Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  The Rotting God’s embrace was as bitter as it was profound, and only after accepting it did Rada truly understand his purpose in this world—and all other worlds.

  Then the moment passed as he recalled the final instant of his duel with the whelp and his star metal blade. He threw his head back and screamed, but his ruined throat permitted only a hoarse, creaking sound to pass his lips.

  His moment of rage passed, he closed his eyes and focused on those final moments of the battle—a battle which the nefarious Grey Blade had assured him would result in their victory.

  All had been proceeding according to plan; the whelp had backpedaled just as the Grey Blade’s foresight had predicted, and he had been mere steps from the demon-built barricade at the end of the tunnel where they had fought.

  Every step, every thrust, every swipe and every parry had been perfectly aligned with Ahsaytsan’s incomplete vision. And when that vision had run its course, the most bizarre thing occurred: Rada lost the sight, and it was as though his mind had been shattered into pieces.

  The Grey Blade had been equally afflicted, and Rada had quickly found himself on the defensive against the damnable whelp whose agility made up for his obviously lacking stature. Just when the Grey Blade had thrummed to life in his hands, the whelp had brought his star metal sword into the base of Ahsaytsan’s blade—and the last image Rada recalled was that of a perfectly spherical, completely impenetrable shield surrounding the whelp as the shockwave caused by the Grey Blade’s destruction nearly tore Rada to pieces.

  A look down at his body confirmed that the damage had been severe. Missing was Rada’s left arm, which had been nearest the blast, and there was a ragged gash running from his left collar down to his right hip. It was deep enough to hide his entire fist, and would have been an instantly fatal wound to anyone less blessed than Rada.

  Within his chest the faint, pale light of the Rotting God’s heart beat with its unpredictable rhythm—a rhythm which had gained in both frequency and intensity since he had last noticed it.

  Rada looked down at his right fist, which was still caked with the whelp’s blood, and a smile spread across his bloody lips. “It is time…” he sneered, dismissing the loss of the increasingly unreliable Grey Blade as his mind turned to the resurrection of the Rotting God. His laughter echoed through the Underworld as he clenched his blood-drenched fist.

  Chapter IX: Return to Greystone

  24-1-6-659

  The massive, iron gates of Greystone raised a mixture of feelings in Randall—most of them less than invigorating.

  The soldiery of Greystone manned the main gate encased in their heavy, grey iron armor which invoked decidedly inhospitable imagery as far as Randall was concerned. But the city itself…even Randall had to admit that it was superior to his native Three Rivers by leaps and bounds.

  The buildings were made almost entirely of stone, with only a handful of brick-and-mortar structures to be seen and not a single wooden building in sight of the main gate which Storm Chaser carried them through. His thoughts unexpectedly turned to Yordan and Ellie, who he had luckily managed to move from their driftwood hovel in the Native District to a half-reasonable loft above a respectable general store. He missed their banter, he missed their company, and most of all he worried about what might have happened to them after his departure.

  The look on Ellie’s face as she stood in the moonlight, with the blood-soaked knife clenched in her delicate, innocent hands was one which he knew would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  It is a remarkable fortress city, Dan’Moread said approvingly.

  “Huh?” Randall asked, broken from his reverie by her remark.

  There are only two possible approaches, Dan’Moread explained, the main gate, which would be suicide, and the rear pass upon which the Grey Fort stands.

  Randall looked up to the spiraling, con-shaped citadel at the far end of the city. That citadel housed the palace inhabited by Greystone’s kings, the line of which had been broken by treaty with the Federation decades earlier. Behind it, high atop the peak of the nearest mountainous ridge, was a fortress which overlooked the city as a father might watch over his family. The fortress was both carved into the hard, grey stone and built atop it, which painted a decidedly dire picture to Randall’s mind.

  “It’s impossible to see exactly where the fort ends and the city begins,” he remarked, noting a trio of winding paths which led up the mountainside to the Grey Fort itself.

  That is the price of freedom, Randall, Dan’Moread said coolly. If one surrenders her vigilance, even for a moment, she surrenders that which her vigilance was meant to preserve. And once surrendered, freedom can scarcely be regained.

  “Not without buckets of blood—most of it innocent,” Randall muttered as the Towers Grey came into view, near the base of the King’s Palace.

  Blood, of itself, is worthless, Dan’Moread reminded him, it is what one does with his blood that determines his value.

  “That last bit was just for me, wasn’t it?” he asked rhetorically, taking note of her shift in pronouns. “Going for a last-minute attempt to build me up for the reunion with Phinjo, are you?”

  What else are friends for? she quipped, and despite his previously sour mood he chuckled.

  “Indeed,” he agreed as Storm Chaser carried them up the thoroughfare toward the Towers Grey—where Phinjo resided.

  “Please, sir,” the docent who had greeted him at the Towers Grey insisted, “my lady was explicit in her instructions: if you were to return this morning, I am to conduct you with all haste to the Jarl.”

  “The Jarl?” Randall repeated skeptically as he climbed the steps separating the Towers Grey from the King’s Palace. “Why?”

  “I know not,” the brown-and-yellow clad docent insisted. It was clear from his skin tone that he, like Randall, carried a diluted mixture of both Ghaevlian and human blood. But unlike Randall, the docent’s features seemed to express more of his Ghaevlian heritage than he did his human lineage. His skin was considerably darker, though still far lighter than a pureblood human and his ears were nearly rounded and devoid of pointed tips. To Randall’s discerning eye it was clear that this shape was natural, unlike the shape of his own ears which had been most painfully ‘modified’ so that he might escape persecution at the hands of the many bigoted humans who now called Three Rivers home.

  “Fine,” Randall scowled, having wished to avoid returning to the Jarl’s presence. The man’s imposing stature was far from the only reason Randall did not enjoy his company—his alliance with Phinjo factored considerably more potently into Randall’s reluctance than anything else. Whatever her blood relation might have been to Randall, she had never—not once—attempted to locate or contact him back when he lived in Three Rivers. Such a pointed ignorance of her offspring’s well-being was evidence enough, in Randall’s mind, to paint a picture of someone with whom he wanted as little traffic as possible.

  They entered the main door of the King’s Palace, which door was in and of itself an imposing sight. Standing nearly three times Randall’s height and consisting of two solid slabs of stone which swung inward only enough to permit a full-sized human to enter without turning sideways, the frescos and symbols carved into the doors made them impressive works of art in their own right. Most prominently featured were the images of stags standing triumphant over other animals which, presumably, represented the enemies of Greystone’s line of Kings.

  Randall did not know the history of Greystone, nor did he have much desire to learn of it. All he wanted was to convey the accursed table he carried in his arms to Phinjo so that he might be done with his commitment to her.

  His keen hearing detected her voice in the Main Hall, and soon he was able to make out her calm, patronizing words, “The Ambassador must understand that we could not possibly have had anything to do with this. The Nation’s numbers have dwindled for centuries; there is but a handful of my people left in this world. What you suggest would require extra
ordinary effort by dozens—perhaps hundreds—of True Ghaevlians working together.”

  “Spare me your indignation and falsities,” the Federation Ambassador scoffed as Randall entered the Main Hall, where Jarl Balgruf, Phinjo, and the Federation Ambassador stood before the Jarl’s massive, ornate, wooden chair that was just short of a true throne. “The Ghaevlian Nation is the only polity in this world which is capable of carrying out such an attack; the very possibility that your people were not involved is laughable—and your transparent attempt to invoke that possibility doubly so!”

  Phinjo’s large, doll-like eyes remained fixed on the Federation representative as she coolly countered, “If I may be so bold, perhaps another polity—one closer to the Blue Sands than the Binding Chain,” she suggested, flicking an almost imperceptibly brief look Randall’s way, “has also managed to divine methods of subverting the Nation’s most ancient and secret arts?”

  The Ambassador did well to conceal his bristling at her suggestion, but Randall had seen far too many heated arguments during his time as a bartender at The Last Coin to be convinced of his indignation. Phinjo had struck a nerve of some kind, but his voice betrayed none of his emotions as the Federation representative said, “If such ‘subversion’ has indeed taken place, I have no knowledge of it. Your suggestion that the most powerful and sacred of Ghaevlian rites might have been decrypted not once, but twice or more, by outside agencies is as unthinkable to me as the possibility that your people were not behind the attack on our facility.”

  “I agree,” Jarl Balgruf grunted, “completely.”

  The Federation Ambassador shot the Jarl a brief, irritated look before returning his attention to Phinjo—who, if Randall’s read was true, had allowed the barest fraction of a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth as he continued, “The Federation will not stand for this act of aggression. The perpetrators of this most heinous crime will be found—of that you can both rest assured—and brought to Federation justice.”

  “The Nation will gladly honor its agreements with Greystone in matters of jurisdiction—” Phinjo began coolly.

  “Jurisdiction?” the ambassador blurted. “You think to hide behind a scrap of parchment after declaring war on the Federation?”

  “That ‘scrap of paper’,” the Jarl’s deep, grating voice filled the room as he fixed the ambassador with a steely-eyed glare, “is all that binds Greystone to her agreements with the Federation. You would do well to remember just how much hinges on its preservation, Ambassador.”

  The ambassador snorted contemptuously before meeting the Jarl’s gaze, “The trouble with paper, Jarl Balgruf, is that it is so delicate.” He turned his attention to Phinjo and added, “And, like the wood of which the cheapest papers are made, the flame seems as drawn to it as the moth is to the candle—which candle can, if carelessly placed, burn down a whole library filled with paper.”

  “Bold words, Ambassador—and as true as the keenest arrow,” Phinjo said approvingly before turning to beckon for Randall to approach, “which is why my people opt to write their most sensitive records in stone. It takes more than a candle’s fleeting kiss to erase our records,” she explained as Randall ascended the steps to stand before them. “My great grandson, and the Jarl’s cousin,” she announced, projecting none of the motherly love which Randall had grown up dreaming to hear from his family members, “has returned with such a record, which I now invite your eminence to examine.”

  The ambassador glared at Randall for several seconds before turning his eyes to the triangular piece of stone which Randall had excavated from the hearth at the river keep. His eyes scanned the outward spiraling text which began at the very center of the tablet, and eventually he returned his attention to the tablet’s center. “This is a forgery,” he said dismissively.

  “I can assure you,” Phinjo inclined her head fractionally while splaying her hands before her, “that these hands carved the second-to-last entry on that tablet—an entry which Jarl Balgruf will find familiar.”

  Balgruf stood from his throne-like chair and peered down at the tablet before nodding, “It is indeed familiar.”

  “This is either one of the most momentous consequences,” the ambassador cast a flinty look Randall’s way before turning to face Phinjo, “or further evidence of involvement which you, on behalf of the Ghaevlian Nation, deny in the strongest possible terms.”

  “It is as it is,” Phinjo shrugged. “However, the Treaty of Submission—a treaty which the last King of Greystone signed into law, and to which the Nation agreed to observe to the last letter,” she added with a hint of triumph flavoring her voice, “clearly defines this locale as within Greystone’s sovereign territory.”

  The ambassador’s eyes narrowed as he smirked, “I must confess…this was well-played, Madam Ambassador.”

  “If we are indeed playing a game, your eminence,” she curtsied, “then our play within it is merely a factor of the quality of our opponent.”

  “Well-played,” he mused, “but untenable. The destruction of the Forge is nothing short of an act of war and this,” he sneered at the tablet, “chip of stone can be crushed into dust just as easily as the chips which afford this city its vaunted protection.”

  “Mind your words, Ambassador,” the Jarl growled.

  “I need not do so this day, Jarl Balgruf,” the Federation emissary bowed deeply, “since I have no more to speak…for now,” he added with a scathing look in Phinjo’s direction.

  “Then leave this hall,” Balgruf said in a chilling tone that sent shivers down Randall’s spine, “and do not return until bring something more than baseless accusations to it.”

  “That is precisely my intention, Jarl,” the ambassador vowed, completing his serpentine bow before leaving the Main Hall.

  “You are late, child,” Phinjo said frostily, turning toward Randall after the ambassador had left the room.

  “What?” Randall asked, confused after being blindsided by her words and tone.

  “You were scheduled to return three days ago,” she said, her hands clasped before her improbably narrow waist as she projected an aura of absolute self-control. “Why did you delay?”

  “I didn’t know I was on any ‘schedule’ at all,” Randall said through gritted teeth. “You told me to retrieve this damned thing and I did.”

  “Damned?” she repeated, her doll-like eyes reflecting the light of a nearby candelabra as her lips twisted into a bemused smirk. “My dear, sweet boy…that tablet is not your damnation. It is your birthright.”

  “My what?” he recoiled, looking down at the surprisingly light piece of triangular stone.

  “May we dispense with the games?” Jarl Balgruf said, his voice more a command than a query.

  “Not yet,” Phinjo held up a finger, drawing a withering look from the giant, black-skinned Balgruf, “for I so rarely get to play one of my own design. Please, Jarl,” she sent a predatory look in the Jarl’s direction, “permit me this rare indulgence.”

  Balgruf grumbled wordlessly as he resumed his chair.

  “I don’t understand,” Randall said.

  Nor do I, Dan’Moread agreed. Your name is listed nowhere on that tablet.

  “My name’s nowhere on this thing,” Randall said, silently thanking Dan’Moread for her input.

  “That is because it has been lost to us for quite some time,” Phinjo explained with insufferable calm. “It is only be the rarest quirk of fate that it is returned to its rightful place here,” she gestured to the hewn stone interior of the King’s Palace, “with its brothers and sisters.”

  “Uh huh…” Randall set the piece of stone down on a nearby table, “so you’re telling me that this thing was ‘lost’ for longer than I’ve been alive, but by some great coincidence you just happened to divine its location on the same day I arrived in this city?”

  Phinjo sighed, “That word, ‘coincidence,’ is entirely too human to be uttered by one who shares even a droplet of my blood.”

  “I’m n
ot as gifted with words as the people who usually fill this hall,” Randall said through gritted teeth, “so how about you answer my question rather than address its expression?”

  “How words are expressed is often more relevant than the words themselves,” Phinjo chided. “Fools ignore subtext and focus on the words; the masses give subtext and word equal weight; and rulers,” she sliced a look in Balgruf’s direction, “hear only the subtext and disregard the words.”

  “Why?” Randall asked irritably, his curiosity overcoming his reluctance to participate in an exchange he was certain had little to do with him.

  “Because it is easier to write false words than it is to print false paper,” Balgruf grunted as he stood from the chair. “Play your games if you must, Phinjo, but do not delay in fulfilling your end of our bargain.”

  “Of course, my Jarl,” she curtsied deeply as the Jarl made to leave. “But first,” she called after him in a crystal clear, perfectly pitched tone that betrayed no emotion whatsoever, “I believe my great grandson has an investiture to receive?”

  “His patents will be drawn up by the morning,” the Jarl said without breaking stride, “as will his oath of fealty to his Lord and Sovereign. He will receive the former after he has supplied the latter.”

  The Jarl left the chamber and, for a long moment, only his distant footfalls echoed through the Main Hall.

  Investiture? Dan’Moread asked, sounding just as confused as Randall felt.

  “What is going on?” Randall demanded.

  “Our plan is in motion, child,” Phinjo explained, gesturing to the door through which he had entered.

  “I wasn’t part of any plan,” Randall bit out, “and if an offer had been made to include me in one, I guarantee you that I would have refused it.”

  “So you do understand,” she said with what could have only been false approval. “Perhaps there is more of me in you than I presumed?”