“Well…perhaps,” he allowed. “I’ve never seen anything like what you two just did; Lady’s Grace, I’ve never even heard of anything like it!”
From the corner of her wielder’s eye, Dan’Moread saw a young, blond-haired star child approach the White Knight. Dan’Moread knew her to be the White Blade’s Squire, and the young woman took Rimidalv from the White Knight’s hands before assuming a position at his back and reverently carrying the White Blade behind the White Knight himself.
The towering figure of the White Knight approached, and after unfastening the impenetrable helmet—which had received more than a few blows during the battle—he rested the Templar-style headpiece under the crook of his arm. The face of the White Knight was lined with wrinkles, and he bore more than a few scars across his black, weathered features—but his green eyes burned with a youthful vigor that few men ever possessed.
His white beard, set against his dark, brown skin was striking—as was his shoulder-length, flowing white hair. After a moment’s pause, he thrust his gauntleted hand out toward Dan’Moread’s wielder.
Her wielder accepted the proffered hand, and the two stood in mutual silence for several moments before the White Knight grinned. “T’was a fine warm-up, was it not, Kanjin?”
Kanjin nodded as he released the White Knight’s grip. “It was at that, Ser Cavulus,” he agreed, and Dan’Moread was well pleased that her wielder and the White Knight seemed to get along so well. The bond she shared with Kanjin—her first human wielder—was a deep one that she had cherished for seven passages of The Judge. His happiness and well-being were more important to her than anything else, and she was proud that he had acquitted himself so well during their first true battle at the White Knight’s side.
Still, there was a truth about their bond which she had only recently learnt…and no matter how much she wished otherwise, Dan’Moread knew her time with Kanjin could not possibly last for another seven Judgments—and it was because of her that they would become separated.
“Yaerilys,” Ser Cavulus turned to address the young, beautiful star child who stood much taller than most of her kind, “perhaps this event should grace the canvas of mine pavilion—as a precursor to the final battle?”
The star child smiled and nodded. “Thou hast the right of it, Ser Cavulus; t’was a fine beginning to the Storm Lord’s end.”
“Indeed,” Ser Cavulus agreed before gesturing to an approaching figure, “but thine needlework can wait for a spell. Thou hast a reunion to complete.”
Yaerilys turned and her mouth opened in joyous surprise as the young human man approached with open arms. “Ravilich!” she cried, awkwardly trying to embrace him while still holding the White Blade before herself. After a few attempts, they managed to do so and avoid being cut by Rimidalv’s merciless, razor-sharp edge.
“I have returned, my love,” Ravilich said as he stroked her long, blond hair. “I will never leave your side again.”
They kissed passionately, and Dan’Moread felt a pang of envy as she knew she could never share the pure feeling which was mirrored in their eyes.
“Come, Kanjin,” Ser Cavulus gestured to an approaching column of riders, “I shall introduce thee to an old friend.”
Kanjin turned and followed the White Knight, who approached an imposing man wearing a helmet with a stag’s antlers affixed to its top. The banners flying behind him were black, with a powerful, grey stag standing atop a yellow mountain.
As they approached, Dan’Moread searched the crowd of faces for any signs of deception or ill will, but finding none she relaxed fractionally. I do not find cause for worry, Kanjin, she assured her wielder.
“Nor I,” he agreed as he sheathed her. “Thank you, Dan’Moread.”
Of course, she replied curtly.
“Ser Cavulus,” the man wearing the stag helmet called out, and his voice boomed throughout the ravine, “it has been too long.”
“Indeed it has, Lord Birchaud,” the White Knight agreed.
Birchaud held up a hand haltingly. “I am no longer ‘Lord’ Birchaud, old friend; merely the General of this army,” he waved his hand to encompass a massive, well-organized host of warriors marching at his back. Dan’Moread quickly estimated their number to be at three thousand—and each wore grey iron arms and armor about their persons. Such fine armaments more than doubled their effective strength, even compared to elite soldiery like that found in the southern armies of the so-called ‘Federation.’
Ser Cavulus cocked his head curiously. “Thy nephew…I hope all is well between thee,” he said cautiously.
Birchaud nodded grimly. “I’ll speak further on the matter after we’ve made camp. For now, know that House Greystone stands with you against the Storm Lord…even if our city cannot.”
Dan’Moread saw a bit of movement as a small, bay horse trotted to the front of the column to stand beside the General’s massive, black mount.
“Ah,” Birchaud gestured toward the small man, who Kanjin nodded courteously to before the newcomer did likewise, “allow me to introduce a friend of the Ghaevlian Nation.”
The man removed his helmet, and Dan’Moread could plainly see that he was a star child—although his face was covered with pigments and dyes to disguise his true nature, it was an obvious thing for her to discern. Being a sword, she was less impressed by outward appearances; the manner in which one carried his or herself was far more informative to her.
The disguised star child bowed to the White Knight respectfully. “I am called Tavleros, and have studied under the Towers Grey these past six years,” he said officiously. “I have come to lend my aid, if you will have me.”
“Any friend of the Nation is a friend of mine,” Ser Cavulus said with a gracious nod. “We shall have use of thy talents in the coming conflict, whatever they may be.”
Tavleros nodded curtly, and Dan’Moread watched from the edge of Kanjin’s sight as he rode ahead to the apparent campsite the army had chosen. Behind them, the great, towering peak of Mount Gamour—the tallest of the Binding Chain mountains—was surrounded by a dark ring of clouds, and those clouds rumbled with an unnatural thunder just as rain began to fall upon the Greystone soldiers.
General Birchaud stood up in his stirrups and turned his horse, to better address his host of grey iron-clad soldiers. “The bastard wants a storm, does he?” he bellowed, and his voice echoed throughout the valley as lightning split the sky above the mountain. “Let’s give him one: a grey storm!”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 48
