Blade of Glass: Chapter 19

Progress, not perfection. Take a small step each day. When you’re ready, perfection will find you. Israel’s words to her years back as he crouched before her, hands on her shoulders. Geneve was new to the Tresward, perhaps six years old, and holding a broken practice blade.

She’d listened, nodded, and taken the step. She was sure of it. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, the Sacred Storm didn’t answer her call. Geneve’s form was perfect, but no light glimmered along her blade. No thunder rang heaven’s bell. A glass sword was beyond her reach, and she’d never needed it more than now, facing fifty Vhemin, bloodlust in their eyes, rage in their hearts.

She held Requiem instead, the skymetal honest, trustworthy, and totally unsuitable for the task at hand. Israel could have taken them. Perhaps even Vertiline, but Geneve suspected fifty Vhemin more than equal to the task of besting a Chevalier.

Geneve was an Adept, and the Storm didn’t answer her call.

We’re going to die. Smoke rode the air. She could smell the charr of burning wood and the sickly smell of roasting meat. The unmistakable scent of blood made her heart pound. At her back, Sight of Day was frantic. He didn’t run about like a panicked human. Feybrind were forged of clear thought and steady vision, but for all that Geneve felt him vibrate. She knew he wanted to run at their foe, and Geneve wanted to join him. Make them pay for their terrible crime.

The sinner moved in front of her. Behind him, the Vhemin marched closer. They didn’t run. She almost laughed; they didn’t need to. She spied them south, east, and west. The north was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. A noose coiling about them, drawing them together. When the rope drew taught, there’d be no escape. “Your duty, Knight. Is it to see me to Trial, or to die here?”

Geneve wanted to punch him. She felt her fingers curl about Requiem’s hilt, the tension in her wanting release. She wondered what Israel would have said, if the Valiant were here. Probably something like: He speaks true. Your duty is to the Tresward. Once it’s done, we can return. Fight this evil, and with the Justiciar’s blessing. With the Storm above and Sway beside us, they will pay. Geneve wanted to believe that was true. She hoped the Tresward would send help. Bring judgment in the form of glass and lightning.

But she knew it wouldn’t. The Tresward wasn’t an army. There weren’t many Knights left.

Her heart wouldn’t let her feet free. She couldn’t move from here. Not this spot, but this purpose. “Have you seen what they did?”

Meriwether—

He’s a sinner!

—nodded, his eyes wet. “I see. I feel.” He coughed. “One bow and blade will make no difference. We must run.”

Her eyes moved to his hands, and the tiny knife he held. The sinner stood this ground with her. She could see if she didn’t move, he would make a stand with her, and he would die, because she wasn’t doing her duty. His lack of purity doesn’t starve him of courage. 

Geneve felt her heart slow for a moment, its beat steadying, becoming less frantic, more certain. Blood surged within her, not the frightened gallop of a terrified stallion, but the sure tread of intent. She whirled, gauntleted hand on Sight of Day’s arm. The Feybrind turned haunted golden eyes on her. “The sinner’s right. We can’t win this fight. We must go.” She blew a harsh whistle.

The drum of hooves answered her. Chesterfield rumbled past at charge, mane flying. Troubles and Tristan were but a handful of steps behind. She moved to follow, but the sinner was still in front of her. Back to the enemy, eyes wide, but earnest, not fearful. “Geneve, not that way.”

It would take too long to explain, but she had to try. “Ikmae offered the Tresward seven hundred perfect battle patterns. One is right for this fight. It will buy us a window to run.”

“You’ll die.”

“We all die, sinner. You speak of trust to the Feybrind. Do you trust me?” She shoved him aside, feeling the fragility of him. In another place and time, she’d have taken him for a lordling’s fop, all fancy clothes and meaningless life. There was nothing to him.

Focus. She loosened the straps on her shield. Geneve knew it was selfishness that made her walk forward, a hunger to see justice done at any cost. But it didn’t mean she was wrong. There wasn’t a way clear from merely running.

She let her shield hang from her fingers, low and loose at her side, its curved edge hungry. There wasn’t light for the metal to catch, and that suited her fine. The enemy should be surprised when Ikmae’s vengeance found them.

Israel spoke of progress, not perfection, but she needed precision now more than any other time. The Vhemin lumbered aside as the Tresward horses trampled their line. She couldn’t see whether the horses took injury. The smoke thickened, swirling about her like a shroud. An arrow loosed from Sight of Day’s bow hissed past her, seeking Vhemin, but missed.

That almost made her stop. Feybrind never miss. But it made sense—Sight of Day’s village was a smoking ruin. All he knew and loved lay dead or dying. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need Sight of Day’s bow. The pattern she wanted to use was a solo one for a single person facing an impossible horde.

She felt her lips part and wanted to hope it was in a savage grin. Geneve felt something ugly roil inside her and recognized it as hate. Not because the monsters were in the way of the Tresward’s mission, but because they slaughtered so many of the beautiful things in this world. She drew back her arm, tensing her core. Geneve bundled up that hate and used it to power her throw. She torqued her arm, and sent the shield flying toward the Vhemin Sight of Day’s arrow missed.

It spun through the air, hard and quick. The edge hit the monster’s face, a stray beam of light breaking through from above catching the steel. A glimmer of golden-yellow shone on the metal before blood sprayed. The shield bounced with the sound of a gong, just as she’d known it would, flying back through the air. She caught it, readying her blade for the bloody business to come.

The Vhemin before her paused their advance. That’s surprising. She didn’t want surprises. Geneve hungered for their death. “Come on!”

“Geneve!” Meriwether’s voice cut like a whip. “There are too many!”

“Get Sight of Day clear!” she hollered back. The horses came around for another pass. Geneve took the next three steps of Ikmae’s pattern, tossing her shield once more at a brute in the smoke. This move needed her to be elsewhere on the return. As she broke into a run, sword behind and down, the edge trailing smoke, a Vhemin to her left roared and lunged.

Perfect. Her shield rang against her first target’s skull before ricocheting to hit the back of the head of the Vhemin who’d lunged at her. As both monsters fell to the earth, Geneve’s shield bounced heavenward. Its arc followed her run as she continued toward the High Priest.

Another came before her. She swept her blade up, skymetal parting armor and flesh. From the distance she heard the chime of Tresward bells and reached up to snatch her shield as it fell from above. 

Four perfect strikes, and four downed Vhemin. Geneve hoped the sinner had Sight of Day clear. She risked a glance back. Meriwether was hauling the Feybrind along. Fidget stepped nervously behind them, the horse’s eyes wild. She was no trained Tresward Knight’s mount raised for battle and blood.

The sinner caught her eye. “I’ve got him. Clear the way!”

Geneve looked for a path as Vhemin drew close. To the south, hulking brutes marched in a line. West was the High Priest and his guard. East fared no better, the bulk of the Vhemin’s forces breaking from the trees. The Vhemin there must have been part of a pincer movement.

She scanned north. That way lay human lands, and farther still, the desert. Vhemin lay thick as ticks across the sands, the heat a comfortable balm for their cold blood. But those Vhemin were klicks away. These Vhemin were a more immediate problem.

Geneve whistled again. Tristan galloped toward her out of the smoke. She sheathed her sword as the horse slowed to a trot, grabbing the saddle pommel and swinging herself onto Tristan’s back as he continued on. He had a gash against his neck, blood running gritty fingers through the ash on his coat. It couldn’t be helped. “Chesterfield! Troubles!” She ducked a crossbow bolt and raised her shield. Another gonged against the steel. “Sinner! We go north!”

She put her heels to Tristan’s flanks. The horse, nobody’s fool, dashed forward. The sinner pushed Sight of Day onto his horse. The usually cool Feybrind’s golden eyes were distant, hands empty. Geneve couldn’t see his bow and didn’t have time to look for it. The sinner slapped Fidget’s rear, and the red roan galloped north. 

Geneve saw the alarm dawning on his face. She could imagine this thoughts. I’ve just sent my only ride away. The Knight’s going to run right by, leaving me to die at the hand of the Vhemin. Geneve crouched low as Tristan bore down on the sinner. He looked at the charging horse, eyes wild at the pounding hooves, and seemed about to run.

Then he stilled and closed his eyes. I’ve never seen such a thing. Geneve reached low, snaring his shirt. A button popped, and the fabric tore. She caught a glimpse of scarred skin before hauling him up like a sack in front of her.

Tristan didn’t seem to notice the extra weight. By the Three, he’s light. Her horse charged north, toward cleaner air that smelled like freedom and cowardice.

* * *

The horses crashed north. Trees swept by. Geneve hugged the sinner to her horse. Why did I take my helmet off? Why did I trust a sinner with a Feybrind?

Why did I trust a sinner?

She shook her head, gritting her teeth. She saw Sight of Day’s horse ahead, red coat amid dappled trees. For all she wasn’t a warhorse, Fidget kept her head, dashing between trees, the Feybrind clinging to her.

I’ve never seen a Feybrind lose it before.

Geneve wondered about that. Not Sight of Day crumbling in the face of his family dying; her heart ached for him. It was that she knew she’d never seen its like, yet couldn’t remember the faces of other Feybrind. Someone taught her handspeak, but she couldn’t remember their name.

They raced into cleaner air. They broke into a tiny clearing bisected by a stream. Their horses vaulted the stream, not slowing. Geneve pressed her hand to Tristan’s neck. Faster, friend. Faster.

He seemed to understand. She felt his urgency as he tried for more speed. She glanced back but couldn’t see any Vhemin. They wouldn’t be able to run as fast as a horse. A hard ride, a little distance, and they could rest a while.

They pressed on.

* * *

Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before Sight of Day reigned in Fidget. Geneve slowed Tristan, Chesterfield and Troubles following suit. While Vertiline’s chestnut looked edgy, Israel’s black charger looked … angry. He wasn’t built to run from a fight. He’d been trained to face the enemy with his Knight.

Geneve knew how he felt. “Why are we stopping?” The sinner sat upright, hugging Tristan’s neck, but swaying a little.

Weary, golden eyes turned to her. {He’s hurt.}

“Who?” Geneve looked to Tristan’s neck, seeing the blood there once again. “We don’t have time to stop.”

The sinner swayed, then made to topple to the ground. Geneve grabbed his shirt, steadying him. She felt the cold, hard hand of dread in her gut. She tried to turn the sinner about. He cried out, but not before she saw the quarrel sticking from his chest. Three’s mercy, no.

She slid from Tristan’s back, the sinner coming after like a sack of falling grain. They laid him on the ground. His face was paler than normal, his lips blue. The front of his shirt was torn from where she’d snared him from the ground, but also slicked with red. Geneve bit her lip, then looked to Sight of Day. “When did he get shot?”

The Feybrind eased himself from Fidget’s back. {I don’t know. I wasn’t watching. I was…} He paused, fingers trying to find the air like a bird with a broken wing. {Missing.}

“We need to get the bolt out.” Geneve reached for the shaft jutting from the sinner’s chest. Her fingers stilled as she glimpsed scars on his skin. She drew back his shirt with exquisite care. The sinner’s chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths. His skin was marked by the furrowed lines of old injuries. Geneve’s fingers hovered over a jagged mark that looked as if it were made by a short blade. A longer mark drew a line down his side. “The world hasn’t been gentle with him.”

Sight of Day crouched beside her. {We can’t get this out here. He will bleed to death.}

“He can’t ride.”

{He must. There is a river ahead. The stream we passed meets it. There is a rope ferry.}

Geneve nodded. “Help me with him.” She considered Troubles, beckoning the horse closer. {Kneel.}

They hoisted the sinner onto the horse’s back. Geneve rooted through Chesterfield’s saddlebags, retrieving rope. She and Sight of Day lashed the sinner in place. Geneve winced as fresh blood leaked from his chest. “How far is the river?”

{Why do humans ask questions they don’t want answers for?} At her dark stare, the Feybrind considered his hands for a moment. {Twenty minutes at a safe speed.}

“We’ll do it in ten.” Geneve put her hand on Sight of Day’s shoulder. “There are many things I want to say, but words aren’t enough.”

He considered her with those golden eyes. {Words may be all we have.} He turned from her, climbing aboard Fidget’s back. His movements seemed more certain, assured, and steady. Like Sight of Day was missing as he’d said, but found his way back.

It was good enough. She vaulted to Tristan’s back. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They slowed at the tree line. Sight of Day pointed. {Behold. One ferry, as promised.}

Geneve followed the line of his arm, but not to the ferry. The river drew her eye. It was wide, but not a surging monster. Geneve knew that for an illusion; wade out too far, and you’d be swept away. The Three’s blessings held: the ferry was on this side.

A cobbled road met the ferry at a worn but serviceable jetty. No one waited for the ferry, and Geneve could see no boatman loitered to exchange passage for coin. Two horses stood atop turntables on the ferry, patiently waiting for a driver. A looped line on a pulley anchored the ferry between riverbanks, stopping it from being swept away. She narrowed her eyes, looking for bandits. It wouldn’t be unheard of for them to lie in wait, but the typical manner of their thievery involved a faux ferryman to hold up travelers while they waited in cover.

Nothing. She cast a glance at the sinner. His face was ghost-white, a stark contrast to the red staining his chest. There isn’t time to worry for things I can’t change. Move. Geneve urged Tristan forward with her knees. The horse stumbled. She marked the red leaking from him alongside the sweat on his flank. I’ve been unkind with those in my care. The sinner and horse both would do better under Israel.

Geneve slid to the ground, leading Tristan by the bridle. The horse dipped his head in weariness, following behind her. But he didn’t stop, because he was young, prideful, and a show-off. Perhaps a little bit like the sinner.

The ferry waited, impassive. She led their small group along the jetty, wood creaking beneath Chesterfield’s bulk. The Tresward-trained horses followed her onto the ferry without complaint. She examined the ferry controls. “I have no idea how this works.”

{I do.} Sight of Day walked to the turntable’s horses, stroking one along its face. It began walking, the ferry creaking as it began its slow traversal of the river.

“How do you do that?”

{I ask nicely.} The Feybrind didn’t smile, though. He looked like he was fresh out of those.

The ferry picked up speed as it forged the river. About a third of the way across, a yell behind them drew her around. Vhemin broke from the trees close to where they’d come out. Two at first, then five more, and before she knew it the horde were at the bank. They surged toward them, heading for the ferry’s line.

A Vhemin raised a crossbow, firing. Geneve swept up her shield, the bolt clattering aside. It was black, with a cruel barbed head, no doubt similar to what was in the sinner’s chest. She turned to Sight of Day. “Can you get the sinner down?” He nodded, taking her meaning. Meriwether made an excellent target atop Troubles.

Geneve spun back to the Vhemin, lowering her stance. More crossbow bolts arced across the widening gap. Many she ignored, but those that looked to find a home in horse or friend she dashed for, sweeping aside with her shield.

The ferry horses, not trained by the Tresward, became alarmed at how their day was going. They picked up the pace, which wasn’t a bad thing, but no good luck seemed to hold. A Vhemin reached the looped pulley and seized the rope. The first was dragged along by the strength of the horses’ pull, but more joined the monster, hauling on the line like a sick tug o’ war game.

The ferry slowed, then stopped. Vhemin swarmed the rope, scuttling hand over hand along the line. Geneve eyed the far bank. Five hundred meters away, empty and barren to boot. She felt her choices dwindling to zero. Sight of Day had the sinner laid on the deck, fussing over him, a small bag of bandages and unguents beside him. Geneve closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her face. The Vhemin would be here soon, and she needed her strength.

“The rope,” came the sinner’s croak. She turned to him. He was pointing with a shaking hand at the line. “Cut the rope.”

“We won’t make it to the other side.”

“But we might make it to Tuesday,” he said, before slumping back.

Geneve considered it. She wasn’t familiar enough with local geography to know where the river went, but that didn’t matter. He was right. Staying here would leave them a feast for monsters. Downriver was unknown, but with it came an inkling of hope.

She drew Requiem, strode to the ferry line, and swung skymetal. The rope was old and weathered, bouncing at her first cut. The Vhemin continued forward, the leader no more than fifty meters away. He saw what she was doing and picked up his pace. Geneve swung her steel again. Fibers parted, but still the rope bounced, stealing power from her swing.

“Saw, don’t slice,” the sinner suggested.

“Do you want to do this?” she shot back. But he wasn’t wrong—again!—and she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps among the seven hundred perfect stanzas given by each of the Three, there wasn’t a single one for cutting a rope on a ferry.

Geneve set the edge of her sword to the rope and sawed. The fibers parted much faster. When the closest Vhemin was five meters from the ferry’s edge, the rope snapped apart, hissing as it unwound. The Vhemin dropped into the water, the stone he wore for heat dragging him from view without a trace. The ferry turned in a sickening rotation as it lost its guideline. The bow faced downriver.

Then they really began to pick up speed.

If you enjoyed this, consider supporting me on Ko-Fi or hopping on my mailing list.

Miss the other parts of Blade of Glass?

[First Chapter] | [Previous Chapter] | [Next Chapter] (Live 29 August 2024)