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

by Caleb Wachter

  The other man tensed, but Hale had already unleashed the spell and watched with more than a hint of glee as the large man collapsed to the ground with his hands clutching his temples. His mouth was open in a silent scream as he curled up into a ball, and Hale took great satisfaction in seeing such a powerful man reduced to such a pathetic display. It was one of many perks he enjoyed in the Senator’s employ.

  Closing his eyes, he searched the man’s thoughts and found precisely what he was looking for. He thought he might catch a glimpse of the sword itself, but when he saw it strapped to the man’s back it was surrounded by an aura similar to the one he had seen in the alleyway time echo. The only difference was that this time the aura was nowhere near blinding, but it did still prevent him from making out any details of the weapon’s construction, except that it was not overly large.

  Hale also saw the White Knight’s image in the stream of memories, and he imprinted the images of both the White Knight and the massive White Blade strapped across his back into his own suit’s mission archive. After extracting the details of the Charles’ story, Hale knew he had gathered everything of use from the man’s mind. While instilling terror in the local populace had a certain appeal, he knew that every moment not spent in pursuit increased the likelihood of failure—and Hale would die before he failed to complete a hunt.

  “It’s a rare thing when I’m disappointed by getting what I wanted,” Hale said in his gravelly, raspy voice as he knelt beside the still-trembling man, whose mind had permanently been scarred by the memory extraction process. “But if it’s any consolation, you gave me what I needed, so I’ll leave your lovely family in peace.”

  Hale stood and replaced his helmet, locking it in down with the series of clasps set on his gorget and the neck of his breastplate. Once it was sealed, he turned and began to exit the barn, calling over his shoulder in his metallic, amplified voice, “Who knows; with their help, a strong-willed man like you might even learn to talk again.”

  A few minutes later he was riding a new mount, which was generously provided by his brief host, Drannis. He spurred the mount on as he considered the involvement of the strange group which the White Knight had called ‘Fleshmongers,’ whose description he made certain to record in his armor’s mission log while the memory was still fresh in his mind.

  Hale had no idea who or what they were, but he had no interest in them since he finally had a destination which made sense.

  Assuming his horse didn’t die from overuse or, if it did, he was able to find a new mount, he would arrive in Greystone within a fortnight.

  Chapter XXX: Fight or Flight

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  A week later and Randall found himself at the base of the mountain’s slopes. He saw no obvious road which would lead him either up to or around the towering peak, but the road which had brought him to the foot of the mountain had intersected with another road that seemed to run parallel to the Binding Chain mountain range.

  “What do you think, Chaser?” he asked absently as he patted the massive horse’s neck. “Left, right, or straight at it?”

  If the horse understood his query, he made no show of it and Randall sighed contemplatively. “Well, we could only go so high,” he mused, “before you wouldn’t be able to climb. And seeing as I can go only so far with whatever food and water I can carry…” He looked down the road both ways and shook his head, seeing no indication as to which way might be preferable.

  It had been a week since he had spoken with Dan’Moread, but he had performed his routine exercises at least four times daily and he decided to risk contacting the sword. He was going stir crazy with no one but the horse to talk with anyway, so he drew the star metal blade from its sheath and focused his mind.

  Much more quickly than he had expected, he felt the sword’s mind connect with his own. Yes, Randall? Dan’Moread said. The sword’s mental ‘voice’ seemed much stronger than it had the previous time, but it was still atonal and lacking inflection.

  “Hey there,” Randall greeted, “did you have a good rest?”

  I do not ‘rest’ as you do, the sword replied, but our continued bonding has strengthened me to the point where I feel almost like myself once again. You have my thanks for your contributions to my well-being, Randall.

  “Yeah,” Randall said hesitantly, “listen…I think I’d like to know more about this ‘bonding’ that’s happening between us. I know you’ve said you aren’t like Rimidalv, but—“

  Your concern is well-justified, Dan’Moread interrupted. I know little of the particulars regarding Rimidalv’s, or any of his ilk’s bonding rituals, but having successfully completed a handful of bonds with my own previous wielders I can explain what you might expect in the coming weeks.

  “That sounds great,” Randall agreed, trying to sound upbeat but secretly dreading the prospect of what he was about to hear.

  You need not hide your true feelings, Randall, the sword chided. As our union strengthens I am increasingly able to detect your true emotional state. This is but one of the changes which will take place.

  “What are some others?” he asked before stopping himself and changing the subject. “But before you answer that, I’d like to know if you have any input as to which way we should go?”

  To the north is the White River, Dan’Moread explained, while to the south lies Greystone, which is the largest city along the Binding Chain mountain range.

  “Is there any way up the mountain?” Randall asked hopefully, gesturing toward the peak before them. “I really have no idea where I should go, but my Flylrylioulen has a picture of that mountain on its face so I thought there was a chance I might find…I don’t know, maybe some Ghaevlians?”

  The Ghaevlian people have withdrawn from these lands, Randall, the sword replied. There are a handful of them remaining, but my understanding is that the rest passed beyond the Binding Chain within the last century. I highly doubt we will find a settlement of their kind even here…but…

  “But…” Randall urged into the silence, “what?”

  My previous wielder once spoke of a Pure Ghaevlian who currently resides within Greystone itself, Dan’Moread replied after a lengthy pause. I know little of this person, except that Tavleros and she had a falling out just prior to our union.

  “Tavleros?” Randall repeated, furrowing his brow briefly before realization dawned on him. “That was ‘T’s name wasn’t it?”

  Correct, the sword replied.

  When the sword failed to speak further on the subject, Randall shrugged. “Well it’s better than anything else I can come up with at the moment, and since it’s the largest settlement in the area we’re more likely to find a skilled weapon-smith there than anywhere else in the area. Do you have any objection to our making for Greystone?”

  I do not, Dan’Moread replied. If there is a chance we might find haven there then we must take it. Tavleros often spoke of Greystone as a bastion for those of Ghaevlian descent, so I see little risk in our traveling there as opposed to elsewhere.

  “Good enough for me,” Randall agreed, turning Storm Chaser to the south. The massive warhorse complied, and after a few minutes Randall decided to pick back up on the previous topic. “So…what else can I expect from this ‘bonding’ process?”

  The next step has usually been my ability to establish communication with my wielder, the sword explained, but I am uncertain how this will proceed in our particular case.

  “Why’s that?” Randall asked. “I mean, so far I’ve been the one contacting you, right?”

  True, Dan’Moread admitted, but my previous wielders were unable to do so—except Tavleros, whose Ghaevlian blood was strong even for a second generation star child.

  “Have any of your other wielders been half-elves?” Randall asked, his curiosity piqued at this latest revelation.

  I believe all of them were, save the one before Tavleros, Dan’Moread replied. I have come to realize that it is…better if I am joined with one of elvish descent.
/>   “Better for whom?” Randall asked warily.

  For everyone, the sword replied in what Randall took to be a terse tone, but it could have been little more than his imagination.

  “Ok…so after the communication thing, what comes next?” Randall asked, hoping to move past the obvious pitfall he had just discovered in the conversation.

  The final phase of the bonding takes place beneath The Wanderer’s full light, Dan’Moread explained. The Wanderer will reach this cycle soon…either this passage or the next.

  Randall made to ask how the sword knew when The Wanderer would reach its maximum intensity—since such information was reserved to soothsayers and prophets—when he felt his scalp go numb.

  Tensing reflexively, he looked around and saw nothing but a small thicket of trees off to the left side of the road. “Was that you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  No, Dan’Moread replied, and he felt his hand begin to tingle against the sword’s leather-wrapped hilt. What was it?

  “A bad feeling,” he muttered, tightening his right hand on the reins.

  Just then, he heard a sound come from the copse of trees and Randall ducked instinctively. The air where his head had been was filled with a whistling sound, followed by chorus of roaring voices from the trees themselves.

  Storm Chaser reared up and promptly charged forward—toward the sound of the roaring voices—and it was all Randall could do to hold onto one of the saddle’s twin, curved horns to keep from being thrown to the ground as the warhorse charged ahead.

  Stealing a glance just as they were nearing the trees, Randall saw a handful of what could only be Fleshmongers emerge from behind the small patch of trees.

  We should flee, Dan’Moread urged, and the sword’s voice was the only thing which was perfectly clear to Randall at that moment. Better we avoid conflict with an armed band of raiders in our current state; we must choose discretion, Randall.

  “I’m trying!” Randall shouted just as the reins slipped from his fingers as the warhorse leapt over a fallen log and landed with enough jarring force to cause Randall to lose his grip on the leather leads. “Oh, crap,” he growled as he held on for dear life just as the horse came upon the first of the Fleshmongers.

  Launching himself into the air with a burst of his powerful hindquarters, Storm Chaser lashed out with his forelegs and Randall heard a brief scream which was silenced by a sickening, crunching noise as the horse’s legs returned to the ground and it kept charging past the man’s position.

  Randall turned in the saddle to see a horribly mangled body in their wake, with its torso bent at an unnatural angle halfway down the ribcage. There was a pair of hoof-shaped depressions in those ribs, and Randall couldn’t help but marvel at the horse’s incredible power.

  It seems our steed has made the decision for us, however, Dan’Moread observed. Shall I intervene?

  “No!” Randall said hastily as he lunged for the reins and came up short as the horse came around for another pass, and Randall felt the air beside his ear whistle so loudly that he flinched from the pain the sound caused. “You’re too weak; we can’t risk harming you any further.”

  Your concern is touching, but should you die here I may die as well, the sword replied. You have no experience fighting on horseback; we have little chance of victory without my intervention.

  Randall lunged for the reins again, and this time he got them. “No; let me handle it. If we get knocked out then by all means, please step in.”

  It does not work that way, Dan’Moread said in an increasingly loud voice. I cannot control your body should you lose consciousness.

  “Great,” Randall rolled his eyes as he pulled up on the reins just a bit, “now you tell me.” Another arrow whistled by, only this time it tore a rent in Randall’s left sleeve, causing him to haul in the reins more sharply.

  Storm Chaser gave a deep, angry whinny and came to a stop. More than a little surprised at how quickly the warhorse had responded to his commands, Randall sat there stupidly for a moment before hearing another arrow whistle past.

  It is inadvisable to present a stationary target, Randall, the sword reminded him.

  “Right,” Randall yelled, digging his heels into the horse’s flank and driving the huge animal forward as fast as he dared while holding the sword haphazardly across the saddle in his left hand.

  He came to the top of the nearest hill and felt a wave of elation hit him just as he crested it, knowing that in a few moments he would vanish from the archer’s line of sight.

  That was when Randall’s left leg exploded in pain and Storm Chaser faltered in his run, almost falling to the ground as he did so. But somehow, the massive warhorse kept its feet beneath it and resumed its run down the far side of the hill.

  Barely managing to keep hold of the reins, Randall leaned forward in the saddle as he found his lungs completely devoid of air—had they not been, he would have screamed in agony. The pain in his leg was unlike anything he had ever felt, and the fiery sensation was quickly spreading up and down the entire limb, which seemed to weigh ten times as much as it should have.

  We have been poisoned, Dan’Moread said all-too-calmly for Randall’s liking. Remove the arrow, Randall, and do so with all haste.

  Blinking his eyes rapidly, it seemed to him that the entire world had suddenly become very small and very bright. “Poison?” he asked, looking dumbly down at his leg.

  Yes, and our mount appears to have been affected as well, the sword said quickly, now do as I say and ask no more questions: remove the arrow from your leg. It should not hurt to do so.

  “Ok,” Randall said, squinting at his leg as he reached across with his right hand to grasp the shaft of the arrow. His fingers did not immediately comply with his instructions, so he stared at them as he tried to flex them. They complied after a few seconds, and he gripped the arrow as tightly as he could before pulling it free from his leg.

  It was surprisingly easy to do, but Randall noted more than a little squeamishly that there was something red—and decidedly meaty-looking—dangling from the jagged arrowhead after he removed it from his leg.

  Good, Randall, he heard the sword congratulate him.

  “Thanksh,” he said proudly, noting with more than a little surprise that his words were beginning to slur. “It wash nothing, really.”

  You are not yet finished, Dan’Moread rebuked, look to see if the horse is bleeding.

  Randall felt hurt that the sword would be so mean. Not just anybody can yank an arrow out of their own leg on such short notice, he pouted silently. He then felt a jolt run through his left arm and up into his body which momentarily sharpened his senses and elicited a yelp of surprise from his lips.

  You are beginning to suffer delirium, Randall, the sword explained, I can only keep your senses sharp for another few minutes. You must check the horse; if he is not bleeding then we must dismount. If he is bleeding, we might yet escape the raiders.

  Randall looked down at the belly strap of the saddle and scanned up the horse’s left side, looking for evidence of blood. At first he saw nothing, and just when he was about to say so he noticed a slick, reflective sheen along the animal’s ribcage.

  “He’sh bleeding,” he slurred, finding the words harder to get out than ever before—even after a hard night of drinking.

  Good, Dan’Moread said, then we may yet escape. You must secure yourself to the saddle; find something with which to bind your wrists to the saddle. You must first sheath me, however, since you will need both hands to do this.

  “Right,” Randall agreed, feeling the horse’s pace slow beneath him. Gripping the sword tightly, he aimed the tip into the sheath strapped across his back and missed—causing a flare of white hot pain to erupt from his back.

  I apologize, the sword said almost immediately. If you will consent, I can take control of your body—

  “No!” Randall yelled, focusing more than he thought he ever had and forcing the tip into the sheath. When
he had placed it there, he pushed the rest of the weapon into the sheath and looked around for a piece of twine. The numbness/fiery sensation in his left leg had reached his hip, and Randall felt his breaths coming in labored draws.

  Good, he heard the sword say, causing him to start in surprise.

  “I’m not holding you!” he protested unthinkingly. “How can you still talk to—”

  A good question for another time, the sword cut him off. Retrieve some Redroot and apply it to your wounds before securing your shoulders to the saddle as you lean forward, then do likewise with your wrists so you will not fall off when you lose consciousness.

  “Lose consciousness?!” Randall blurted in alarm. But fearing the sword may actually be right, he did as he was bidden. He quickly found the Redroot in the bundle which was now located within the saddlebags, and after grinding a bit of it in his mouth he slapped it across his back and drove some into his leg wound. Fortunately, by the time he did so none of his wounds caused him any pain to speak of, so when he was finished he found a small coil of rope in the saddlebags.

  When his knots were tied, Randall felt the numbness had begun to descend down his right leg and into his left arm after filling his torso with the same burning, numbing sensation.

  “Hoow’sh daat?” Randall asked hopefully, leaning forward across the horse’s neck.

  I suppose it will have to suffice, the sword said neutrally. Now we must trust that Storm Chaser continues in this direction rather than returning for vengeance.

  Having never considered that possibility, Randall tried to sit up in alarm but found himself bound too tightly to the saddle. He could untie the knots if he had time, but before he could do so he realized just how tired he was.

  “No…wait…” he protested before darkness overcame him.

  Chapter XXXI: One Good Turn…

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