Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  Before she could finish, her eyes rolled back and she slumped into unconsciousness in Ravilich’s arms.

  “Yar…no!” Ravilich cried as he lowered her to the ground. “What have you done?!” he demanded, turning to face Randall with indignation—but thankfully this time it was without the mindless anger which had earlier filled his visage.

  “I…” Randall began, finding the words sticking in his throat as he tried to describe the events of the day. “I…” he tried—again—and failed—again—to explain his actions.

  “He did what needed doin’,” Yordan interrupted irritably. “He freed yer lady from a prison as tight and suffocating as any what’s been built by living hands—and he did so knowin’ full well how dangerous it would be to him. You’ve got no cause directin’ yer ire his way, so you’d do well to mind yer tone—at least for as long as yer lady friend is under my care!” As if to punctuate her point, Yordan produced a fresh bandage and began to re-bind Yaerilys’ slowly-bleeding stump.

  At first Ravilich seemed confused, then a look of realization lit his eyes as he looked between Randall and Yordan. “You…” he gritted his teeth and made eye contact with Randall, “you saved her…from Rimidalv?”

  Randall nodded slowly, “I’m sorry, Ravilich. I—“

  Ravilich held up a hand and returned his focus to Yaerilys’ limp body. Tears soon streamed down his face and he resumed sobbing, but this time it was with obvious relief as he cradled his beloved in his arms and gently kissed her forehead. “If she is indeed beyond the White Blade’s grasp…then words cannot express my gratitude, Randall. Never again apologize for bringing my Yar back to me. Swear it!” he said with sudden, surprising ferocity.

  “I…” Randall was taken aback. He had no idea how one should respond to such an ultimatum—especially when he did indeed feel guilty for doing such grievous harm to Yaerilys, who had only ever been a friend, mentor and, yes, lover—so he nodded meekly and said, “I swear it.”

  “Help me get her back to bed,” Yordan said crossly after finishing with her ministrations. Ravilich nodded and a few minutes later Yaerilys was back on the stack of blankets and canvased which served as her hospital bed.

  “I just…how?” Ravilich asked dumbly, sitting on his haunches while holding Yaerilys’ hand between his own. “How did you free her?”

  “Rimidalv is gone, Ravilich,” Randall said grimly. “Know that we would have done everything in our power to destroy him while leaving her unmolested—“

  “How do you know Rimidalv is gone?” Ravilich interrupted tersely. “The White Blade has fought and won a thousand battles and more. How can you be certain he is no more?”

  Randall gestured to Dan’Moread, “I don’t claim to know by what means, but this sword was able to sunder not just Rimidalv but also a Grey Blade—one named ‘Ahsaytsan’.”

  Ravilich’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Dan’Moread’s naked blade, which glittered with a hundred different colors in the firelight. “That is impossible.”

  “It’s not,” Randall shook his head firmly, tilting his head toward the small pile of Ahsaytsan’s Grey Iron shards which he had previously brought to the gatehouse for examination. He picked up a medium-sized fragment and handed it to Ravilich, “I haven’t collected his pieces yet, but I saw enough of Rimidalv’s White Steel fragments scattered out on the bridge to know that he’s gone—or at least that his blade is. I only found part of his hilt, but I’m confident that Rimidalv The Incorruptible won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  Ravilich turned the piece of Grey Iron over in his hand and slowly began to nod. He released a sigh so long and infused with emotion, that when the last bit of air had left his lungs he genuinely looked like a different man. “I cannot thank you enough, Randall…you freed us both from a prison which I had thought inescapable—to say nothing of those who would have followed us.”

  Randall heard the whinny of a horse outside and remembered that Ravilich had left his wagon unattended. “We should put your horse away for the night,” Randall suggested.

  “Aye,” Ravilich nodded, and together they did just that before settling into a predictably uncomfortable vigil at Yaerilys’ side.

  Chapter XXVI: Cold, Grey Stone

  17-2-6-659, Morning

  “I can’t just sit around here any longer,” Randall said adamantly. “Phinjo was clear that I should return to Greystone after we got settled in and received our papers.”

  “And what are we to do while you’re gone?” Yordan demanded.

  “I’ve enough food and other supplies in the wagon for a month on the road,” Ravilich offered. “With the White Knight gone, I can’t imagine a better use for those sundries than to see to everyone’s needs here.”

  “That would be a big help, Ravilich,” Randall nodded thankfully. “I’m also going to have to impose on you to look after everyone here while I’m gone.”

  “That was well understood,” Ravilich agreed. “The sooner you leave, the sooner you can return.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Lore unexpectedly declared.

  “Lore, I can’t—“ Randall began.

  “I’m not asking you to safeguard anyone here, Randy,” Lore interrupted. “We all understand just how dangerous things are out here—but we also know how dangerous life would have been back in Three Rivers. For better or worse, this is our course now and we’d all do well to recognize that rafting up with each other is our best way through these rapids. With a war breaking out between the Feds and the Ghaevlian Nation—to say nothing of the other dozen principalities which will inevitably get drawn into the conflict—we need to look after each other’s backs. The best way I can do that is by going to Greystone with you so I can check in with some of my former business contacts.”

  Randall blinked in confusion, “Lore…we don’t have any money. Besides, what kind of business are you talking about?”

  “The Keeper’s Inn, Doll,” Ellie reminded in her usual, gentle manner. “At the very least she will need a new roof and a restocking of the larder.”

  Lore nodded in agreement, “I don’t have much clout with the Greystone merchants’ guilds, but we should be able to work up a few thousand in loans to help get us on our feet.”

  “All of that talk about the inn…” Randall said hesitantly, “I thought that was just theoretical?”

  “Everything’s a theory ‘til it gets swung a few times in practice,” Yordan quipped. “Then, usually faster than you can lick a split, it becomes a way of life.”

  Randall shook his head in ambivalent trepidation and wonderment. Looking at each of his friends in turn, he realized they were all deathly serious—they were ready to plant their feet right here, right now, even in spite of the truly horrifying events of the last few days.

  Those events would have cowed most people—even Randall felt no small measure of fear at what might follow an invasion of undead golems—but none of his friends seemed ready to tuck tail and run.

  He felt himself swell with pride at having the privilege to call them his friends, and he nodded curtly to bolster his own nerves as he said, “Then we’ll ready the wagon and make for Greystone immediately. Ravilich will stay here with Yordan, Ellie, and Yaerilys. Lore, the kids and I will make for Greystone and return as soon as we’ve concluded our business there.”

  “Be about…twelve days roundtrip with a fully-loaded wagon,” Ravilich mused, “we could cut that to eight if we strip it down.”

  “Do it,” Randall nodded. “And let’s load what’s left of Yaerilys’ armor into the back,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I got the senses there’s a pretty robust market for this type of thing there, and it’s mostly intact so it should fetch a high price. I doubt it would be of any use to us as it is.”

  “I’d have it removed from my sight as soon as possible,” Ravilich growled in agreement.

  “Will shopping the famous Ser Cavulus’ suit of armor not draw unwanted attention?” Ellie asked skeptically.

  Rav
ilich shook his head bitterly, “The White Knight’s reputation is not what it once was in these parts. It should be a small matter to find a collector who would gladly add such a robust trophy to an existing collection of such artifacts. In fact, I will jot down some names for you to investigate—people with whom Ser Cavulus’ path crossed on several occasions, and who might harbor a lingering grievance with the White Knight. They would pay handsomely to display a token commemorating Cavulus The Fabulous’ downfall.”

  “Good idea,” Randall nodded, briefly wondering just how many ‘Ser Cavulus’s there had been before Yaerilys. “Then it’s settled: we’re off as soon as we break down the wagon and get everyone situated here.”

  “What if those…things return?” Yordan asked.

  Ravilich shook his head emphatically, “All of the Fleshthings that came this way were cut down by Yar and Randall. Rimidalv somehow knew how many of them there were, along with where they could be found, but their location only became clear after Randall killed the first one here. The rest descended on this location to investigate the first’s death, and Rimidalv was eager to meet them in one place.”

  “That you think they’re gone is a small comfort,” Yordan grumbled, “but comfort nonetheless.”

  “What were those things, Ravilich?” Randall asked after wondering at their origin—and purpose—since seeing the first of the monstrosities.

  Ravilich shook his head gravely, “Yar, while under Rimidalv’s control, did not say more than to refer to them as ‘Harbingers of Darkness.’ She seemed convinced after conversing with Rimidalv that they were mere shadows of the true threat which would follow.”

  “You mean they were just the warm-up act?” Lore asked in surprise. “A warm-up for what?”

  Ravilich shook his head, “I do not know. Rimidalv communed only with Yaerilys, and I suspect that she was not permitted to discuss the details of those communions even with me, the White Blade’s Squire and her eventual…replacement.” The bitterness in Ravilich’s voice as he said that last word was mixed with a measure of relief that Randall knew he would never fully understand.

  “I entrust my friends to you while I’m gone, Ravilich,” Randall said, offering a hand in the hope that the two of them might start anew.

  Ravilich accepted the offer and firmly returned Randall’s grip, “I will guard them with my life until you return.”

  Randall nodded, fully aware of just how much Ravilich had committed to that particular charge. Ravilich was many things, but a coward and oathbreaker were clearly not among them.

  “Let’s get the wagon unpacked,” Randall suggested, and they did precisely that.

  21-2-6-659

  Four days later, Randall and Lore—with her children safely tucked aboard the wagon—rolled up to Greystone’s imposing gate. Even before the city gate drew into sight, it was clear that security around the North’s greatest city had been dramatically increased.

  They had passed no fewer than six foot patrols, along with two mounted patrols of fully-armored men-at-arms and knights, during the last day of their journey. None of them had answered more than the vaguest of questions, though neither Randall or Lore were surprised by that. During times of war, it was routine for information flow to be strangled in such a manner—and they now stood at the precipice of what was potentially one of the world’s greatest wars.

  “I visited here once, as a girl,” Lore said under her breath after the gate guards granted them passage following an examination of Randall’s patents.

  “I thought you’d never left Three Rivers?” Randall asked.

  “Lived there all my life,” Lore said dismissively, “but that doesn’t mean I never set foot outside the city walls. I visited with an uncle when I was eight. Some things seem immune to change,” she remarked absently as they rolled through the gate and passed by the very inn where Randall had recently feasted with Drexil and the others. “Greystone is precisely as I remember it.”

  Before he could reply, a young boy came up and waved a piece of paper in the air, “Message for you, Lord Randall.”

  Randall drew back on the reins before reaching down and accepting the scrap of paper. “Thank you,” Randall said, remembering how one summer, during his own youth, he had earned money by running messages throughout Three Rivers’ Native District. It was customary to tip runners, so Randall fished a pair of coppers out of his pocket and flicked them toward the boy—who deftly caught them, one in each hand, before turning and disappearing into a nearby crowd.

  “What is it?” Lore asked as he read the short note.

  “It’s from Phinjo,” he said dryly, “it seems she’s been expecting me. Can you tend to the wagon and make your contacts while I go to the Palace?”

  Lore shook her head wryly, “Never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d be asking me a question like that.”

  “Some things never change,” Randall quipped with a lopsided grin, “but others seem to change faster than we can keep up.”

  “True enough,” she nodded, taking the reins and driving the wagon up the cobblestone road, “I think I’ll manage without you.”

  “Stay with the wagon until we sell the armor,” Randall said seriously while walking alongside the wagon toward the intersection where they would go their separate ways for the next few hours.

  “Yes, your Lordship,” she said sarcastically, twisting in the driver’s seat to offer a mock bow as she pulled off toward the Merchant’s District.

  “Never going to get used to that,” Randall muttered under his breath, watching until the wagon was out of sight before setting off for the Towers Grey, where Phinjo’s note had said she awaited him.

  The trip took only a few minutes on foot, but halfway there he felt a familiar tingling of his scalp which was shortly followed by the most relieving sound he could remember hearing in a long, long time.

  What did you get us into now, Randall? Dan’Moread demanded, having been silent since the fight with Ser Cavulus. Where is Yaerilys? What happened back on the bridge?

  “Everything’s fine, Dani,” Randall said, stopping to prop himself up against a nearby building as he felt a wave of emotions wash over him. “Everything’s fine,” he repeated, “we freed Yaerilys from Rimidalv’s control, she’s recovering back at the Keeper’s Inn even as we speak, Ravilich showed up shortly after you went dark, and we…well, we came to an understanding.”

  There was a brief delay before she said, I have never experienced such jarring or severe periods of unconsciousness before, Randall. In truth, I am beginning to worry about them. But I am glad to hear that nothing untoward happened in my absence.

  “Absence?” Randall asked incredulously. “You’re always here with me, Dani,” he patted her hilt.

  You know precisely what I mean, Randall, she said witheringly.

  “I do,” he agreed, quirking a grin as he set off for the Towers Grey which quickly came into view. “It’s good to have you back, Dani. Don’t worry about catching your beauty sleep—you more than earned it back there,” he said, knowing that now was not the time to discuss the fact that she was down to just one fully-charged godstone gem—which, as far as he knew, meant that her ‘lifespan’ had been significantly shortened due to the fight with Ser Cavulus. He wondered if, in light of that possibility, he had been wrong to enlist her aid in freeing Yaerilys from Rimidalv’s tyrannical grip.

  Unlike the other women you have known, your tongue will get you nowhere with me, Dani said witheringly, though he could detect the hint of appreciation in her tone.

  Randall chuckled as he climbed the steps which led to the Towers Grey and, beyond those, to the Palace of Kings itself.

  Unsurprisingly, the door to the right-hand tower swung open as he approached and Phinjo appeared at the doorway. She wore a yellow-and-brown dress which showcased her improbable feminine geometry, with firm breasts set on a v-shaped ribcage that narrowed to an improbably tiny waist before flaring out into her broad, curvaceous hips—

  �
�Careful, Randall,” Phinjo chided as she gracefully stepped out of the tower and turned toward the Palace of Kings, clearly meaning for him to join her as she continued speaking without making eye contact or breaking stride, “remember: I am your Grandmother, after all.”

  Randall shook his head irritably after realizing that his eyes had wandered—again—just as they had during their initial meeting months earlier. “I have friends waiting for me back at the Keeper’s Inn,” he grumbled.

  “Our business with Jarl Balgruf will not take long,” she assured him coolly. “In fact, I would venture to say that the good Ambassador will be only too eager to discharge his imperative—as, it would seem, all of your gender are wont to do in moments of passionate conflict.”

  “The Ambassador?” Randall repeated, ignoring her sexual innuendo while holding back a sigh. They made their way up the second of three flights of stairs leading to the Palace of Kings.

  “Indeed,” she nodded shortly, “I have been awaiting your arrival before accepting the Ambassador’s request for an official audience. As the Ghaevlian Nation’s sole remaining official representative, I have a great many duties which require my limited attentions. It seems this reality has given our good friend, the Ambassador, some rather dubious cause for belligerence against our mutual host, the Jarl.”

  Randall shook his head contemptuously, “You put him on ice and now he’s taking out on Balgruf?”

  She sighed and, for the first time since his arrival, briefly made eye contact while shooting an annoyed look his way, “I believe I said that, little one. Are you perceptive enough to ascertain why I might have opted for that particular course?”

  Randall thought he knew precisely why she had done so, “Your relationship with Balgruf has taken a few hits since Three Rivers was attacked, and you’re trying to force him to take a position—one way or the other—before you commit the Nation to any particular course.”