Between White and Grey (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt: Origins Book 1)

by Caleb Wachter

  Using her incredible flexibility—which she owed entirely to her Ghaevlian ancestors—she bent backwards out of the wooden shaft’s way as she spun and drove her sword into the soldier’s knee. To her great surprise it not only found the chink in the man’s banded leather chaps, but drove through the joint with such force that it protruded from the other side and the man issued a scream of pained surprise.

  But he kept hold of his weapon, much to his credit, and Yaerilys wrenched her sword as hard as she could which caused the man to topple to the ground. Unable to extricate the weapon from his knee, Yaerilys released its hilt and wrestled the spear from the soldier’s grip.

  It was not difficult to do, and in his last moments the man looked up at her with not fear, but fanatic anger in his eyes as she plunged his own weapon into his chest three times before stepping back and surveying the immediate area.

  To her left was one of the four, massive buttresses which supported the wall against attacks which only the Storm Lord had envisioned repelling. On the other side of the massive, curved buttress were the sounds of battle where Ser Cavulus had leapt just a minute earlier.

  Tavleros descended to the ground just as the line above him was cut, and he scrambled away from the wall to escape the sudden hail of knives and stones which the soldiers atop the wall were now hurling.

  Looking around for cover of some kind, Yaerilys found a rocky outcropping which looked like might protect them from the soldiers above. “This way,” she shouted as she tore her sword free from her fallen foe’s leg, “we shall find shelter beneath that ledge!”

  Clearly needing no further encouragement, Tavleros heeded her advice and just as they made it to the shelter of the outcropping, wooden arrows began to stream down around them.

  There was a sudden, violent, cracking noise from the gatehouse and though she turned to see the source of the sound, all Yaerilys saw was the horde of enemy soldiers driving toward the gatehouse itself.

  The gate began to slowly grind open as the spools of chain and rope unwound. Dan’Moread turned to see Rimidalv and his wielder surrounded by the enemy soldiers, who seemed too numerous and crowded to count, so without thinking she ran to his aid on Kanjin’s now-wobbly legs.

  “I don’t know…how much more…I can do,” Kanjin gasped between ragged, labored breaths. Dan’Moread felt the fire which filled his limbs and knew that despite his conditioning, they had expended far too much energy unlocking the gate for a sustained battle.

  The General will come to our aid, Kanjin, she said self-assuredly. Her edge was nicked and sore from the repeated blows to the gate’s various locking mechanisms, but she knew that despite her own damage she had weathered the battle far better than her wielder. The gates will open soon; we must hold until then!

  There was time for no more talk as she crashed into the nearest line of soldiers, slashing wildly left and right in an attempt to create a diversion for Rimidalv and Cavulus.

  The White Blade and his wielder were engaged in a dazzling display of swordsmanship which nearly took Dan’Moread’s attention from the men who now faced her and Kanjin. With each step and every pivot, the White Knight expertly turned Rimidalv this way and that, driving the soldiers back. Or, when the White Blade’s foes were too obstinate, he cut them down as though they were nothing but grass beneath a scythe.

  Kanjin’s arms were stiff and slow, so Dan’Moread knew she had no choice but to rely on brute force—which, in truth, had always been her preferred approach. She smashed into a nearby warrior’s shield, knocking him off-balance before she kicked his companion in the back of the knee and sending him to the ground.

  A spear clattered off Kanjin’s heavy breastplate, and Dan’Moread swung around in a wide, savage arc which tore the spear-wielder’s hand off at the wrist. She heard the pounding of hooves from her back and pressed the attack as the solders around her presented their spears defensively.

  She smashed down into a wooden spear shaft and it was reduced to splinters in its wielder’s hands. Paying its now unarmed wielder no heed, Dan’Moread plunged herself into the side of the woman warrior standing beside him.

  Wrenching herself free, Dan’Moread turned her wielder’s body instinctively and barely deflected an incoming broadsword. The attacker’s weapon was little better than crude iron, and it splintered against Dan’Moread’s tempered, star metal edge. She brought herself high before coming down onto the man’s helmet, cleaving through his skull with a sickening crack that sent the man’s twitching body to the ground.

  Kanjin’s torso was struck from the rear, and Dan’Moread barely managed to keep in his hands as they sprawled forward onto the ground in shock. Rolling over quickly, she just had time to see a hulking warrior wielding a massive, wooden mallet bring it high in preparation for the blow that would end Kanjin’s life.

  But before he could bring it down, a massive, black warhorse crashed into him and sent him sprawling. On the warhorse’s back was General Birchaud, who swung his grey iron warhammer as easily as if it was a feather.

  The first soldier’s skull proved that Birchaud’s hammer was no feather, as he crumpled from the incredible power of the weapon’s blow just before his companion did likewise from the follow-up attack.

  Scrambling to their feet, Dan’Moread brought herself up into a guard as the Storm Fort’s soldiers formed a haphazard line after retreating a few paces from the White Knight’s and General’s fury.

  More cavalry were soon into the fray, and not long after that the first Greystone footmen had joined the battle. Much as she would have liked to support them, Dan’Moread knew that Kanjin’s body was spent.

  “I am…sorry…Dani,” he said through wheezing breaths.

  The battle is far from over, she assured him as she lowered herself to the ground before kneeling on the bloody flagstones, but this part belongs to the Greystone army. Rest yourself, Kanjin; you have fought bravely.

  No sooner had she said this than the White Knight ceased his forward motion. The Greystone army poured around him, bellowing a wordless challenge to their adversaries as they crashed into the Storm Fort’s last line of defense.

  It was a gruesome, bloody affair, but the Greystone warriors were well-served by their superior armaments—and superior training.

  Dan’Moread and Kanjin watched silently as the battle unfolded, and after just a few minutes it became clear that it was a rout for the Greystone forces. Without their walls to hide behind, the Stormborn were no match for the Greystone army, who cut them down at a ratio of no fewer than five enemies slain for each Greystone soldier that fell.

  Suddenly, the General was dismounted from his massive horse by a well-time blow from the ground and the soldiers around him roared in defiant anger. But from her position, Dan’Moread could see nothing but the redoubling of effort by both sides with the Greystone commander now on the ground.

  Dan’Moread did see a towering Greystone man, wielding short axes in each of his massive hands, swing his weapons savagely at the nearby enemies who would claim the General’s life. The man was huge, even for a Greystone human, and though the Storm Fort’s soldiers managed to bloody him several times, he stood his ground until the General had regained his feet.

  Together, the pair of hulking mammoths waded into the fray, and to Dan’Moread’s surprise the huge, rider-less warhorse also lashed out with its hooves at the nearby enemy soldiers.

  Within minutes the remaining defenders of the fort were routed and retreating toward the mountain. Looking up at the top of the wall, Dan’Moread noted that the Greystone soldiers had apparently taken control of it as well.

  “The battle is over,” Ser Cavulus said, his voice sounding metallic and unnatural as it was projected through his helmet and amplified so loudly that it brought pain to Kanjin’s ears. “The Storm Fort is ours!”

  Dan’Moread relinquished control of Kanjin’s limbs and allowed herself to relax as her wielder gripped her hilt for support to keep from falling. The truth, much as she hated to
admit it, was that controlling a wielder was extremely taxing for her. She had never held a wielder’s body under her control for longer than the thirty minutes during a day, and she had already done well over half that amount taking the Storm Fort.

  Good, Rimidalv said stiffly as the White Knight wiped the blood and gore from the White Blade, save your strength, Dan’Moread. We will need it soon enough.

  Chapter V: Gratitude

  With the battle concluded and the Storm Fort taken, at Rimidalv’s instruction Yaerilys had taken the White Blade for cleaning and examination.

  Following every battle, the White Blade’s Squire was charged with checking for any battle damage while cleaning the weapon. Rimidalv had made it clear to her that he was not a weapon of slaughter, and that he did not revel in the shedding of blood. When gruesome work needed to be done he would do his part, but he would not bathe in the remains of those who had stood against the Light.

  Theirs is not the guiding hand in this battle, Squire, Rimidalv said, snapping Yaerilys to attention as the White Blade seemed to have been reading her silent thoughts.

  “I know that,” she replied measuredly as she sighted down Rimidalv’s white steel blade, “the true villain is the Storm Lord; without him this keep would never have risen, and yon army would not lie defeated within it.”

  Indeed, Rimidalv agreed, it is not the White’s duty to seek out each wrongdoer. Ours must be a more direct approach that that, else we forsake the words of our Father. Without his wisdom, our world will fall into an endless night. It is our duty to push back that night by whatever means necessary.

  She nodded and continued her appraisal of Rimidalv, having heard these words before in their entirety to the point she could repeat them in her sleep. Should the White Blade require it, Yaerilys would hear those words again, but for the time being she was content to focus on the task at hand.

  She had never seen the White Blade deform during a battle, but it was her duty as Rimidalv’s Squire to conduct a thorough examination regardless. The White Blade had a handful of nicks and chips on his impossibly hard, durable edge, but these were all well-known to her. Nevertheless, Yaerilys inspected them carefully to ensure they had not worsened in some way during the battle.

  When she was finished she placed Rimidalv across her lap, as was customary. “I see no sign of damage to thy edge,” she reported. “Dost thou desire an oil bath?”

  No, he replied grimly, our battle in this place is far from finished. The army hoists its General on their shoulders like foolish children, but the true contest has yet to occur. I would not bathe until this task is finished.

  “As thou wishes,” she acknowledged. “Shall I return thee to thy scabbard?”

  In a moment, he replied. First, take me to the gathering. I wish you to see these oblivious, frolicking children for what they are.

  Yaerilys propped Rimidalv over her shoulder, as he preferred to be carried when in the open, and made her way to a small gathering near the mouth of a strange cave which had not been there prior to the battle. It was as though the stone of the mountain had parted to reveal the narrow passageway through which the Storm Lord’s army had marched out to meet them.

  “This blasted pile of water and sand is ours!” General Birchaud shouted as Yaerilys approached and a great cheer went up from his men. She could see that Kanjin, Tavleros, and Ser Cavulus were standing near him.

  She made to press her way forward, but Rimidalv interrupted her. This is close enough, he commanded, so she stood still and listened to the battle’s aftermath.

  “We set out from Greystone against the wishes of my nephew, the Jarl, who would bend knee to that accursed Federation rather than stand for what my House has long held dear,” the General continued, and Yaerilys could hear a rumble of agreement throughout the ranks of the soldiers. “My grandfather, Bulwyf the True,” he continued, “never bowed down to those sons of whores. They demanded he vacate his throne and he refused—just like we refused when they demanded we leave this Storm Lord to their ‘learned judgment’ and ‘tempered response’.”

  There was a round of snickering guffaws from the assembled soldiers and while Yaerilys wasn’t particularly moved by the General’s speech, it was clear that his men felt quite differently as their eyes hardened and backs stiffened at his words.

  “We’ve done our duty to the Binding Chain,” Birchaud continued, eliciting short a cheer from the soldiers. “And when we’ve finished here we’ll march on and continue to protect those who rely upon us—the Federation be damned! Is there a man amongst you who would shirk his solemn duty?!” he challenged and was met with a resounding chorus of ‘Nay’!”

  Such pageantry is needless and wasteful, Rimidalv interjected in his cold, hard tone. The job is only half done and they crow as if they have just ended a Darkening.

  “The men require purpose,” Yaerilys observed neutrally. “They will do the job asked of them, but they must know for what they fight and bleed.”

  A tool does not need to know its task, Rimidalv retorted, and there was something in his telepathic ‘tone’ that made Yaerilys uneasy, it merely needs to do what it was made for until it can do so no more.

  Biting her lip, Yaerilys considered whether to continue the discussion but decided against it.

  You disagree, Rimidalv observed and Yaerilys knew he would now demand her explanation.

  “These are men with families, and lives, which offer more to them than battle and bloodshed,” she explained evenly, hoping to keep her tone as clinical as possible.

  They have no families, Rimidalv retorted. General Birchaud’s bannermen assembled only those men without wives or those without families which depended on them. This march was one-way; they can never return to Greystone after openly ‘rebelling’ against the stated wishes of their Jarl.

  Yaerilys’ brow furrowed in confusion, “But General Birchaud said that his nephew, Jarl Balgruf, was complicit in this pacification. Doth the General speak untruly?”

  The Jarl’s position is a delicate one, and he cannot be seen to openly rebel against his Federation masters, Rimidalv explained tersely.

  Yaerilys thought about the ramifications of what the White Blade had said as General Birchaud continued his speech. “If that is true,” she said measuredly, “then each of these men chose to accompany the General. They will bleed if it is needed of them, but each must do so of his own free will. It seems to me the General is merely explaining why they have done as they have.”

  Free will, Rimidalv said derisively, those two words have caused humanity more suffering than any others in its sordid history. Only obedience is required when the Light has already shown the way.

  While Yaerilys at least partly agreed with Rimidalv, as she looked at the grim determination in the eyes of the Greystone soldiers around her, she could not help but wonder if free will was less a burden and more a strength.

  “And now,” General Birchaud continued after concluding the glorified chest-thumping with which Dan’Moread had become all-too familiar throughout the years, “the granting of this battle’s honors.”

  Turning to face Ser Cavulus, Birchaud gestured toward him with his massive hand. “The White Knight, for neutralizing the enemy’s siege weaponry and sparing hundreds of us from an early grave in the process, is to receive the Walls of Greystone.” Ser Cavulus stepped forward and made as if to protest, but the General had already continued, “But the man’s high and mighty morals won’t permit him to accept such an honor! So instead we’ll provide his retinue, which has thus far traveled with our army, with plunder from the Storm Fort to bequeath on orphans…or whatever it is he does with his wealth these days.”

  There was a round of laughter from the assembled soldiers, and Dan’Moread could not help but admire the White Knight’s virtue. His was not a path easily taken, but to see such a shining example walking amongst the people she had come to know was a privilege she would never forget.

  “Normally,” General Birchaud continued as
Ser Cavulus stepped back with a bemused smile on his face, “the Storm Fort itself would become a territory unto Greystone, but seeing as we are no longer a part of Greystone we cannot lay any manner of claim to this pile of dust and mud. So before we leave, we’ll raze this effigy to the Storm Lord to the ground and piss on his powdered bones before marching up the Chain!”

  There was a roar of approval to which Dan’Moread would have lent her voice if she was able, but she was proud that Kanjin did so for both of them.

  “Which leaves one matter before we begin dismantling this place,” Birchaud said, pointedly turning to the huge man who had wielded the twin axes at the General’s side. “I would know your name.”

  The huge man, who was actually a hair taller than the General, bowed at the waist. “I am Drannis, Lord General,” he replied, and his deep voice seemed to reverberate throughout the fortress.

  “Well met, Drannis,” General Birchaud said as he returned the other man’s bow. “I do not find your sigil,” he said with a pointed look at the man’s dented breastplate. “From what House do you hail?”

  “I am of no House, Lord General,” Drannis replied. “My family has lived under the shield of Greystone for generations, and while the Federation now claims the lands my family has worked since my fourth grandfather’s time, we have always held that Greystone represents that which is good in this world.”

  General Birchaud nodded slowly. “You’ve lent your arm to us as a free man, then?”

  “Indeed, Lord General,” Drannis said, “and I am proud to have fought alongside you. My family is farmers, born and bred, but I am glad to have done some small part in service to the greatest kingdom that ever was.”

  “Farmers?” Birchaud asked with an eyebrow raised incredulously. “More like woodsmen if you ask me!” he said with a knowing look to the soldiers, who erupted in laughter. Apparently every man on the field had seen Drannis’ handiwork with his twin weapons, which actually did appear to be little more than large, finely-crafted woodcutting axes.