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

by Caleb Wachter

  The White Knight turned and resumed his patrol of the camp’s perimeter, leaving Randall alone with the remnants of his sudden, unexpected rage.

  Chapter XIX: First Lessons

  Dawn, 5-13-5-659

  “Randall,” he heard a voice whisper as he groggily rolled over beneath his corner of the wagon. “Randall,” it said again.

  Thoroughly embroiled in a daring escape from some dungeon which incarcerated him in his dreams, Randall waved a hand dismissively. “Go away,” he muttered, and just as he was about to finish scaling the hundred foot wall which was his final obstacle to freedom he heard it again.

  “Randall, wake up,” he heard the voice again, and this time he turned in annoyance to the source of the voice.

  Looking up groggily, he saw Drexil standing over him with a large sword in hand. Randall sat up so quickly that he struck his forehead on the undercarriage of the wagon. Blindly reaching for his weapon, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked again to the large, burly man.

  This time when he saw him, Randall realized the other man’s weapon was still sheathed as the other man slung it over his shoulder. “Time fer ye to wake up, friend,” the large man said. “If ye would travel with us, ye’ll train with us at each day’s break.”

  “Train?” Randall asked, carefully sliding out from under the wagon and getting to his feet. “What kind of training?”

  Drexil’s brow furrowed, as though Randall had just asked the most ridiculous question imaginable. “The only kind that matters,” he replied before turning and gesturing for Randall to follow.

  Bringing the enchanted sword with him, Randall followed Drexil to a small circle which he had apparently made just off the road. Turning to face him, Drexil pointed to a pile of weapons on the ground. “Pick one,” he prompted.

  Randall looked and saw a veritable armory lying atop a blanket spread across the damp grass. The sun’s first rays had just come down from the sky above, and Randall’s back still hurt quite badly from the previous day’s ride.

  “I don’t know which one to pick,” he admitted, and then he felt his scalp go numb. It took him just a moment to conclude the sword was trying to communicate with him—and on further reflection, he guessed that the sword wouldn’t want him to be practicing with another weapon. It was a strange, ‘gut-feeling,’ but one he trusted so he shook his head. “I think I’d rather train with this one,” he patted the sword with his free, left hand.

  Drexil shrugged and stepped closer. “Can I?” he held out a hand, and Randall waited for another tingling sensation to his scalp. When none came he handed the weapon over to the other man, who gripped it by the scabbard.

  “Strange weighting,” he mused, “a bit on the heavy side, in fact.” He looked up and down the weapon and when his eyes came to the ruined ‘tang,’ he nodded knowingly. “Bah, the pommel’s been sheared off! That’s the cause of its top-heaviness; it’ll not do as a practice weapon in any event. That’s star metal,” he tilted his head to the exposed tang, “and like to cut clean through anything it meets—‘cept the White Blade, o’ course—which makes how it lost its pommel something of a mystery…”

  Randall squirmed slightly at the man’s inference, “What makes you think it’s star metal?”

  Drexil shrugged as he rolled his head around, eliciting a series of pops and cracks as he did so. “I saw a star metal spear tip in action once; punched right through a knight’s full plate armor with naught but a woman’s standing thrust, it did.”

  “Wow,” Randall said appreciatively, seeing the sword in something of a new light. “Well…what if we wrapped it with something? Could I use it then?”

  “Wrapped?” Drexil mused, scratching his neck beneath his full beard. “I suppose it might could do…Eckol should have a few worn-out strips we could use, along with a good piece to wrap what’s left of yer hilt.”

  “Sounds good,” Randall said, having absolutely no idea what he was saying—or what ‘training’ really meant.

  Less than twenty minutes into their sparring session, Randall felt like his arms were going to fall off. Despite the crude grip made with a long, criss-crossing leather strip, which Eckol had shown him how to fasten, Randall was nearly unable to grip the weapon for all the sweat that was running down his hands.

  Drexil came at him with an overhand blow, and Randall did little better than throw his sword up at the incoming weapon to intercept it. The other man’s weapon easily came down through Randall’s pathetic attempt at a parry, and he had to pull himself up to keep from hitting Randall with the attack’s follow-through.

  “Are ye feelin’ poorly?” Drexil asked with obvious concern in his voice. “We’re still just warmin’ up.”

  “Warming up?” Randall repeated incredulously. “You mean that wasn’t full strength?!”

  “Don’t be daft,” Drexil scoffed as he shook the sword easily, “even with a toothpick like this, I can cleave four mats one-handed.”

  Randall had no idea what the man meant by cleaving through ‘four mats,’ nor did he care to find out, and he nearly felt the sword slip from his fingers as his hand clamped up into a gnarled claw.

  “I need a break,” he spat, resting the sword’s tip against the ground as he fought to keep his arms from shaking.

  “Are ye certain ye’re well?” Drexil asked skeptically. “Ye don’t seem to be breathin’ hard…”

  “No, I’m fine,” Randall replied as he tried to move his fingers. “The truth is I’ve never trained for anything like this.”

  “Aye,” Drexil deadpanned, “that’s why we’re startin’ light.”

  If this is ‘light,’ how did I even survive those other fights? Randall wondered as he finally got his fingers to respond. “Aren’t there some exercises or something I could do first to build up strength?”

  Drexil rolled his eyes. “Just what in the Lady’s name do ye think we’re doin’ here?”

  “Right,” Randall drawled, feeling his arms and legs quivering so badly he knew that he would be unable to hold the sword properly, and that trying to block would have been an utter disaster. His breathing was far better than his muscle strength, and he suspected that if his muscles cooperated he could engage in at least twice as much ‘exercise,’ if not three times, before running short of breath. “I’ve never had much need for building up strength,” he admitted.

  “I would’ve never guessed,” the burly human quipped. “Now, look here,” he sighed and stepped toward Randall, holding his own blade out before himself with his shoulders squared to it and his arms stiffly parallel to the ground. Drexil gripped the hilt with both hands and very slowly lowered the tip to the level of his knees before raising it just as slowly up to shoulder level, moving only his wrists.

  “What is that?” Randall asked in bewilderment.

  “That,” Drexil snapped as he ceased the odd motion, “is yer first exercise. Time each stroke by the beat of yer heart, taking no fewer than three beats and no more than five on each up and down stroke. Clear?”

  Randall stood and squared his stance as Drexil had done, raising the sword in his still-trembling hands. He forced the weapon up into the position the other man had shown and slowly lowered it. The weapon’s tip wavered several inches as he did so, and he was unable to even count the beats of his heart before his arms gave out and the weapon’s tip fell to the ground.

  “Bah,” Drexil growled, “ye need make no fewer than one hundred up and one hundred down before stopping to rest.”

  “A hundred?” Randall blurted incredulously.

  “Aye,” Drexil confirmed, “and then ye need do this.” The large man moved over beside the wagon and placed his back against it before slowly lowering himself to the ground until both of his knees and his hips were at ninety degree angles. “This will give ye a solid base,” he explained, slapping his thighs for emphasis.

  “That doesn’t look so hard,” Randall sighed and made his way beside the burly man and did as he had done, leaning the sword
against the wagon as he did so. When he reached the same, ‘chair-less sitting’ position as Drexil he held it for several seconds before looking over at the other man, whose eyes were closed. “Yeah, I think I can do this.”

  After a few more seconds Randall’s legs began to burn but he took a few deep, cleansing breaths and nodded. “Yeah, I can feel it now.” Several more seconds passed by and he felt his thighs begin to cramp, and not long after that his left leg began to tremble uncontrollably. He looked over at Drexil, whose eyes were still closed and his breathing was shallow and relaxed. Not long after Randall’s left leg began to tremble, so did his right. He collapsed to the ground after less than a half minute of holding what appeared to be such a simple pose.

  “Me da’ made all five of us boys ‘sit the wall’ each day for five minutes per year of our lives, starting at age five,” Drexil explained. “Oh, I complained about it of course…‘til I got into a tussle with ol’ Bennie Bricktop from down the lane,” he confided. “Three years my elder, he was. Me and my ten winters against him and his thirteen seemed a mismatch—a mismatch to all but my own brothers, who took little better than even money against me in the pre-fight wagers.” Drexil chuckled as he shook his head nostalgically, “Seemed a mismatch to me as well, if I’m bein’ honest…that is, until he made the mistake of clinching with me head to head and hand to neck. After no more than ten heartbeats’ of stalemate, I managed to take a step forward…then another, and another, until I’d drove him fifty paces across the muddy ground before giving him a good shove into the filth-creek.”

  Randall gasped for air as he shook his head in defeat. “You could do this for five minutes as a five year old?” he asked more than a little suspiciously.

  “Aye,” Drexil replied gravely, “my eldest brother, Stendar, once sat the wall before supper and stayed there until the next morning’s meal was already cold.”

  “He ate like that?” Randall shook his head, knowing he would likely never achieve that measure of strength or fitness.

  “Ate?” Drexil scoffed. “Are ye daft; he fell asleep and we never woke him! Divided his portion amongst ourselves at both meals, we did, and had quite the laugh at his expense. Of course,” he rubbed his neck apologetically, “he was none too pleased about that come mornin’, but I tell you true that he never slipped an inch down the wall from dusk till dawn.”

  At that, the burly man stood and gestured to the wagon. “Ye’ll sit the wall—err, wagon, twice daily fer a period longer than the last, starting at a hundred heartbeats’ time tomorrow morn and increasing by twenty beats each day fer the first week,” he instructed. “Yer wind seems strong enough, which is surprising if ye don’t mind my sayin’. So instead of distance running, we’ll focus on sprints and hills.”

  “Wait,” Randall quipped between breaths, “what do you mean, ‘my wind seems strong enough?’ You knew all along that I was too weak for this?!”

  Drexil rolled his eyes as he rested the blade of his sword on his shoulder. “In truth, I’d hoped yer Ghaevlian blood would give ye some kind of ‘unseen strength,’ but it’s not as though yer bein’ weak should come as any surprise. I mean,” he said with a critical look up and down Randall’s arms and legs, “have ye looked at yerself?”

  The burly man then walked off to the campfire, where Ravilich sat. From the look on his face it appeared the Squire had watched the entire affair, and he shook his head in mock sorrow as he handed Drexil his morning meal.

  Randall gathered himself and followed, eager to fill his belly with the morning’s meal.

  Several hours later and Randall’s back was once again killing him. It had stiffened during the night, but riding was surprisingly less discomforting than he had expected it to be. Of course, the fact that he had taken a small bolt of cloth and used it as padding was likely at least partially responsible for the improved comfort.

  He saw Ser Cavulus ride back from one of his routine forays far ahead of the group. Instead of taking up his usual position at the fore of the small procession, this time he made his way back to Randall’s side and the two horses fell in beside each other.

  “I would speak with thee,” Ser Cavulus began, “if thou hast the inclination to oblige?”

  Randall nodded agreeably, and he was surprised that his strong, negative feelings of the previous night seemed to have disappeared entirely.

  “I must confide that pursuit of the Fleshmongers was but one reason for our expedition into the countryside where we found thee,” he explained.

  “You were after something else,” Randall concluded after a moment’s consideration.

  “Indeed,” the White Knight nodded, “the Fleshmongers are a threat to the stability of this realm, but the White Blades do not seek out each band of ruffians roaming the countryside. Our attentions are reserved for the leaders of such factions,” he explained in his metallic, distorted voice.

  It seemed to make sense to Randall. There could only be so many knights running around the countryside, and if they stopped to deal with every little injustice they might minimize their considerable abilities. “So who was your real target?”

  Ser Cavulus was silent for several seconds before finally replying, “Thou wert my quarry, Randall of Three Rivers—or, more precisely, thy weapon was the object of my pursuit.”

  Randall slumped in his saddle slightly and sighed. “Just like the other Senatorial Guards,” he said with resignation.

  “I have no affiliation with goons and thugs of their ilk,” the White Knight retorted, and for one of the few times Randall could remember he heard genuine emotion in the man’s voice. After a few seconds’ silence following the sharp outburst, Ser Cavulus continued, “Nay, thou hast mistaken my intent. I did not seek to claim the weapon thou hast borne; I merely did as was asked of me by Rimidalv, the White Blade which I bear.”

  Randall’s eyebrows rose in confusion. “What does that mean, exactly?” he asked warily.

  “Thy blade is unknown to me,” Ser Cavulus explained, “but Rimidalv knows it well. I know not how his acquaintance was made with thine weapon, but I do know that he owes it a debt of honor which he has nearly satisfied.”

  “So…just how many White Blades are there?” Randall asked, caught up in the moment at learning of things he thought were reserved for the pages of books, or subjects of myth and legend.

  “There are seven White Blades,” Ser Cavulus replied, “and seven Grey Blades, crafted by the Forgemaster long ago to serve as guides and advisors to the mortal races. Before the Forgemaster took up this task there was endless contention and strife, as even the gods failed to sway the hearts of our ancestors leading up to their deaths. Human, Ghaevlian…and all the others which are no longer amongst us partook in the incessant savagery, and had they continued they would have torn this world to pieces.”

  “Do you think this is a Grey Blade?” Randall asked, somewhat skeptical since it actually looked to have a faintly purple hue when sunlight struck its surface.

  “Nay,” Ser Cavulus replied, “I know not the origin of thy weapon, being unlike any of which I have learned, but it is most assuredly not a Grey Blade.”

  “Why do you say that?” Randall pressed.

  Ser Cavulus rode in silence for several moments before replying, “The Grey Blades were meant to uphold balance and fill the roles of judges and advisors, meting out fairness and balancing the needs of those who sought their counsel and adjudication. The White Blades,” the White Knight continued pointedly, “were forged to seek out those who would undo that balance, and remove their threat to our world’s stability.”

  “…so why do you think this isn’t a Grey Blade?” Randall asked after failing to see how that explained the matter.

  The White Knight rode in silence for another brief interval before replying, “The Grey Blades no longer serve as they were intended to do.” Ser Cavulus sighed and shook his head, “I cannot discuss the matter further, but suffice to say if thou possessed a Grey Blade we would not be having this po
lite discussion.”

  “Ok…” Randall replied slowly, quite certain he had no desire to pursue the matter further.

  “But I have digressed,” the White Knight apologized, “the true purpose of my palaver with thee was to extend my invitation for thee to join me in my tent this eve. I had hoped we could join in meditation, to contemplate the days ahead as well as those behind. Thus is the only manner by which one may be assured of the trueness of a given course.”

  Randall didn’t really know how to politely refuse—and he suspected that Ser Cavulus would be less than receptive to such refusal—so he nodded respectfully. “I’d be honored,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  “Thou need not hide thy feelings from me, Randall of Three Rivers,” the White Knight said with the hard edge of authority to his metallic, distorted voice. “If thou wouldst refuse then I would have thee do so in a forthright and honorable manner. I would welcome thee and thy peculiar failings into my tent with open arms, but I will brook no further dishonesty between us.”

  Actually going red-faced from the knight’s rebuke, Randall thought for a long while before finally realizing that he would welcome the opportunity to speak with the White Knight further. “I’m grateful for your assistance, and I would greatly value anything else you can offer me…I’m just not sure what I have to give in return.”

  Ser Cavulus regarded him for several long, tense seconds before nodding curtly. “Worry not for thy contributions; merely bring thy belongings with thee and we shall begin our discourse after thou hast finished with thy evening exercises.”

  The White Knight then rode back well ahead of the small group, and Randall reached into his pack for a handful of yellowberries left over from the previous day as he breathed the fresh, clean air of the grassy hills.

  As the day wore on, the rolling hills began to gradually flatten out until it seemed the mountain range to the northeast was just a few days’ ride away, but Randall knew it would take them several weeks to reach them even on horseback.