Blade of Glass: Chapter 14

When the Vhemin came, they weren’t gentle. Meriwether hadn’t expected any special dispensation, but he also hadn’t expected a kick in the guts to wake him up. He curled over his pain, retching. As he spasmed, he clutched his pole, knocking his forehead against it.

The Vhemin towering above him laughed. “Get up, tiny human.” He was, like the rest of his kind, ugly as the sins Meriwether was accused of. And, let’s be honest, I’m guilty of as of a few hours ago.

Meriwether groaned, rolled onto his knees, and with an effort found his feet. He watched as Israel and Vertiline stood. The Vhemin cut the bonds at their feet, and if they noticed their re-tied nature, frayed ends, or looseness they made no comment.

Hands bound, cumbersome poles fouling their movements, the prisoners shuffled out of their cell. Vhemin crowded on all sides, a musky scent rolling from them. Not the rankness of stale sweat, but something almost like nutmeg, if you mixed it with a little ass. He eyed one close to him, trying not to draw attention to himself. That scaly skin reflected no light, but it also showed no moisture. I guess that makes sense. I don’t remember seeing snakes sweat either. 

The Vhemin led the three into a large chamber. It was twenty meters a side, following a line of steps down toward an altar at the end. At least, it looked like an altar, but not to the Three. Plain gray stone, thankfully unadorned with the ugly stain of blood. A mirror sat atop it, but not a very good one. It glinted but gave nothing back to the torches set in the walls except blurred, ruddy smudges. The mirror was, while not good at its prime function, impressive: Meriwether judged its oval shape to be seven meters tall and three wide, and just the kind of thing that made you think of a huge, vertically slitted Vhemin snake eye.

The chamber had a suspended balcony above on the left wall, with another entrance there. Meriwether gauged the height to be three meters. Too high to jump, even if he wouldn’t be cut down by angry Vhemin before making it five steps. This might have been a theater at one time, the balcony a private area for those paying with platinum solars instead of copper barons, but no one stood there now. Except, of course, most theaters weren’t buried in a mountain with an altar at one end.

Before the please-be-a-mirror-and-not-an-eye stood a Vhemin robed in dirty rags. Might be the one he’d seen earlier. The robed asshole held a book, old and ratty, the please-don’t-be-human-skin-leather cover worn smooth. Meriwether froze, fear momentarily taking hold of his feet. His belly felt cold, and he wanted to turn and run. The Vhemin beside him grabbed Meriwether’s arm with a massive hand. “Keep moving.”

“I was just taking in the majesty.”

The Vhemin eyed him suspiciously. “You follow the dark masters?”

“To be honest, I find all gods to be huge assholes.” Meriwether stiffened. “Please don’t hit me.”

The Vhemin laughed, then hustled Meriwether along. “I like you, tiny human. I hope the demons aren’t too hungry today.”

Through the brief exchange, Israel and Vertiline continued down the wide steps, making a sizable lead. Israel glanced back. Meriwether shook his head. Not yet. He put one foot down a step, then cocked his head, listening. “You hear that?”

The Vhemin growled. “Hear what?”

“Sounded like…” Meriwether frowned. “It sounded like someone screaming. But a long way away.”

“Probably a prisoner.” The Vhemin continued down, dragging Meriwether like an unwilling and not very effective anchor. Israel and Vertiline’s gap between them grew, and Meriwether didn’t hate that. It meant that whatever was happening with the altar, mirror, book, and what was probably a High Priest at one end would happen to the Knights first. 

Another scream sounded, this time clear enough for all to hear. The High Priest glanced up the steps, then shrugged. They must cause a lot of people to scream to be this relaxed about it. The priest opened his book, thumbing through the pages, before turning to the mirror and setting the book aside. He cast his arms wide, the robe falling away from arms so muscled it looked like a walnut convention. Probably give Israel a run for his money.

The High Priest began to chant, that rough Vhemin throat speaking words in a language Meriwether didn’t recognize. The mirror shifted, a ripple going through the metal surface.

Another scream sounded, this one not far at all. The Vhemin holding Meriwether glanced up toward the balcony, then back to his captive. “That sounded close.”

Meriwether nodded. “You keep prisoners nearby?”

“No.” The Vhemin looked uncertain. The main body of his fellows huddled about Israel and Vertiline ahead. The mirror swayed, discoloring to a dark, sullen red. Another scream, cut short. “I should go check.”

“Good idea.” Meriwether held up his pole, offering an encouraging smile. “I’ll wait here, if you like.”

The Vhemin nodded, then beckoned to a handful of his fellows. They trekked back up the steps toward the main door.

The mirror turned black, then with a snap turned into a glowing cut in the air. Meriwether’s ears popped, a gentle wind stirring his hair. Within what was clearly a portal stood a silhouetted figure. No, that’s not a silhouette. That’s a person made of shadow, and they have red eyes. I’m no expert but that looks like a demon.

Israel spun to Meriwether. “Now?”

“Now!” At Meriwether’s shout, the Tresward Knights moved. It was like watching water flow, or the sun cross the heavens. They were perfect, the two complimenting each other. They dropped their poles, bonds freed earlier—a bit of mummery with the cords kept the Vhemin from catching on. Meriwether’s knife appeared in Israel’s hand. The big man swung the tiny blade at a Vhemin beside him. In another time and place, the perfect beauty of the strike might have made Meriwether gasp.

The Vhemin’s body exploded in a shower of gore. Meriwether goggled at what the tiny blade did in the hands of a Valiant. Israel didn’t roar or flex. He flowed. Where the tiny sliver of steel hit armor, it shattered buckles and ruptured leather and metal plates alike. As it hit the Vhemin’s hide and the flesh underneath, it was like a thousand horses kicked the brute at once. The blade didn’t look like steel. It looked like a tiny sliver of the Three, a mote of purest golden-white that hurt to look at.

As pieces of dead Vhemin cascaded across the steps, splattering against the High Priest and the altar behind him, butterflies conjured into being by the Three’s Light burst into flight. Meriwether stood speechless as they took to purple wings. For the first time in his admittedly short life, he saw the power of the Three. Cophine’s tits. An exploding monster with butterflies as a side-effect. How did I think to stand against them?

Silence held the room for a moment. The dead Vhemin’s blade fell as if through treacle. Israel spun, Vertiline at his back. She snatched the weapon from the air, giving it a twirl. Like everything the Vhemin had it was old, a hand-me-down from a dead human opponent. The blade looked rusted, pitted, blunt as a baby’s ass. As the Chevalier swung the blade, it looked like life itself ebbed into the old metal. The pitted edge gleamed as if it remembered how to hunt. Light sparkled along the glimmering edge, Vertiline’s single braid lashing.

If either Knight carried pain or hurt, it didn’t show. Meriwether let his pole clatter to the floor, speechless. If it hadn’t been for the angel’s kiss, there was no way they’d have fallen. I took this from them. I took away their grace, and the world almost lost this wondrous beauty.

He shook himself. I’m being stupid. They’re a cult of murderers. But my, they’re pretty.

A Vhemin ran at Israel, thinking the big man’s tiny blade a better match than Vertiline’s gleaming edge. The Vhemin carried a two-handed sword, and rust be damned: it’d leave a mark if it touched flesh. Israel moved to meet his opponent, the little blade parrying the bigger one. Meriwether wanted to cry a warning because only an imbecile parried a greatsword with a butterknife.

There was a chime, the bigger blade shorn through, then the Vhemin’s body shattered, the peal of Tresward bells filling the room.

The Vhemin that had been at Meriwether’s side was in front of him again, fists bunched in Meriwether’s tunic, slamming him against the wall. His head knocked against the stone at his back and he saw stars. Sound took on a distant feel as if he were using someone else’s ears. Meriwether scanned the room, dazed. Israel and Vertiline carved a path toward the mirror. The High Priest chanted, arms still high, black light kissing his hands. The Vhemin before Meriwether punched him in the gut, drawing his attention. “I said, what’s happening?” Feet dangling, Meriwether choked a laugh. The Vhemin roared. “What’s so funny?”

“She is,” he croaked, pointing with his chin.

The Vhemin turned, the motion slow, almost comical. Another Vhemin soared from the balcony above, falling on the steps with a crack, body twisted. Above, red hair peeking from under her helmet, Geneve stood, a Feybrind of all things at her side. It was a lot to take in. Meriwether wanted to know how she got here. How she found time to meet a Feybrind. Why the cat, one of the Vhemin’s sworn enemies, defied sanity and reason to come into a pit of devils.

Most of all, he wanted her to come down and save him.

Meriwether saw the flash of green eyes within her visor. The Feybrind fired a bow, three arrows skewering the Vhemin holding Meriwether. The grip loosened, but the Vhemin didn’t fall. Geneve threw her sword, the steel tumbling end over end. The weapon hit the Vhemin, knocking it from its feet and staking it to the wall like a particularly large insect in a particularly small collection. Meriwether caught a tiny glimmer of half-light along the blade’s edge. It might have been the torchlight running rampant. Cinnamon touched his nose. I was hit harder than I thought.

She vaulted the balcony’s rail, landing on the balls of her feet. The Feybrind dropped behind her, soundless, lithe, golden eyes everywhere, teeth bared. Geneve ran at Meriwether, shoulder-barging a Vhemin in her path. The beast flipped into the air to crash against the stone behind her. The Feybrind stabbed it through the eye with an arrow without slowing.

Geneve made Meriwether’s side. She grabbed the hilt of her sword, yanking. The steel cried as it came free from the stone, the Vhemin slumping to the ground in a slick trail of gore. He gave a nervous smile. “Nice throw.”

“I missed,” she hissed. Her gauntleted hand found his chin, turned his face about. “Are you whole?”

“I’m great, thanks. Never been better—”

“Are you hurt?”

“I can run, if that’s what you’re asking.” He pointed to Israel with his suspiciously unbound hands. Meriwether didn’t miss how her eyes narrowed. “We need to help your friends.”

“I know my duty.” She spun from him, back turned, that arrogance at his weakness showing. She’s not wrong. Geneve just fought her way into a Vhemin stronghold with nothing but a cat for company. It’s a big cat, though. 

Israel reached the High Priest. He brought his tiny blade in for the kill, but as the steel met the black light hugging the Vhemin, its light dimmed. Definitely a demon on the other side. They stood against the Tresward in the last war that mattered. The Vhemin grinned, but Israel showed no surprise. He grabbed the priest by the robe, bringing the monster in for a savage head butt.

The High Priest lolled in his grip. The mirror’s black-red portal flickered, and for a moment, brilliant light cascaded through. Instead of a shadowed horror, Meriwether saw an older man, maybe nudging sixty but with the benefits of a good diet. A face that was probably kindly but looked like it carried more stress than was good for a man’s heart at that age. He flung a hand out. “Israel! Vertiline! Geneve! To me. By the Three, hurry!”

Geneve skidded to a halt, spun, and clattered back to Meriwether. He could smell the sweat of her, and something sweeter underneath. She grabbed his tunic, hauling him behind her like he was no more concern than a feather pillow.

Vertiline sprang on the altar, hand out to Israel. The Valiant took her hand, stepping up, then gestured in an after you motion. Vertiline stepped through the gleaming portal. Geneve and Meriwether were just steps behind. Israel stepped through, then held his hand out.

Geneve put on a burst of speed. Meriwether felt jounced like good ale on a bad wagon. The Feybrind loped beside them, looking like this human speed was very slow indeed. Five meters from the altar, the High Priest looked up. Four, he raised a hand. At three, he snapped his fingers. 

Screaming, Geneve lunged. She made the altar just as the golden portal snapped out. They crashed into the slab of metal, her armor ringing against it like a gong. The mirror toppled with them to the stone behind the altar.

The Feybrind leaped atop the altar, tail swishing, back to them. Meriwether looked up, wondering just how bad his day was going to get. Sure, through a portal toward a Tresward haven wasn’t a great destination, but it was better than being in an underground chamber full of very angry Vhemin.

At least the Feybrind was on their side. Three of them, dying together in the dark below the earth. It sucked, but not as much as dying alone.

Get up. He groaned, found his feet, and stood. Hand out to Geneve, he tried for a smile, losing it to the gloom around them. “Come on.”

She brushed his hand aside, standing on her own despite the weight of Smithsteel. Clambering over the altar, she stood in front of him and the Feybrind. She pulled off her helmet to slick back red hair. Her back was straight, shoulders square. Sweat slicked her amber-honey skin, but there wasn’t a hint of fear about her. Vhemin entered the chamber from above. Ten, then fifteen. Another five from the balcony above. Then another five for good measure.

“Stay behind me,” Geneve hissed.

He realized she didn’t even have a shield. Lost, or broken, it didn’t matter. “Fuck that,” he suggested. As the Vhemin drew closer, Meriwether slipped beside the fallen High Priest. He pulled a blade from his sleeve. It was like the one he’d given Israel, a small sliver, barely long enough to open letters with. But like Israel’s, this one glowed with the Light of the Three. Brilliant, incandescent, gleaming for all to see. 

Meriwether knelt beside the High Priest. The Vhemin’s smile guttered out as the blade found his neck, light undimmed by the black seeping from the priest’s skin. He heard a gasp from Geneve behind him, and imagined her thoughts horse-trading around the topic of, How does a sinner call the Light of the Three? The Feybrind made no sound, but their kind didn’t. Meriwether leaned toward the High Priest, nice and close, and put his lips to the monster’s ear. “Hello, friend. How do you feel about living to see another day?”

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