“I suppose now’s as good a time as any,” he admitted after a moment’s pause. He was equally flattered and self-conscious about someone actually wanting to hear about his life, which he was certain seemed pitiful and simple—especially to a person…or entity, like Dan’Moread.
But with the help of the Hruvina leaf—as well as a few more doses of Helia seeds to dull the pain in his leg—Randall managed to maintain consciousness for the following day as Storm Chaser carried them to what Randall hoped was safety.
The sword respectfully listened as the sun set and then rose again, as Randall described life in Three Rivers. His tale included all the good and bad he remembered experiencing there, and Dan’Moread only stopped him occasionally to clarify certain details which usually pertained to his relationships with those he considered his closest friends.
Chapter XXXII: A Cold Reception
13-0-6-659
By the time the day had passed, Randal saw a large, wooden fort in the distance and he pulled up Storm Chaser immediately. His eyes were stinging since several hours earlier they had become excessively dry. He was thirstier than he could ever remember being, and he had exhausted his supply of water mere hours into the ride.
“Is that the fort?” he asked wearily.
Yes, Dan’Moread replied, and for the first time that day he realized the sword’s ‘voice’ was significantly more distant than it had been.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in obvious concern. “You sound…weak.”
It is nothing, Randall, the sword replied quickly, but he was unconvinced.
“You can’t fool me, Dan’Moread,” he said more than a little irritably. “What happened?”
There was a brief hesitation before Dan’Moread replied, I have expelled a significant portion of my own energies keeping you alert. It is…difficult to…maintain…
When the sword failed to continue, Randall drew it and looked with open concern at the Godstone gems set into its blade. Seeing that there were still two translucent gems there, just like the last time he had seen it, he breathed a sigh of relief before that sigh became a growl. “I told you not to use your reserves,” he admonished. “You shouldn’t be burning yourself out left and right!”
I have not…done as you believe, the sword said laboriously. As our bond strengthens…I can…
“Never mind,” Randall said, shaking his head in irritation at his own failure to avoid being injured by the Fleshmongers. “Just save your strength; I’m going to take us to the fort.”
When the sword failed to reply, Randall spurred Storm Chaser forward. After nearly a half hour of the warhorse’s cantering, Randall found himself before the tall, wooden gate of the fort. There were soldiers manning the walls to either side of the open portal, as well as a handful stationed outside. A pair of these soldiers approached and motioned for Randall to stop, which he did as quickly as he was able. Thankfully, Storm Chaser was more than willing to comply, likely owing to the sustained exertion without pause for the past full day.
“What’s your purpose here?” asked the nearest soldier, who happened to be a half-elf. The man appraised Randall’s leg and his eyes narrowed slightly as he did so.
To Randall’s quick estimation, it seemed that nearly a third of the soldiers stationed at this particular fort were also half-elves, which filled him with a sense of relief as he gestured toward himself deliberately. “We’ve been riding for a full day to escape a group of…” he paused, uncertain if he should elaborate as to his pursuer’s nature. He straightened himself in the saddle as he made up his mind, “We’ve been fleeing from a group of bandits which injured my horse and I. I was hoping to find refuge within the walls of the fort.”
The guard opposite the half-elf—this one a well-built human woman—stepped forward and gave Randall’s leg an appraising look. Her nose wrinkled as she approached, and Randall found that he was more than a little self-conscious of the fact that his wound still smelled faintly of rotting flesh.
“Who’s ‘we’?” asked the half-elven guard guardedly.
Randall silently cursed himself before shaking his head as he felt a powerful wave of exhaustion sweep over him. “I’ve been alone on the road…with only my horse and my sword to keep me company,” he explained as his eyes threatened to close from fatigue. It was strange that the sensation would catch up to him so suddenly, and he briefly wondered if the sword had been keeping his senses sharp the entire time at its own expense.
Hearing a snort from the woman guard, Randall’s eyes snapped wide open as she suspiciously asked, “Where’d you get this horse?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but as he did so the world began to spin as a bout of vertigo came over him. The next thing he knew, his senses were jostled abruptly as he fell face-first from the saddle and into the muddy road beside the female soldier.
The last thing he remembered hearing was a raised voice calling for a healer, and then all was dark.
Randall awoke in a stupor to the sound of clomping hooves, and it took him a few moments to realize that he was lying down in the back of a wagon. It took him a few more moments to realize that his hands were bound before him, and in a moment of panic he thrashed around to see what had happened to Dan’Moread.
He quickly realized the sword was still strapped to his back, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he looked around to get his bearings. He was in the back of a wagon with high sideboards, not unlike the ones owned by Charles and his family. Randall saw Storm Chaser was tied to the back of the wagon and was contentedly clomping along behind. The saddle which Randall had used to ride the massive warhorse was absent, and Randall twisted around to look forward.
A pair of leather-armored soldiers was seated at the front of the wagon with one handling the reins. The other had a crossbow strapped across her lap, and she turned to make eye contact with Randall just as he was about to try standing.
“Lie down,” the soldier instructed in a commanding tone.
“Why am I bound?” Randall demanded in a voice that came out as more of a croak than his desired, angry tone.
“That horse you were riding belongs to the Jarl’s House,” the soldier replied matter-of-factly. “Not to mention you possess other pieces of contraband forbidden under the Federation Peace Accords.”
“Federation Peace Accords?” Randall asked, utterly dumbfounded as he leaned against the sideboard of the wagon. “There’s been some sort of mistake; the horse was a gift from a man named Drannis; he got it from someone named General Birchaud!”
“Save it for the Jarl,” the soldier replied stiffly. “The trip will take another day yet; lie down and conserve your strength until we arrive.”
Randall felt the world begin to spin again, and try as he might he was unable to resist the effects of exhaustion. His last thought before losing consciousness was of the pain he suddenly felt in his leg.
“Hey, wake up,” snapped a man’s voice and Randall groggily opened his eyes to see a half-elf soldier standing beside the wagon. “If you want to eat, now’s your chance.” The sun was no longer beaming down overhead, and the wagon was pulled off to the side of the road. There was a small campfire, around which a half dozen soldiers were seated.
Randall blinked hazily as he looked to the bowl in the soldier’s hands, which was apparently filled with some kind of stew. He reached out to take the bowl, but his hands were shaking and his leg suddenly exploded in pain.
Clutching at his leg, it was all Randall could do not to cry out. “Need…Helia seeds,” he gasped between panting breaths.
The soldier shook his head. “They’re illegal under the Federation Peace Accords with the sovereign nation-state of Greystone,” he explained with a sympathetic look, “so we had to confiscate and destroy them. We had our healers patch you up the best they could, but the wound wouldn’t respond to standard methods.”
Randall looked down at his leg and saw that it had been re-dressed and bound tightly with buckled leather straps. He gritted his t
eeth and snapped, “You destroyed them? What else did you destroy?!”
“That’s not what I’d call a ‘compliant attitude’,” the soldier said gruffly. “Suit yourself; we’ll arrive in Greystone by midday tomorrow. With any luck the healers there will be able to save your leg—the Jarl makes a point of ensuring all criminals are healthy before they’re executed, after all.”
The soldier turned and made his way back to the campfire, leaving Randall in sheer agony in the back of the wagon. Eventually, even though his leg felt as though it was being torn from his body, he succumbed to exhaustion and fell unconscious.
“Is this the one?” Randall heard a man’s voice ask, and he heard the sound of water dripping on stone.
“It is, Citizen,” another man replied, and Randall looked around to see that he was lying in a cell with a metal-barred gate. The only source of illumination was flickering torchlight out in the hallway, and he reached up to rub his eyes with his still-bound hands. Acting almost on instinct before his hands made it to his eyes he reached up for Dan’Moread’s hilt.
“That would be a mistake,” he heard the second man say sharply in a deep, thick accent, and Randall heard a creaking noise from outside the cell. Looking up in surprise, he saw another pair of men standing outside with bows pointed straight at him. Moving slowly, he lowered his hand to his side as he gingerly rolled over, careful to avoid aggravating his leg.
“Where am I?” Randall asked as he looked down at his leg, for a moment actually fearing to find it missing. Finding the leg where it was supposed to be was the first surprise. The second was that the bindings had been removed, and Randall marveled at the sight of fresh, pink tissue spanning the entire wound. It was clearly far from healed, but someone of significant ability—better even than Yordan—had seen to it and Randall felt a wave of gratitude wash over himself.
“I’ll inform the ambassador he’s awake,” the first man said, and only now did Randall see that he was human, unarmored, and wearing Federation-style clothing. The other three men—all of whom were human—were clearly soldiers of some kind, but they wore a different style of uniform than those who had brought him to wherever he was.
“Wait, please,” Randall pleaded. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but whatever it is I can explain!”
“Save it for the Jarl,” spat the soldier in his thick accent as the Federation citizen left. “Your trial is third on the docket tomorrow morning. Get some rest,” he paused to sneer before smugly adding, “as you’ll likely need it.”
The armored man then turned and made to follow the other man, and was followed by the other two soldiers. After just a few moments, Randall’s cell was completely black as the soldiers took the only sources of illumination with them.
After taking several quick, anxious breaths Randall was able to calm down enough to try reaching out with his mind to contact Dan’Moread. For several minutes he was unsuccessful, then he managed to find its faint presence and he felt a moment of relief.
“Are you alright?” he whispered.
I am…tired, the sword replied faintly. I apologize for being unable to prevent our current incarceration, Randall.
“It’s not your fault,” Randall said dismissively. “We didn’t have any other choice but to come here.”
Still, Dan’Moread continued, it would seem that our only hope is now to fight our way out of here…and my strength is too greatly diminished to guarantee we would succeed in doing so, even against a mere handful of guards.
Randall shook his head, marveling at the sword’s confidence in its own abilities. “Let’s just think this through before jumping to rash conclusions,” he said guardedly. “If they were just going to kill me, why would they heal my leg? Moreover,” he continued, “why wouldn’t they just take you from me?”
I can at least provide a partial answer to the second question, the sword replied. Our bonding has progressed to the point where I can now resist the attempt of another to remove me from your person.
“Resist?” Randall’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “How do you mean?”
There was a moment’s pause before Dan’Moread answered. I can…discourage such attempts with pain, not unlike that which I used to bring you back to your senses during our flight from the Fleshmongers. However, there are limits to how much pain I can cause, as well as for how long I can cause it. I have little doubt that if the Jarl’s men were determined to do so, we would be separated at this moment.
“So…you hurt them when they tried to disarm me—I mean, to disarm us?” Randall repeated.
Yes, the sword replied. Although I sincerely doubt I would be capable of doing so again in my present state.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Randall muttered. “But if it does turn to violence…what are our options?”
With your leg in its admittedly improved state and my own condition far less than optimal, we would not survive an armed conflict without tapping into my remaining Godstones, the sword explained.
“Which leaves you with…what?” Randall asked hesitantly. “I mean, those things seem pretty important…”
If it is a choice between life and death, I would spend what remains of myself to protect you, Dan’Moread said evenly.
“So you will die if you expend them,” Randall said in a raised voice as his worst fears were realized by the sword’s seemingly cavalier response.
I will live as I choose, Randall, the sword replied in a slightly louder ‘voice.’ Such choice will, if I am fortunate, include how my existence is brought to a close. Should I choose to sacrifice myself, I would only ask that you respect that choice rather than attempt to obstruct it in some vain, foolhardy attempt to protect me.
Feeling as though he’d been slapped across the face, Randall sat in silence for several moments while he considered the sword’s words. After going over them several times, he felt something harden within himself. “Alright,” he agreed grudgingly, “I won’t try to stop you from doing what you think is best.”
Thank you, Dan’Moread replied promptly.
“But,” Randall interrupted, holding up a finger haltingly, “I expect the same amount of autonomy when it comes to my own life—understood?” he asked in a pointed, hard tone.
There was a pause which lasted for several seconds before Dan’Moread’s voice, no longer loud in his mind, replied, I understand.
“Good,” Randall said, satisfied that they had come to some kind of meaningful agreement.
We should discuss our possible courses of action, should matters turn for the worse in the morning, Dan’Moread offered after a lengthy silence.
Randall shook his head. “You know, I’ve never been too good at looking three or four moves deep,” he said with a sigh of exasperation. “I’ve always found that staying relaxed and clear-headed results in the best outcomes.”
A carefree attitude, Dan’Moread said in what was clearly a rebuke. Preparation is the key to victory in any battle.
“There are lots of things that are the ‘key to victory’,” Randall retorted dismissively, feeling oddly optimistic despite being locked in a cell with a leg that had probably been a few short hours from amputation. “Being strong is the key to victory, but so is being quick; being flexible is accepted as the key to victory, but sticking to a game plan in the face of adversity is also touted as the key to victory,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers as he spoke before throwing his hands into the air emphatically. “Personally, I think life’s too complex to try to predict; we just need to stay calm, focused and alert. Whatever comes will come, and worrying about it too much isn’t likely to help us find our way through it.”
Under normal circumstances I would argue with you, the sword said evenly, but you may be correct in this instance. Rest and the gathering of our resources will likely produce the most beneficial effect of all available actions.
“Good, then let’s try to get some rest,” Randall suggested, unlikely as the prospect sounded.
Agreed, Dan’Moread said, and Randall felt the connection between them break.
The rest of the night was spent in anxious fidgeting as Randall awaited the first rays of morning sun, which eventually came streaming down the corridor mere minutes before the guards came to collect him.
Chapter XXXIII: Frontier Justice
16-0-6-659
Four guards escorted Randall from his cell. Two of them sported bows with arrows nocked and trained on him while the other two grabbed him by the arms and frog-marched him through the corridor, toward the faint sunlight streaming down the staircase at the end of the hallway.
As he walked past the other cells, he saw that only a few of them were occupied; most of the cell’s doors were completely open and empty. Opting for silence instead of attempting to satisfy his curiosity, he continued up and out of the dark, musty corridor and felt the sun’s cool, morning light on his face as he stepped into the open.
Randall closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the cold, frosty air, and when he opened his eyes again he looked out on a truly remarkable sight.
He was standing on a narrow ledge before the doorway, which was carved into the nearly sheer side of a mountain face! The grey stone of the mountain stretched up nearly a hundred feet before curving back and out of sight, but the rocky backdrop was by no means the most impressive thing he beheld.
Opposite the cliff was a huge ravine, which was tightly packed with buildings of incredible craftsmanship. Each of them was made of massive, solid stone blocks, and Randall could barely imagine the amount of work that went into crafting such an incredible city.
For that was clearly what this place was: a city. Randall had never heard of anything remotely resembling this place, but he was coming to believe that his life within Three Rivers had been more sheltered from the truths of the outside world than he could have ever imagined. Three Rivers was certainly more populous than the city he saw before him, but it was also far less impressive.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 34
