Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1)

by Caleb Wachter

“It is my estimation that thou hast just paid me a rare compliment—and a compliment most fine, indeed,” Ravilich said as he winked knowingly at Randall. “For years, my countenance has been compared favorably with the most famously handsome men in these lands,” he continued, “but I never imagined my tush carried the same measure of charm!”

  Drexil snorted derisively, and to Randall he sounded nearly as loud as a bull when he did so. “Oh, aye,” he retorted immediately, “I think I’ve found the real problem…ye have yer face stuck so far up yer ass that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and t’ other begins!”

  There was a tense moment of silence, and Randall actually tightened his grip on the sword as the two shot tight looks at each other. But they quickly erupted into laughter and Drexil shook his head as he wiped his eyes. “I’ll check with our Lord,” he gestured down the road in front of the wagon, “he’ll be wantin’ to speak with our mysterious Baron here.”

  Randall’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion until he remembered something about pretending to be a Baron before everything had gone to the pits. He tried to imagine a way he could explain the lie away, but nothing came to mind.

  “The star children say thou didst battle with seven of the Fleshmongers standing against thee,” he heard the Squire say after Drexil had left. “Thou art possessed of both stout body and soul, for I fear I could never hope to succeed against such odds—let alone step in against such an overwhelming force.”

  Randall shook his head, remembering what the sword had said—he stopped himself and looked down at the weapon in shock.

  What the sword had said, he silently repeated, almost disbelieving of the entire notion despite his memory to the contrary. Impossible as it might seem, the sword had actually spoken to him during the night’s battle—and more than that, he now understood that it had been the sword which had controlled his body’s actions then, as well as during the night he had left Three Rivers.

  He realized his mind had wandered, and he shook his head again as he looked at the man. “I wasn’t alone,” he said, barely able to agree with the words he had just spoken, “I had friends with me.”

  The man nodded gravely. “I suppose calling on thine ancestors for support is a common enough ritual of battle,” he admitted, tilting his head toward the head of the two-wagon train. “My own Lord invokes the spirits of the fallen saints often enough during the heat of battle. For myself…I suppose tis why I am but a Squire these past three years. Try as I might, I cannot find the same measure of strength which thou and my Lord clearly share.”

  Randall blinked disbelievingly. The man had taken his words to mean that he felt himself surrounded by the spirits of those who would help him if they were able, but the truth was that Randall had never believed in such. And to hear the Squire speak as though Randall’s courage was to be commended was nearly enough to make him laugh.

  But he kept his composure and shook his head. “I guess it’s different for everyone,” he said, unsure of how to proceed in the conversation. “In truth,” he added, “I never had this strength before recently.”

  There was the sound of approaching hooves, and Ravilich shook his head. “Nay, friend,” he said heavily, “thou hast always possessed it, but perhaps thou didst not know where to look for it before.”

  Randall turned to see Ser Cavulus, resplendent in his bright, shining armor which reflected the morning sun with such radiance that it was actually hard for Randall to look upon him without shielding his eyes. The sword which the White Knight had brandished the previous night was strapped across his back—much in the way Randall had kept the glittering, impossibly intelligent blade fastened to his own back.

  “Thou hast regained consciousness,” Ser Cavulus said approvingly. “Thou art indeed strong, as my Squire suggests.” The White Knight turned his horse around before falling in beside the wagon and gesturing to the front of their formation. “I fear thy saddle requires adjustment, Squire; see to it lest thy steed’s passengers have an unfortunate meeting with the road.”

  Ravilich nodded, and Randall saw the Squire’s eyes lock briefly with his own before the man made his way to the front of the column. He saw something in Ravilich’s eyes that made him more than a little uneasy, but the moment passed and he turned to the White Knight.

  “You have my thanks, Ser Cavulus,” Randall said awkwardly. “We wouldn’t have survived without your timely aid…I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  The White Knight waved a hand dismissively. “Thou didst fine work in defense of the star children,” he said, his voice not as loud as the previous night but still possessing that heavily distorted, strangely metallic sound which sent shivers down Randall’s spine as memories of the Senatorial Guards once again flashed through his mind. “In truth, I had initially feared thee for one of the Fleshmongers. But I had faith in thy character.”

  “You mean…” Randall began haltingly, “you spared me based on a hunch?”

  Ser Cavulus turned slightly toward him and Randall tried to peek inside the helmet to see the man’s face but it was unnaturally dark inside, as though the helmet itself didn’t want anyone seeing what was beneath. Don’t lose your mind now, Randy, he chided himself angrily, not all weapons or bits of armor are possessed.

  “T’was not a hunch,” the White Knight replied, and Randall thought he could hear the barest hint of amusement in the other man’s voice, “but faith. In the end that is all any of us truly has to which we can lay personal claim, is it not?”

  An uncomfortable silence hung between them until the White Knight gave a short, barking sound which Randall eventually realized was laughter. “Besides,” Ser Cavulus said between his strange-sounding chuckles, “thou didst appear to harbor ill will toward those who surrounded thee. And had I been wrong,” the White Knight shrugged, “t’was a mistake I was prepared to remedy.”

  Randall felt himself flush, but he kept his features as even as possible while he nodded. “A pragmatic view,” he allowed, not knowing how else to respond.

  “Indeed,” Ser Cavulus agreed, and Randall saw him reach to the far side of his saddle for something, which he tossed lightly into the wagon beside him. Randall saw that it was his rucksack—and that the redroot had all spilled out into the now-haphazardly bound sack. “It is strange to see a human travel with such a large supply of redroot,” the White Knight observed in what Randall took to be a conversational tone, “and even stranger to see one so well-versed in its application.”

  Randall’s mind raced as his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. If Ser Cavulus had discovered his true identity as he slept, which would have required little more than to see the wound on his arm—

  He felt himself go cold, realizing that someone—probably Ravilich, the Squire—he done precisely that.

  Glancing over his shoulder at Charles, who was clearly eavesdropping on the conversation, Randall shook his head at his fate. Just when he thought he would escape discovery during his first, genuine encounter with humans outside of Three Rivers, he was forced to accept that he had been caught.

  “Minnie the Mad gave it to me,” Randall explained, making sure his voice was loud enough for the young man driving the wagon to hear, “she said the half-elves might need it.”

  Ser Cavulus cocked his head in what Randall took to be open suspicion. “She called the star children ‘half-elves’?”

  Randall shook his head emphatically. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I meant the Ghaevlian hybrids. Where I come from, their kind is often called ‘half-elves’,” he added sheepishly.

  The White Knight held Randall’s gaze with the dark, narrow eye-slit of his helmet and then shrugged. “Each land has its own ways,” he said dismissively. “I think thou wouldst find such a term an unwelcome one the further thou travels inland. Thou wouldst be served well to remember such.”

  Randall nodded quickly. “Thank you, Ser Cavulus,” he gushed, feeling properly rebuked. He had little idea why he had been rebuked, but decided not t
o pursue the matter.

  “In any case,” the White Knight continued in an even tone, “we are each of us entitled to his secrets, are we not, Baron?”

  Randall felt himself flush from collar to scalp, but he nodded slowly. “I believe we are, Ser Cavulus,” he agreed, trying to keep the despair and resignation from his voice. It was clear he had been discovered for what he truly was, and now the only question which remained was: how would Ser Cavulus proceed?

  “Then we are in agreement,” the White Knight said abruptly before spurring his horse forward and leaving Randall to sit in the back of the wagon alone with his thoughts—none of which were good.

  “I can’na believe it,” Charles said over his shoulder. “Ser Cavulus…the Fabulous,” he nearly squealed with excitement. “Pa said he had perished vanquishing the Storm Lord, but seeing him here…” Charles pulled up short at mentioning his father, and Randall winced in sympathy.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Randall felt he had to say something, so he turned as much as he could without aggravating his wounds. “I’m sorry about your father, Charles,” he said with genuine sympathy. Randall had grown up without a father his entire life, so he had never experienced losing one. But he knew how difficult it had been losing his mother at an age not so different than Charles’ age, and he wished there was something he could do to help his family.

  But at that moment Randall knew he couldn’t even help himself. He was completely at the mercy of the people around him, and he could only pray to The Lady that these humans had more mercy than those with which he was familiar.

  “I thank thee for thy help,” Charles muttered, turning around in his seat to face Randall, “perhaps I was mistaken about thy kind.” With that, the boy turned around in the seat and left Randall to silently boggle at the sheer absurdity of what the young man had just said.

  They made camp later that day just as the sun went down. With all the horses, it was necessary to find a water source for them, which happened to be a creek some distance from the road. Drexil and Ravilich took turns leading the horses down the half kilometer game trail until they had been properly hydrated.

  Randall tried to get up from the wagon but found his strength to still be lacking, so he settled back against the wooden sideboards of the bed and looked down at the sword.

  He had released his grip on it several times but whenever he did so the wounds which its sharp, metal hilt had caused against his palm flared angrily. Each time he re-gripped the weapon, the sensation diminished somewhat. He was uncertain if it was merely the position of his hand that relieved the pain or if it was something to do with the sword itself but whatever it was, he was grateful for the small relief it afforded him.

  He heard the sound of metal on metal from behind the wagon, and Randall turned to see an unfamiliar man with a small anvil set on the ground before himself. In his hands he had a pair of tongs and a small hammer, which he was using to test the metal of the brigands’ weaponry.

  Randall watched with fascination as the man sorted the items into two distinct piles, and when he took up what looked to be the final piece—the head of the spear Randall’s sword had nearly severed from its haft—the man grunted as he made brief eye contact.

  “This is greenwood,” the man explained, indicating the short section of wood still connected to the spearhead. He spoke with a staccato accent which Randall recognized as belonging to certain societies located in the southeast. “It is quite difficult to break, even with hardened steel.”

  The man placed the spearhead against the small anvil and struck it with the hammer, which Randall saw had four different heads whose purpose he could only guess at. He watched as the man struck the spearhead with each head in turn before shaking his head in disgust, “A pity it was connected to such a weak alloy.”

  He tossed it into the larger pile, and Randall saw that only the massive axe and a small, black dagger lay in the smaller pile. Actually, when he looked at the pile more closely he realized that was not entirely true. There was another weapon—or at least, there were parts of another weapon—beneath the massive axe.

  The man stood and made his way over to the wagon, gesturing with the now empty tongs toward the glittering, dark sword at Randall’s side. “Will you allow me to look at your weapon?”

  Randall was hesitant since he was uncertain what the sword would want him to do. He was less than enthusiastic about handing the sword over to anyone at all, so he struck a compromise with his internal doubts and held the weapon up for the man to see.

  The man looked up and down the blade, and Randall noticed for the first time that the man’s eyes were not the usual, pureblood brown. They were actually green, and he found himself unable to look away from the man’s eyes as he in turn appraised the sword itself.

  “I have never seen its match,” the man admitted with a shake of his head. “But my own skills are far too limited for me to claim mastery of blade-smithing or metallurgy, as I am little more than an apprentice smith.” The man noticed Randall’s continued staring at his eyes, and he withdrew slightly in quiet alarm. Then he chuckled, as if in understanding, “Ah, you are a Federation Citizen.”

  Randall waited for him to elaborate, but the smith did no such thing, prompting him to ask, “What do you mean?”

  The smith shrugged. “The Federation is…some would say ‘less than tolerant’ to divergence from their ideals of purity. My people,” he gestured to his eyes, “were once kin to those who would one day become the founders of the Federation, but we retained certain…unique traits which were deemed undesirable.”

  Randall had to tear his gaze away from the man. It almost seemed as though the man’s eyes shone with an unnatural light, but Randall knew it to be merely a trick of the waning sun’s light.

  “I must admit that I have never before met a Baron,” the smith continued as he crossed his arms first at his waist, then at his chest, “I am Eckol, of the Golden Plains.”

  Randall felt himself flush at Eckol’s use of his false ‘Baron’ title, but he nodded agreeably. “Marion von Pendergast,” he said awkwardly.

  Eckol the smith nodded before returning to his piles of weaponry. He first indicated the larger pile with his small, four-headed hammer, “These are made of alloys which will not survive these lands. They carry a stain from their places of origin, and will serve as little better than implements to work a soft field—in what little time is left to them.”

  Randall’s eyes widened in surprise, “How can that be? Isn’t metal…well, metal?”

  Eckol shook his hammer disapprovingly. “The metals themselves are fine; it is the manner in which they were produced which has tainted them. Since the Fleshmonger tribes came to these lands they have brought such strange, foreign alloys with them. These metals only seem to fail once they are removed from their Fleshmonger owner’s possession,” he explained. “You have not heard of this?”

  Randall shook his head emphatically. “Until yesterday I never even knew these ‘Fleshmongers’ existed,” he admitted.

  Eckol gave him a curious look before shrugging indifferently. “In any event, you know them now—and perhaps more importantly, they know you.”

  Randall slumped back against the wagon’s bed and cocked his head quizzically. “How?”

  The smith lowered his voice and stepped closer, “Their dark magics defy comprehension. But they know to follow the trail of those who interfere, as I can well attest,” he said with a knowing look.

  Closing his eyes and feeling the urge to roll them at the notion of an entire group of people seeking revenge against him, he sighed in exasperation. “That would be my luck,” he muttered.

  Eckol ignored his utterance as he turned back to the smaller pile with the axe, dagger, and shattered weapon. “But here are weapons which will survive prolonged use in our lands,” he continued, clearly enjoying the opportunity to display knowledge of his chosen field. “They are likely trophies taken from the previous raids, as is the Fleshmonger custo
m. Since you partook in the battle, Ser Cavulus has granted you first pick of the weapons as is your right.”

  Randall looked down at the small pile and stared dumbly. “I’m to choose which one I keep?” he reiterated, and Eckol nodded.

  “The dirk is a fine weapon,” he explained, “having seen little use and being finely crafted. The axe, while cumbersome, is worth at least five times that of the dirk—but if you will allow me the liberty of saying so, I see little utility in it for you.”

  Randall had to agree with him there—the axe had to weigh at least three times what the already overly-heavy sword weighed. The dirk looked like something he could use at some point, being small and light enough that he might even learn to properly wield it.

  “Of course, there is also the shattered Kah’fi’lim,” Eckol continued in his rhythmic accent, gesturing to the shattered bits of metal which Randall concluded could only have come from Yu’Vana’s large, curved blade.

  “’Kah’fi’lim?” Randall repeated, having never heard that term before.

  “Yes,” Eckol replied matter-of-factly before hanging his head in realization at his gaffe, “of course; please forgive me. I believe the term in these lands is ‘demon-touched,’ which while a crude term still expresses the sentiment clearly enough.”

  “Demon-touched…”Randall mused, remembering something the sword had said to him the night before to the same effect.

  “Only those steeped in the arcane can properly utilize such foul, twisted material,” Eckol continued blithely, “so I would advise the dirk, but as I said, the choice is yours.”

  Randall really had no idea, so he shrugged indifferently. “The dirk, then,” he agreed.

  Eckol gave him a brief, discerning look before nodding approvingly. “A fine choice,” he said, picking up the finely-sheathed weapon and bringing it to the wagon.

  “What will happen to the rest of it?” Randall asked, gesturing to the pile of munitions.

  Eckol looped the wrist strap of the hammer onto a hook on his belt and wiped his hands on his breeches. “Ser Cavulus has no need for material wealth, so they will be sold to benefit the victims of these crimes,” he tilted his head toward Charles and the other Ghaevlians. “Your own weapon,” he continued, easily changing the subject, “I know neither its design nor its composition, but it is clearly a fine weapon—for a hilt-less sword, of course.”