Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “Verily,” Yaerilys nodded solemnly, “and this way each of them now comes. After thou…killed,” she spat,” Rimidalv, he issued a scream which only his brothers might hear. They heard his cry and now they know where thou are, Randall,” she stood and turned to face him, “and they know thou killed their brother.”

  Then an unexpected thing happened: in perfect unison, Randall and Dan’Moread both said, “If they’re like their Rimidalv, let them come.”

  No one was more surprised than Randall to hear Dani’s voice in harmony with his. I am glad to see that we see this issue in the same way.

  “Me too,” Randall agreed, drawing a knowing look from Yaerilys.

  “Thy bond is strong,” she said. “Thou art fortunate to have formed such a union…” she trailed off as a sound pricked at the edge of Randall’s hearing.

  At first he thought it was the rushing water at the riverbank, but both he and Yaerilys seemed to recognize that it was something else entirely after just a few seconds. Sharing a mutually concerned looked, they both turned their gazes to the far bank of the river. A bank of fog largely obscured the land beyond the bridge, and for several long moments they saw nothing while the sound—which was something between a low, scraping and a rhythmic pulsing—continued to grow.

  And then he saw a flicker of movement appear in the fog. It was quickly swallowed by the fog, but then another flicker emerged, followed by another, then another, and then it became clear what they were looking at.

  Emerging from the shroud of fog was a line of figures with beige skin the color of baked clay. Each was seemingly naked, and it took Randall only a few seconds to realize just how large those figures were—and to his eye, they seemed to stand at least twice as tall as the average human. They were perfectly human in proportion, but they were quite clearly not made of flesh and blood.

  He counted thirty such figures, each identical to the others which formed the line which had emerged from the fog. Behind that line of gigantic figures appeared hundreds—or perhaps thousands—of armored soldiers bearing a banner which Randall did not recognize. It was fairly minimalist, displaying a beating heart set against a black background.

  Thankfully, Yaerilys seemed familiar with the approaching force as she whispered, “Fissalians—and that is the standard of the Blood Royal.”

  “What?” Randall blinked in confusion.

  Fissalia is across the Rydian Sea, Dan’Moread said skeptically. The Federation’s war with that relatively minor kingdom has raged for far longer than anyone thought possible, but one of the first steps the Federation took was to seize control over the seas to restrict Fissalia’s ability to counterattack on this side of the ocean.

  “I think we might have an answer as to why the Fissalians have held out as long as they have…” Randall muttered as he eyed the line of titanic, human-shaped figures which—if his eyes were not deceiving him—seemed to be made of clay or sandstone. They were clearly unnatural creatures and, in a particularly chilling moment, he thought he saw—or felt—that there was some sort of connection between these clay figures and the Fleshthings which he and Yaerilys had destroyed.

  “Forsooth,” Yaerilys nodded, tilting her chin toward the formation of soldiers which began to move in front of the clay figures—which Randall now came to think of as ‘golems.’ “Though the Fissalian Royal Family was thought purged some time ago—wait, dost thou see that banner?”

  Randall nodded as a familiar banner—that of the Ghaevlian Nation’s leaf-and-water-droplet—emerged from the fog, contrasting the black-and-red Fissalian banner all around it. The Ghaevlian banner was held by the same rider who had crossed the bridge some time before, and that rider made her way to the middle of the bridge where Randall and Yaerilys stood.

  “My Lord Baron,” the rider nodded curtly, slicing a haughty glance in Yaerilys’ way as she continued, “Mannis the Maker, the rightful Heir to Castle Blackwinter and Prince in Exile from his birthright, the sovereign Kingdom of Fissalia, is here to lend his army’s support to the Ghaevlian Nation’s war against the Federation. He officially requests permission for his army to cross this bridge so that he might aid our brothers and sisters who currently bleed and die for the freedom of these lands.”

  Randall was so taken aback by the official nature of the rider’s declaration—as well as the information it conveyed—that he was truly at a loss as to how he should respond.

  Since these lands—and the bridge—are part of your ‘birthright,’ Dani prompted, it would seem that the Fissalian army requires your permission before it can cross either. If I am not mistaken, protocol also dictates that the approaching army should have sent heralds well out in advance of its arrival, even in times of war, so as to avoid a potential conflict between his army and yours. Oh, wait, she said sardonically, I forgot: you have no army.

  “Not now, Dani,” Randall whispered.

  “Does Prince Mannis have your permission to cross?” the rider asked irritably.

  Randall looked to Yaerilys, but the former White Knight made no indication as to how he should handle the situation. And with his only advisor, Dani, taking the opportunity to crack wise at his expense he was thoroughly confused as to how he should respond.

  On the one hand, the Ghaevlian army did need reinforcements if the Federation had, indeed, opted to engage them in open battle at the gates of Greystone.

  But on the other hand, Randall had taken more than his portion of directives from on high. He still did not know what this stupid war was even about, and he had no intention of allowing the various powers which presently tugged at him from every corner of the world to continue manipulating him like some kind of puppet.

  Still, he knew that to deny a Prince who commanded an army that easily numbered in the thousands—even ignoring the fearsome golems at that army’s head—was nothing short of suicidal.

  Then an idea occurred to him, and he allowed himself to smirk as he said, “I think it’s time I met this King Mannis ‘the Maker’ in person. Don’t you agree?” he turned pointedly to Yaerilys, who seemed to share at least some small measure of his expressed sentiment as she nodded.

  “Thou sent forth no heralds to announce of yon army’s pending arrival,” Yaerilys said with more confidence than Randall thought he could muster in her place.

  The rider’s eyes narrowed angrily, “Am I to understand you are refusing to grant this army passage across the bridge?”

  “Refuse?” Randall reiterated with mock incredulity. “Why, not at all—but bridges aren’t exactly cheap,” he said, deciding to dive into the breach with both feet as he gestured to the Keeper’s Inn’s main structure, “and, as you can see, my estate is in a terrible…well a terrible state. Take me to this ‘Mannis the Maker’,” he said in a commanding tone that belied the ever-increasing anxiety he felt. As he did so, he noticed that all of his friends had now gathered at their end of the bridge where they watched with clearly bated breath as he projected a false air of confidence and finished with a flourish, “I think it’s time we discussed how he intends to pay my toll.”

  Epilogue: Its Body Wrapped in Chain & Lock…

  25-2-6-659

  Rada had only emerged from the Underworld two days earlier, having recovered from his wounds due to the power of the Rotting God’s shard which was embedded in his chest, but already he had grown restless.

  He had considered tracking the faithless curs who had escaped the Rotting God’s wrath, but he knew nothing would come of it. He had played his part in whatever grand design the Rotting God had in mind, and had barely escaped death at that same god’s hand.

  He had discovered the Rotting God’s Heartstones shortly after arriving in this new, soft, entirely-too-green world following months in the Underworld which connected all the worlds of the Great Sphere. He had learned many lessons during his time in those dark tunnels—chief among them that he was meant for something greater than he had previously imagined.

  His confidence in his seemingly divine ri
ght and destiny had only been strengthened when, soon after arriving in this world, he had discovered the sundered heart of the Rotting God. In the world of his birth, he knew of nothing that could even blemish a god’s Heartstone—let alone shatter it into dozens of pieces—but he had taken the discovery as a sign of approval from whatever force or entity watched over the Great Sphere’s countless worlds. His faith bolstered by that sign, he had set out to carry out the Rotting God’s will even when doing so seemed wrong.

  His faith, it seemed, had been a lying whore: it had promised much, taken even more, and produced nothing.

  It was with these thoughts swirling through his mind that Rada looked out over the freshly-running river which spilled out of the mountains to the north. Not long before, the riverbed had been dry and empty but now it coursed with the pent-up waters which had somehow broken through that great dam at the narrowest point in the gap between the nearby peaks.

  As he looked out over the running waters, he spotted a glimmer next to the riverbank not far from where he had been brooding. He thought it had been a trick of the light upon the rippling surface of the river, but then he spotted it again—and this time he could clearly make out the golden hue of the sparkling object which seemed to have become lodged in the riverbank.

  Looking around cautiously, and seeing no indication of a trap, Rada slowly made his way to the source of the golden glint at the edge of the water. He had long thought himself past even the possibility of being surprised, but when he recognized what he had glimpsed at the river’s edge he felt his mouth fall open.

  Protruding from the riverbank was what appeared to be the golden hilt of a sword—a sword which he would recognize anywhere after hearing Ahsaytsan’s descriptions of it, which had always been accompanied by her scathing disdain for both it and its wielder, Ser Cavulus.

  “Rimidalv,” Rada said as his lips slowly drew back in a grin, revealing his serrated teeth as he reached down and placed his hand on the White Blade’s hilt. Finally, after being without a suitable weapon following Ahsaytsan’s destruction, he would once again be armed with the means by which he might carry out his divinely-ordained destiny. The world, which had seemed so far from his grasp just a few minutes earlier, was now once again within reach. With such thoughts cascading through his mind, he grasped the White Blade’s hilt and pulled it free from the mud, prepared for the same battle of wills which Ahsaytsan had initiated before Rada had demonstrated his superior will.

  He was prepared to break this White Blade’s will just as he had broken Ahsaytsan’s.

  But Rada was sorely disappointed in the ensuing seconds, as he easily pulled the hilt free from the riverbank—only to discover that its blade was nowhere to be seen, and that half of the supposedly mighty weapon’s crossguard had been snapped off. Had Rimidalv indeed been a mighty weapon, as Ahsaytsan—the inveterate liar that she’d been—had insisted, it was no longer anything remotely resembling formidable.

  In fact, where he had expected a mighty battle of wills, he received nothing save a pathetic ‘sound’ at the edge of his mind. It was the sound of a dying animal begging for mercy.

  Unfortunately, Rada, whose hopes had been lifted just a few short seconds earlier, was feeling anything but merciful.

  “You…pathetic…” Rada began, but his anger at being deceived by the sundered White Blade’s initial appearance filled his voice with an unintelligible scream of frustration. He gripped the ruined hilt in his hands and focused his formidable mind on what remained of the White Blade with the intention of crushing whatever remained of the damnable thing’s soul.

  Wounded though he was, Rimidalv’s will was clearly far from gone. Even in his weakened state, the White Blade resisted Rada’s superhuman psychic attack for nearly a minute—before, mercifully, Rada’s onslaught shattered what little had remained of Rimidalv’s fractured identity.

  The hilt snapped in twain in the very instant that Rimidalv was finally destroyed, and the flash of light which accompanied the White Blade’s last moment was filled with images which only one such as Rada could hope to glimpse. Among those images was the battle at the bridge—where the same whelp with the star metal blade that had destroyed Ahsaytsan had emerged victorious over the White Knight—along with other, less ordered memories of the White Blade.

  But buried within those images was one which forced all others to the periphery. Rada’s powerful mind reached out and trapped this image, and he quickly realized that it was familiar to him: it was one of the many sealed portals which he had encountered during his time in the Underworld.

  But the image also somehow contained a message. It was not a message made of words, but rather it was made up of a string of numbers so long and seemingly random that Rada immediately sat down and began to scrawl them into the dirt before they escaped his mind.

  He barely managed to write the three hundred and fourteenth—and final—digit down before it flitted out of his mind. He tossed the White Blade’s sundered hilt fragments into the river, where they sank to the bottom, and went about the task of committing the long string of numbers to memory.

  An hour later, with that task completed, he tore up the earth where he had scrawled the string of numbers and set off for the nearest entry to the Underworld. He once again had a purpose and—though he was loathe to submit his will to such notions as ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’ yet again—he could not ignore the magnitude of what he had just learned. Behind the door he had glimpsed in Rimidalv’s dying moment was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the most powerful weapon imaginable—and Rada now held the key needed to unlock it.

  Before he was done, the world would tremble beneath his feet—or it would perish in darkness and fire.

  To Rada, it mattered little which.

  The End