If that means I’ve got to toil for another’s gain for another year or two,” he shrugged in resignation, “then I’d best get to it. The sooner begun, the sooner done.”

  “I hear that,” Randall agreed, surprised to find himself genuinely surprised that the Federation was not the only nation which endorsed this kind of power abuse by its higher-ranking citizens. Still, as far as Randall was concerned the political problems within Greystone were significantly less numerous and severe than those in Federation-controlled Three Rivers. “Well…listen, my friends are at the White Stone for a few days—“

  “White Stone?” Yorys repeated in alarm. “They’re signed on with Blautenfrank’s forge?” Then realization dawned in the young smith’s eyes, “Ahh…you mean the ‘White Rock;’ the seedy place down in the Gate District. I know it,” he nodded.

  “Right…” Randall drawled, “anyway, we were going to meet there for lunch tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to join us?”

  “I’d rather eat fresh sewer clay than anything Hester’s kind would cook up,” Yorys grunted, “but if you’re after real food, I might know a place or two we could eat…”

  “That would be perfect,” Randall grinned.

  “Full sun tomorrow, then,” Yorys nodded before lightly slapping the back of his hand on Randall’s chest, “but you’re buying, eh?”

  “Of course,” Randall nodded, “good luck with your case…or whatever,” he said before turning to leave.

  This should be interesting, Dan’Moread quipped after they emerged into the dimming evening sun. I hope they accept broken dreams as payment since that appears to be all we have in abundance.

  “Oh, we’ve got more than that,” Randall retorted. “We’ve got a little bit of grit, a dose of ingenuity, and sarcasm.”

  And it seems that we are chock full of the latter, she agreed.

  “Have a little faith, Dani,” he said without thinking.

  I asked you to stop calling me that, she said frostily.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely sorry for having used the term which continued to worm its way into his mind. But for as sorry as he was, he was twice as curious as to why she disliked his using that name. “I’m tired. What say we get an hour or so of exercise in, see to Storm Chaser, and hit the sack?”

  If you can last the hour, I would say it is a reasonable approximation of a day’s work, she said dryly.

  “Doubting Dan’Moread,” he mused as they made their way back to the Palace District, “you know, that’s got a ring to it—“

  You must grip my hilt eventually, she warned, and when you do…

  “Yeah, yeah…” he muttered, doing his best to hide a grin as they made their way back to Storm Chaser’s stable. A brief look up into the dimming sky showed that the unpredictable Wanderer was directly overhead while the Judge, briefly ahead of its smaller and more chaotic companion, made its methodical, inexorable trek across the sky.

  Chapter X: Rage

  Midnight, 1-2-6-659

  Rada knew the Underworld tunnels better than any living creature of this world. He had used them to flee persecution in his own world, and had barely managed to escape with his life—though some would whisper that the ordeal had cost him his sanity.

  His time spent in the darkness of the Underworld had indeed taken something from him, but it had not been his sanity—it had been the very weakness which had seen him cast down into the bowels of the Underworld. He had paid a high price for harboring such imperfections, but in the end that price had been one he would gladly repay in exchange for the gifts he now possessed—gifts which included clarity, focus, and the means to shake the very foundations of this entire world…and all others.

  The interconnected tunnels which made up the Underworld were seemingly random, but after spending so much time within them Rada had come to understand and appreciate their design. The closer one came to the edge of the world, the more numerous the tunnels became. And the more numerous the tunnels, the easier it became to see the true design of the world above.

  The tunnels were the veins of the world and the lines of eldritch, green energy which silently spiraled down the walls around him were the lifeblood which they carried. Of course, other denizens occasioned the tunnels—and some of them were deadly beyond belief—but Rada had thankfully learned to evade such monstrosities by maintaining a heightened sense of awareness at all times.

  He was less than a mile from his goal when those same senses picked up on a sound which even gave the mighty Glu’Rada reason to halt in his tracks. It was the sound of metal clacking against metal, and it was one which he had encountered once before.

  As he had done the previous time he had come into proximity with the foul denizen of the Underworld, Rada backtracked as quietly as he could away from the source of the sound until coming to a junction. Once there, he eschewed stealth in favor of speed and set off at a dead sprint as fast as his legs could carry him. Running with only one arm was difficult, but certainly not impossible, and for a rare moment in his new life as the Rotting God’s chosen he felt a pang of fear send a chill down his body.

  That fear would have been enough to stop any lesser creature in his tracks, but Rada would not be cowed by his own weaknesses. He ran far—at least three miles—all the while acutely aware of the approaching sound of the clack-clack-clack of metal on metal which pursued him.

  He knew not the name of the monstrosity which pursued him, nor did he care to learn it. But he did know where he could lose the beast, and it was there that he ran as fast as the Rotting God’s gifts permitted him.

  His lungs burned nearly as badly as his legs, but he kept running for another two miles while counting the steps in the increasingly dark tunnels of the Underworld. The pale, green light which was the lifeblood of the world above had faded until it was barely noticeable. Rada knew it was still there, pulsing silently throughout the Underworld and feeding the world above with its awesome power, but he could no longer see it since the entire interior of the tunnel was now covered in moss—the same moss which would prevent the pursuing daemon from capturing him as he knew it wished to do
.

  His legs devoured another mile of tunnel, including two more turns at the intersections he came to, and he permitted himself a moment to stop and listen for signs of his pursuer. Even with the thick blanket of moss covering the tubular tunnel’s inner surface, Rada’s hearing had been enhanced by the Rotting God’s gifts to the point that he could make out the sound of his pursuer’s approach at a range of half a mile or more.

  His head cocked and his internal organs straining at the very limits of their performance, he focused on his hearing and detected nothing. He waited for ten full minutes just to be certain, and eventually he was confident that his would-be hunter had given up and returned to its former course after the fleeting chase.

  Feeling exhilarated in the extreme, Rada closed his eyes and mentally retraced his steps through the Underworld. He had built a model of the tunnels in his mind, and being so close to the Rotting God’s temple he knew these tunnels intimately. It only took him a few seconds to devise the most efficient route to his destination, and when he had it in mind his eyes snapped open and he jogged off toward it.

  Two hours later, Rada came to the broken portal which led to the Rotting God’s temple. If the rest of his tribe had been dutiful, they would be assembled at the feet of their god in preparation for their deity’s resurrection—a resurrection which Rada was confident he could now complete as he had been charged to do.

  The portal before him was nearly identical to the one which had brought Rada to this world. It stood over twice as tall as Rada, was made of the same metal as the Underworld tunnels themselves, and was a perfectly circular disc. Except unlike the portal which had brought Rada to this world, the portal presently before him had been damaged by some unthinkably powerful event the likes of which gave even Rada cause for fear given the amount of power needed to damage the thick, metal disc at all—let alone enough to crack it into two nearly identical halves which now flanked the open passage beyond.