Randall looked down at the bare, metal handle and nodded absently. “It had a leather wrap, but…” he began before realizing he had no desire to get into the circumstances which saw the sword lose its hilt.
Eckol tisked and shook his head. “You mistake my meaning, friend,” he said, pointing at the uneven base of the weapon’s handle. “I may not know its design or components metals, but one thing I can tell you is your weapon is missing a pommel on the end of its tang—a heavy pommel, if I understand the design well enough.”
“Tang?” Randall asked, bewildered both at the possible meaning of the term and the fact that this man seemed to think the sword wasn’t already heavy enough.
“Yes,” the smith said simply as he pointed to the bare metal Randall gripped, “your weapon was forged as a single piece, pommel to tip, and the proper term for the part which you now grip is ‘tang’.”
Randall shook his head in mild wonder. Who knew sword design was so complicated? he wondered silently.
“Of course, the hilt itself is often made of different material—to keep the blade from rattling out of your hand as you fight, see?” the smith took the dagger from its sheath and presented it hilt-first for Randall to observe. “This dirk has a tightly wrapped, leather hilt with fine, chain mesh heat-sunk into the outer layer. The chain mesh provides a superior gripping surface should you wear leather gauntlets, so one can infer from this weapon’s design that it was never intended for a knight’s battlefield panoply.”
Randall leaned forward to see what the smith meant and he saw the fine, chain mesh which made up the weapon’s grip. He also saw the tightly wrapped leather beneath it, which buttressed its top and bottom to keep the metal mesh from moving up and down during use.
“How can you tell it doesn’t belong to a knight?” Randall asked as soon as the question came to him.
Eckol gave him a lopsided grin and used his free hand to reach behind himself. He produced a short, metal hammer with a blunt, square head on one face and a six inch, slightly curved, metal spike on the other. The entire weapon was little more than a foot and a half long and even though he could see it was made of metal, Randall questioned the value of such a small weapon.
“The style of this hammer is what my people call a ‘martel’,” he explained, easily spinning the weapon in his hand before presenting the hilt beside the dagger’s. “Note that while the entire weapon is composed of soft alloy—to keep from shattering during use,” he added upon seeing Randall’s cocked eyebrow at the word ‘soft. “A bent weapon can be easily repaired but a broken one requires a full forge.”
“Ah,” Randall nodded knowingly, “of course.”
Eckol shook his head as he continued, “In any event, the hilt is the only part of the martel which is wrapped in leather.”
Randall looked at the grip of the hammer—or ‘martel’—and saw that it was wrapped in criss-crossing strips of leather but those strips seemed far looser than the dirk’s leather had been wrapped. Then it hit him why such would be the case. “Of course; a knight wears metal gauntlets, thus making a metal grip less useful.”
Eckol nodded as he spun the hammer around behind himself where he tucked it into his belt. “Precisely, whereas leather gauntlets—or even stiff gloves—would become slippery on such a surface should rain fall on the field of battle.”
Randall nodded in understanding. “And the chain wrap is ideal for leather gauntlets because of the friction between the sources,” he concluded, mildly impressed at his own deductive reasoning skills.
“As you say,” Eckol agreed before deftly slipping the dagger back into its sheath, which lay beside Randall’s leg. “I wish to offer no offense, but I had thought noblemen of these lands to be better-versed in the matters martial?”
Randall shook his head as he leaned back against the bed of the wagon. “I didn’t pay much attention to such matters as a boy,” he explained before deciding to add a flourish to the statement. He leaned closer to Eckol, and in a lowered voice confided, “I was always more interested in chasing women to be honest.”
Eckol chuckled and nodded agreeably, “Indeed. But to hear the star children speak of it you did more than your share of martial training,” he said with an approving tilt of his head.
Randall shook his head, “I really can’t take credit for—“
Eckol shook his head and mimed the buttoning together of his lips, “Do not worry; your secret is safe with me. I, too, have a weakness for a woman’s company.” With that, the smith returned to the piles of weaponry and opened a small book which had hung from his belt, in which he began to make notes of some kind.
“How did you come to Ser Cavulus’ employ?” Randall asked as he watched the man catalogue the weaponry.
Eckol looked up from his book and cocked his head as he considered his reply. “Ser Cavulus is not a worldly person,” he eventually said, “and none who accompany him are paid to do so—we are volunteers who merely wish to support such a great champion of good and righteousness.”
“How long have you traveled with the White Knight?” Randall asked, catching a glimpse of the heavily-armored knight coming round the other wagon before kneeling beside Charles and his family.
“I have proudly accompanied Ser Cavulus for these past two years,” he said as he resumed his note-taking.
Randall whistled appreciatively as he imagined two years of life on the road—which wasn’t that hard, considering he had spent several weeks in such a life. He saw Ser Cavulus stand from beside Charles and his family, carrying a bowl in one hand and a water skin in the other as he approached the wagon where Randall sat.
“How did you come to find us?” Randall asked, “it seems odd that you would happen upon us when you did.”
Eckol shook his head and indicated the approaching White Knight, “It would be best if you asked him that question.”
Ser Cavulus approached, his helmet even more unreadable in the darkness, and Randall realized that every inch of his body was covered by finely crafted, overlapping plates of white steel armor. Oddly enough, the armor made very little noise as he moved about but Randall assumed that was due to some sort of enchantments which had been placed on it.
“Thou must eat, friend,” the knight said in the same, distorted voice, proffering the bowl and tankard. “Thy wounds shall heal, but such takes time and I fear our bivouac provides little sanctuary from the elements. Hot soup to warm thy blood and fresh water to cleanse it are all we can muster this eve. Forgive me,” Ser Cavulus said, clasping his hands before himself.
Randall accepted the bowl and tankard gratefully, only realizing as he did so how famished he was. “Don’t apologize, Ser Knight,” he said as his mouth salivated at the thought of freshly-cooked food, “I’ve been eating mostly dried river fish and very, very hard tack these past weeks.” The truth was he had consumed well over half of his Federation trail rations, and had all but sworn off the Gummer fish.
“Such is our usual fare as well,” Ser Cavulus replied with a knowing nod of his cylindrical helmet.
Randall slurped up several mouthfuls of soup, which he washed down with the cold, clean creek water and leaned back as the warm liquid ran down into his belly where it warmed his core just as the knight has said it would.
After he had finished nearly half the soup, Randall realized he had been more than a little rude in ignoring the knight. After washing his latest mouthful of soup down with another draw from the water skin, he gestured to the White Knight, “Won’t you join us for the evening meal?”
Ser Cavulus shook his head and made what Randall took to be a sigh. “I fear I cannot,” he said regretfully.
“Oh,” Randall managed to say, thinking of nothing better to say into the growing silence. “Well,” he continued, wishing to change the subject, “I was just asking Eckol how you came to find us. I might accept simple fortune as an explanation, except my own recent history proves my luck is rarely so good.”
“It was no coincidence,” S
er Cavulus assured him, and Randall leaned forward as equal parts of dread and curiosity welled up inside him. “We have tracked yon Fleshmongers for five passes of The Wanderer, but they have thus far eluded us. Whilst we made camp near a hamlet two days hence, we were entreated by its inhabitants to assist their beleaguered neighbors.” He tilted his head toward Charles and the other half-elves, “We had hoped to find closer to thirty survivors, but it seems the Fleshmongers have already wrought their foul purposes on the others.”
“Who are the Fleshmongers?” Randall interrupted. “I’ve never heard of them.”
Ser Cavulus sighed. “Tis a lengthy tale to tell; suffice it to say they are newcomers to this realm whose presence threatens to upset the delicate balance which these lands have recently enjoyed.”
“And you fight them?” Randall pressed, more than a little caught up in the moment. He had never spoken with a true knight before since such rare personages would certainly never set foot in the Native District, let alone The Last Coin.
“I am sworn to uphold The Light,” Ser Cavulus explained, his hand going up to the massive, white steel blade strapped across his back. “I have taken an oath to serve the pure cause of good with every breath in my body, and I only hope my appetency for this sacred charge is matched by my rectitude and ability to carry out such a cause.”
Ser Cavulus’ hand suddenly withdrew from the hilt of his magnificent weapon—which was as long as Randall was tall—and he shook his head. “I must ask clemency; the day’s events weigh heavily on my mind and I fear I must withdraw to silent contemplation.”
Randall actually felt humbled in this man’s presence, and he shook his head slightly as he said with genuine feeling, “I’m sorry to have taken your time.”
Ser Cavulus held up a hand haltingly, “Think no more on it, friend. We shall speak again after we deliver the star children to safety.”
Randall nodded. “Thank you, Ser Knight.”
With that, the White Knight turned and left the side of the wagon, and after finishing his bowl of soup Randall hunkered down beneath the twinkling starlight for what he hoped was a long, peaceful rest.
Chapter XVI: Jacob’s Plow
Dawn, 3-13-5-659
The next day Randall awoke feeling far better than he had upon going to sleep, and he actually thought he could take a walk. He had made water through the wagon’s rail shortly before they had made camp for the night, but he needed to relieve himself after another fashion before his abdomen burst.
Scooting to the edge of the wagon bed, he gingerly lowered himself to the ground and was surprised at how little pain he felt in his torso as he did so. It still hurt—nearly as bad at that moment as his chest had felt after being abused by the Senatorial Guard the day he left Three Rivers—but he found he was able to draw medium-deep breaths without crying out in pain.
Sliding the sword carefully into its scabbard, which he then slung across his shoulder, he set off for a nearby patch of shrubs.
Having gained relief after a few moments of communion with nature, Randall fastened his breeches and made his way back to the wagon. He caught sight of his hand and realized the pigments which had been applied there were nearly completely flaked off!
Cursing himself for a fool, he stuffed the exposed hand into his shirt and hastily made his way back to the wagon. He saw Charles and the others working over the fire, and the smells wafting off their efforts were incredibly tempting as Randall felt his stomach turn in knots.
“Thy morning meal is prepared,” Charles called to him, and Randall nodded appreciatively.
“I forgot something in the wagon,” he said hastily, hoping he kept the urgency from his voice, “I’ll be right there, though.”
The young man nodded and returned to his duties as Randall gathered up his ruined rucksack—and the not-quite-empty water skin from the previous night—and once again made off for the bushes.
Squatting behind the bushes for cover from the camp’s sight, Randall took out the disguise kit and unrolled it, checking behind himself as he did so to ensure no one approached him while he was vulnerable.
He took the small cloth and wiped the remaining pigment from his hand and then dipped the cloth in water. He knew he didn’t have time to completely re-do his disguise but he knew he needed to check his face, so he took out the mirror and did so.
Satisfied that his disguise was still acceptable, he began re-applying the pigment to the back of his hand. After just a few minutes he had completed the task and heard the sounds of the camp rise as everyone gathered around the fire for the morning meal.
He carefully rolled the disguise kit up and placed it back at the bottom of his rucksack. His hand brushed up against something hard and warm inside the sack as he did so, and he wrapped his fingers around it before drawing it out into the light.
It was the strange, triangular pendant which his mother had asked Lorie to safeguard for him, and it was far warmer than it had been previously. Touching it brought no risk of burning his flesh, but he turned it over in his hands as he regarded it with growing curiosity.
…you hear me? Randall heard a voice say, and he immediately knew it belonged to the sword. The voice was more distant-sounding than it had been during either of the battles when it had spoken to him, but it was unmistakable—and only after he heard the voice did the skin of his scalp begin to tingle slightly.
“Yes,” he whispered, glancing around to make sure no one could hear him, “yes, I hear you.”
There was a pause before he again heard the voice. …fficult to communicate in this fashion, but you must listen carefully; th…the voice trailed off into silence, and Randall placed his hand on the weapon’s ‘tang’ as he drew it from the scabbard.
“What?” he hissed. “I can’t hear you.”
…wounded…strength is nearly exhausted. Please, you must…the voice faded into silence once again, only this time it continued after a few seconds, …the Flylrylioulen. Do you understand?
Randall shook his head as he heard Charles begin to approach from the campfire. “No, I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?!” he asked urgently.
…my wound. I am dyin…I will not surv…the voice said in what was clearly an anxious state, and Randall felt his heart sink at its last words.
“Hey,” he whispered hoarsely, “hey!”
“Who dost thou speak with?” Charles asked as he approached.
Randall stood abruptly, holding the sword behind himself as he did so. Realizing just how foolish such a stance must have looked, he felt himself go red-faced as he shook his head. “I sometimes talk to myself,” Randall tried to dismiss the boy’s concern with a wave of his hand. “It’s a bad habit; sometimes I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Is the food ready?”
Charles looked skeptical, but he nodded and gestured toward the fire, “Come. If we break camp quickly we might sight Jacob’s Plow ‘fore dusk.”
“Jacob’s Plow?” Randall repeated as a confused look came over his face.
“Aye,” Charles replied a little irritably, “tis the heart of our community. They should like to thank Ser Cavulus for his assistance,” he explained before adding belatedly, “and thee for thine, of course.”
“Of course,” Randall said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, let’s get to the food; I’m starving!”
True enough, just before dusk fell that day Charles called out that he had sighted Jacob’s Plow, and Randall turned hoping to see a town of some sort where he might find a proper bed.
At first all he saw was a pair of large barns in the middle of an uncultivated field far in the distance. Try as he might, he could not find the town of which Charles had spoken.
“I don’t see it,” Randall said, turning to kneel in the wagon’s bed, “where?”
Charles pointed at the two barns, “There. Canst thou not see it?”
Randall rolled his eyes, realizing his dreams of a proper bed had just been dashed against the rocks and shattered
into a million pieces. “Oh, that,” he said as neutrally as he could manage, “yeah, I see it.”
Charles gave him a strange look just before Ser Cavulus rode up beside the wagon. “Thou art still wounded, but I would ask if thou might manage a few hours’ more travel this day? These good folk have endured much, and forsooth the sight of familiar faces will do much to bolster their spirits.”
Randall nodded agreeably, “Of course. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ser Cavulus shook his head. “Nay, thou hast already seen to thy portion.”
Randall saw the Squire, Ravilich, approach from the rear of the two-wagon train. The Squire was riding his horse this time, and Randall nodded respectfully as he approached.
“How art thine wounds mending, Baron?” Ravilich asked as he fell in beside the wagon.
“Well enough I could probably walk,” Randall replied with a gracious nod. “I suppose I have you to thank for their dressing?”
Ravilich nodded as he kept his eyes forward. “I have some experience in such matters,” he said dismissively.
Randall had tried to think of a way to ask the Squire about his—or the White Knight’s—intentions toward him. They almost certainly knew his true identity by now, but he had been unable to devise a clever way to address the issue with Charles’ presence.
“You must have noticed my condition then,” he said, “I’m told it’s genetic and entirely non-transmittable.”
Ravilich turned slightly in his saddle before casting a meaningful look at Charles’ back. “Aye,” he replied, “the edges of thine wound did have a certain quality which raised much concern at the outset.”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 20