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

by Caleb Wachter

  There was another pause. I do not believe I am qualified to comment on the effects of the Hlyriuvli plant, Dan’Moread said, since I possess no organic components to my own physical form.

  “Huh,” Randall said, more than a little deflated as he timidly pressed, “but you seemed to know what it is…”

  If you would use the Hlyriuvli extract during your next…engagement with the White Knight, I will not stop you, the sword said in its usual, monotone voice. If you would know whether it is in any way dangerous, the answer is ‘no;’ there is no possibility of physical harm from imbibing the substance. In truth, I am more than slightly skeptical that you have never encountered the substance before, given your heritage.

  “My heritage?” Randall cocked an eyebrow quizzically. “What does that have to—“

  I would prefer not to speak on the subject further. But if the White Knight wishes you to partake of the Hlyriuvli extract, I do not believe you should concern yourself, Dan’Moread said. Indeed…I expect you will enjoy the experience immensely. I am more than slightly surprised at Rimidalv granting permission for such activity, but assuming he is not against it then neither am I.”

  Randall’s eyebrows rose in absolute, total confusion. “But what about—“

  Please do not pursue the matter further, Randall, the sword said evenly. I would not stand between you and what you want; if the White Knight desires this of you, then it is a small price to pay for the assistance we have been leant. Perhaps we should discuss another matter? I am still weary, but you may ask any other questions which you might have.

  Shaking his head in bewilderment, Randall thought back to their previous conversation. “Well…I guess I’d like to know about your maker,” he said after a lengthy silence.

  Yes, that is where we left off, is it not? Dan’Moread agreed. Being a sword, I have no ‘parents’ in the traditional sense. I do, however, owe my existence to those whose actions brought me into being: my Maker, and my Forger.

  “Maker and Forger…a lot like ‘Mother and Father’,” Randall mused.

  Indeed, the sword replied, my Forger was a Pure Yirvukanian man whose name was Hazitsi’Loferian’Dimigruzzi. He gathered the materials necessary to craft my physical form, and spent three years of his life shaping and molding it until finally he was prepared for the Maker to breathe life into it.

  There was a pause, prompting Randall to urge, “Go on.”

  Dan’Moread hesitated before continuing, My Maker’s identity is unknown to me. I asked my Forger many times during my first conversations with him where I had come from, but he never answered directly.

  “Do you have any suspicions who it might be?” Randall asked hopefully.

  I have none, the sword replied. But judging from Hazitsi’s mood during our conversations, I suspect my creation cost my Maker dearly…and likely cost my Forger nearly as much.

  There was another extended pause, during which Randall thought of another question. “You said he was Yirvukanian—your Forger, that is,” he amended, “but I thought the Yirvukanians left the world centuries ago along with their cousins, the Dynerians?” The Yirvukanians and Dynerians were cousins to each other and to the Ghaevlians, forming the three ‘youngest’ elven tribes according to what little information Randall had gleaned over the years.

  It is true that neither of their tribes has been heard from in nearly three hundred years, and the Dynerians made a very public egress from this land via their vast fleet of sailing vessels, Dan’Moread admitted, but no such record exists of the Yirvukanians leaving this world.

  Randall sat back and considered the sword’s suggestion that the Ghaevlians might not have been the only ‘elven’ people to remain in this world. The seafaring Dynerians did indeed make a public exit from the lands they had called their home for thousands of years, but the cave-dwelling Yirvukanians made no such statement before vanishing from the face of the world.

  “So your Forger was a Yirvukanian,” Randall mused, “making you how old?”

  There was another long silence, and Randall wondered if the sword was too weak to answer questions just then. But eventually it replied, Time passes differently for me than it does for you; to speak in terms which are meaningful to you would not accurately convey the answer to the question you likely meant to ask.

  “Aw, come on,” Randall cracked a grin, “how old?”

  As I said, Dan’Moread replied, the answer will likely obfuscate the real information you seek.

  “You almost sound embarrassed,” Randall chided. “I mean, you’re in absolutely fantastic shape—except for the damage to your tang,” he amended sheepishly. “I’ve looked all along your edge and I can’t find a single nick or worn spot.”

  There was another protracted silence. Thank you, Dan’Moread eventually replied, but I cannot take credit for such. My Forger and my bearers before you have been responsible for my current condition.

  “How many bearers are we talking about?” Randall asked, feigning suspicion. The truth was he just wanted to know more about the sword’s life…or past, or whatever it should be called.

  I really do not understand how that is relevant, the sword said.

  “Well, I mean I just wanted to know how long you’d been with ‘T,’ whoever he was,” Randall said defensively. “I mean, look at it from my perspective: you already know pretty much everything there is to know about me, but I know almost nothing about you.”

  Another long, silent pause ensued. I would prefer not to speak of my previous bearers, Randall, Dan’Moread said, and Randall could tell the voice had lost much of its strength. After I am made whole I might do so, but for now…

  “Fair enough,” Randall allowed. Sometimes discussing the past was a difficult thing, and Randall wished to respect the sword’s privacy as much as he was able. Randall had always believed in looking forward as much as possible anyways, so dwelling on the past was usually an exercise in futility. “Oh, but there’s one more thing I need to ask before we end this chat,” he added as a thought came to him.

  Yes? the sword prompted.

  “The White Knight seemed to think that privacy would be an issue, and that Rimidalv wouldn’t be attending…whatever it is we’re supposed to do,” he explained. “Do I still need to hold you on my person at all times? If so, it’s no problem…I just don’t really know what to expect.”

  You may set me down inside the pavilion, Dan’Moread replied quickly, so long as you do not leave its confines. That particular degree of separation should not cause me much duress.

  “Ok,” Randall said, “you’d better get some more rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  I would prefer to wait until your meeting with the White Knight is concluded, the sword said weakly. But if you would perform our daily exercises as we have become accustomed to until then, I would appreciate it.

  “No problem,” Randall agreed, “In fact, I’ll go out and get a few more reps in after I break down the tent,” he offered, hoping to dispel whatever dark cloud had just come over the conversation. “Good night, Dan’Moread,” he added, feeling fairly stupid for having said it.

  Good night, Randall, the sword replied, and the connection was broken.

  Randall looked down at the small, pungent leather pouch and shook his head in disgust. “I guess I’ve got to take one for the team,” he muttered as he stuffed the pouch into his pocket before heading outside to find some water to mix it with.

  Chapter XXIV: Didn’t See That Coming

  21-13-5-659

  Randall rode in near silence for most of the next day on horseback. He even took to idly unwrapping and re-wrapping Dan’Moread’s hilt with the leather which Eckol had provided earlier.

  Randall’s hands were blistered and painful from the constant workouts with the sword—which was certainly exacerbated by the less-than-ideal shape of the weapon’s improvised hilt, but he had actually grown used to the pain of the blisters.

  He had heard of dockhands whose palms and fingers were
so calloused that their skin was like leather. While Randall’s hands were nowhere near that rough, he felt certain that before long they would look much like a farmer’s, or lumberman’s, hands.

  So he rode in silence as he consumed the last of the yellowberries, which had indeed gone bad a few days earlier. Drexil had dried the remaining berries out in the sun the previous day and while dried yellowberries were more citrus-flavored than Randall liked, he was more than grateful for the fruit after weeks of eating nothing but hard tack and dried river fish.

  When they finally picked a spot for the camp that evening, Randall made to set up the tent as he tried not to think too much about what Ser Cavulus had in mind for him. He had hoped Dan’Moread would have been able to shed some light on what awaited him, but in truth he was even more mystified for having spoken with the sword the previous night.

  Just as he began to drive the first stake into the ground, he saw Ravilich approach from the corner of his eye. Breaking from the task at hand, Randall stood and nodded courteously to the approaching Squire.

  “Thou should place the tent further from camp this night,” the Squire instructed, gesturing to a flat patch of ground some fifty paces away.

  Furrowing his brown in confusion, Randall looked around and saw that where he stood was about the same distance from the fire as it had been the previous nights.

  “I don’t understand…” Randall said with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Ravilich stepped forward menacingly and pointed again. “Thou would do well to heed my advice,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Set the tent there, lest it come to blows between us.”

  Randall threw the piton and mallet to the ground in frustration. “You know what; that’s enough,” he shot back. “I have no idea why you’re pissed with me but it’s going to end—and soon. I’ve done nothing to offend you, and you still treat me like I’m the sole cause of all your grief.”

  The two stood there, breathing hot blasts of air through their nostrils until Ravilich shook his head angrily. “It’s not for what thou hast already done,” he said in a slightly broken voice, “but for what thou is about to do. Set the tent yonder…please.”

  With that, the Squire turned back and made his way to the campfire. Randall was still seeing red but he decided to comply with the other man’s strange request.

  Less than a half hour later the tent was erected and the last rays of sunlight winked out high above them, leaving the twinkling starlight above broken only by the bright, blue orb of The Judge’s Eye overhead. There were several moons which sailed the heavens above Randall’s world, and The Judge’s Eye was the least commonly seen—but also the most predictable.

  It was, in fact, the passage of The Judge’s Eye (or simply ‘The Judge’ to most) which set the calendar of Randall’s world. One passage of The Judge indicated the passage of one year, and so its appearance was often met with trepidation and regret over the time which had already been lost to those beneath its azure beams.

  The Judge sat near its perihelion, which would arrive sometime in the next few days, and Randall was grateful for its illumination as he awaited the White Knight’s arrival.

  Ser Cavulus descended the nearby slope on which he had been praying and made his way to the campfire. Randall watched as the White Knight drew Rimidalv and handed it reverently to Ravilich. The Squire’s expression was unreadable to Randall at such a distance, but the White Knight promptly turned and made his way toward the tent.

  “I thank thee for thy discretion,” Ser Cavulus said, gesturing to the large, open area between the tent and the campfire.

  Randall glanced to the campfire and saw Ravilich pointedly turn his back on the two of them before sitting down beside Drexil. The larger man’s boisterous voice clearly indicated that he wished to lift the Squire’s mood, but Randall suspected Drexil would find little success in that particular endeavor.

  “It seemed like the right thing to do,” Randall replied absently. “Anyway—“

  “Please,” Ser Cavulus interrupted, gesturing to the open tent flap, “let us discuss thy concerns inside the pavilion.”

  “Right,” Randall said neutrally as he entered the tent. He thought about unstrapping the sword from his back, but decided against it just then. The White Knight entered the pavilion and made his way to his customary spot but unlike the previous nights, he did not sit.

  “Didst thou partake of the pouch’s contents?” Cavulus asked.

  Randall nodded, remembering the absolutely disgusting flavor of the ‘tea’ he had brewed using hot water from the campfire. “I drank a thimbleful last night, just like you said.”

  There was a protracted silence before Cavulus gestured to Dan’Moread. “Thou wilt have no need for thy sword, I assure thee.”

  “Ok,” Randall said hesitantly, before unbuckling the belt attached to the blade’s scabbard. “But I still don’t know exactly what this is all about.”

  Ser Cavulus’ shoulders hunched and he lowered his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. “Thou art a strange one, Randall of Three Rivers.”

  “Please,” Randall held up a hand haltingly, “just ‘Randall’ will do.”

  “Very well,” the White Knight allowed. “Set aside thy sword and assist me,” he gestured to the back of his heavy, all-encompassing armor.

  More than a little concerned, Randall thought back to Dan’Moread’s words of the previous night. If I don’t trust these people, who can I trust? he reminded himself as he set the sword down and made his way to the White Knight’s side.

  “There is a series of metal clasps concealed beneath each pauldron; undo them, please,” the White Knight instructed.

  “The ‘pauldron’?” Randall asked in confusion.

  “The shoulder guards,” Cavulus explained, gesturing to the front of the large, rounded piece which covered both the front and back of his shoulder.

  Randall went behind the knight and lifted the ‘pauldron,’ revealing a trio of clasps just as Ser Cavulus had said. The clasps looked to have been added to the armor sometime after its initial forging, but it was clear they were intended to prevent both the helmet and the armor from coming off the White Knight’s body. Randall reached up and grasped the first one before pausing. “Won’t you die without this suit on?” he asked after a momentary pause. He knew that Drexil had said something about Cavulus simply wanting to pass Rimidalv onto a worthy successor before dying—at least, that was how Randall had taken the burly man’s words—but he had no desire to assist the man in committing suicide!

  “This armor may well be my tomb,” the knight replied, “but I promise thee that neither of us shall suffer any ill effect by its removal.”

  “If you say so,” Randall said, taking a short breath and holding it as he undid the first clasp. It popped open fairly easily, while the second was harder to undo and the third was harder still.

  “Good,” Cavulus said, “now the other side, if you please.”

  Randall did so and stepped back after the third clasp beneath the opposite pauldron had been undone.

  “I thank thee,” the White Knight said in his reverberating, distorted voice. “Now stand back, if thou would be so kind.”

  Randall took a step back as the knight, with his back still to him, reached up and lifted the helmet from his head. There was a long mesh of chainmail attached to the base of the helmet, which slid easily up and out from between the interlocking plates of metal protecting his neck and shoulders.

  The White Knight bent forward to remove the helmet and when he finally removed it he stood and Randall saw long, blonde hair fall down across the knight’s armored shoulders.

  Turning slowly, Cavulus’ eyes met Randall’s own and Randall literally felt his heart skip a beat. The White Knight’s skin was pale, with a pointed nose and equally pointed ears set into a slightly freckled face with eyes the color of The Judge above.

  “You’re…” Randall breathed in awe, “…a half-elf?!”

  The White Kni
ght laughed and Randall’s ears were greeted by a light, melodious sound the likes of which he had not heard since being in the company of Ellie, one of his closest friends from Three Rivers.

  “Is that all thou finds surprising?” asked the undistorted—and clearly feminine—voice in a playful tone. Her eyes seemed to twinkle like a field of stars in the flickering lantern light.

  “Well…yeah,” Randall muttered under his breath absently as he looked up and down at the White Knight’s armored form in absolute shock, “I mean, no…obviously!” he added as he felt himself blush. He was absolutely tongue-tied at this unexpected turn of events.

  She laughed again and gestured to her armored thighs. “Would thou be so kind as to undo these ones, as well?”

  Moving forward hesitantly, he did as she had asked, finding another series of clasps hidden beneath the rear plates covering her upper legs.

  “I thank thee,” she said, as with little more than a few movements she doffed the heavy, metal armor of her legs. Reaching up behind herself, she parted the armor along her back and it, too, came off in her hands.

  She still wore the heavy, white steel boots, and Randall saw that she was easily the largest half-elven woman he had ever known. She had a thick, simple robe about her body, which was different from the heavily padded clothing Randall had heard knights wore beneath their armor to avoid chafe or other damage to the skin.

  “So…wait,” Randall began, still unable to quite believe what he was seeing, “you’ve been a woman the whole time?!”

  She sat down and removed one boot, then the other, and stood once again to her full height. Without the boots on, she was little more than a half head taller than he—still making her the largest half-elven woman he had ever known, but by no means the towering behemoth she had been while wearing the boots.

  “I would answer thy questions,” she said, “but not tonight.” She stood slowly and moved toward him with deliberate, measured steps until their bodies nearly touched. “What I ask of thee this night, I ask as what may be the last selfish act of my entire life. Hast thou experience…” she slowly ran her fingers up Randall’s arm, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up, “with women?”