Between White and Grey (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt: Origins Book 1)

  Between White and Grey

  by

  Caleb Wachter

  Copyright © 2014 by Caleb Wachter

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Respect my electronic rights because the money you save today will be the book I can't afford to write for you tomorrow.

  Other books by Caleb Wachter

  SPHEREWORLD NOVEL SERIES

  Joined at the Hilt: Union

  SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVELLAS

  Admiral's Lady: Eyes of Ice, Heart of Fire

  Books by my Brother:

  Luke Sky Wachter

  As of 04-19-2014

  SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES

  Admiral Who?

  Admiral's Gambit

  Admiral's Tribulation

  Admiral's Trial

  Admiral’s Revenge

  RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES

  The Blooding

  RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS

  The Boar Knife

  Visit www.PacificCrestPublishing.com for more information.

  Be sure to stop by the blog at blog.PacificCrestPublishing.com for updates.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Foreword

  The Turning of the Grey

  Chapter I: A Grey Storm

  Chapter II: Politics and Privilege

  Chapter III: The Path Least Taken

  Chapter IV: Steel, Stone, and Lesser Things

  Chapter V: Gratitude

  Chapter VI: The Hollow Mountain

  Chapter VII: A Clash of White and Grey

  Chapter VIII: Healing Old Wounds

  Author’s Foreword—Please Read!

  This book was originally written as an Origins volume, to cover the events at Mount Gamour three years prior to Dan’Moread’s fateful trip into Three Rivers. I encourage readers to read Union, Book One of the Joined at the Hilt series, prior to reading this Origins entry, Between White and Grey. But if you’re after a quick story that’s packed with action, then reading this entry first shouldn’t compromise your overall experience too much.

  There are, however, a couple of rather significant character ‘reveals’ in Union which will have significantly less impact when you do decide to read that novel, if you should choose to read this novella first. But for some of you, doing it that way might actually enhance the experience.

  Some of us hate surprises, and some of us love them. So my advice would be this: if you like surprises, reading Union first is probably for you. If you don’t much care for surprises, go ahead and start with this novella before reading Book One of Joined at the Hilt.

  Enjoy!

  P.S.—I’ll be adding several Origins stories like this one to the series as time goes by, which will cover the period of time between the end of this novella and the beginning of Union. So don’t worry about the time gap between books; I’ll be filling in the blanks later.

  Like the evil clown once said, “It’s all part of the plan.”

  The Turning of the Grey

  There was a time ‘tween gods and men; Of friendship’s loins, and duty’s ken

  was made a pact ‘twixt Land and Sky; That good might live, and evil die.

  The First was born, a bitter thing; The Mother’s heart did feel the sting.

  She laid it rest beneath the rock; Its body wrapped in chain and lock.

  The Second and Third shared sorrow’s womb; Came forth to heal their Mother’s wound.

  But flawed and weak, they were unfit; By Father’s hammer they were split.

  The Second lost, so long ago; The Third was broken, and remade so:

  Came Seven Sons, made all of White; With Father’s charge: to bring the Light.

  To the Sisters Seven, Grey of hair; Their Mother’s word: be Wise and Fair.

  For seven Nights and seven Days; Fourteen, united, showed the way.

  Until their Mother’s light gone out; Makes Sisters seethe and Brothers shout.

  The Family broken ends an age; Now Sisters plot and Brothers rage.

  Blindly carrying Father’s will; the Brothers seek for blood to spill.

  The Sisters’ counsel is silent kept; Their Mother’s word is deemed inept.

  So now the tale of those who would; have guided men and with them stood,

  against the darkness and brought the Light; foretells the birth of an Endless Night.

  Without their guidance, strong and just; we stand alone…but stand we must.

  Unattributed

  Chapter I: A Grey Storm

  From the corner of her wielder’s eye, Dan’Moread saw the White Knight swung Rimidalv the White Blade in a broad, sweeping arc which severed a Stormborn warrior’s leg at the thigh, sending the painted warrior crashing to the ground in a heap.

  Rimidalv then tore through the next man with his wielder’s follow-through, burying his edge in the man’s hip and eliciting a scream of agony as he, too, crashed to the ground while the stone hammer in his hands fell to the stones with a thunk.

  Covering the White Knight’s flank, Dan’Moread star metal blade flashed through the air in the last rays of the setting sun and the Stormborn standing before her fell, as both he and his pitifully-forged weapon were torn asunder by her wrath.

  We are nearly through them, she cried with savage glee as she parried an incoming spear thrust against her edge, while another glanced off her wielder’s heavy, iron greaves. The actions of her wielder’s body during combat were wholly directed by her, and she relished every opportunity to prove the worth of her mettle—and the metal from which she had been crafted.

  Do not become overconfident, Rimidalv barked as his wielder pirouetted far more gracefully than Dan’Moread had believed possible given the bulky, white steel armor for which the White Knights were known. Following the graceful spin, Rimidalv tore through the armor of the Stormborn before him, burying himself clear to the parrying hook set tipward from his immaculate, white ricasso. The Storm Lord will not yield the gates to his domain so easily. Conserve your strength, Dan’Moread; it will be needed when we reach the mountain itself.

  Rimidalv’s and Dan’Moread’s wielders were unable to hear the exchange between the two enchanted weapons, as their dialogue took a form which mortal ears could not detect. She kicked her wielder’s foot forward at the nearest spear-wielder’s knee, and was satisfied when her opponent’s joint locked up and the man screamed in pain. She drove her tip through his throat, silencing his screams in a gurgling fountain of blood. We do not tire so easily, Rimidalv, she quipped confidently. There was nothing like the thrill of battle, and with so many foes arrayed against them this was easily the most fighting she could remember seeing in a day. But perhaps you should see to your own wielder; your movements seem to have slowed.

  As if to punctuate her point, Dan’Moread brought her wielder’s off-hand to her hilt and spun in a wide arc, severing the head of a nearby axe—incidentally removing its wielder’s arm at the elbow—before kneeing that wielder in the midsection with her wielder’s ironclad legs. The Stormborn fell before her fury, and she ended his suffering with a quick, downward stroke to the back of his skull.

  Ending the lives of their enemies was a necessary act, and one which she did not shy away from. But ‘Dan’Moread’ was not only her name—it was also her purpose. ‘Dan’ was from the old Ghaevlian for ‘Blade’ or ‘Sword,’ while ‘Moread’ meant ‘To Sunder’ or ‘Breaker,’ depending on the context. Oddly, ‘Dan’Moread’ was also the phonetic twin of th
e Yirvukanian for ‘First Daughter,’ for which there was no written term since the Yirvukanians had no use for transcribed documents of any kind, owing to their race’s lack of eyesight.

  So while she would slay their foes without hesitation, her true preference was for breaking their weapons. A weaponless foe was a helpless foe, and she took great pleasure in destroying an enemy’s ability to inflict suffering.

  My wielder knows when to rest, Rimidalv growled as the White Knight gripped Rimidalv’s ricasso just behind his exquisite parrying hook and blocked an incoming flail with his foible. With feet firmly planted, the White Knight pivoted hard, wrenching the flail from its wielders hand as Rimidalv’s pommel was smashed into the heavily-armored Stormborn’s eye socket, dropping him in a quivering, boneless heap as his body came to grips with its own demise. And also when to call upon allies, Rimidalv added pointedly.

  There was a loud, piercing fanfare as a chorus of trumpets and bugles sounded from behind the two warriors. Dan’Moread did not need to look to see the approaching Greystone warriors riding to their aid. Or, to be more precise, they were closing the trap on the band of Stormborn which she and Rimidalv—with the aid of their wielders—had cornered in the blind ravine.

  The Stormborn began to retreat in the face of the charging Greystone warriors, so she stayed her wrath for a moment to converse with her wielder. How are you faring?, she asked him privately, utilizing the long-held telepathic link she had forged with the man since their union so many years earlier.

  Despite her boasting with Rimidalv, Dan’Moread had become acutely aware that her wielder’s limbs were fatigued to the point it had hindered their movements. The only thing she cared for more than hunting down the followers of the accursed Storm Lord—whose aim seemed to be nothing short of the absolute annihilation of everyone and everything in their world—was the well-being of her wielder.

  “I’m fine, Dan’Moread,” he replied promptly, and though she would have liked to believe him, she knew he was simply trying to be supportive of her desire to continue the fight.

  Conserve your wielder’s strength, Rimidalv advised as he hung back while the score of mounted Greystone warriors—along with a hundred infantryman—cornered the remnants of the Stormborn raiding party and began the gruesome task of putting them down. We will need him fit for battle when we arrive at the mountain.

  Feeling a surge of resentment toward no one in particular, Dan’Moread reluctantly decided that the White Blade was correct. With no immediate threats to their safety in sight, she relinquished control of her wielder’s body and her senses seemed to diminish. She still saw and heard everything her wielder did, but somehow it was all less…vivid.

  You have fought well today, she said appreciatively. Unlike before, she spoke only to her wielder now, while she assumed Rimidalv did likewise with his.

  “I did no such thing,” he quipped as he leaned against a nearby rock on wobbly legs. “This was all your doing,” he gestured to the bodies littered around them.

  Nonsense, she retorted patiently, it was your diligent preparation for today that made this victory possible. The White Blade could not have done this alone, and we could not have aided him as we did without your constant efforts to improve your physical conditioning.

  “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 regardless of age.

  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. Most painfully of all…she knew it was because of her that they would soon 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 attend.”

  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 rather 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’s mountains—was surrounded by a dark, malignant ring of clouds. 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!”