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

by Caleb Wachter

  “Does what sound right?” the smith asked absently.

  “Nothing,” Randall assured him, “ok, so you’ll shape the crosspiece, open the weld, drain the sand for measurement—“

  “Craft the pommel,” the smith interrupted, “we wouldn’t want to forget that now, would we?”

  “No, of course not,” Randall said as agreeably as he could manage, “so all of that…how long are we talking?”

  Yorys thought for a moment as he performed some silent calculations. “The tang’s un-tempered, which is a bit unusual but not unheard of,” he mused, “so opening the weld should just take a couple minutes, but grinding down the tang to the proper size will take nearly an hour. Draining the sand is tedious…I’d say half an hour to make sure we get it all. Shaping your star metal into a pommel is likely just another hour’s work, and the cross-piece will likely take…half a day.”

  “So we’re talking…”Randall urged.

  “Right about ten hours’ hard labor,” Yorys replied confidently. “Might be more if your star metal needs purifying; let’s have a look.”

  Randall produced the star pouch full of star metal and set it on the table, just as the smith approached with a deep, metal bowl with a heavy lid. The lid had a trio of clamps on the edges, which looked to fit into grooves molded into the lip of the bowl, and the smith gently took the pouch in his hands.

  As Randall watched, the smith poured the entire contents of the bag into the bowl. He very carefully tapped every last bit of material, which again seemed to Randall like grains of dark, glittery sand.

  Finished, Yorys carefully carried the bowl to the far end of the table, on which was a scale. After a few moments of playing with the weights, he looked doubtfully at the bowl. “It’s going to be close—even with the flattening of the hilt-ward tips,” he said. “But if we grind just a little more off the tang…” he looked down the table and walked over to examine the sword. “The Titansand veins are central, so we shouldn’t cause any harm there. Plus,” he said, clearly noticing the concerned look on Randall’s face, “we can temper the entire thing, which will triple the strength, while we do likewise to the crosspiece and pommel.”

  “Won’t that make the handle brittle, and prone to breaking?” Randall asked, remembering something Eckol had told him.

  “In a weaker material, I’d think so,” the smith agreed, “but with star metal, I don’t think so. This stuff’s so durable I’m actually surprised this one was damaged in the first place. How did it happen, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story,” Randall lied, knowing that Dan’Moread had not wanted to discuss the matter previously. “But if we grind the tang…do we get enough to do the job?”

  “Aye,” the smith nodded, “we might need to shorten the hilt-ward spines a touch, but it’ll be enough for certain.”

  “Is that…ok?” Randall asked. “I really know nothing about this.”

  As I said, I do not look forward to this experience, Randall, the sword said promptly, but your hands are much smaller than my previous wielders, so it is a logical modification to make. I would simply ask…

  “Of course it’s ok,” the smith replied. “The shaping’s not the hard part anyway; it’s the tempering that gets tricky.”

  Ignoring the man momentarily, Randall refocused on Dan’Moread. “What?” he whispered.

  I know you are not physically strong, but I would appreciate if you were the one to…Dan’Moread trailed off again.

  Realizing what the sword was asking, Randall nodded quickly. “I’ll work the grinder,” he said confidently.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Yorys asked warily. “It’s not an easy job…and if you don’t mind my saying, you’re not exactly built like a smith.”

  “Just show me what to do,” Randall said with a piercing look. If this made the experience even slightly less difficult for Dan’Moread, then he was going to do it.

  “The wheel’s over here,” the smith explained, “but we’ll need to grit it first with diamond powder—don’t worry, we’ve got enough for the job.”

  “Isn’t that…expensive?” Randall asked as he walked over to the grinding wheel.

  “It is,” Yorys agreed, “but the Nation is wealthy—where do you think we get the stuff from, anyway?”

  “Of course,” Randall agreed as he sat down before the large, rough wheel which had clearly been carved from a single block of stone.

  “I’ll help you get it started, but after that you need to pump up and down with this lever,” he demonstrated with a foot paddle of some kind, “and the tricky part is catching the shavings. Star metal comes off in flakes, not chips, so trapping them is key. It’s easier if you grind here,” he showed a low part of the wheel, beneath which was a small basin.

  “I think I get the idea,” Randall agreed.

  After a few minutes, the wheel was spinning at full speed and Randall had donned some thick gloves, which he used to grip the sword’s blade tightly.

  “Are you ready?” he asked under his breath just as Yorys finished bringing the wheel up to speed.

  I am, the sword replied.

  Randall hesitated for a moment, and he remembered what Dan’Moread had said just before it had surgically removed a significant portion of his leg in what proved a successful effort to save his life. “I wish this didn’t have to hurt you,” he said seriously, meaning every word.

  As do I, the sword replied. It is possible I will not speak again until this is over; should that occur, know that there is no one else I would rather have at my side this very moment. Whatever you do, please do not delay in this.

  “Ok,” Randall agreed. “And…thanks,” he added awkwardly, acutely aware of the amount of trust the sword was placing in him.

  With that, he pressed Dan’Moread’s hilt against the grindstone and there was a powerful, numbing sensation which ran across his scalp and down his back. He was tempted to stop, but instead heeded the sword’s previously stated urge to press forward as tiny coils of star metal fell away from the wheel and into the collection basin below.

  Several hours later and Randall was standing over the table with the two pieces already finished. The pommel was a simple-looking thing, but after watching its creation he knew that it had a large, hollow chamber in the middle.

  “Why the hollow pommel?” Randall asked, more than a little concerned for Dan’Moread’s well-being after being unable to contact the sword since the grindstone.

  The smith gave him an incredulous look. “The Titansand,” he said, as though it explained everything. “It’s one thing to have Titansand at the center of a blade—it’s twice as heavy as star metal, after all, and four times as heavy as grey iron—but these weapons are special.”

  “Special…how?” Randall asked, his curiosity piqued.

  The smith shook his head bemusedly. “Forgive me; I thought you already knew,” he said with a courteous nod of his head. “These weapons were called, in the modern tongue, sword-breakers,” he explained. “Weight is important, but more so is inertia since these weapons’ purpose was to destroy other weapons, not people.”

  Randall knew this was all way over his head, so he sighed. “Explain it to me in layman’s terms, please,” he said wearily as he took a seat to rest his aching legs. He knew that if he had not been undertaking his rigorous—at least in his opinion—physical exercise regimen, he would have never been able to grind Dan’Moread’s hilt down without collapsing from exhaustion. As it was, he was seriously considering forgoing the next few days’ exercises to recuperate.

  “The Titansand channels run from the tip of the blade back to the pommel,” Yorys explained patiently. “But it’s only half-full; any more would make the weapon even more unwieldy than it is.”

  Randall nodded as he began to understand. “So…the sword’s balance can actually change from swing to swing?”

  “Precisely,” the smith agreed as he picked the sword up from the table. “A backswing like so,” he swept the sword up
in the air, tip pointing to the ceiling, “would drain the Titansand toward the pommel, allowing for greater maneuverability such as that required for a defensive block. Then a swing like this,” he brought the tip down toward the floor before bringing it up in a vicious, rising arc—very much like the one which had shattered the commander’s sword in the alleyway, Randall realized, “would bring the sand tip-ward, and create more force at the moment of impact—if the blow was properly timed of course.”

  “Then why haven’t I noticed the balance shift before?” Randall asked, thoroughly confused.

  The smith pointed to the broken weld, through which they had only recently finished draining the Titansand—a dull, green colored material which really was heavier than anything Randall had ever felt. “When your sword was damaged, the quicksilver leaked out,” he explained. “Quicksilver and Titansand must be present in equal volume, according to the texts. I imagine the Titansand would keep moving about in the absence of quicksilver, but not in the intended fashion.”

  “And…do you have quicksilver?” Randall asked, having heard only that the stuff was noxious and extremely hazardous to one’s health.

  “A small supply,” the smith replied. “More than enough to complete this task, rest assured.”

  “Ok…so what’s next?” Randall asked, feeling more anxious than he had in many, many weeks. For all he knew, Dan’Moread was being seriously injured by their delay. It was certainly a strange situation, but he was more than slightly concerned for the sword’s well-being.

  “You need to decide on a grip,” the smith replied, gesturing to a bench on the far side of the room. “There are only two options, so it shouldn’t be a hard choice.”

  Randall went to the bench and saw two piles of material. One of them was a wood so dark it was almost black, with wild, swirling grain like nothing Randall had ever seen. The other pile was composed of literally one object: a long, horribly chipped tooth which clearly came from some kind of giant reptile.

  “Is this…” he said in awe as he picked up the tooth, which was far lighter than it appeared.

  “Aye,” Yorys replied as he came over, “that’s genuine dragon’s tooth, just like the name on the door.”

  Randall had to tear his eyes from it to look at the other material. “And that?”

  “Heartwood of the Eucanus tree,” the smith replied. “They’re the only known materials that will fuse to star metal; everything else comes off after a time, or warps, or degrades faster than it ought to.”

  “What’s the price difference?” Randall asked in wonder, still marveling at holding a genuine dragon’s tooth in his hands.

  “What do you care?” the smith asked conspiratorially with a knowing wink. “The real question is: which one will serve you better? Now, the Eucanus wood is a fine material, no doubts there; most knights would be lucky to have such for their grips since it provides good traction for metal gauntlets. But the dragon’s tooth,” he said, emphasizing the words like a well-practiced salesman, “now that’s an elegant solution. It provides good traction with anything—metal, leather, or even bare skin—and has the added benefit of being practically impervious to damage. It takes an enchanted weapon to carve a piece off, which tells you how durable it is.”

  “How much money are we talking?” Randall asked, more than a little concerned at the prohibitive cost which is always associated with ‘elegance.’

  Yorys shrugged. “The Eucanus will set you back five gold Unions; the dragon’s tooth is five bars.”

  “Five gold bars?!” Randall blurted. That was more than he had earned in his entire life!

  The smith nodded. “There’s only maybe two more hilts worth of material in that tooth, and Hostettler’s raised the price to preserve the forge’s namesake. Without the tooth, he loses his biggest edge over the competition,” he said pointedly.

  Randall snickered as he realized the other man’s real intentions. “You want to level the field for when you set up shop across the street,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Yorys gave him a lopsided grin. “What can I say; I’m a businessman.”

  Randall contemplated the choice, and seriously considered going with the Eucanus wood. But then he remembered Phinjo’s haughty demeanor, and his eyes narrowed. “Dragon’s tooth, it is,” he said, handing it to the other man.

  “Great; I’ll carve off the pieces with your sword’s tip and you can go about styling it how you like—if you’re an engraver, that is. If not, you can have it done later. And then,” the smith got a glint in his eye as he picked up the rest of the star metal from the pouch, as well as the filings Randall had ground from Dan’Moread’s tang, “I’ll build the crosspiece.”

  The sun had risen high in the sky outside, but Randall stayed at Dan’Moread’s side throughout the process. The smith had suggested that even if he didn’t want to engrave the dragon’s tooth grip plates, he should still ‘rough them up’ with the sword’s tip, to provide better friction.

  So he absently worked at the dragon’s tooth, which was harder than it would seem even with Dan’Moread’s razor-sharp tip to help. But he was grateful that the material was so hard—it decreased the likelihood that he might damage the precious material.

  His mind wandered in the poorly lit smithy, as he considered the path he had taken to arrive in this place. Just a few weeks earlier he had been living a life he had thought to be inescapable, and now he was here, in a city he had barely even heard of and trying to be of some small service to someone who had already done more for him than anyone save his mother and best friends.

  It was a sobering thought, that Dan’Moread had risked so much on his behalf, and he knew that it was unlikely he could ever really repay that debt.

  Randall stopped his whittling as a startling thought came to him: Dan’Moread was more than just an ally, or a comrade in arms—as though Randall had any experience with such a martial relationship. No, Randall realized that the sword had become one of his most trusted friends…and it took him more than a few minutes of quiet reflection to realize what that meant. He wasn’t really doing this to repay a debt; he was doing it to help a friend, just like he had tried to help Yordan and Ellie before leaving Three Rivers.

  So he sat in silent contemplation while Yorys shaped the crosspiece with delicate, precise blows of his tiny, rounded hammer. Randall whittled absently at the dragon’s tooth grip plates which would soon adorn Dan’Moread’s new hilt.

  Chapter XXXVIII: The Trail Ends

  Midday 18-0-6-659

  Hale marched into Greystone decked out in his resplendent armor, which was impervious to the bitter, northern cold. His horse—the fourth he had used since leaving Three Rivers—had died earlier that morning, and he had decided to make the rest of the journey on foot.

  As soon as he was within site of the city itself, he focused on the spell which would activate his armor’s short-range communications abilities. Only another Federation officer of sufficient rank would possess a method of receiving and replying to his signal, so he sent out the message indicating that he was in the area, having operated in stealth until that point.

  Almost immediately his call was answered and a man’s image appeared within Hale’s helmet. “What brings the Senatorial Guard this far afield of the Capitol?” the man asked.

  “Name and rank,” Hale growled. He had no time for pleasantries; he had tracked his quarry to this place and knew he was only days behind him. He would not be distracted from his task.

  The man’s visage hardened, and Hale knew the other was not used to being dealt with in such a blunt fashion. Too bad for him, Hale thought with smug satisfaction.

  “I am Graendol,” the man replied, “Federation Ambassador to the state of Greystone and Master of the Second Tier. Who, precisely, are you?”

  “Hale, Hound of Senator Vendo,” he replied, putting more rasp into his voice than he normally did, causing the Ambassador to flinch slightly. Hale loved to make ‘powerful’ men squirm, and was well-please
d that his reputation preceded him.

  “We are indeed honored to receive such a loyal…agent of the Purity Council’s ranking Senator,” Graendol said, and Hale took the man’s barb for what it was but ignored it. Hale knew his role in the world was as Senator Vendo’s attack dog; that others knew him for what he was simply paved the way for him to do what he did.

  “There’s a fugitive in Greytone,” Hale said as he marched through the gates, receiving hard looks from the guards stationed there as he did so. His voice was contained by his helmet at this time, so the Greystone guards heard none of his exchange with the Ambassador. “He arrived yesterday or the day before—”

  “And he carries an article of contraband which the Purity Council desires returned to the Capitol with all haste,” Ambassador Graendol interrupted with a knowing nod. “I have seen him.”

  Hale’s eyes narrowed as he made his way down the main street, eliciting sharp looks of rebuke from the residents as he did so. “Your work in this place is atrocious,” he rebuked after seeing a small group of half-elves walking the street with weapons proudly displayed, acting like the equals of the pureblood humans around them. “These animals should never be allowed to walk among us.”

  “I live to serve the will of the Federation,” the Ambassador smoothly retorted, “and it is the will of the Senate that this place retain some small measure of autonomy. In any event, while your arrival is somewhat later than would have been ideal, we can still salvage this situation if we move quickly.”

  Hale pushed past a particularly arrogant half-elf, who wisely kept his mouth shut at the passage of the heavily armored Senatorial Guard. In Hale’s current mood, he would have enjoyed nothing more than scooping the foolish boy’s eyes from his head.

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Hale spat as his lips curled in a snarl. “Suggest dominion over me again and my priorities will change—both quickly and briefly, after which this place will need a new Federation envoy. Where is the fugitive?”