Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1)

by Caleb Wachter

  “Be silent!” the boy barked, and Randall complied. The boy came forward a step, and Randall could see his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot; it was clear that this boy had known for some time the fate of his brother. Randall guessed that he had waited until the perpetrators of the crime had left before coming to check on his brother only to find Randall kneeling over his lifeless body.

  “I cannot believe thee,” the boy said in a tremulous voice, “thou art their kind—same as the ones that did this—and thy kind sticks together above all!”

  Randall shook his head at the absurdity of being mistaken for a pureblood human. “My name is Marion; what’s yours?” Randall lied, hoping his tongue could get him out of this particular situation.

  There was an extended silence before the boy replied, “Charles.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Charles. I just want you to think about this for a moment,” Randall continued, his mind racing as he worked through what little information he had, “if I was one of them that took your livestock and kin, why wouldn’t I travel with the main group? They would have needed horses and wagons to transport this many pigs,” he waved his free arm to indicate the empty—yet thoroughly disgusting—barn. “And the kind of people who take things through violence don’t generally leave their fellows behind to collect loot unsupervised.”

  “Thou speaks as one who knows the path of brigandage,” the boy growled, and Randall heard the bowstring creak as it was drawn tighter.

  “No, I assure you, I do not,” Randall said quickly. “But just look at this sword; I guarantee you it’s worth more than your entire farm. Do you think brigands would let me—someone who a young boy could sneak up on with a bow—keep something so valuable? The only way I could have this sword and be in their group is if I was the leader…and if I’m the leader, why would I stay behind while my men made off with the spoils—sorry,” he caught himself too late, “with everything your family holds dear?”

  The boy looked down his nose at Randall, and for a brief moment Randall was certain he would let the arrow loose and prove just how good a shot he really was. But the moment passed and Charles relaxed, lowering the bow and arrow as he did so. “Thou are clearly a stranger to this place. Harvest season has come and gone, and with it our crop of sucklings; we had naught but a dozen sows left in the barns after the last trip to market,” Charles admitted. “And thou doth also possess a certain weakness which their ilk is prone to weed out,” he added snidely.

  Randall nodded as Charles knelt beside his fallen brother. “Thank you…I think,” Randall offered as he pushed himself gingerly out of the muck. When he was once again on his own feet he made his way over to Charles’ side, and found the boy crying at his brother’s body.

  Uncertain how to proceed, Randall knelt beside him and waited while the boy worked through the worst of his grief. When his sobbing had relented somewhat, Randall asked, “How many of them were there?”

  Charles looked up with a burning anger in his eyes, and Randall knew he had never really felt anything like what this young man was experiencing. He couldn’t even imagine the horror of losing everyone and everything he loved in one, fell swoop.

  “Seven,” Charles replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he did so. “Five men, two women, all of them purebloods,” he nearly spat the last word before looking up sheepishly, “I meant no offense.”

  Randall waved a hand dismissively. “None taken,” he assured him. “Go on; anything you can remember might help,” he urged. “What kind of clothing did they wear? Which way did they go? These are the kinds of things we need to report to the authorities.”

  Charles looked up at him while he was again wiping his nose and gave a short, biting laugh. “Authorities?” he blurted condescendingly, “Of what ‘authorities’ dost thou speak? My kind are little better than cattle to yours, and when one loses a herd of cattle one dost not form a war-band to track it down! Nay, my kin are gone…and I alone can help them in their plight.”

  Randall wanted to rebuke the boy, but he knew there was some measure of truth to his words. Instead of challenging the boy directly, Randall asked, “How old are you?”

  Charles stuck his chin out defiantly. “I am in my thirteenth Judgment and have seen three Darkenings with mine own eyes,” he replied harshly. “I am veritably a man in my own right!”

  Randall made a ‘slow down’ gesture with his hands. “And you said there were seven of them, yes?”

  Charles’ eyes narrowed. “Aye,” he said in a low, dangerous tone, suggesting he disliked where Randall was going with the conversation.

  Randall shrugged. “Well, there you have it: we are a twelve year old boy with a well-worn short bow, and a man too weak to properly wield his only sword. What can we hope to do against hardened brigands?”

  “I am no coward,” Charles shouted, “if I am to die, I vow to take as many of them with me as I can!” The boy turned as if to leave the barn and Randall barely managed to grab him by the arm.

  Charles looked down at Randall’s hand and slowly looked up at his face, “Unhand me, human.”

  “Just listen to me,” Randall pleaded, more than a little unnerved at being on the receiving end of a look he knew he was guilty of giving more than occasionally. To actually feel the hatred as it poured out of the young man was enough to take him aback, but he needed to stay focused. “Were they on horseback?”

  “Of course they were on horseback!” Charles shouted as he jerked his arm free of Randall’s grip. “They took our six good mounts with them, both of our wagons and a pair of nags as well!”

  Randall nodded, trying to decide what to say next. “How long ago did they leave?” he asked after a brief pause.

  “Well before noon,” Charles said angrily, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke.

  “Then we can’t hope to catch them,” Randall said with an emphatic shrug of his shoulders. “But their tracks should stay clearly visible unless it rains, in which case the wagons will slow them down enough that we can catch them.”

  Charles looked at him skeptically as he wiped fresh tears from his face. “We? Why wouldst thou concern thyself with this; it is none of thy affair!”

  Randall felt his face go red, but thankfully his makeup concealed it. “This is every bit my problem,” he growled. “And you’re going to stay here and bury your brother with me—after that, we’ll track these people down.”

  “And then what?” Charles asked, and his voice was a mixture of scorn and a genuine plea for help.

  “And then…” Randall began hotly, only to lose his momentum almost immediately. “And then…well, I have no idea what we’ll do then. But yours isn’t the only family these people have harmed, and even if we can’t do anything ourselves at least we can find more about these raiders.”

  Charles shot Randall a look of pure disdain before looking down at his brother’s body. “Fine, we bury him,” the younger man agreed reluctantly, “and then—with or without thee—I intend to free my sister and mother from those bastards!”

  Randall decided to quit while he was ahead, and helped the younger man do as he had suggested.

  Chapter XII: On The Trail

  Evening, 26-12-5-659

  Having helped dig the final resting place for the boy’s brother, Randall stood over the grave in silence as the younger man said a prayer in an ancient, Ghaevlian-sounding dialect which Randall did not know. The blond-haired man stood after several quiet moments of reflection and turned his back on the grave, adjusting his bow and arrow as he did so. “Now we go.”

  Nodding his assent, Randall followed the younger man as they made their way to the west—the same direction as the tracks of the marauders.

  They walked in darkened silence, with the sun having winked out several hours earlier. Charlie led while Randall followed, and before long they had left the fields of the farm and were crossing a series of tiny brooks and streams.

  “Thou art quiet for a human,” Charlie said after they had cr
ossed the fourth, babbling brook.

  Randall was taken aback for a moment, until he reminded himself that he was in disguise. Putting on the makeup had been one thing, but actually playing the part was turning out to be difficult in more ways than he had expected.

  “I simply have nothing to say,” he replied after a moment. “I only want to help find your loved ones and, assuming there’s anything we can do about it, then to help free them.”

  Charlie snorted derisively. “When thou speaks, it is indeed with a human’s tongue—forked as a serpent’s,” he spat.

  Randall was actually offended by the insinuation that he was being duplicitous and he had to take a breath to calm himself. “Where I come from, to question a man’s honor is a dangerous thing,” he said evenly.

  Again, Charlie snorted. “I care not for thy delicate sensibilities, pureblood,” he growled, spitting the term as if it was a curse, “thy kind has long used thy position to stand on the shoulders of those who, of a right, oughtn’t be trodden upon. I pray to the Lady of Tears nightly that I might live long enough to see thy kind’s vulgarity balanced on the scales of justice.”

  There was something in the young man’s voice that Randall recognized—as if he was holding back a secret of some kind—but he decided not to pursue the matter. He shared Charlie’s sentiments regarding the oppressive regime of the pureblood humans but he dared not reveal his sympathies, or his true identity, for fear of discovery.

  No, he reminded himself, I have to wait until I’ve made the mountains. Then, with luck, I’ll be able to shed this demeaning disguise and move freely.

  They walked in silence for several minutes before a nagging question in Randall’s mind simply refused to go away unasked. “Why does your family live so near to the Federation’s holdings? Surely there are lands which harbor ou—“ he caught himself and coughed to cover his gaffe, “that is, there must be lands where Ghaevlians and their hybrid descendants are welcome…why not move there?”

  Charles turned and gave Randall a cold, hard look. “Thou dost truly speak with the tongue of the serpent,” he sneered. “Thou wouldst have me and mine move from the lands we’ve worked for centuries, and why? What gives thee the right,” he jabbed a finger angrily into Randall’s chest, “to force those of a different heritage from what is rightfully theirs?”

  Despite his sympathy to the boy’s plight, Randall was actually getting irritated with the constant harping on the subject. But he knew the pain Charles felt all too well and he couldn’t bring himself to argue the point further. After several moments of silence, Charles smirked triumphantly and turned to continue their journey. “Tis as I thought,” he spat over his shoulder, “thou hast no words to defend thine actions, because thou knows they cannot be defended.”

  They came to the top of a rolling hill and Randall suddenly realized there was no way a wagon could have made it over the streams they had just crossed. “Where are we going?” he asked suspiciously. “The wagons couldn’t have come this way.”

  Charles snorted and shook his head as they made their way down the slope of the hillside. “There is but one road which can support a wagon this time of year,” he explained, pointing out into the darkness. Randall squinted, and his eyes responded almost immediately by clarifying the terrain to where the young man had pointed. He saw a winding road which eventually passed through a narrow, tall canyon and nodded his understanding.

  “They make for the canyon, then,” he mused.

  Charles arched an eyebrow incredulously. “Thou hast fine eyes…for a human,” he said challengingly.

  Realizing his blunder, Randall shook his head and said the first thing that came to mind, “I heard of the canyon from Minnie. I was asking about…caravan routes through the area,” he lied.

  Charles looked less than convinced, but he returned his attention to the terrain before them. “We can cut a third the time from our own passage by traveling in a straight line, but the only way we catch up to them is if they stop to make camp.” He turned and shook his head skeptically at Randall, “Thy kind’s need for sleep shall give us a chance to catch them before they return to wherever their camp is made…but thine own need for such respite might also undo us.”

  Randall grinned knowingly and saw Charles tense slightly in response. “Oh, don’t worry about me,” he assured the younger man, “I can go for days without sleep.”

  Charles shrugged and resumed his trek across the sloping hills. “If thou falls behind, thou will find thyself alone,” he said before increasing his pace until he was somewhere between a jog and a run.

  Determined to keep pace with the younger man, Randall sped up until he too was at a brisk jog, and the two of them made their way across the dark, rolling hills for at least an hour before arriving at the mouth of the canyon.

  It was less impressive up close than it had been from a distance, but Randall could easily see why trekking around the rocky plateau would have been more dangerous than going through it. The surrounding area was littered with boulders, which ranged in size from person-sized to wagon-sized, and their distribution was so irregular that there was little chance anything as large as a wagon could be maneuvered through them.

  His breaths coming long and more than a little labored, Randall placed his hands on his hips and noticed with more than a hint of bitterness that Charles did not appear to be winded at all.

  “Not bad,” Charles grudged, “for a Fed.”

  “I’m no ‘Fed’,” Randall growled as he pushed past the younger man and entered the canyon. The inner faces of the fifty foot tall walls were steep, but by no means sheer. Randall gave himself even odds at being able to scale them in his current state, and a three in four chance if he didn’t carry the sword strapped to his back.

  “Thou could have fooled me,” Charles grumbled as he came up on Randall’s shoulder. The young man stopped and knelt down, prompting Randall to turn and look what he was doing. Charles was appraising a small, dark pile of something and only when he leaned forward for a better look in the dim light did Randall catch a whiff of pig manure. “It’s a few hours old,” Charles remarked, “they must have stopped here for some reason.” The young man stood and looked back the direction they had come, and it was clear to Randall that he was torn.

  “We need to push on,” Randall offered after a few moments, “if these raiders took your family, they’re unlikely to have released them by now.”

  Charles shot him a look, but nodded grudgingly, “And if my kin are no longer with the wagons, it’s a near certainty that they no longer draw breath.”

  With that, they continued onward through the canyon for nearly an hour. The ground was a soft, powdery material somewhere between dried mud and sand, and more than once Randall found his footing to be less than certain even though the terrain was completely flat.

  After nearly three hours they exited the canyon and Charles once again knelt beside a small pile of material.

  He stood with a tiny piece of fabric in his hands, and Randall looked to see it was clearly from a piece of clothing. “My sister’s dress,” Charles growled through gritted teeth, “a piece from the hem.”

  Randall looked around for some other sign that might give an clue as to how long ago the wagons had passed by, but he had absolutely no experience—or talent—for such endeavors and he abandoned the effort after a few minutes while Charles regained his composure.

  “How long ago were they here?” Randall asked after giving the other man what he thought was enough time.

  Charles shook his head as he looked around until spotting something that caught his interest. He knelt down and smeared his fingers in the ground before standing and examining the material. “Blood,” he said matter-of-factly, and Randall felt his heart sink.

  “Is it…” he began, and Charles shot him a quizzical look.

  “Nay,” the younger man replied after returning his attention to the smear on the ground. “Tis pig’s blood—the smell is distinct,” he explained, “a
nd my kind never forgets such an odor. I surmise they are five hours ahead of us.” He made his way to a small shrub near the spot he had found the blood and nodded at what he saw.

  Randall approached and saw what appeared to be a pig’s innards—or at least some of them—and Charles knelt down to assess them. “Bastards make no attempt to hide their passage,” he growled as he picked up what looked like a liver. “Five hours it is,” he confirmed, casting the liver to the ground and resuming his jog without further ado.

  Randall followed, and they ran until the sun came up without speaking to each other.

  Chapter XIII: First Sight…and First Blood

  Midday, 28-12-5-659

  Halfway through the day as the sun reached its maximum intensity overhead, Randall caught a glimpse of movement on the horizon and he ran up to Charles’ side and he pointed where he had seen it.

  Charles stopped and squinted, shaking his head after a few seconds of looking. “I see nothing,” he said irritably. Randall saw it again, and pointed so Charles could look down his arm. Again, the younger man looked but shook his head. “Thine eyes deceive thee,” he grumbled.

  “No,” Randall insisted, “I saw what looked like a wagon. It’s far in the distance, but it is there.”

  Charles looked skeptical but he shrugged and continued his jog. “If they are where thou says then we shall catch them not long after nightfall,” he said in a neutral tone, but Randall could hear the anticipation in the younger man’s voice. So they pressed on with a renewed sense of purpose—and a mounting feeling of dread as Randall truly had no idea what good they might do once they had caught their quarry.

  They ran until night fell, at which point their pace slowed as Charles took more deliberate looks at their quarry’s tracks. On the third such stop he turned to Randall and in a lowered voice said, “They are not far. We must keep silent.”

  Randall nodded, and he went to grip the hilt of the sword strapped to his back but was surprised to find it was already gripping the cold metal.