“I know,” he muttered, “but I keep my promises.” He knew he would be dead several times over if not for the sword’s help, which was to say nothing of the fate which would have befallen his two best friends without Dan’Moread’s intervention. He had indeed made a promise, and he intended to keep it.
Standing from the chair, he thrust his hand out. “We have ourselves a deal.”
Phinjo stood as well and reached out with her tiny, delicate-looking hand to grasp his own. When their grips met, he found her skin to be far warmer than he expected—and her grip to be like iron. He barely noticed the prick of her ring as she withdrew her hand, and he looked down to see a tiny trickle of blood on his palm.
A warm sensation ran up his hand and he looked up at her in alarm. “Very well,” the Ghaevlian woman said with a gracious nod, “we have an accord. I shall return after I have secured your freedom; you may rest or refresh yourself during the interlude as you see fit. The process may take several days, but I am confident I can persuade the esteemed Ambassador to acquiesce on the matter in time.”
With that, she turned and left the room. Just as her bustle cleared the doorway, the iron-bound door silently closed shut behind her leaving Randall inside the most finely-appointed room he had ever occupied.
Chapter XXXVI: Forging a Bond
16-0-6-659
Hours passed and Dan’Moread did not speak with Randall. At first he found it concerning, but when he contacted her after several minutes of intense effort, he was able to speak with her.
“Are you alright?” he asked tentatively.
I am weak, Randall, the sword replied in a faint voice, after which there was a pregnant pause. Eventually, Dan’Moread continued in a slightly stronger tone, I did not ask you to indebt yourself to her on my behalf.
“I know you didn’t,” Randall said, feeling a wave of relief at being able to communicate with the sword again. “But you’re hurt and I need to help you.”
You should have respected my wishes, the sword retorted in its monotonous voice.
Randall felt his face flush in equal parts anger and resentment. “Hey, if it wasn’t for you I’d be dead more times than I care to think about,” he snapped. “And so would the only other people I’ve ever considered my friends. So excuse me for trying to return the favor; you’ve already sacrificed too much on my behalf for me to sit by and watch you suffer.”
I have endured my wounds for years, Dan’Moread said after a brief pause. I would have continued doing so without complaint—and without adversely affecting my performance.
“Yeah, you’re tough alright,” Randall rolled his eyes, “I won’t argue with that. But you’re also wounded, and no matter how tough you are there’s no way I’ll believe this doesn’t hurt,” he gestured to the damaged end of Dan’Moread’s tang. “I can’t sit by and let your pain continue—especially when we’ve got a way to heal…er, repair you.”
There was another pause, this one longer than the others before the sword replied. It was a mistake indebting yourself to her…but I appreciate the sentiment behind the gesture.
“What do you have against her, anyway?” Randall asked, hoping to move on to a slightly less contentious subject.
Tavleros did not speak of her often, which is why I did not know her on sight, Dan’Moread explained, but when he did mention her it was clear the two of them parted under…unfriendly circumstances. He did not seem to mistrust her as such, but it was obvious that he disagreed with her on some fundamental issue of which I am unaware.
Randall bit his lip, considering whether to broach the subject of Tavleros’ and Dan’Moread’s parting. Eventually he dismissed the thought; Dan’Moread had been quite clear in their previous discussion on the subject that such a discussion was unwanted, so he respected the sword’s stated wishes.
I apologize, but I am weaker than I expected, Dan’Moread said, and Randall noted that the sword’s voice was far softer than it had been just a moment earlier. If you could please perform some exercises with me I would greatly appreciate it while I recover what little energy I am able.
“Of course,” Randall said, noting with more than a little appreciation that his leg was healthy enough to run through the routine, albeit a little more gingerly than before. “You should rest; we’ll talk later.”
Thank you, Randall, the sword replied before the connection was severed. Randall stood to his feet, stretched for a few moments and began to run through the routine Drexil had shown him for as long as he thought he was able, before flopping down on the bed and closing his eyes as he felt the soft, feather-filled mattress slowly depress around him.
Before he realized it, he was fast asleep.
A day passed and Randall had run through their exercise routine five times, what with so few options available as entertainment. In the center of the room’s main table was a bowl full of fresh fruit, most of which was familiar but some of which was not, and Randall partook eagerly of it, stopping only briefly to lament the lack of meat provided by the admittedly fine spread.
After consuming his fill he looked out on the city of Greystone and was once again struck by just how impressive the city was. It was far smaller than Three Rivers, but the sheer work involved in building so many solid stone structures was mind-boggling to him. He would have suspected magical assistance, but he saw no sign of anything resembling Federation-issue heavy equipment, which would have made the job far less daunting.
The door opened just as he was halfway through their hour-long routine, and Randall turned to see the woman who claimed to be his Great Grandmother stride into the room with her hands folded neatly before herself.
“I trust you rested,” she said in her melodious voice as she cast a quick glance at the table, “and have refreshed yourself?”
“I have…thank you,” Randall replied, coming awkwardly out of his posture to hold Dan’Moread before himself.
Phinjo shook her head and approached, gesturing to the sword. “How long have you owned that weapon?” she asked, her eyes flitting back and forth between the sword and Randall’s face.
“I don’t ow—“ he began, only to stop himself short. He didn’t know if he should trust her with every detail of his life, but remembering her apparent ability to read his thoughts, he sighed. “I’ve had it since I left Three Rivers…the very day I left was the first time I held it, in fact.”
“Interesting,” she said, her doll-like eyes betraying no emotion as she gestured to the chairs beside the window. Not wanting to be rude, Randall obliged and sat opposite her. “Do you know of its history by chance?”
Randall shook his head. “A little, but not much…” he began before narrowing his eyes and sitting back as he laid the sword across his lap. “What’s this about?” he asked as he searched her features for some sign of what she was up to.
“It would make the issuance of a legally binding patent and license of ownership simpler if you had certain…pertinent details to which you might attest knowledge of,” she explained, blinking her eyes to punctuate her words.
Randall scoffed. “If you want to know what I know, just ask me,” he said hotly. “Don’t treat me like some kind of idiot; I may be one, but even if I am I resent being treated like it.”
The corner of her mouth curled and she inclined her head slightly. “As you say,” she allowed before straightening. “The Ambassador is demanding proof that this weapon belongs to you, and I possess no such proof. He claims the weapon was stolen from a Federation structure some years ago; without some sort of evidence to refute that claim it will be difficult to contest his position.”
Randall felt his scalp go numb and he knew the sword was trying to contact him, but he ignored it. “We can dance around this all day, but you’re better at that game than I am,” he said evenly as he fixed her with a cold look, “so let’s just get to the heart of it: what do you know, and what do you want to know?”
Phinjo cocked her head quizzically. “Strange,” she mused, “I exp
ected more…resistance, I suppose.”
Randall leaned forward as his scalp went numb again, but again he ignored it as he kept his attention focused on Phinjo. “You clearly know something of the sword and you want me to reveal what I know without doing likewise. Let’s just cut the skullduggery out and share what we know.”
The woman blinked once before tilting her head to the side and laughing. It was the most musical thing Randall had ever heard, and he had to check himself to keep from being put off-guard.
“You are truly of my blood,” she said with obvious appreciation. “Very well, I will tell you some of what I know then you will do likewise until I tire of it.”
“Fine with me,” Randall said, leaning back in his chair.
Phinjo gestured toward Dan’Moread, “I know, for instance, that it has a mind of its own.”
Blinking in disbelief, it was all Randall could do to keep his jaw from going slack. “You mind if I take a second?” he asked after he had collected his wits.
“By all means,” she gestured airily with her hand.
Randall closed his eyes and contact Dan’Moread, who was still attempting to do the same so it took only a few seconds.
You cannot truly be thinking of trusting this woman, the sword said quickly.
“Why not?” Randall muttered under his breath. “It’s not like we’ve got much choice, and you said yourself that nobody you’ve known seemed to actually mistrust her. And after meeting her, I can understand disliking her just fine.”
There was a pause. Very well, but as we are discussing me, I expect you will ask my permission before revealing what you know of me.
“Fine with me,” Randall agreed, his voice barely above a whisper, “should we begin with your name?”
That is acceptable, the sword replied.
Straightening and feeling the need to shift under the weight of his Great Grandmother’s gaze, Randall resisted as he said, “Its name is Dan’Moread.”
“A name,” she mused as her eyes scanned the surface of the blade, “very well; a name for a name, then. Its previous bearer was named Tavleros.”
“How did you—“ Randall began before snapping his jaw shut at the woman’s unreadable expression. “Fine,” he said evenly as he gestured to the poorly-wrapped tang, “it’s in pain because of a wound it’s suffered, and I came here to fix that wound.”
“Indeed,” Phinjo said as her eyes narrowed briefly, “but we already established that.”
Rolling his eyes, Randall lowered his voice and asked, “What would you like me to tell her?”
I would like to learn how she knew of my bond with Tavleros, the sword said faintly.
“That’s a question,” he whispered, “not a useful piece of information.”
“Questions and their motivations are the source of all wisdom,” Phinjo said pointedly. “Know a question and its purpose, and one knows the mind of the asker. I would hear the question, and will do my utmost to answer it; in return I will provide another bit of what I know.”
Randall looked at her suspiciously. “Is that ok with you?” he muttered.
Of course, Dan’Moread replied.
“Alright,” Randall said, straightening again having realized he was slouching over the sword, as if leaning together conspiratorially had any relevant impact on the communication—which it clearly did not. “Dan’Moread wants to know how you learned about Tavleros’ history with it.”
The sword said something at the edge of Randall’s ability to concentrate but Phinjo’s voice came over the top and rendered it unintelligible to Randall’s ears. “Tavleros was a…friend of the Ghaevlian Nation for what you might consider a long time,” she explained. “He disappeared a few short years ago following a…philosophical disagreement regarding the future direction of the Nation. Not long after he left us, the Storm Lord fell at Mount Gamour and I heard whispers that Tavleros had been involved, which came as no great surprise given his proclivities. He was later seen bearing a weapon resembling yourself during his travels,” she said with an inclination of her head toward the sword, “and as far as I am aware, you are…unique; hence, my interest.”
Thank you, Dan’Moread said after a brief pause.
Randall watched Phinjo for several seconds for some sign that she had heard the sword’s words, but when he saw no such sign he said, “Dan’Moread ‘thanks you’.”
“Of course,” Phinjo replied as her eyes looked up and down Dan’Moread’s glittering blade. “And now I will share another relevant bit of certain knowledge: the Federation will stop at nothing to reclaim you.”
The Federation has never imprisoned me, Dan’Moread said quickly. Tell her that.
Again, Randall watched for some hint that Phinjo had heard the sword’s words but again, he received no such sign. “Dan’Moread says the Federation has never imprisoned it,” Randall said hesitantly.
“Indeed?” Phinjo said with a cocked eyebrow, and again her word drowned out something the sword had tried to say but Randall stayed focused on reading his Great Grandmother’s features. “It will be difficult to refute such a claim without evidence.”
Before Randall could declare just how little he cared to satisfy the Federation’s demand for exonerating evidence, Phinjo leaned forward and produced a glossy, black pouch from the folds of her dress.
“What’s this?” Randall asked as he leaned forward to accept the proffered container.
“This is star metal,” she replied as she handed it to him. “Of sufficient quantity to complete a hilt, crosspiece and pommel for Dan’Moread.”
As soon as Randall felt the pouch he knew she spoke the truth. He had never felt such a heavy metal in his life, and he untied the mouth of the small bag to verify its contents.
Inside was what seemed to be a sand-like dust which glittered just like Dan’Moread’s blade. “There is not enough here to forge even a proper spearhead, but it should suffice for your needs.”
“Thank you,” Randall said graciously.
“You will require the services of a skilled smith,” she said with an expectant look, “for while star metal is not difficult to mold with heat and hammer, tempering it into a hardened weapon requires rare facilities and even rarer courage.”
“Courage?” Randall asked in alarm. “Why does working on a sword take courage?”
Phinjo cocked her head and blinked her doll-like eyes. “Perhaps the smith will explain; I have other matters to which I must attend,” she said, rising from the chair. “The name of the facility you must visit is The Dragon’s Tooth. Tell their finest metalworker that the Ghaevlian Nation will pay well for their assistance, and will reimburse them double their normal price for whatever materials are expended during the process if they will expedite the matter—it must be completed by tomorrow evening. Make certain they understand that point.”
“You mean…” Randall began as he stood from his own chair in surprise, “I can leave the tower?”
“Of course,” she replied with a quizzical look before turning and making her way toward the open door. “You may change your attire if you wish,” she gestured to the bed, upon which was a fresh set of simply-designed, but clearly quality clothing unlike anything he had ever seen.
As she left the room, Randall was more than a little irritated that the clothing just happened to show up while they were conversing—the strange clothing hadn’t been there when he had interrupted his exercises.
Breathing a sigh of exasperation, he stripped out of his old clothes and after a few minutes of head-scratching, managed to climb into the new ones and set out for The Dragon’s Tooth—wherever that was.
It took nearly an hour of wandering the streets, during which time Randall incessantly fidgeted with his strange, one-piece suit of clothing. It was surprisingly comfortable, but its bright, yellow color made him more than a little self-conscious.
But finally he found himself standing before an imposing structure carved from the solid rock of the valley itself. The front of the
‘building’ was carved in the shape of a large, presumably draconian head with the foreboding, many-toothed mouth being the point of entry.
He closed his eyes and contacted Dan’Moread after a brief moment of concentration. “Are you ready?” he asked in a low voice, careful to avoid drawing attention to himself be appearing to carry on a conversation alone.
I am, the sword replied. We should do what we have come to do…and Randall…
“What is it?” he asked nervously.
Thank you, Dan’Moread said after a brief pause.
Randall nodded in relief. “Don’t mention it,” he said dismissively before taking a breath and making his way within the shop. Inside, his ears were greeted with the sound of metal striking metal punctuated by the hissing of steam as red hot metal met running water. He could see a half dozen smiths working on various projects including shields, swords and pieces of armor made of an unfamiliar, grey metal.
“Hello?” Randall said after standing in the doorway for several minutes and watching the men pound away on their anvils.
The nearest smith looked up, his mouth covered by a cloth which he pulled down as he scowled at the interruption to his work. “Yes?” he said irritably.
“I was told to come here,” Randall explained, gesturing to Dan’Moread, which was strapped to his back, “my sword needs some work and I am to seek the master of this place.”
The man wiped his hands on the apron across his thighs after setting the hammer and tongs down on a nearby stone bend. “Well,” he gestured as he approached, and Randall was struck by just how much soot covered the previously exposed portion of the man’s face, “let’s have a look.”
Randall hesitantly drew the sword and held it before himself while the smith took a draw from a nearby ladle of the running water. When the smith turned back he started in surprise before narrowing his eyes. “Star metal?” he grumbled before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, star child, but I can’t risk it.”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 39