Geneve didn’t know why she felt angry. Since leaving the partnership of her fellow Knights, she’d felt… off balance. Like the ground beneath her feet swayed, or she’d taken too much summer wine. The colors seemed different, and her heart was confused about true north. It kept telling her there was something wrong with the Tresward, and it also told her the Tresward protected her. It’d taken her in when there were no other options. Knights fought the scourges of the world. Their Light kept the darkness at bay. Geneve glanced sideways at Armitage. Darkness like the Vhemin. That was the problem, really. Here she was, sharing the trail with a killer. She’d seen Armitage fight. He was no stranger to violence. He spoke its language. By the Three, he whispered sweet nothings into murder’s cold ear. Such a thing was far Read More …

Meriwether ran after the others until his side hurt. He didn’t look back. The pursuing Knights would make it or they wouldn’t. Looking wouldn’t change anything and seeing the smoke creatures on his heels would just make his last moments more terrifying. Troubles trotted along at his side, and he thought he sensed something snide in the horse’s sideways glances. He imagined her thinking, Is this the best you can do? His cloak billowed free of his head in the rush, but it didn’t matter. A little sunburn wasn’t the thing likely to kill him right this moment. He saw Armitage lead the group up a sand dune, their menagerie of horses in tow. Geneve kept an effortless pace on his heels, but the cat was plain annoying. Sight of Day loped along like the speed of both human and Vhemin was glacial. Read More …

Meriwether felt uneasy, a sick, queasy feeling that seemed to go further than his belly. It seeped unto his diaphragm, making it hard to breathe, and tickled his heart, causing his blood to pound in his ears. Knights are coming.  “This is bullshit,” he offered. Sight of Day nodded, golden eyes sympathetic. His right hand moved, fingers up, then splaying down as if tossing something vile on the ground. Geneve ran a weary hand through red hair. “He says it’s bullshit, too.” The special flavor of bullshit was Armitage’s plan. He wanted to run them close to the dead city, drawing out some of its guardians, if they still lived. Not so close they’d get sick, but close enough to wake the sleeping dead. He was fairly sure, runt, that they could stay ahead of whatever they stirred up, leaving the guardians in Read More …

Wincuf’s Trial was like any other: bloody. All were different, except for two things. The Novice must fight fifty peers and must also destroy their tree. There were no rules within those two constraints. Tradition said the Novice selected their foes. They would normally pick the biggest opponents to prove their worth to the Three. Wincuf chose forty-nine opponents before his last: Geneve. That was why she stood in ill-fitting armor along with forty-nine others, waiting to cut Wincuf down. Wincuf didn’t have to beat them. He just had to survive. Get through them out the gates at the end, and then a clean run to his tree. That was the rule. It was the end of his Trial; two days passed with grueling physical tests. Geneve watched as he’d been kept without sleep. Waterboarded and beaten. If the Storm Read More …

The plague lands. Some called them a desert, others a misery, but all people agreed: if you stepped on the sands, your life was forfeit. Geneve knew she might be able to walk the blasted steppes. The Light in all Knights kept them safe from disease and most of the ravages of time, but the sands were forbidden to all. No Knights came back from trying to cross them. The Tresward Great Library held no clues as to what lay in the middle. All maps ended at the border of such areas with a simple word: DANGER. The world was littered with plague lands. Vast stretches of scorched ground from the time of the ancients. Most were hundreds of klicks across, and without water or a horse, survival seemed tricky. Armitage snorted at her concerns. You’ve never had a guide with balls, is all. Read More …

Meriwether now wore good, sensible clothes that he’d not be seen dead in under normal circumstances. My circumstances haven’t been normal for most of my life. So, they’d do. His pants were rugged, and he’d found a sweater of good wool. Mice made a home in it and appeared a little upset he evicted them. It was warm and dry, and he felt like he might get some heat back in his bones before day’s end. Even better, his new clothes didn’t smell like straw. The scarecrow shirt he left behind after making a new home for the mice with it. Boots and a cloak completed the image. The boots were trying to be black, the cloak edging toward red, and all in he felt he looked like a hobo, and that was fine. He pretty much was, just eating better Read More …