Chapter II: Politics and Privilege
Carrying Rimidalv before herself, as was befitting her post as the White Blade’s Squire, Yaerilys followed Ser Cavulus as they made their way into the tent of General Birchaud moments after it had been erected. The General dismissed the men who had erected the pavilion, and turned to face the White Knight.
“It’s been too long, Cavulus,” he said, and the two embraced briefly.
The White Blade, Rimidalv, had been invited to the meeting by General Birchaud and he had accepted, which meant that Yaerilys need also attend. When not joined in battle, or traveling in potentially dangerous areas, the White Blade insisted on being carried by his Squire. Why this was, Yaerilys did not know. But she had accepted the post years earlier and was honored to serve Rimidalv in any way the White Blade saw fit.
“Aye, Birchaud,” Ser Cavulus agreed after they broke apart, “the years have been kind to thee, I see.”
Birchaud snorted defiantly. “You always were a piss-poor liar,” he grunted before grinning. “But a finer swordsman I’ve never seen—and in Greystone we pride ourselves on matters martial, so I’d like to consider myself something of an expert.”
“Thou art too kind,” the White Knight bowed deeply. “But I owe all that I am, and all that I will be, to the White Blade,” he gestured to Rimidalv, who Yaerilys gripped tightly. “Without his guidance I would have departed this world long ago.”
Birchaud shook his head and sighed. “I’ll never understand it, but I believe you.”
There was a brief silence, after which Cavulus asked, “Art thou and thy nephew at odds? I had expected to see thy house’s proud fist flying above thy soldiers, not…” he gestured to the stag emblem emblazoned on Birchaud’s breastplate, “whatever that is.”
Birchaud looked down at his breastplate pointedly. “My nephew has a shrewd mind for politics,” he explained tersely, “but even with Phinjo’s counsel, he can’t win every fight the Federation brings to him.”
Cavulus cocked his head in obvious confusion, and Yaerilys’ mind turned to the political situation in these northern lands. She knew that Greystone was the last autonomous city-state in the Federation’s northlands, and that the relationship between House Greystone—which had founded and led the city for nearly a thousand years—and the Federation was often tense. But she knew little of specifics, having never spent any great amount of time within the breathtaking Crown of The North, as the city was often affectionately – and defiantly – referred to by its populace.
Clearly seeing the White Knight’s confusion, Birchaud sighed. “Our House swore an oath to protect the Binding Chain mountains and its people long before my grandfather bent knee to the Federation,” he said, his voice turning hard as he continued, “and no ambassador—regardless of whatever piece of paper he waves about—will stop us from doing just that.”
Ser Cavulus’ eyes closed slowly as a look of understanding crossed his face, but Yaerilys was still confused. “Thou hast rebelled against thy nephew,” he whispered.
“That I have,” Birchaud agreed grimly. “Of course, he was gracious enough to give us a two day head start…and to neglect mentioning my impending ‘treason’ to a dozen of our best bannermen before they’d sworn their troops to my command,” he added with a wry grin. “Damned Federation thinks they’re so smart,” he scoffed as a young man bearing a pitcher and mugs came into the tent and began filling them with frothy ale.
The boy offered each of the trio a cup but Yaerilys had to decline. Rimidalv was explicit in requiring his Squire to be clear-headed during times of conflict, and she followed the White Blade without question. After she had declined, the young man scurried out of the tent.
When both Cavulus and Birchaud had emptied their mugs, the General continued seriously, “Greystone would never abandon the Binding Chain—especially not to a madman like this so-called ‘Storm Lord.’ My nephew sends you his personal regards, however. He would have come in my stead if I’d let him, but seniority has precious few privileges,” he cracked another grin as he continued, “and I wasn’t about to let him come and take the glory while I sat court and listened to the insufferable mewlings of that blasted Graendal.”
“Thou always wert a man of action,” Ser Cavulus agreed. “But how will thou return to Greystone after the battle is finished? Surely the ambassador will demand thy submission upon thy return?”
Birchaud nodded knowingly as he poured himself another mug of ale, doing likewise for the White Knight before replying in a low, serious voice and gesturing toward Mount Gamour through the tent flap, “That cloud isn’t the only storm brewing in these lands, Cavulus. I can’t get to details…but after this bastard who would darken the world for a thousand Judgments has been put down, I won’t be returning to Greystone.”
Tell him that I would lend my edge to his cause if he would ask it, Rimidalv instructed Yaerilys telepathically. House Greystone has long been an honorable defender of these lands, and their perpetual mistreatment at the hands of the Federation does not go unnoticed by The White. After the Storm Lord falls, they may call upon me however they see fit.
Yaerilys stepped forward unthinkingly as she repeated, “Rimidalv would lend thee his edge; thou needs but ask for it. He admires House Greystone’s honor in defense of this land, and the abuse thy house has suffered has not gone unnoticed by The White. When the Storm Lord is defeated, thou may call upon him as thou sees fit.”
The General nodded slowly before settling his eyes on Rimidalv. “I thank him—you, for the offer,” he began somewhat awkwardly, “but House Greystone will deal with its own affairs.”
The offer stands, Rimidalv said before once again going silent.
“The White Blade wishes thee to know that thou dost not need accept his offer now,” Yaerilys said before stepping back and clutching the cold, white steel of Rimidalv’s hilt and ricasso as she held the White Blade close to her chest.
“Fine,” Birchaud allowed graciously before turning back to Cavulus, “now, to the business at hand; we’ve got a siege to plan.”
As Kanjin made his way into the General’s tent there were at least two dozen men gathered around a sturdy, if hastily-constructed, desk upon which was a map of the region and dozens of small figurines.
While her wielder focused on the table itself, Dan’Moread was assessing the panoply of each assembled member of the war council—or whatever they called it in these lands—and was more than slightly dismayed to find only two enchanted weapons among them: a finely made mace of pure, grey iron, and a wicked-looking axe forged in the shape of a demonic visage.
Of course, neither of those weapons was sentient. In fact, to Dan’Moread’s knowledge, Rimidalv and his brother White Blades were the only other ‘living’ weapons in the entire world. It was this shared trait which had formed the basis of her relationship with the White Blade over the past months, and while she found aspects of his personality to be less than ideal, it seemed as though his intentions were pure.
Speaking only to Rimidalv as her wielder, Kanjin, made his respects to the council leaders, Dan’Moread asked, Have they deliberated sufficiently?
No, the White Blade replied in a sour tone, they argue incessantly over the best approach to the Storm Lord’s gates. I have kept silent thus far, but my patience wears thin.
Focusing on the conversation at the table, Dan’Moread heard the General shout, “We don’t have time for a conventional siege!” He thumped his massive warhammer on the table emphatically, bringing the din of argument down considerably. “By the time the trenches have been dug and siege weapons constructed, that madman may have darkened the sun!”
“General,” interjected a short, powerfully built man bearing the crest of a crescent moon split by an axe on his breastplate, “we can’t charge headlong at his walls. The approach to his fortress is too narrow, and our scouts report at least a dozen trebuchets adorning his walls—which is to say nothing of whatever foul magics he can bring to the fight. A c
lassic siege approach is the only one which guarantees a fight on even footing,” he finished in an unyielding, yet reasonably respectful tone.
The fools tremble in fear of magic, Rimidalv scoffed. They hide behind cowardice and clothe it in the word ‘caution.’
They are not as we are, Rimidalv, Dan’Moread reminded him. Our purposes are clear: to do battle with those who would stand against what we hold dear. For them this battle represents but one aspect of who they are and what they live for.
If one will not fight for what one holds sacred, then one does not deserve the gift of life, Rimidalv retorted. Life in any form is nothing but battle; these whining children should have stayed behind their own walls if they only meant to shy away at the precipice of that for which they marched.
“General Birchaud,” Dan’Moread heard Ser Cavulus call out in his rich, commanding tone, and the rest of the war council ceased their bickering immediately.
“Yes, Ser Cavulus,” the General acknowledged tersely before taking a short breath and continuing more evenly, “you have a contribution?”
I will end this insufferable dickering here and now, Rimidalv said coldly as his wielder approached the table.
“The Storm Lord has fewer than one thousand at his command, correct?” the White Knight asked of the short man with the split crescent emblem. When he nodded, Cavulus continued, “And with a dozen trebuchets arrayed against us it would be…unfortunate to lose so many of our own to their barrage on approach. Therefore, I will penetrate the fortress and disable the trebuchets, after which time the grey host can fall upon the fortress and bring these traitors to heel, as is thy purpose.”
There was a round of quiet murmurs at the table, and Dan’Moread was surprised to find most of the men nodding their heads in agreement. It would seem that Rimidalv understands these men better than I would have liked to admit, she thought to herself with a hint of annoyance at his condescension proving justified.
“How can you gain access to the fortress?” a tall, lean star child asked. His armor was bronze, and it bore the emblem of a warthog skewered by a trident. “Even a star child would have difficulty with such sheer, slick stone.”
The star child named Tavleros, who wore simple robes of yellow and grey, stepped forward and interjected smoothly, “My talents might assist in that endeavor; I would gladly accompany the White Knight on this mission.”
Cavulus nodded in agreement. “Thou hast my thanks,” he said graciously.
“I would also join the raid,” Kanjin stepped forward, filling Dan’Moread with a sense of pride in her wielder’s courage at needing no prompting to do so. She would not have asked him to do so, knowing that she had already cost him more than she could ever hope to repay, but she hoped that she could bring him honor in the battle to come.
“Fine,” General Birchaud nodded gruffly as a fire entered his eyes. “You disable the trebuchets and we’ll storm the gates; I want this bastard’s head on a pike before the Judge ascends.”
Dan’Moread, whose very essence was somehow linked to the passage of the moons themselves, knew that the Judge was less than three days from its ascension. She knew little of siege warfare, but she suspected gaining victory over such a well-fortified enemy would take longer than three days, especially considering they still had a half day’s march to reach the fortress itself.
“If we can,” Ser Cavulus added, jabbing a finger down to the depiction of the Storm Lord’s fortress, “we shall unbar those gates for thee as well. But the White Blade’s mission here is the defeat of the Storm Lord; should the matter come to a crossroads, thou must know which path I will take.”
Birchaud straightened himself and visibly puffed his chest out—which to Dan’Moread seemed a very strange thing to do since it actually weakened his stance and set his center of gravity too far back to be tactically advantageous—and grinned, “You disable those trebuchets and I’ll pound a fresh door through those fakestone walls if I have to!” He brought his hammer up high before bringing it down on the model of the fortress, smashing it a pile of dust and pebbles.
The men in the tent gave a loud, bellowing cry and Dan’Moread knew they were finally ready to do what they had come to do.
I am proud to fight in your hand, Dan’Moread said to Kanjin alone. The world will remember the day that together we smote this would-be destroyer.
Kanjin nodded as Ser Cavulus left the tent, and Dan’Moread’s wielder made to follow him. “Be sure to tell tales of it after I’m gone,” he quipped with a grin.
If Dan’Moread had a heart, she was fairly certain it would have been pierced by his words. She knew that Kanjin’s easy nature and positive outlook did not permit him to dwell on the harsh consequence of having joined with Dan’Moread, but that did not prevent her from feeling bitter enough for both of them.
Kanjin, she began, pausing before continuing with more than a note of sorrow in her voice, if I could undo what has happened—
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Dan’Moread,” he replied lightly. “When I met you I was nothing; the raiders had destroyed my family’s farm and I had already decided to end my own life.”
Kanjin, please—she began, but he continued in spite of her protestation.
“When I jumped from the edge of the Great Dam I thought I would die beneath that icy deluge,” he said softly, careful to keep his words from being overheard. “You saved me from drowning in that water…and I refuse to believe we were brought together by chance. I owe my life to you, and have no issue with that payment being extracted now—even if it isn’t by your conscious design. I only hope we can serve the people of this world before…”
Kanjin, Dan’Moread said more harshly than she would have liked, I do not care for the people of this world; I care only for you. If you would have us go to a warm place where you can live out your final days in peace and comfort, then I would cut down anyone who stood between us and that place. You could even sell me to pay—
“Sell you?!” Kanjin blurted before shaking his head sternly. “You’re the only friend I have; what good are peace and comfort if they can’t be shared with friends? No,” he said adamantly, “what I want is to free these people from the Storm Lord’s reign of terror. I have no right to ask you to help me do that, but if you choose to do so I would consider it the best gift I could receive.”
Feeling herself almost swell with purpose, Dan’Moread was able to briefly dispel the sadness she felt at knowing her wielder was going to die because of her. Then I will carve through the mountain itself to reach him if that is required.
“Thank you, Dan’Moread,” he said as he hurried to catch Ser Cavulus, who had been joined by Rimidalv’s Squire, Yaerilys, after she had shared an intimate embrace with Ravilich.
You need never thank me, Kanjin, she replied. If she were physically equipped to do so, she was certain she would have cried for several hours after that. But she resigned herself to mere silence as the six of them—four people and two blades—made their way toward the Storm Fort under the cover of darkness.
Chapter III: The Path Least Taken
Standing at the base of a jagged, hundred foot tall cliff face located well to the north of the Storm Fort, Yaerilys had little faith in their group’s ability to scale the dangerous surface. But she had seen the White Knight do impossible things with Rimidalv’s help, so she wisely kept her doubts to herself.
She missed Ravilich, and was pained by only being able to share a few short hours with him, but she knew that when the battle was over there would be ample time to conduct a proper…reunion.
Just the thought of taking Ravilich in her arms again, after months of separation, was enough to fill her belly with a fire she was certain would stave off even the coldest of winters.
“The crags are narrow; it will be a difficult climb,” observed Cavulus, to which Kanjin nodded his assent. Yaerilys found herself broken from her private thoughts as she refocused on the task at hand. “I cannot ask thee to risk thyself in this affair,�
� the White Knight said gravely to the other man before turning to face the star child, Tavleros, who had been completely silent for the seven hours they had traveled to this place. “Nor can I vouchsafe thy safety, star child.”
Tavleros grinned, and Yaerilys was more than slightly unnerved at the man’s expression. It seemed as though he knew a great secret which he was reluctant to share, and the expression only broadened as he stepped forward. “A climb is only as dangerous as one makes it,” he quipped as he rolled his head from side to side, eliciting a series of popping sounds as he did so. “I, myself, have never possessed much appetite for risk-taking; it all seems so…unnecessary.”
He turned to Yaerilys as he unslung a rope from over his shoulder. It was of finer make than anything Yaerilys had ever seen, and lighter as well, which she learned only after he had unexpectedly tossed it to her.
While she gave him a questioning look, Tavleros gestured to the rope. “Do you know your knots?” he asked with a grin.
“I grew up on the northernmost shores of the Rydian,” she quipped, very much certain she disliked this other man’s attitude. “I have forgotten more knots than thou hast learnt.”
“Good,” Tavleros said as his eyes flashed, and for a brief moment Yaerilys was certain she smelled honey wine—the kind her mother used to brew for father on special occasions.
But before she could discern the source of the smell, her feet left the ground and she was whisked up into the air with frightening speed toward the rock-face. The ledge some hundred feet above the ground where she had stood came into focus, and no sooner had she gotten her nerves under control than she found her feet touching down on the dry, reasonably flat surface of the ledge itself.
Casting a dire look down at Tavleros, Yaerilys untied the knot keeping the rope coiled and looped one end around a large, reasonably smooth chunk of rock. Once it was anchored there, she ran the rest of the line around another boulder before lowering the free end to the group below.
Between White and Grey (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt: Origins Book 1) Page 2
