Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  Meanwhile, Eckol and Yorys looked on with undisguised skepticism aimed Randall’s way. He could not blame them for their cynicism—he could barely believe his own words after he spoke them.

  “Look,” Randall said in a lowered voice as he removed his hand from Dani’s hilt, “things are going to get worse here in Greystone before they ever have a chance to get better. My ‘barony’,” he scoffed as he said the word, “is four days’ ride west of here. I suggest you stow your things on the wagon so we can get moving,” he urged, stepping forward and knowingly placing himself in Drexel’s striking range. He then lowered his voice and added, “I don’t want to be here when the Federation army arrives tomorrow…do you?”

  Drexil shot him a disbelieving look, “The Feds…are coming here?”

  Randall nodded and tilted his chin toward the Heart of the Mountain, “Why do you think that thing chose this day to announce its presence? The Ghaevlians are probably hoping the Federation turns its forces around and leaves Greystone in peace. I’m not willing to bet my life that the Feds will do that—are you?”

  Drexil looked out at the towering stone giant, with the Towers Grey perched upon its shoulders, and grimaced. “Four days, you say?” he finally asked.

  “Four days,” Randall nodded. “If you find that I’ve lied to you about any of this,” he spread his arms wide, “you can do to me what you think appropriate. But if you find I’ve told you the truth,” he clasped the taller, burlier Drexil by the shoulders, “then I would ask you for your help.”

  “My help?” Drexil snorted before narrowing his eyes. “What are you scheming? How do you know that the Feds are marching on Greystone?”

  “I’d prefer to answer those questions after we reach the inn,” Randall said solemnly, “and I think we should put as much distance between ourselves and the approaching Federation army as possible while we still can. Can we at least agree on that much?”

  “Aye,” Drexil grunted before slinging his heavy burlap satchel into the wagon, “that we can.”

  Eckol seemed to exhale a pent-up breath in relief, and followed Drexel’s example by placing his pair of parcels on the bed of the wagon. “It will be good to see Ravilich again,” Eckol said as he secured his things in the wagon. “Thank you for extending this offer, Randall,” he proffered his hand.

  Randall grasped Eckol’s hand in his own, “Thank you for accepting.”

  Eckol nodded and moved to check the horse’s bit and harness. Then Yorys, the talented young smith, approached and sighed dramatically, “I’m guessing there isn’t time for me to go back and get my gear from storage?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Randall shook his head. “You don’t have to come with us, but I think it would be a good idea if you did. After all,” Randall quirked a grin, “I hear noblemen like to patronize talented young craftsmen like yourself. Being a baron, I probably need to get started on that particular front. Don’t you agree?”

  Yorys returned the grin with an even broader one of his own, “My life’s really turned to mud since we met. But you know what they say: ‘what goes down must come up’.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve heard that one,” Randall said dubiously.

  “Guess I never was much of a poet,” Yorys chuckled, “though I do think it’s important to think of the glass as half full.”

  “We should drink to that when we reach the Keeper’s Inn,” Randall said approvingly, and a few minutes later the small retinue was moving as fast as the wagon could manage without shaking itself apart.

  I am impressed, Randall, Dani said for the second time that day. It would seem your charms are not solely for the ladies.

  “What are you implying?” Randall asked with faux incredulity.

  Spare me your juvenile attempts at wit, Dani chided. I was merely saying we are fortunate to have benefited from what would otherwise be a useless personality trait since—and stop me if you have already realized this—we are unlikely to find many lonely widows in need of your special ‘attentions’ in the coming days.

  “There you are,” Randall chuckled. “I was afraid you’d turned into someone who was actually polite and sensitive of others’ feelings.” He sighed theatrically, “I suppose it’s good to know some things will never change.”

  I am a sword, Randall, Dani rebuked. Precisely how much ‘sensitivity’ does one require of a weapon?

  Randall looked over his shoulder at the Heart of the Mountain, which unnervingly swung its torso in his direction at that exact moment, and he gritted his teeth while walking alongside the wagon. “Weapons are supposed to have wielders display sensitivity; a weapon does what it’s directed to do—present company excluded, of course,” he said grimly.

  Naturally, Dani allowed.

  “Something like that…” he shook his head as the Heart of the Mountain dipped its near, right shoulder fractionally in his direction before turning and resuming its statuesque pose, “I’m not sure there’s enough sensitivity or temperance in all of Greystone to keep that thing in check.”

  He saw Eckol cast a concerned look in his direction, presumably at hearing Randall talking to Dani—which would appear to any outside observer as though Randall was talking to himself. Randall nodded and fell back several steps to gain a little more privacy.

  She hid that thing beneath the Towers Grey, Dani mused, it must have been there for years—perhaps centuries?

  “I don’t know,” Randall muttered, “all I know is that I don’t want to be anywhere near it when the Federation arrives with a host of its own war machines.”

  I would not have it said that I shy from combat, Dani said grimly, but I fear that even I could do little against such a titan of the battlefield.

  “You know…you’re good and all,” Randall said hesitantly, having feared the prospect of broaching these particular subjects, “but you’re not unbeatable, Dani. It took both of us working together to beat Ahsaytsan, and if it hadn’t been for you…” he trailed off.

  Yes? she asked archly.

  He drew a short breath, “If it hadn’t been for your using one of your last two godstone gems, we wouldn’t have survived the fight with Rimidalv—and even then, we would have died if we hadn’t bought that defensive equipment back in Three Rivers.”

  So it is somehow my fault that you did not have a suitable set of defensive equipment prior to our Union? she demanded.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he sighed. “It’s just…I worry about you—about us, Dani,” he said with heartfelt emotion. “I don’t like that you’ve nearly exhausted your godstone gems. What happens when they’re all depleted?”

  How should I know the answer to that? Dani snapped, and Randall was certain he sensed vulnerability in her voice. It is not as though I have ever experienced—

  “Not that you remember, anyway,” he interrupted pointedly, and to his surprise—and relief—she paused for several seconds.

  True, she allowed, though I also do not remember ever recharging them—or even hearing that such a process is possible, let alone something I might have undergone in the past. Are you casting doubt in the value of my memories since they are less than complete?

  “No,” he said, fighting back the urge to growl as he spoke, “I’m just saying that we probably need to work together even more than we have if we’re going to…well, if we’re going to survive,” he said bluntly.

  Again she paused before belatedly grudging, I…agree.

  “Good,” he nodded as he pulled out the swordsmanship manual he had bought with the ‘defensive equipment’ they had acquired in Three Rivers, “then we should probably go over some of these positions and maneuvers in a little more detail. It seems like when you lunge, you overextend my chest way out over my lead knee and it says right here—”

  So you are an expert in swordplay now? she interrupted frostily.

  “No, Dani,” he sighed, “I’m just trying to see if there’s some work we can do to improve our mutual chance to survive whatever the world throws at us
next. It’s called ‘teamwork,’ and I really think we need to engage in more of it if we want to be around for the next Judgment. You obviously know more about this than I do,” he granted, “and maybe the book’s wrong, but if so I’d just like to understand why it’s wrong so I can know what to expect in battle. I may not be able to do much more than block the occasional attack with my free arm, but that—along with my blood’s ‘gifts,” he said sourly, “has already proven critical to our survival to date. I’m just trying to figure out a way that we can work together more effectively. Is that something you think we should do?”

  This time the silence was markedly longer, lasting at least a few minutes, before she relented, Yes, I do. But you must understand: I am nothing if not my ability to fight. I am…sensitive, she said with unexpected awkwardness, about my technique. But I believe you are right: we need to collaborate more effectively than we have done to date.

  “Good,” he said agreeably. “Then I think we should start with the positions and techniques described in this book. Do you agree?”

  I do, she confirmed, and after we have examined the book’s contents, we will double the intensity and duration of your daily calisthenics routine.

  “Dani,” he began irritably, “this shouldn’t turn into a pissi—“

  I am incapable of that particular biological function, Randall, she interrupted coolly. But since you mentioned my overextension during thrusting attacks, I thought it only fair to point out that the entire reason I am forced to overextend is due to your slight frame and as-yet underdeveloped musculature. We cannot do much about your size, but we can work on improving your strength so that I might execute shorter, faster attacks than those I have employed thus far during our Union. Do you not agree that this would be beneficial to our mutual survival?

  He cocked his head wryly, realizing she had just twisted his words back on him. “I do indeed,” he nodded.

  Good, she said with what sounded like barely muted satisfaction, then let us begin.

  Chapter XXVIII: The Crossing Guard

  25-2-6-659

  Randall waited outside the Keeper’s Inn’s gatehouse where, an hour earlier, Drexil and Eckol had entered to investigate the truth of Ser Cavulus—and Rimidalv—for themselves by speaking to Ravilich and Yaerilys. After the hour had passed, the two men stepped out into the midday sun with bewildered looks on their faces.

  “I owe you an apology, Randall,” Drexil said after emerging from the gatehouse where Yaerilys, though awake, was still recovering from her wounds—far too many of which were Rimidalv’s handiwork rather than Randall’s. “Ravilich confirms what you said on the way here. I just…” he shook his head in wonderment, “it never occurred to me that Rimidalv was so…so evil.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology,” Randall said seriously. “And I’m not quite sure what Rimidalv was or wasn’t. Was he really evil?” he asked, a question directed as much at himself as anyone else present. “People speak of the good deeds which Ser Cavulus performed over the course of ‘his’ career,” he said with a snort at referring to the White Knight’s gender—which was just one of many deceptions the White Blade had hidden behind.

  “The common folk approved of Cavulus The Fabulous,” Yorys, the young smith mused. He had stood outside and made small talk with Randall—some of which concerned potential locations for a forge within the Keeper’s Inn’s courtyard. “But he—or she—was none too popular among the nobility.”

  “I cannot say I am terribly surprised to learn of Rimidalv’s deception,” Eckol admitted, much to Randall’s surprise. Upon seeing the arched brows of both Randall and Drexil, Eckol shook his head, “All of that secrecy never sat well with me. And I had noticed that some of the clasps on his—or her,” he corrected, “armor were slightly adjusted after your late-night…conversations,” he said awkwardly while looking at Randall. “I believed that the White Knight—though now, after hearing what I’ve heard, I think it was Rimidalv—realized I was suspicious, which played no small part in our collective dismissal.”

  “Why did you not say something?” Drexil asked in exasperation.

  “It is not important,” Eckol said dismissively. “What is important—“ he began, only to stop mid-sentence when Yaerilys appeared at the door to the gatehouse.

  Randall’s eyes were unable to wander down to the bandaged stump which had previously been one of the most perfect arms he had ever seen. He winced when he realized she had taken notice of his lingering gaze, and he forced himself to look into her eyes as, pale and weak, she made her way out of the gatehouse with a slow, deliberate gait.

  “Randall,” she greeted, but there was no familiarity in her tone as she nodded fractionally. Even drawn-out and harried as she was by her wounds, she seemed to radiate an inner strength that humbled Randall and threatened to rob him of his composure. He had cut her arm off, after all, and he knew there was no way such a wound could be repaired. “Might we palaver in private?” she urged, prompting the rest of the small gathering to meander over toward the main house.

  “Yaerilys, I’m—“ Randall began, but she quickly interrupted.

  “Take my arm, Randall,” she proffered her right—remaining—arm, “I would speak with thee only after we are astride yon bridge.”

  Randall looked to the gatehouse, where Ravilich remained with a stony expression on his face. But, much to Randall’s surprise, Ravilich nodded deliberately and when he did his features softened significantly before he turned and disappeared within the gatehouse.

  “Ok,” Randall agreed, and after grasping her arm at the bicep with one hand while taking her other hand in his, they wordlessly made their way to the bridge.

  The water which ran beneath the bridge was a beautiful azure blue, seemingly equal parts crystal and liquid as it made its way downstream.

  They made their way to the spot where Rimidalv had been destroyed, which was easy to find due to the crater-like depression which had formed when the White Blade had been destroyed.

  She stopped near the bowl-shaped mark and pulled away from Randall before kneeling at the miniature crater’s side. She silently knelt there for a long while before, in a tremulous voice, she whispered, “How can I ever repay thee, Randall?”

  “What?” Randall asked blankly, uncertain he had heard her correctly. “Why in the Lady’s name would you think you owe me anything?”

  She wiped her eyes with her hand, and Randall himself became overcome with emotion in that moment. He had expected—perhaps even hoped—that Yaerilys would castigate him for maiming her as he had done. He had even entertained scenarios, late at night when his conscience threatened to tear his mind apart with the guilt of what he had done, where she would harbor some sort of thirst for revenge on the White Blade’s behalf.

  “Thou must understand,” she said after she had wiped her cheeks dry, “I do not recall anything of thee, though my beloved, Ravilich, tells me that…” she trailed off hesitantly before firming her voice and continuing, “that thou were there for me when I was so alone…so terribly alone,” her voice began to break before she began to sob.

  “Yaerilys,” Randall knelt beside her, his own voice fluttering with emotion, “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry…I didn’t know.”

  “No sin hast thou committed,” she shook her head firmly. “I would not have thee apologize for a kindness shown to a stranger. It seems…from what Ravilich has told me, the time thou spent with me was the last time anyone spent with me. I only regret that I have no memory of it…though perhaps that is for the better.”

  Randall nodded as he realized what she meant. “I think it probably is,” he agreed as a hollow feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. “Ravilich loves you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and more than anyone has ever loved me—or at least more than I’ve ever deserved,” he added with conviction. “I can’t even imagine the torture it must have been for him to watch Rimidalv…” he trailed off, uncertain that there was even a word, or turn of phrase, that could
do her experience justice.

  In many ways it was imprisonment, coupled with an incessant assault on the very fabric of her being. But it was also so much more than that. Rimidalv had actually tried to erase her—or at least, to erase those parts of her that he found undesirable—for the purpose of using her for his own aims. To compare her experience to one of repeated rape even somehow managed to fall well short of the reality of what she had undergone.

  But a question had burned itself into his mind, and without even consciously knowing he had done so he heard himself ask, “Did you know it would be like that? Did Rimidalv tell you what he would do to you…what he would take from you?”

  Yaerilys shook her head, “The White Blade spoke of ‘cleansing’ rituals, or other purifications, prior to our joining…but I was not even aware of the changes. It all seems like…like a dream,” she shook her head angrily. “Some of it is so vivid, but…”

  “You don’t need to talk about it—” Randall tried to console her.

  “Thou dost not understand,” she interrupted, fixing him with a hard look, “I cannot recall any of myself after the joining, but I can recall him—or perhaps what I recall is some combination of him and myself.”

  At first Randall did not understand what she meant. Then, when he thought he did understand, his brow lowered darkly. “What is it?”

  “The other White Blades, Randall,” she said grimly, “they know of thee, and of thine own blade,” she looked down at his hip, where Dan’Moread rested in her scabbard. “They fear thee greatly.”

  As well they should, Dani said with conviction.

  Ignoring Dani, Randall asked, “How many of them are there?”

  “’Came seven sons, made all of white…’” Yaerilys intoned, reciting a line from the well-known poem ‘The Turning of the Grey.’

  Randall’s eyes narrowed as he finished the line, “’their father’s will: to bring the light.’ You’re telling me that there are six more of them?”