Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  He stepped through the open portal as he had done dozens of times since deciding that this particular passage would serve as his private route into and out of the Rotting God’s temple—a temple which Rada had built nearby precisely because of its proximity to the Underworld, where Rada was uniquely capable of and suited to navigating.

  Beyond the sundered portal was a long, winding path which led to the world above. His feet carried him up the dark, quiet underside of the great lies which stood above him. He snorted as he used his superior night vision to examine the nearby column of lattice-work metal which soared up into the murky blackness above him. It was truly massive in scale, with the smallest pieces several times as massive as anything Rada could hope to lift in place by himself.

  That column, and dozens—or perhaps even hundreds—like it, supported the false mountain which had been cleverly hidden among the genuine peaks which made up the so-called ‘Binding Chain’ mountains.

  He walked up the gently inclined path, which began to spiral upward for two thousand three hundred and ninety one steps—the same amount which it had taken him even before he lost his arm, which he took as noteworthy but unimportant in the grand scheme.

  Rada arrived at the top of the tunnel and saw the twin of the sundered door below. This was the third such doorway he had encountered during his time spent in the Underworld, except unlike the other two—the one through which he had just passed, and the one which had granted him flight from his home world—this one was perfectly intact.

  He moved confidently toward it, certain that the Rotting God’s favor was with him just as it had been the last time he had faced this door. After placing the palm of his hand against the door’s surface, he was given moment to think he might have actually fallen out of favor with his god. But the doubt was short-lived as the door, doing as it had always done, slowly rolled away to reveal the narrow, stony passage beyond.

  Rada stepped through and the door immediately rolled shut behind him. After it had done so, he set off toward the temple.

  The winding passage was barely large enough for him to squeeze his considerable, muscular frame through, but after six hundred feet of crawling, twisting, and even climbing—which he did with great care due to the lack of an arm—he arrived at the rear of the temple.

  He heard the rest of the Rotting God’s faithful milling about, some of them chanting their inane words which were utterly wasted on their god’s ears. He saw the flickering torchlight which the lesser of his god’s minions required in order to see so far from the light of the sun. But neither sound nor sight could lay claim to being the most engaged of Rada’s senses within the temple. That dubious honor belonged to his sense of smell, which was so overwhelmed by his god’s majestic form that Rada knew he had been right: his god was nearly awakened!

  His endless scheming, the tedious politicking, and the usually distasteful task of harvesting flesh for the Rotting God’s new body were now at an end. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drink in the scent which foretold of a god’s rebirth. So much work was done, and now he would stand at the side of a risen god—a god who would unleash his rage and anger upon an unprepared world, and who would reward Rada for his diligence.

  He opened his eyes and stepped forward into the temple, drawing a muffled gasp from nearby when one of his fellow ‘Fleshmongers,’ as they were called by the pitiful agents who had failed so miserably to prevent their ultimate goal, noticed him.

  “I have returned,” Rada’s raspy voice boomed throughout the chamber as he came to stand before the Rotting God’s nearly-complete body.

  “Glu…” Tol’Jennin fell to a knee before, one by one, each of his fellow faithful did likewise. “We sent a scouting party to investigate the river fortress, but they did not return.”

  “Where are my wives?” Rada demanded, sweeping the assemblage and finding none of them present.

  “Yu’Londa was the leader of the scouting party,” Jennin said, showing the proper degree of fear for having uttered such words.

  “I should kill you, Tol,” Rada growled, moving toward his kneeling scoutmaster. “Scouting is your responsibility—“

  “Forgive me, Glu,” Jennin interrupted, “but Yu’Londa claimed to have received…” he trailed off hesitantly, as the fear in his voice multiplied tenfold.

  “She claimed to have received what?” Rada demanded, grasping Jennin by the collar with his remaining hand and effortlessly hoisting him off the ground until his eyes were level with Rada’s. “Tell me and I may spare you some of the suffering you have incurred…”

  “She claimed…” Jennin cleared his throat, “she claimed to have received a vision from the Rotting God, mighty Glu.”

  “She what!?” Rada seethed, but behind the Tol a dozen heads bobbed up and down in confirmation of Jennin’s words. He considered the matter for several seconds before releasing Jennin from his grip, “She sundered the tribe then?”

  “She did,” Jennin nodded quickly. “One in four departed with her in silence. I led the search parties myself, but Londa is a skilled huntress.”

  “How long ago did they leave?” Rada demanded.

  “Ten hours,” Jennin replied. “I sent three parties to pursue, but—“

  “If Londa does not wish to be found in the mountains, we will not find her,” Rada grudgingly admitted. For all her faults—and they were usually too numerous to count—Yu’Londa had been Rada’s most capable lieutenant and most vexing wife. “She killed the other Yu’s of the tribe before she left?” he asked perfunctorily.

  “Yes, Glu,” Jennin nodded, prostrating himself on the cold stone beneath Rada’s feet, “we have failed you; our flesh should be consumed before it can rot—“

  “Tending my wives was not your duty, Tol,” Rada said dismissively. “If they allowed Londa to slaughter them in their sleep, they deserved the deaths they received. And if they feigned their deaths to join her insurrection, they deserve to share Londa’s fate. They will be found and dealt with, but for now none of that matters,” he declared, holding up his remaining hand for all to see, “for I have brought the offering which will rouse our god from his slumber and unleash his wrath upon the world!”

  Disbelief flashed across the torch-lit faces arrayed before him. There was awe there, too, but more than that there was something to which Rada was unaccustomed: doubt.

  He turned with his hand upraised and looked upon the Rotting God’s corpse—a corpse which would soon gasp with new life. The dried blood of the whelp who had somehow defeated Rada—and Ahsaytsan—would mingle with the blood of Rada’s god. And if Rada was right, it would be enough to complete the Rotting God’s resurrection.

  If he was wrong, he would suffer as no living thing was meant to suffer.

  The writhing, pulsing mound of amorphous flesh which was the Rotting God’s corpse looked as it smelled: rotten, diseased, and riddled with tumorous boils—each of which was large enough to hold several men the size of Rada.

  The total size of the Rotting God’s corpse was difficult to ascertain since it had long since crept into the gaps and cracks in the stone below, behind, and above the shrine which Rada had originally built for it. That shrine was buried somewhere within the mountain of rancid flesh which would soon shake the ground with its passage, and Rada allowed himself a moment of self-loathing as he realized just how foolish he had been to think that he could actually craft a shrine capable of containing his god’s majesty.

  One of the nearest boils—a lumpy, semi-spherical cyst which, unlike its neighbors, had not yet burst—shuddered as Rada approached, and when Rada placed his bloodstained hand on the flesh of his god he felt a surge of energy well up within his chest.

  The Rotting God’s cold heart began to burn within Rada’s ribcage, and for a moment he felt nothing but divine ecstasy as the blood of the so-called ‘star child’ was licked from his hand by a thousand tiny, tongue-like appendages which sprang from the mound of flesh before him.

  One of those appe
ndages grew, slithering forth like a headless snake until it came to rest against his chest. The Rotting God’s malevolent heart beat harder and faster inside his chest than it had ever done, and Rada barely even noticed as the headless snake plunged itself into his chest.

  “Yes…” he breathed as, one by one, fragments of the Rotting God’s shattered heart were swallowed by the tentacle and pumped into the body of his soon-to-be risen god. “Yes!” he declared triumphantly as, one by one, those tiny fragments—each of which he had tracked down and taken unto himself in order to ensure that this day would come—made their way to separate boils where they began to glow and beat with their own, independent rhythms.

  So complete was his ecstasy that he did not even notice when one of those boils burst, sending a misshapen—but clearly humanoid—monstrosity lurching onto the cold stone of the cavern’s floor. He barely registered the dying screams of the faithless curs who had never truly shared his zeal for the resurrection of a half-living god.

  It was only when all of the boils had lanced from within, and the remaining mound of flesh before him—a mound which was easily as large as any ship which sailed across the sea—began to slither past him, as though he was not even there, that his reverie was broken.

  “Wait…” he gasped, looking down at his chest and seeing his lifeblood slowly, but surely, oozing out of his body. “Wait!” he called out as he collapsed to a knee, but his plea was ignored by his god as the amorphous mound of flesh moved toward the cavern’s exit with far greater speed than should have been possible for something of its size. “But…” he wheezed as he felt his life force drain away, threatening to leave him an empty, dying husk without the chance to join with his god, “I…”

  One of the misshapen, humanoid figures approached, and Rada glared up into eyes which he knew only too well—but instead of that luster which had caught his attention years earlier, he saw only emptiness and death reflected in her cold, lifeless orbs.

  “Yu’Vana,” he growled, but if his wife recognized him—or, rather, whether her head did, which now sat grafted between shoulders which were not her own nor apparently related to each other in any way—he saw nothing to suggest as much in her impassive eyes as the mutant beast of badly-welded flesh shuffled toward him.

  Rada could no longer breathe for some reason which did not concern him; he was determined to die with a blade in his hand. Even a god’s betrayal could not break Rada’s will!

  His hand reflexively closed around the hilt of a weapon, and he looked down to see that it was Tol’Jennin’s Demon Blade. Gripping it tightly, Rada saw a faint, malevolent pulse of pinkish light strobe from within the approaching monstrosity’s chest. It was then that he knew he had no choice if he wished to survive.

  His course clear in his mind’s eye, Rada marshaled every last scrap of strength which remained in his ruined body and lunged toward the oncoming beast which wore his wife’s head like a mask—a head which he had given to the Rotting God as a sign of piety, but which gift he would now use his what may be his final moments to rescind.

  Chapter XI: Investiture

  Dawn, 1-2-6-659

  “I look ridiculous,” Randall muttered as he once again wore the bright, yellow jumpsuit which Phinjo had provided during his previous visit to Greystone. But this time the jumpsuit bore heraldry on the back: a brown leaf with a single drop of water rolling off the tip. “Why do I need to wear this?”

  “It marks you as belonging to my lineage,” Phinjo explained.

  “I thought your symbol was the spider web,” he grunted as they passed through the Palace doors.

  “It is our symbol, little one,” Phinjo chided, “you would do well to remember that.”

  “I still don’t know what any of this is about,” Randall muttered.

  Perhaps it is better that way, Dan’Moread suggested in her usual, sarcastic fashion, though it seems no matter what you know or do not know, you always manage to find yourself in difficult situations.

  “It’s a little late for cold feet…or pommels…or…whatever,” Randall tried to riposte while failing miserably.

  Do not overtax yourself, Randall, she said with mock concern. You must still manage to make your lunch meeting. We would not wish for you to expend your daily ration of wit in an unnecessarily heated dialogue with the palace walls.

  “You’re insane,” he snapped half-angrily and half-jokingly as they came to the door which led into the Main Hall.

  You are the one who speaks to his weapon and claims to have visions of the future, she countered easily, drawing a snort from him as the doors opened before them. There is an apt axiom regarding glass houses and stones which I fear I cannot completely recall—

  “Yeah, yeah,” he cut her off as they made their way into the Main Hall where Jarl Balgruf sat on his throne with a pair of courtiers flanking him. One of the courtiers held a sheaf of papers, and the other carried a massive, Grey Iron axe which looked perfectly suited to Balgruf’s oversized physique. The Jarl’s expression was dark, as usual, but Randall could not help noticing that Greystone’s leader was also wearing ceremonial garb for whatever occasion Randall had unwittingly walked into.

  “My Lord,” Phinjo greeted from the base of the steps which led up to the throne-like chair, “in the tradition of my people, and keeping with the treaties of friendship which the Ghaevlian Nation and Greystone have enjoyed for as long as they have shared this world, I bring a far-flung seed of my family tree for your inspection.”

  “Then bring him,” Balgruf grunted, and only then did Randall notice the Federation ambassador standing at the furthest edge of the room watching the affair with undisguised interest—and equally open disdain.

  Phinjo subtly gestured for Randall to climb the steps which led to the Jarl’s chair, and Randall grudgingly obliged as he tried to ignore this further reminder that he was nothing but a pawn in a game he still did not understand.

  “Hold,” the courtier bearing the Jarl’s axe commanded after Randall had ascended halfway up the steps.

  Randall complied, and Phinjo officiously intoned behind him, “Though he is unworthy of the great honor which previously rested with the now-ended branch of my family’s tree, he is unfortunately the only surviving member of my family who is of age and condition to take up this most worthy and important task.”

  “Is she right?” Balgruf asked, leaning forward and pinning Randall with his dark, brooding eyes. “Are you unworthy, boy?”

  Randall felt genuinely offended by the casual way they insulted him, but he tried to keep his cool. “I…I honestly have no idea whether or not I’m unworthy,” he shrugged, settling for the truth instead of some pathetic attempt to speak as they did.

  “Well said,” the courtier bearing the sheaf of papers nodded approvingly. “Knowledge of one’s own ignorance is often the kernel of wisdom.”

  Balgruf leaned back in his chair and waved a hand dismissively, “Or maybe he says what you want to hear?”

  “That would display yet another form of wisdom, Jarl,” the other courtier mused.

  “Fine,” Balgruf grunted, “he satisfies that much of our requirements. And his bloodline is valid and vouched for,” he gestured to the ever-composed Phinjo. “Which leaves just one test,” he said, standing from the chair and extending an open hand toward the axe-bearer.

  “Wait a minute,” Randall said hesitantly as the axe-bearer officiously handed the cumbersome weapon to the Jarl, “I have to fight you?”

  “You have made claim upon that which belongs to Greystone,” Balgruf’s deep, rumbling voice echoed through the chamber.

  “I have?!” Randall’s eyes widened as he shot Phinjo a distressed look. But his dear, great grandmother merely looked on with her doll-like eyes and made no attempt to lend Randall her aid. “You set me up to fight him?!” he demanded.

  “It is no fight, boy,” Balgruf said as he made his way down the steps toward the long, flat floor of the Main Hall, “it is a test of strength. There are three a
ccepted ways in which one might display strength in Greystone: strength of body, strength of house, or strength of arms. Your body,” he sneered contemptuously, “is little better than a stripling’s and your house is nonexistent, which leaves strength of arms as your only recourse if you wish to take that which you have claimed.”

  “You keep saying I ‘claimed’ something,” Randall argued. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Too late to back down now, boy,” Balgruf growled as his massive hands audibly squeezed the axe’s haft. “Present your arms or I will cut you down where you stand.”

  I can take him, Dan’Moread said confidently.

  “What?” he hissed.

  “I said to draw your sword, boy!” Balgruf’s voice boomed as he hefted the axe.

  He is large and strong, but I saw his uncle fight at Mount Gamour, she explained. He bore a hammer in favor of the axe, but there are similarities between both man and weapon. I can take him.

  “Well…” Randall shook his head in disbelief as he drew Dan’Moread from her sheath, “I don’t think we’re supposed to actually hurt him.”

  This is not my first trial by combat, Randall, she quipped. These affairs are generally fought to submission or first blood. Ask which this is.

  “Is this to submission or first blood?” Randall asked as he felt Dan’Moread send the familiar jolt up his arm and through the rest of his body.

  “Neither,” Balgruf snorted, “it is to disarmament.”

  Strange, Dan’Moread allowed as Randall felt her roll his neck from side to side in preparation, but acceptable terms.

  “Fine,” Randall agreed, and no sooner had he said the word than Balgruf leapt toward him with what looked like genuine hatred in his eyes.

  Dan’Moread easily parried the first three blows, turning each aside with practiced, chopping blows which intercepted the unwieldy axe. Randall’s body was indeed weak compared to Kanjin’s, or even Tavleros’, but he was remarkably agile and coordinated.