Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “After all, Balgruf,” Phinjo said matter-of-factly after stopping at the door to the Main Hall and turning her perfectly smooth, bald head to the side dramatically before finishing, “you are only human.”

  She resumed her trek toward the palace’s main gate, where the sound of panicked voices could be heard as the guards assigned there made ready for battle. And though he could not explain why he thought it, Randall was convinced that the vibrations which had previously shaken the palace floor were directly related to the guards’ preparations.

  “Permit us passage,” Phinjo said in a clear, cutting voice as she and Randall approached the gate. The soldiers—many of whom had nearly finished closing the massive, ironbound doors—looked at her as she moved through the narrow gap which remained between the huge barricades. Randall turned sideways to squeeze through and, after he was standing outside the palace’s walls, he immediately saw the source of the guards’ discontent.

  And it was a sight he would never forget.

  “Behold…the Heart of the Mountain,” Phinjo declared triumphantly as she swept her delicate-looking hand to the spot where the Towers Grey had previously stood. And the twin towers were, indeed, still within view—but each was now standing at least a hundred feet higher than it had previously stood. Beneath them, instead of a flat stone surface, was now a hulking, roughly humanoid form of truly colossal proportions—and this humanoid structure now sported the Towers Grey upon its ‘shoulders.’

  The stone behemoth moved, slowly at first, and it soon became clear to Randall that its legs were still largely hidden from view by the pit of stone from which the ‘Heart of the Mountain’ had arisen. The ‘creature’—if indeed it was alive—had no head, nor did it have what Randall would consider hands at the end of its massive arms, but it moved with unmistakable intelligence and purpose as it slowly turned to ‘face’ them. When it did so, Randall could see a faint, bluish light pulsating deep within the spiderweb of cracks which covered its thick torso.

  “I…what…” Randall stammered stupidly as the thing drew itself up and, slowly, extricated itself from the deep stone pit where it had previously been concealed—or perhaps where it had grown. Randall had no idea how such a thing could exist—but it took him only a few seconds to realize that he had seen something of this particular ilk before. “The Sea of Tears…they’re related somehow,” he breathed as the Heart of the Mountain finally stepped out of the deep fissure and drew itself up to its full height. “What are they?” he asked as the Heart of the Mountain took a pair of steps toward them. When it finally reached them, Randall realized it was even taller than the Palace of Kings, which easily made it the tallest structure of any sort that Randall had ever glimpsed.

  “They are two of the last remaining Elder Spirits, at last awakened from the slumber we cast upon them long ago,” Phinjo explained as the unthinkably huge thing lowered itself to a knee and placed an ‘arm’—which seemed to be a single, joint-less limb that resembled a shield more than a proper arm—gently onto the stones a few feet from Phinjo. “And, even as dulled as they are compared to what they once were, they know that they have slept for far, far too long,” she said with fervor in her voice that was every bit as terrifying as the godlike creature which had just knelt before her—or, for that part, just as terrifying as the fact that it had knelt before her!

  “What happens now?” Randall demanded as she stepped onto the enormous slab of stone which was the Heart of the Mountain’s left arm. With a ballerina’s grace, she made her way toward the broad torso of the thing as it resumed its full, upright posture.

  “Now,” Phinjo’s crystal clear voice echoed in his mind as she reached the platform between the Towers Grey, which platform was now bordered on all sides by Ghaevlian warriors proudly wearing the colors of the Ghaevlian Nation as they stood at attention with bows in hand, “we go to war.”

  Chapter XXVII: Not Our Fight

  21-2-6-659

  Each of the Heart’s titanic strides covered at least fifty feet of ground as it made its way to Greystone’s main gate—the same gate through which Randall and Lore had entered just minutes earlier. Randall could not help but watch the awesome sight as the Heart of the Mountain swung its legs over the mighty walls of Greystone as easily as Randall might swing his legs over a table at The Last Coin during clean-up.

  He barely even registered the sound of trumpets and war drums issuing from the Palace of Kings, where they were answered by similar calls from the city’s main gate.

  That is the most extraordinary thing I have ever witnessed, Dan’Moread said somberly after the Heart of the Mountain cleared the city’s robust defensive wall and strode purposefully out from the city. And I believe the correct human saying is ‘we are in over our heads.’ I sincerely hope you concur with my assessment.

  “I do,” Randall nodded as he belatedly realized it would be wise to put as much distance between himself and Jarl Balgruf as possible. With that in mind, he hurried his way down the steps and muttered, “This is not our fight. We have to find Lore and get out of here—now.”

  Agreed, Dani concurred as they skirted the edge of the gaping chasm where the Heart of the Mountain had previously rested with the Towers Grey atop its broad, granite shoulders.

  “They were headed to the Merchant’s District,” he said after peering down for longer than he should have into the roughly cube-shaped hole—a hole which, strangely, was not much more than fifty feet deep. “Let’s start there.”

  The citizens of Greystone were in an understandable uproar, as nary a shutter was closed while the inhabitants of each building with a view of the main gate had several people huddled around the gate-facing windows. As such, they did little to impede Randall’s progress and he quickly reached the Merchant’s District.

  “Randall?!” he heard a familiar man’s voice call from an alley to his left, and he turned to see Eckol—Ser Cavulus’ former smith—moving toward him. “What in the name of the gods was that—“

  “We don’t have time to talk,” Randall interrupted urgently. “Where’s Drexil?”

  “Last I saw him, he was with Yorys down on Guild Street,” Eckol said before cocking his head curiously. “You don’t seem too shaken up by that walking mountain taking a stroll through Greystone. What’s going on?”

  “I can explain it later,” Randall shook his head firmly, “but right now I need to find a friend who came this way with a wagon—Ser Cavulus’ wagon,” he added pointedly.

  “Ser Cavulus…” Eckol began, then his eyes went wide. “Did something happen to the White Knight?”

  “Yes,” Randall said after a momentary hesitation. “I’ll explain everything later. Can you help me find the wagon? We need to get out of here before they close the gates.”

  “Why would they…” Eckol began before shaking himself and nodding. “At this point, I’m thinking Greystone is a less than hospitable locale. I’m sure Drexil will agree when we find him, but you’re right: they won’t let the wagon out after they’ve closed the gates. Let’s go find your friend.”

  “Thank you, Eckol,” Randall said with genuine feeling, and they set off to find Lore.

  “Randy, what in the Lady’s name is going on here?!” Lore snapped when he found her a few minutes later. The canvas covering the wagon’s front compartment was partially pulled back, revealing one of the White Knight’s burnished greaves.

  Eckol’s brow lowered when he saw the piece of armor, “What happened to the White Knight, Randall?”

  “The White Knight is freed from this armor,” Randall said, hoping to skirt the issue long enough to get out of the city—hopefully with Eckol, Drexil, and Yorys in tow. “I can’t go into details just now, but we had…Ser Cavulus’ permission,” he said the White Knight’s false identity through gritted teeth, “to sell this armor in order to purchase supplies. But right now I think it would be best if we got out of here. I promise that I’ll take you to the White Knight as soon as we leave here. The trip will take fou
r days, give or take. Do you trust me enough to give me those four days?”

  Eckol seemed far from convinced, but after a lengthy silence he nodded. “I’ll go track down Drexil. We’ll meet you outside the main gate as soon as I find them. If we aren’t there in one hour, assume we aren’t coming.”

  “Thank you, Eckol,” Randall said graciously. “I promise that my part in all of this is a tale worth telling—and one well worth your hearing.”

  Again Eckol seemed less than convinced, but he merely nodded and set off for Guild Street.

  I admit that I am surprised at just how much trust he seems to have placed in you, Dani mused.

  “Me too,” Randall admitted. “But for now let’s just get out of this city.”

  Agreed.

  “You don’t want to sell this armor?” Lore asked, clearly ambivalent about staying to do what they had come to do in light of the Heart of the Mountain’s appearance.

  “I do want to sell it,” Randall assured her, “but—“

  “I know a broker,” Lore interrupted, gesturing to the nearest building. “We had a few dealings years ago and I trust him as much as anyone in this city. Give me ten minutes and we can leave this armor with him. He’ll charge a fair commission and get a good price if we give him a few weeks to shop it.”

  Randall chewed his cheek in thought. “Fine, ten minutes,” he agreed. “But we really need to get out of here after that.”

  She hopped down from the wagon and, somewhat surprisingly, her children seemed not to share the general anxiety which caused Greystone’s streets to bustle with streams of people heading this way and that.

  Just a few minutes later, Lore emerged from the building with a portly human man in tow. He waddled out to the wagon, where Lore pulled the canvas cover back to reveal Ser Cavulus’ armor.

  His eyebrows rose in surprise before lowering contemplatively, “If this is indeed real—and if you can provide some sort of provenance for how you came to acquire it—I’ll find a buyer before the next passage of the Wanderer.”

  “We didn’t steal it,” Randall protested at hearing the man ask for provenance.

  “I wasn’t implying you did,” the portly man retorted wearily before looking down at Dan’Moread’s deadly-looking crossguard, “but in the event you killed the White Knight—and could provide provenance to support that claim,” he explained with a knowing look, “I can guarantee we’ll get a higher price. The White Knight was none too loved in certain circles of this city.”

  “We can probably come up with something,” Randall said after a momentary pause to consider his meaning. “But it will have to be testimony from those who knew Ser Cavulus.”

  “That much is assumed,” the broker—a more polite term for the one Randall grew up using when speaking of people who trafficked in goods of questionable legality: a fence—nodded. “I gather speed is of the essence, so I’ll have my boy collect the gear while I prepare a receipt—along with a deposit of a thousand Thrones,” he said before hurrying off into his shop.

  “A thousand Thrones?” Randall repeated in disbelief after the fence had returned to his shop.

  “He said it should go for upwards of ten thousand,” Lore explained, “and his commission will be twenty percent. I tried to get a higher deposit, but time is of the essence—“

  “Frankly, a thousand is more than I thought we’d get by selling the thing,” Randall interrupted, whistling appreciatively when the man returned with a scroll tube in one hand and a large—clearly heavy—sack of jingling coins in the crook of the opposite arm.

  “Here’s your deposit,” the portly man said, and after placing it on the wagon and opening the drawstring Randall saw that it was, indeed, filled with the largest Greystone coin: the so-called Grey Throne. “And your receipt,” he thrust the tube into Randall’s hand while another, younger human man waited impatiently behind the fence. “Satisfied?” he asked as Lore read over the scroll.

  “We are,” she agreed. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you again, Hans.”

  “You and I go way back, Lore,” Hans said, gesturing for his son to collect the armor and transfer it to his shop. “I’ll never forget that midnight run past the Kheifs’ blockade. If not for your feminine wiles, we might have never slipped our load past that clearly-frustrated young custom’s officer.”

  “He wasn’t the only one who was distracted by my ‘wiles’ that night,” Lore quipped, but it was clear to Randall that the two shared a strong bond which was evidently based on a history that Randall knew nothing about.

  Lore was a blockade runner? Dan’Moread said approvingly. No wonder her nerves have not yet been frayed to the breaking point.

  “This day’s just full of surprises,” Randall muttered in agreement.

  A few minutes later, they were driving the wagon up to the city gates—which were being closed even as they approached.

  “Hold!” a guardsman commanded, stepping in front of their horse and grasping it by the bridle. “The gates are to be sealed; no more wheeled traffic is to be allowed in or out of the city, by command of the Jarl. Turn around and get this rig off the thoroughfare.”

  Randall hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, but thankfully Lore interceded by declaring, “This wagon belongs to my lord, the good Baron here,” she gestured to Randall, who drew himself up as pompously as he could muster on such short notice. “He will return to his holdings, as is his right and duty in times of rebellion or war, and as such he is permitted passage—even under general quarantines or other high security conditions.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed as the gate slowly ground closed behind him. “Let me see your lord’s patents,” he said in a slightly more respectful tone.

  Lore proffered Randall’s recently-granted patents, which the guard reviewed for a long while before flattening his features and nodding. “Beg your pardon, milord. You’re to be granted passage.” The guard handed the patents back to Lore, then turned around and bellowed, “Make way for the Baron’s wagon—but let no other wheeled traffic through the gate!”

  Needing no further encouragement, Lore jostled the reins and drove the wagon through the gap in the gate—which was barely large enough for the wagon to fit through when they reached the narrowing portal. Once on the other side, the Heart of the Mountain immediately filled their view as it stood sentinel some distance from the city walls. It was an ominous sight, and with his superior vision Randall quickly made out Phinjo’s form amid the many Ghaevlian warriors who, like the colossal figure beneath them, stood as motionless as gargoyles atop the massive ‘Elder Spirit.’

  “I would appreciate knowing what in the pits is going on around here,” Lore growled as she, too, could hardly take her eyes off the towering Heart of the Mountain.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Randall replied easily. “You never told me you were a blockade runner—or that you were expert in deploying your ‘feminine wiles’,” he said half-jokingly. “Pull over here,” he gestured to a wide, flat patch of hard-packed dirt beside the road, “we need to wait for someone.”

  She gave him an irritable look but ultimately complied, and as they waited for Eckol he explained to her what he understood of the increasingly chaotic situation which seemed poised to unleash the winds of change on the entire world.

  Before she could reciprocate with her own tale to tell, he heard Eckol call out, “Randall!”

  “Eckol,” Randall hopped down from the wagon, eyeing the motionless stone titan standing silent sentinel less than a mile away. Even at such remove, it still dominated the view—not only for Randall and those outside of Greystone’s gates, but for the horde of people who had arranged themselves atop the city walls to get a better view of the thing.

  Eckol approached with a satchel slung over his shoulder—and Randall felt reassured when he saw Eckol’s friend Drexil close behind. Behind Drexil was Yorys, the young smith who had helped him fashion Dan’Moread’s hilt.

  “Where’s Cavulus?�
�� Drexil grunted as he approached, and judging from his wide stance Randall guessed he had been interrupted from his favorite pastime: drinking. “What have you done with him?”

  “That’s…” Randall cocked his head dubiously, “well, actually that’s a loaded question. I’ll say this much, though: the person you all knew as Ser Cavulus is alive and recovering at my keep—make that, at my ‘inn’,” he corrected with a nod in Lore’s direction. “It’s four days’ ride from here, and if you’d like to come with us I’ll be happy to answer most of your questions en route. But I think it would be best if certain subjects wait for us to arrive before we dive into them.”

  “Cavulus couldn’t live without that armor,” Drexil growled. “He must’ve said so a hundred times in my presence. Did you kill him?” he demanded.

  Randall knew that the correct answer to that question was ‘yes,’ even though Yaerilys was alive and recovering back at the Keeper’s Inn. He bit his lip before nodding, “I did—I killed Ser Cavulus, and the White Knight will never again walk this world. But,” he held up a hand haltingly as Drexil took an angry step forward, “the person you knew as Ser Cavulus is alive and well.”

  “What kind of nonsense is this?!” Drexil bellowed, stopping just out of striking distance. “You killed him or you didn’t—he can’t be dead while also being alive and well!”

  “Ravilich will tell you everything when we arrive,” Randall said, his hand moving to Dan’Moread’s hilt as Drexil took another step forward. “Don’t!” he shouted, more to Dani than to Drexil, and thankfully Dan’Moread refrained from assuming control over his body—but Randall’s scalp was tingling so vigorously that it felt like it was on fire. “Don’t,” Randall repeated, gesturing for Drexil to slow down.