After that task was completed, Ravilich silently made his way to the campfire and began to eat his breakfast. Randall would have liked to do the same, but Drexil’s disapproving look gave him pause and he instead went to the wagon to perform the first of his daily exercises.
They rode on after breaking camp, and just as the sun reached its peak Randall had to admit that his lower back was hurting worse than it had in either of the previous days.
Drexil rode beside him, and Randall was surprised to see that he was riding a horse instead of driving the wagon. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Ravilich was sitting where Drexil usually sat.
“Fish jerky?” the large, burly man offered as he held out a handful of dried fish meat.
Randall had given them what remained of his own supplies as soon as they had left Jacob’s Plow, and Drexil had concluded the only thing to do with the dried fish meat was to baste it in an herb brine of some kind before drying it on the back of the wagon for a day and a half. Apparently the curing process was complete and after smelling the sharp, tangy smell wafting up from the ‘fish jerky,’ he decided to give it a try.
“Thank you,” Randall said graciously. His first bite had him seriously wondering if it was even the same fish he had eaten for weeks. “This is delicious!” he exclaimed as the sharp, mildly spicy flavor burst in his mouth.
“Aye,” Drexil nodded, “Gummer’s not much without proper seasoning. But if ye know how to treat it, makes fer a fine midday snack.”
Randall marveled at the flavor as he swallowed the last of the first piece. He looked ahead and saw Ser Cavulus riding well in advance of the group and decided to ask a question which had been on his mind for quite some time.
“Everyone says Ser Cavulus died at Mount Gamour,” he began a little too timidly, “if that’s so…”
“Then how can the White Knight be amongst us?” Drexil finished with a knowing nod. “I know not the answer to that, but I do know what Ravilich has told me.”
“What did he say?” Randall pressed.
Drexil rubbed his beard for several seconds before sighing. “Seein’ as he’s not speakin’ to ye, I don’t see the harm in relayin’ what he normally reserves the right to tell. Years ago, the White Knight hunted the Storm Lord for an entire Illumination before finally cornering him at Mount Gamour.”
Randall took another bite of ‘fish jerky’ and was once again amazed at the complex flavor profile it presented. It seemed unlikely to him that such a recipe came from a human’s palette, but he decided to table that particular question as Drexil continued.
“The battle was fierce, and the mountain itself was surrounded by all manner of accursed magics which tore the sky to pieces and turned the very rock into liquid fire that could burn a man from a dozen paces’ remove,” the human recounted. “And beneath that place, Ser Cavulus and the Storm Lord did battle which put the legends of old to shame—or so Ravilich says,” he said pointedly. “In the end the two combatants were locked together, White Blade to Grey, as the mountain itself collapsed around them.”
“Wait,” Randall interrupted, “what do you mean, ‘White Blade to Grey’?”
Drexil arched an eyebrow. “Surely ye’ve heard The Turning of The Grey?”
Randall searched his memories for several seconds until he did remember such a tale. “But that was a story of gods,” he argued, “seven brothers and seven sisters, the brothers with white hair and the sisters with grey, who had been tasked with returning the world to balance after the Last Cataclysm.”
“Tis only the ‘last’ cataclysm until we suffer another,” Drexil said before shrugging indifferently. “Besides, all legends are based in fact; deciphering their meanings or lessons is never difficult but placing their origins can be a bit more complicated. In this case, The Turning of The Grey is a tale of how these blades broke their sworn duties to their maker and set against each other.”
Randall sat back in his saddle and tried to recall details of the poem, but he was unable to do so. “Ok,” he mused, “so Ser Cavulus had his White Blade, Rimidalv, and the Storm Lord had his Grey Blade. What happened next?”
Drexil rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I should be tellin’ ye after all,” he said hesitantly.
“Please do,” Randall pressed, “I’d really like to know what happened.”
The burly man sighed again and nodded in resignation. “As the mountain collapsed around them, the White Knight mustered every last scrap of cunning and strength left in his body and cleaved the Storm Lord’s weapon in two, causing a tremendous explosion which brought the mountain down on top of them. Ravilich, and the other members of Ser Cavulus’ party at the time, escaped the tunnels just in time to avoid sharing the White Knight’s fate. They tried to clear away the rubble, but it was an impossible task. For three days they remained there without sign. But on the third morn, just as the first rays of dawn came down from above, the White Knight appeared to them.”
“Just like that?” Randall asked incredulously. “The mountain falls down on him and he just shows up three days later?”
“Tis not my story, lad,” Drexil growled, “would ye hear the rest or not?”
“I’m sorry,” Randall apologized, feeling like a heel, “please do continue.”
The burly man gave him a dire look before doing so, “The White Knight’s wounds were such that he did in fact die during the Grey Blade’s death throes, but his armor carries such powerful enchantments that it sustains his body…for now. But should he remove even a portion of it, the spell which grants him what life remains to him will be broken and he will crumble to dust.”
“Well…that makes sense, at least,” Randall said after a moment’s consideration. “As to why he never takes the armor off, is what I mean,” he amended at the other man’s glowering look.
“Ah,” Drexil nodded before nodding agreeably, “that it does, I suppose. Anyway, Ravilich says Rimidalv needs a new bearer and Ser Cavulus has agreed to carry it until a suitable knight can be found to answer the call of the White, after which time the White Knight should like to rest, as is proper.”
Randall’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You mean…he wants to die?”
Drexil shook his head stiffly. “The White Knight doesn’t see it that way. Insofar as he’s concerned, he died beneath Mount Gamour and is merely fulfilling his duty as is proper for a knight to his comrade, Rimidalv.”
Nodding slowly, Randall looked ahead to the White Knight’s position and marveled at being in the presence of such a legendary figure. “He’s like something out of a book,” Randall breathed.
“Aye, that he is,” Drexil agreed. “They say before he fell at Mount Gamour, he had two hundred attendees in tow. Served the White Blade for six Illuminations, he has, and his name is known far and wide throughout these lands.”
“Well,” Randall interjected respectfully, “I’ve never heard of him.”
“I expect not,” the burly warrior shrugged, “Ser Cavulus has no taste for fame, and the Federation’s not like to allow people to speak of such figures—but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“True enough,” Randall admitted, for the first time wondering just how much influence the Federation had outside of Three Rivers. He had always assumed that the entire countryside lived under the same basic laws and restrictions as those within the city, but the people he had encountered during his admittedly brief foray painted a much different picture. “How far does the Federation’s influence extend?” he asked almost without thinking.
Drexil gave him an incredulous look for a moment before shaking his head. “The Federation rules the lands to the southeast with an iron fist, and that influence extends to Three Rivers but little further.”
“You mean,” Randall gaped in disbelief, unable to believe what he had just heard, “they don’t go any further north than that!?”
Drexil snorted derisively. “Of course they’ve gone further—and torn the countryside apart in the process,”
he growled, “made it all the way to the end of the Binding Chain before stopping two decades ago. They’ve always had an eye for mineral wealth and once they’ve exhausted an area’s supply of ore, they up and leave without a moment’s notice; just like they done at the Chain mountain range where we’re headed.”
“So…why do they hold onto Three Rivers?” Randall pressed, literally amazed at how little he knew of the world outside the Native District of his former home city.
“Three Rivers,” Drexil sighed in exasperation, “is the only bona fide port city for a thousand miles on this side of the Rydian Sea, and the flowing waters which give the city its name make for the finest farmland in the known world. The Federation’s army is huge,” he said as though that should explain everything.
“And they need to be fed,” Randall concluded sheepishly before perking up at what the other man had just suggested. “Are you saying the Federation is gone from where we’re going?”
Drexil shook his head in negation. “Nay, lad; the Federation still maintains a few mining outfits along the western slopes of the Chain. And to secure those holdings, they’ve erected several keeps and watchtowers which are manned by thousands of soldiers. Thankfully they leave our destination, alone…for the most part.”
Randall felt his heart sink at the thought of the Federation controlling so much of the known world, but there was nothing he could do about it so he dismissed the thought from his mind.
“Where exactly are we going?” Randall asked after a few moments’ silence.
“That’s not fer me to say,” the burly man said with a pointed look toward the White Knight. “Mayhap ye’ll ask him when next ye speak?” Drexil then turned his horse and made his way to the rear of the group.
After they had chosen a spot to make camp for the night and watered the horses at a nearby pond, Randall did his exercises as Drexil had instructed, and nearly collapsed before completing his ‘wagon-sitting’ exercise. The combination of pain in his back along with the cramps in his muscles at being used in such an unnatural manner was almost more than he could bear, but he managed to complete that particular exercise without falter.
Holding the sword before himself was quite another matter, however, as little more than halfway through his one hundred reps he felt his forearms burn like they had never burned.
Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the experience. It was only when he felt like quitting for the night that he felt the pendant against his chest begin to tingle.
“Come on, Randy,” he growled as he closed his eyes and focused. “No quitting now.” He felt a startling, yet strangely soothing sensation spread throughout his scalp as he nodded in affirmation of what he was doing and pressed on with the exercise. As he did so he noticed that the blade was glowing with an almost imperceptible light.
Remembering the sword’s words to him, he pressed forward but literally collapsed at rep eighty nine. His arms trembled and the fiery sensation which spread throughout his torso and upper limbs was like nothing he had ever felt, but the sword itself felt warm and somehow comforting. After a few minutes’ rest, he stood to his feet and finished out the exercise before gathering up the tightly-bound tent and setting it down on a suitable patch of flat, grassy ground.
He fiddled with it for nearly an hour before finally erecting it into its proper shape, and all he wanted to do when he had finished was go inside and sleep.
“Well done,” he heard Ser Cavulus say from behind. “Wouldst thou like to continue our palaver of last eve?”
Randall sighed as thoughts of collapsing onto the tent’s floor and going to sleep vanished from his mind. “I think that would be best.”
“Good,” the White Knight said as he made his way into the tent. Again, once inside Ser Cavulus lit the small, metal lantern and its orange light flickered inside the tent. The White Knight then sat cross-legged in the same spot he had sat the night before and Randall did likewise opposite him.
“How did you know about my sword?” Randall asked abruptly. It wasn’t exactly the first question he had thought to ask during the day’s ride, but he had to start somewhere.
“Ah,” the White Knight said knowingly, “but thy question is, itself, unworthy of reply; the sword is not thine. It possesses intellect and character, and in that way it may never truly belong to another.”
Feeling properly rebuked, Randall went red-faced before rephrasing, “How did you know about the sword’s true nature?”
Ser Cavulus nodded in apparent satisfaction. “Verily, I say unto thee that I had no foreknowledge of the weapon thou bears. The White Blade, Rimidalv, has had dealings with it in the past and he directed me to thy aid.”
Randall paused and considered his next question before asking, “Do you know what kind of ‘dealings’ these weapons have had?”
“I fear I do not, and Rimidalv is reticent on the subject in a manner which I have never known from him,” he admitted. A silence hung between them before the White Knight shook his head. “It is not my place to speak of such, and I would ask that thou refrain from continued inquest on the matter.”
Randall held up his hand apologetically. “I didn’t mean anything—“
“Nay,” Ser Cavulus held up a hand haltingly, “thou hast committed no offense. It is simply a private matter which Rimidalv wishes to remain thus.”
“Ok,” Randall agreed, “no more questions about their relationship.”
The White Knight nodded curtly, and again silence hung between them for several seconds before he gestured to Randall’s chest. “How is thy Flylrylioulen?”
Randall reached inside his shirt reflexively and his fingers closed around the warm, stone pendant. “It feels fine,” he replied, “but I’m still not sure why I should be wearing it.”
Ser Cavulus leaned forward slightly. “The Flylrylioulen is a conduit…or perhaps a better term is ‘focus,’ for whatever traces of magic may yet flow through thy veins. Without it, thy gifts can never fully develop…and even with it thou art unlikely to attain the same measure of control over those gifts as one who had taken up proper training at a young age.”
“What are you saying?” Randall blurted incredulously. “You think I can use magic?!”
The White Knight shook his head sadly. “Nay, for thine has been a path which has strayed too far, and too long, from the old ways. But with the Flylrylioulen’s help thou might still manage to gain some small benefit from the gifts of thy blood…including communion with the blade thou carries.”
Randall felt like slapping his own forehead in embarrassment as he realized that the few times he had touched the pendant he had managed clearer communication with Dan’Moread. “I guess that makes sense,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Do not take thyself to task for thy ignorance,” the White Knight said, leaning back as he spoke. “That way leads to naught but pain and sorrow; thou must learn to do better each and every day with what thou hast learnt.” The White Knight then drew his sword slowly from its sheath on his back and laid it across his lap. “Do likewise, Randall of Three Rivers,” he instructed.
Randall did as he was asked, and placed Dan’Moread across his thighs. He sat there for several seconds until the White Blade began to glow softly in Ser Cavulus’ lap. The light grew in intensity until it overpowered the lantern and fully illuminated the small tent’s interior.
After a moment at such a bright intensity, Rimidalv’s light diminished until it was no more and Randall stared open-mouthed at the magical display.
“How did you do that?” he asked after a breathless moment.
“It is only by bonding with thy blade that thou can achieve such,” the White Knight explained. “But the light thou saw with thine eyes is merely a fraction of that which shines forth from it, and it is that inner light which allows the full union of Blade and Wielder.” Ser Cavulus paused for several seconds before adding, “It is only by knowing the soul of the blade—truly knowing what is most important to it—that thou can
achieve such a bond.”
“What’s most important to Rimidalv?” Randall asked in wonderment.
Ser Cavulus shook his head. “I cannot say. Though I could express it adequately with words, it is a secret which cannot be shared once learnt. Commune with it,” he gestured to Dan’Moread on Randall’s lap, “and learn to know its character. Once that is known to thee, thy bonding will be complete and thou will be joined inseparably.”
Randall felt himself recoil slightly at the thought of a permanent union with anyone—or anything! “Inseparably?” he winced. “What does that entail?”
“It is a great honor to bear a blade such as thine,” Ser Cavulus said with open rebuke. “The sword has chosen thee; that much I have seen with mine own eyes during the battle with the Fleshmongers.”
Randall thought about his conversation with Dan’Moread the previous night and something came to the fore of his mind. “The sword said that—”
“Please,” Ser Cavulus held up a hand haltingly, “do not reveal thy communications with it, for it is a private thing and must remain so.”
“Ok,” Randall said slowly, more than a little frustrated at what any of this meant.
“Thou hast many questions but I cannot give thee all the answers thou would have,” the White Knight said simply. “What I can do this night is teach thee to empty thy mind, to better hear the sword’s voice. After thou hast learnt to do so, I shall instruct thee in speaking with thy mind’s silent voice.”
Randall furrowed his brow in confusion. “I don’t think it can hear my thoughts,” he said hesitantly.
The White Knight cocked his head. “What dost thou mean?”
“Well,” Randall began, uncertain of the right words, “I’ve tried to…umm, ‘think words’ and it’s never seemed to hear them. I think I have to actually…speak to it for it to hear me.”
Ser Cavulus sat in silent contemplation for several moments before shaking his head. “That is most unusual,” he admitted, “but thou dost hear the sword’s voice in thy own mind, yes?” Randall nodded rapidly, and the White Knight shrugged. “Then we shall focus on that aspect; in truth, with such severe damage I am surprised thy weapon can speak at all.”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 25
