Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “But the assayers already called it a keep,” Randall said, feeling a surge of unexpected positivity after hearing her plan. “How do we get them to re-designate it?”

  “I don’t think that will be difficult at all,” Lorie said with a firm shake of her head. “I just need to spend a few days in Greystone, where I’ll review the proper procedure and verbiage, before finding a barrister to file the papers for us.”

  “You really think you can do all that?” Randall asked skeptically.

  “I ran a business under the Feds, Randy,” she gave him a withering look, “by comparison, this will be a raft ride downriver.”

  Ellie muttered something under her breath, causing all three of them to turn and give her their attention. “What was that, Ell?” Randall asked.

  “The Keeper’s Inn,” she repeated, this time loud enough to be heard, “that is what we will call it. When you rented the loft for us, Yordan said it was ‘a keeper’ and this is much grander than that room ever could have been. The name also satirizes the building’s former status as a keep, which makes the name tell a story all of its own.”

  Randall grinned, “That sounds perfect.”

  Chapter XIX: A Sea of Tears and Rivers of Blood

  15-2-6-659

  “The last fortress has fallen,” the deceptively young Dynerian, Kylien, reported as the first rays of sunlight cam streaming down from above. Recent events had conspired to place her in complete control of the Dynerian Navy—the most powerful naval force in the alliance which the Ghaevlian Nation had secretly built over recent decades. Though she was young enough to be his granddaughter six times great, she was every bit his political equal within the loose structure of the Ghaevlian military. “The city is ours,” she proclaimed as her fierce eyes met his.

  “Good,” Lazeros nodded with satisfaction as he gazed out on the heavily-damaged Temple District of Three Rivers. “What of the Sea of Tears?”

  “The letting of so much blood has softened its heart,” Kylien replied uneasily, turning her head and causing the sunlight to glitter across her iridescent skin. Dynerians were equally at home in shallow pools of water as they were on dry land, and their unique, blue-green skin—which was very nearly, but not quite, fish-like in its slick, scaly appearance— served them well while submerged. “But it is only a matter of time before it becomes restless once again,” she added grimly.

  “The Elders will serve as they once did,” Lazeros assured her, recalling with chilling vividness his last sight of the Forest That Walks. The Federation war machines had unleashed their fiery arsenals upon the Elder Spirit, and he had no doubt that its torment would be great and that the Federation machines would succeed in defeating it—though he also knew they would fall well short of destroying it. “Much depends on their readiness,” he said, shaking such thoughts from his mind. The Forest That Walks had been driven mad—likely by the Federation’s unconscionable aggression toward the land which the Ghaevlian Nation now sought to restore—and was therefore uncontrollable and had to be abandoned. The Sea of Tears, on the other hand, had been far more stable which was why it had been chosen for the siege of Three Rivers.

  “The Sea of Tears will retreat to the Rydian Sea,” she said, causing Lazeros’ eyebrows to rise in surprise.

  “That was not the agreement,” he said warningly.

  “Agreements struck between mortals—even those blessed with the blood of our respective forebears—hold no sway over gods or Elder Spirits, Lazeros,” she said with finality. “The Sea of Tears will not be kept here; attempting to coerce it into doing so will end in nothing short of disaster.”

  Lazeros nodded slowly. It would be three days before the Fissalian fleet arrived from the other side of the Rydian Sea, which meant that Three Rivers would be unprotected from a naval attack during that interval. “What of the Dynerian armada?” he pressed.

  “They have encountered greater numbers of Federation warships than anticipated,” she said tightly, “and ever since the Quin’del network ceased to function, updated communications have become increasingly difficult. The Black Ship you used to summon the Fissalians could be of great value to my people—“

  “I cannot risk it,” he shook his head grimly, knowing that without the Quin’del—a network of interconnected crystals which, until a few weeks earlier, had permitted instantaneous communication between the disparate members of the reborn Ghaevlian Nation—the Black Ship was the Nation’s sole method of transmitting information faster than mounted couriers could carry messages. “If your people are engaged in battle with the Federation ships, putting our only Black Ship in a contested area would be unthinkably irresponsible.”

  “My people are dying,” she hissed.

  “As are mine!” he retorted, pointing out across Three Rivers’ rubble-strewn streets. “I lost a thousand brothers and sisters taking this city—souls which cannot be quickly replenished,” he added hotly as his thoughts turned to the most painful of all losses: Uleylio, the woman who had held what little remained of his heart.

  She had died valiantly, taking down one of the Federation’s war machines—a machine which had turned its fire inward on the city’s interior in an abhorrent display which went against everything that the Nation stood for. Uleylio had died for the very principles which the Federation had violated by attacking the civilians within Three Rivers, and while Lazeros was proud to have fought alongside her he knew that what little of value had remained in him had died with her.

  “You would do well,” he said in a low, menacing tone, “to remember that we are allies in a war against a common enemy. Your people must wrest control of the Rydian from the Federation war fleet, or the blood which my people freely gave to take this city will soon vanish, having been washed away by the rivers for which this place is named.”

  She was clearly unwilling to surrender the point, but she wisely opted not to pursue the matter. “I must go,” she said tersely, “the Sea of Tears must be returned to the Rydian where our singers can soothe its troubled soul.”

  “Do as you must,” he said steadily, “but remember that this battle was merely one of many.”

  “I am no child, Lazeros,” she spat. “I know what is at stake here.”

  “Good,” he grunted, and after a short-lived contest of wills—a contest which Lazeros won—she turned and made her way to the harbor where the Sea of Tears awaited her.

  Looking out over the damaged, but far from devastated city he thumbed the Quin’del which lay between the skin of his chest and his undershirt. It had not previously failed to function for this long, and he could not help but wonder if the Federation had somehow managed to interrupt the long-range communications system.

  “They are coming, Phinjo,” he absently whispered, knowing that his sister would soon face an even greater threat than the one he and his people had faced during the siege of Three Rivers.

  In the battle he had just won—at great cost—the Ghaevlian Nation had held the advantage of surprise and had been able to avoid a true, prolonged siege of the city. But when the Federation moved against Greystone, as it inevitably would, that particular advantage would be in the hands of the humans he had just defeated.

  “Be prepared, Phinjo…” he said, casting a purposeful look to the northeast before catching the eye of a nearby subordinate whose body language said clearer than words that he had a status update to report.

  Chapter XX: A Bump in the Night

  16-2-6-659, Midnight

  Randall, wake up, Randall heard Dan’Moread say as his eyes snapped open in surprise. It was the middle of the night and he had apparently dozed off in the gatehouse where they had set up temporary camp.

  “I’m awake,” he whispered, looking to see the others were sound asleep. “What is it?”

  I heard something outside, she replied as he instinctively moved his hand to her hilt.

  He cocked his head in confusion, “How could you hear while I was asleep?”

  I do not know, but that is
not important, she said tersely. The source of the noise came from the other side of the wall—it sounded like some sort of large animal.

  “An animal?” he repeated. “Maybe you’d better take over,” he suggested, and a second later she did precisely that before proceeding to draw herself free of her scabbard.

  Undo the belt with your free hand, she instructed.

  Randall felt himself blush with embarrassment, “Couldn’t we wait until—“

  Now, Randall, she insisted.

  “Fine,” he grumbled as she moved his body toward the gatehouse door. He quickly undid the trio of knots which had concealed the enchanted lower body armor he had purchased at the arcanium. He had intended to ask Ellie if she could make a few modifications to it so that it would look more like a piece of armor than…well, than what it actually was. But as yet he had not found the time to do so. With any luck, none of his friends would see him wearing the garment before he had a chance to have Ellie make the necessary modifications.

  With his lower body now guarded, he squeezed the loops of leather which wrapped around his left hand. They were connected to the knife-concealing forearm shield—which, to Randall, seemed more like an armored bracer than anything else—and allowed him to tightly lock the shield to his forearm whenever necessary. He had only practiced with it sparingly since purchasing it, but he was convinced that he could use it to at least some beneficial effect during a fight.

  Then he heard a sound from the other side of the gatehouse, and Dan’Moread froze them in their tracks as she cocked his head. This is a large animal, she said after hearing a pair of thudding footfalls bring the creature steadily nearer to the gate where Dan’Moread had brought them.

  Peering around the corner, at first they saw nothing. Then Randall’s eyes picked up on a faint shadow outlined by the light of the Wandering Moon above. The shadow did indeed look large—perhaps even larger than any bear he had heard of—but it was not the sight or even the sound that struck him in that moment. It was the lack of sound which set his hairs on end.

  “Dani…” he whispered so softly he was uncertain she could hear him, “it’s not breathing…” Something as large as whatever this thing was would need to take deep, loud breaths—but whatever this thing was, it had not drawn a single breath since Randall had begun to listen for that particular sound several seconds earlier.

  She ducked their head back behind the gate’s edge and a moment of silence ensued before she said, You are right…we cannot permit it to gain entry to the keep’s interior.

  “What if there are two of them?” he asked, more mouthing the words than even whispering. It was strange having Dan’Moread control his body: on the one hand he was a powerless passenger whenever she assumed control, but on the other hand she was vastly superior to him when it came time to fight. It was, he had recently concluded, a symbiotic submission with which he had grown increasingly comfortable—or perhaps decreasingly uncomfortable, depending on one’s point of view.

  We will take that chance, she replied as he felt his body lower into a fighting crouch, but I will not surrender the initiative.

  Biting down—hard—he controlled his breathing as they stepped into the gate. The shadow he had spied was no longer there, and as he focused on the patch of ground where it had been a moment earlier he barely registered the surprising speed with which a towering figure came lurching around the corner.

  As the figure lunged toward them and Dani leapt back through the gatehouse, the figure’s face was briefly visible—and it was like something straight out of a nightmare.

  Dan’Moread swayed back and out of the lunging monstrosity’s reach, narrowly avoiding a trio of vicious swipes—any one of which could have broken multiple bones in Randall’s body.

  There was something familiar about the lumbering beast, which was clearly of human origins but which just as clearly was no longer human in any meaningful capacity. Its skin was tautly wrapped around its musculature and skeleton; its body was covered in seemingly random scars that suggested either near-dismemberment of each limb or, more perversely, that it had been assembled from a dozen different sources of flesh and bone; and its eyes were sunken and utterly empty as they peered out from behind a dozen postulant boils which had caused its once-human face to appear as anything but human.

  A Fleshthing, she said, her words as much a surprise to her as they likely were to Randall. Somehow this creature seemed vaguely familiar, but she would have to wait until later to consider why it seemed familiar to her.

  “A what?!” Randall blurted as she planted their right foot and dove forward, rolling cleanly beneath the creature’s clumsy-but-deadly swipe of its left arm—an arm that looked to have been patched together from at least three different sources.

  Later, Randall, she snapped as she pulled her Titansand ballast down to her pommel in preparation for a mighty blow aimed at the creature’s leg. But before she could bring herself into a ready position, the Fleshthing spun with uncanny speed and thundered its bloated, paw-like foot into Randall’s gut.

  Had Randall’s body weight half-again as much as it did, the blow would very likely have ended the fight entirely. But, being slight of frame and weight less than the average human woman, Randall’s body was instead launched through the air several feet. She kept their feet under them as they came back down, but Randall’s previously-injured ribs flared in pain as her wielder struggled to regain his breath.

  Stay with me, Randall, she urged, planting their feet and launching a trio of upward swipes aimed at the Fleshthing’s groin and gut. Somewhat surprisingly, the beast made no attempt to avoid the blows—and Dan’Moread’s overconfidence very nearly cost her wielder his life.

  Swiping with its right hand, the beast lashed out with razor-sharp claws where fingernails had likely been. Randall barely managed to bring the shield bracer up in time to deflect those claws up and away from his throat, but the blow still managed to clout them on the side of the head. For several precious seconds, they were robbed of Randall’s senses. She did her best to scamper away from where she thought the beast stood, and a few seconds after taking the blow to the head she regained some portion of their vision.

  She felt the thick, lifeless fluid which passed for the creature’s blood drip from her edge and she was filled with a profound sense of déjà vu that she could not explain. She pushed it from her mind and ducked an incoming blow before tucking and rolling past the lumbering brute yet again.

  This time when she regained her feet and the creature turned, she had a brief window to assess the damage she had caused during the previous exchange. She had opened a two-foot-long gash which extended from the Fleshthing’s right groin up, through and out of the creature’s abdomen on that same side. Perhaps unsurprisingly considering the creature appeared anything but normal—or alive—this seemed to do little to slow it as it lunged toward her.

  She sidestepped and decided to maintain distance from the lumbering, long-limbed abomination. Dancing back and out of the way, she spun herself over in Randall’s hand several times as she re-shifted her Titansand ballast and waited for a clear opening.

  After a dozen steps she realized that Randall had resumed something approaching a normal breathing pattern, and she reminded herself to chastise him later for his far-too-lax conditioning regimen of late.

  The Fleshthing lurched forward, appearing intent on clutching Randall in its clawed hands, and Dan’Moread finally saw her opening.

  Driving to the left, she spun Randall’s body around in a circle while extending her blade and letting her Titansand ballast flow toward her tip. She brought her razor-sharp edge up, over, and down through the Fleshthing’s left arm and tore deeply into its bicep just above the elbow. When her edge bit into the Fleshthing’s bone, a sensation which was equal parts violent jolt and overpowering nausea flooded her and Randall’s combined senses. Thankfully, her Titansand’s added inertia provided enough power to the blow to drive her star metal blade through the arm entirely,
but she was sent staggering as their senses slowly clarified and the jolting sensation abated.

  “What was that?!” Randall gasped.

  I do not know, she replied, but after she spoke she realized that was a lie. She had felt that particularly unpleasant sensation before, and this time the moment of déjà vu was so strong she almost failed to maintain sufficient focus to dodge the beast’s counterattack.

  Its right hand forming a meaty club of a fist, the Fleshthing’s brutal uppercut almost caught Randall in the gut with enough force to put them down. Thankfully, their new armor absorbed enough of the blow that Dan’Moread was able to keep their feet beneath them as she scampered away while Randall struggled yet again to regain his breath.

  She danced around behind the nightmarish thing, causing it to pivot and follow her with its cold, dead eyes. You deserve to rest, she growled, lowering into a crouch before lunging toward the patchwork of body parts.

  Surprisingly, the creature’s right hand—now open to reveal the two inch long, black claws extending from where its fingernails should have been—swatted the flat of her blade as she had aimed her tip at the thing’s knee. She let the blow’s impact spin Randall’s body as she brought her blade up for a follow-up swipe aimed at the Fleshthing’s near leg. Again, the Fleshthing surprisingly managed to intercept her well-aimed attack, but she would not be deterred.

  A savage assault ensued, with fifteen similar clashes occurring as she sought out the beast’s weak point. Any living creature would have shed so much blood by now, following the loss of an arm, that it would have been rendered relatively helpless. But this Fleshthing seemed unfazed by the mortal wound it had suffered, which gave Dan’Moread a rare moment of pause as she sent a sequence of six well-practiced blows at the thing, each of which it somehow managed to block.