Blade of Glass: Chapter 25

Geneve was torn. She felt the need to help Sight of Day. She’d been there when his village died. Geneve knew anything that would make a Feybrind share the trail with a Vhemin was serious. World-changing. The kind of thing the Three would see from their remote vantage high above.

She also knew Vhemin were monsters and not to be trusted. Going into the desert would take her closer to the enemy’s home, and further from what her mission had become. It wouldn’t be heading toward the capital and Queen Morgan’s help. It would be going toward actual monsters that craved human flesh. The Tresward taught Knights well, and principle among their lessons was: a good Vhemin is one lying dead at your feet. Geneve didn’t know who to trust within the Tresward, or whether there was a conspiracy higher up, but she knew, in the same way she understood good armor was hard Smithsteel, that her order wasn’t evil. The Tresward held many good souls, and she’d worked with two of the best.

Israel and Vertiline would never countenance working with Vhemin. Her lips were about to move to the single-syllable response of no when a scream cut through the air. It wasn’t near, but the early morning air was cool, and held the terror and pain of the cry well.

Meri jerked toward the door. “What was that?”

“Deliverance.” The Vhemin grinned that ghastly smile. “Music.”

“It’s time to work.” Geneve dragged the door aside, marching into the post-dawn light. Another scream came, closer this time. From the south. The village was small, a single street running north-south, bisected by another traveling east-west. The inn stood at the crossroads of the two. The jail was north of the inn. The morning air was clear. It felt like she could see for klicks in any direction.

What she saw was death. To the south, a Vhemin horde approached. Behind them, smoke rose in the sky, much more than could be accounted for by morning cookeries. The monsters came in a rush and burned everything behind them.

Meriwether appeared at her right side, Sight of Day taking the left. She felt bookended by sturdy supports. They weren’t Knights, but they didn’t run. Sight of Day stood fast even though he knew the monsters would take his will away. Meriwether held his little knife low and ready like he could fake it until he made it, or died trying.

She wondered what Israel or Vertiline would say about them, and what they would think of her favoring a sinner and a Feybrind over her order. She felt sick, unsteady on her feet, as if doubt were an anchor dragging her to the dirt.

{I will take the high ground. We will make our stand, such as it is.} The Feybrind touched her cheek with a soft hand. {I am with you, Daughter of the Three.}

Meriwether watched the handspeak, then moved in front of Geneve. He was close, and she could smell his nervousness, but also him, a scent like cloves and hearth. Meriwether stood with his back to the charging horde, and while they were nowhere near close, she thought, That’s the second time he’s put his back to an enemy for you. “Geneve! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”

{I am also with him,} Sight of Day offered. {Running has an appeal.}

She felt torn by indecision. As an Adept, Geneve should be part of a Trinity. Israel to lead. Vertiline to back him. Geneve to do what was left. She wasn’t a leader. Not yet, with her single gold bar, but she had to make a decision. Fight, and probably die, but standing with the villagers for justice? Run, encouraging others to safety? Her mind shied away from the question needing answers: What will you do with the Vhemin?

Geneve put her hands on Meriwether’s shoulders. She held him firm, looking into his eyes. “Why do we go with the Vhemin?”

“You’re asking this now?”

“Meri! I have to know.” She gave him a small shake.

He nodded, like her touching him let him see all her doubts. He put one hand over her gauntlet. “Because I like Sight of Day. He’s a nice cat. And everyone he loved is dead, and if we don’t help, who will?” Meriwether squeezed her armored hand, for all the good it did. “I know liars, and the Vhemin isn’t one of them.”

She nodded, just once, then released him. Geneve drew her sword with a sharp hiss, then unlimbered her shield. Villagers were running about like they were starting to work out bad shit was about to happen, but they had no coordination. No captain of the guard joined her in the street, militia at their back. She hammered blade on steel to get people’s attention. What she had to say wasn’t a part of her training and its patterns. But it’s the only way. “Run! Everyone, run! Take nothing but those you love and flee!”

The Vhemin horde drew close. She couldn’t see the High Priest with them. Perhaps it was an advance party, or they’d split their forces, but either way it boded well for Sight of Day. The Feybrind held a freshly scrounged bow ready, golden eyes watching the onrush. He selected an arrow, then let it fly.

A Vhemin stumbled, arrow jutting from an eye socket. Meriwether whistled. “Nice shot.”

“Get the monster.” Geneve pushed Meriwether toward the jail. “Get him fast.”

“Shouldn’t one of you—”

“Get him!” she screamed. Meriwether turned and fled toward the jail. Geneve stood in the street with Sight of Day as the Vhemin hit the town outskirts. She could see the detail of their faces. The teeth, the snarling, and those slitted eyes so much like a Feybrind’s, yet so very, very different.

The jail door slammed wide. The Vhemin stood in the morning light, stretching. By the Three, but he’s massive. Unbound and standing tall, he was at least two handspans over two meters in height. He lumbered forward. Geneve felt dread, wondering where Meriwether was. If the monster’s killed him… But no, Meri came out a moment later holding his knife. He offered it to the Vhemin. “Here.”

The monster squinted at the blade. “What’s that for?”

“Them.” Meriwether pointed at the approaching horde, taking a nervous shuffle-step back.

“Don’t need it.” The Vhemin rolled his shoulders then charged his kin, roaring.

Geneve put a hand on Sight of Day’s arm. “Be careful with your shots, friend.” Then she ran in the monster’s wake.

The first of the raiders saw the prisoner rushing them, then did a double-take, skidding to a halt. In an almost comical fashion, the raider tried to run the other way while momentum carried him forward, feet skidding on the mud and stone of the road. The prisoner clashed with him, swatting aside his enemy’s sword like it was a baby’s rattle. He lifted his kin from the ground, roaring, then strained. Muscles bunched in his back, and with a scream from his captive, tore the arm from his enemy. Blood sprayed, and the fight and life left the enemy Vhemin as if they’d never been.

The prisoner dropped the body, then tossed the arm beside it. “Roach.” He lifted his enemy’s sword, giving it an experimental swing, then looked at Geneve. She realized she’d stumbled to a halt in astonishment. “Adept! Get your horses!” Then he turned and resumed his roaring charge.

That’s a good idea. She heard the hiss of arrows, and a Vhemin to her left sprouted three shafts, one from each eye, the third in his throat. Geneve saluted Sight of Day, but the Feybrind wasn’t watching her. His teeth were barred, and he ran low and fast across the street to an alley. Bouncing from wall to wall, he scampered up between two buildings, then took aim from the roof. More arrows followed.

The inn. She glanced about for Meriwether, but he wasn’t where she’d left him. Geneve felt a moment of panic, unable in the heat of the moment to put her finger on why she felt that about the illusionist. She spied him a moment later running toward the enemy. Geneve goggled, wondering why everyone was hurting the enemy except for her, before he zig-zagged around a Vhemin, heading around the crossroad’s corner toward the inn’s entrance. Ah. He’s already thought of the horses. 

Geneve charged after him. The Vhemin Meriwether dodged had turned to track the young man, hefting crossbow instead of getting his wind up. Geneve took his head from his body in a single perfect strike. As the Vhemin’s head tumbled across the ground, blood fountaining in its wake, she caught the unlikely smell of cooking pancakes. It carried over the blood stench. Battle was full of tiny details, and she didn’t have time to dwell on that one.

More by practice than good planning, she raised her shield in a sweeping arc. Three quarrels rattled off the surface. Monsters were everywhere. She barred her teeth, arms wide. “Come on!”

A dark-skinned Vhemin accepted her challenge and came for her. It swung and she caught the blow on Requiem’s thirsty edge. Her block had the force of anger behind it, and her skymetal sword shattered the Vhemin’s brittle, rusty edge. Geneve turned momentum into purpose, cutting off the monster’s arm, head, and other arm. She kept her pirouette going, leading with her shield’s edge. It hit another Vhemin in the throat, crushing the monster’s larynx.

A third creature charged her. She ducked low, slamming her shoulder into it and surging upright. She smelled its sweet-sour stench, then it tumbled from her back. Before it hit the ground, she spun, slashing with Requiem. It landed with a scream as entrails pooled like spilled noodles.

The prisoner was roaring amid his fellows. Even in the massive forms of Vhemin he was a devil. He lay about with his borrowed steel like it was a club. Despite his lack of finesse his fighting style was effective, and he brutalized the enemy without mercy. Geneve saw his shark-tooth horror mouth was grinning wide in glee.

“Geneve!” She turned at Meri’s call. He had their mounts, and the ferry horses too, but as he reached the street Casket and Britches reared, tearing bridle from hand. They bolted. He spared them a glance before turning back to her. “Come on!”

She spun on her heel. Time to take my own advice and run. She vaulted on Tristan’s back, and the blue roan reared, front hooves raking air. Meriwether fumbled his way onto Troubles’ back. Geneve gave him a tight nod, then called across the melee. “Monster!”

The prisoner swatted another of his kin aside in a wash of meat and blood. “I’ll be right with you.”

“Now!”

With a sour look, like he was a child being asked to pack his toys up, he turned and loped toward them. He made to mount Chesterfield, but Israel’s black charger was having none of it. The big horse reared. The prisoner grunted. “I like this fucker. Okay, you ride, I’ll run.”

Sight of Day sprang from the rooftops to land on Fidget’s back. He watched the prisoner run away, shaking his head, then urged his horse in pursuit.

Meriwether turned Troubles around twice before getting her oriented in the right direction. She gave chase. Geneve ducked another quarrel, but it had no friends. The Vhemin were fanning out, heading into buildings and homes. They would pillage and slaughter. She couldn’t stop them all.

Geneve put her heels to her horse’s flank. Tristan bolted forward. Toward her allies, a monster, and the hot, dry north.

* * *

They ran the horses for klicks. Tristan surged ahead of Troubles, Meriwether clinging on like a terrified limpet, and nosed past an unladen Chesterfield. He couldn’t catch Fidget, possibly because her rider made a mad-dash gallop look like a summer’s casual ride. Sight of Day moved like water with poise on the red roan’s back, as if the terrors behind them were nothing worth getting a sweat up over.

Geneve found the thoughts that bubbled up in moments of adrenaline the most confusing of all. She’d expect to be worried about pursuit, or the chance of one of their horses stumbling. Those would be sensible, useful thoughts at a time when fear threatened to ride her like she rode Tristan. Instead, she was thinking things like:

Can Feybrind sweat?

A couple klicks down the road, she held up an armored fist. Chesterfield slowed, flanks sweaty, but giving a little side-eye to Tristan. The bigger horse seemed determined to hide the effort it cost to keep up the pace. Troubles slowed soon enough, pulling close to Geneve. As she came to a halt, Meriwether slid from her saddle to slump with an oof on the ground.

Sight of Day circled Fidget around Meri, then returned to face her. {Is there something wrong with him?}

“I think he’s better at running on his feet than on horseback.” Geneve straightened, scanning the area. A set of low, rolling hills lay to the east. West held fields, the ground cold and empty in winter’s grip. The road they were on was serviceable enough. I have no idea where we are.

“I think we’re more lost,” Meriwether croaked. The young man stood on shaky legs, absently patting Troubles’ hindquarters. The chestnut bobbed her head, mane dancing in the wind, and gave him a gentle bite on the shoulder. “Ow!”

{Where is the monster?} Sight of Day’s golden eyes held hers for a handful of heartbeats. {I feel he’s an important component of our plan.}

“We have a plan?” Geneve gave a brittle laugh. We ran. That’s not planning. That’s the opposite of planning. They’d strip me of my tabard for this. She touched the golden sun on her breastplate. “We need to find the monster.”

“We need to move the fuck,” Meriwether jabbed a finger north, “that way. The Vhemin don’t slow. They don’t get tired. The only thing we’ve got going for us is their need for wood to build a fire, and we left an entire village made of planks behind us. I say we’ve got an hours’ head start at best.”

“You’re scared.”

“And you’re not?” He blinked, looking up at her. She saw how fear held the color from his face. His shoulders were tense, but for all that he managed to pat Troubles’ side as if he knew that horses didn’t need to bear their emotional burdens as well as physical. “No. Of course you’re not. You’re a Knight of the Tresward! You know no fear.”

“I’ve met fear.” Geneve let her hand fall from the golden sun. “I know it.”

“Really? When was the last time you felt it?”

“When I saw you shot.” The words came out like wine from a smashed bottle, and she couldn’t put them back inside her lips.

“Sure, sure. Losing a sinner would give you a bad rep.” He turned from her, mistaking her meaning. “I mean real fear. The kind that holds your balls in a cold, firm hand. Gives ‘em a squeeze every so often to—”

“I get it.”

“And the thing is, fear holding your balls isn’t like a doxy’s touch—”

“I said, I get it.” Geneve glared north. “Where is the monster?”

{He’ll catch up.} Sight of Day gave her a half-smile. The expression held no mirth. It was the fixed grin of a person trying to laugh along at a funeral. {I’m not sure if I’m happy about that.}

“The Vhemin? He’s making spokes from bones or similar.” Meriwether adjusted his pants. He’d let the illusion fall. He stood on a dirty road in torn pants and a scarecrow’s shirt, shivering in the cold. She saw again the thinness of him and as the wind lifted the coattails of his shirt, caught sight of the scars on his back. Meriwether glanced at her, then pulled his shirt close. “It doesn’t matter. We go north. Either we hit the desert or a garrison. Staying here gets us dead.” He hitched his pants again, frowning. “Where the hell are they getting all their guys from? That’s a lot of Three-damned Vhemin. If they were coming from the north, we’d be up to our ears in assholes.”

“We press on, then.” Geneve glanced at a shivering Meriwether. She felt pity, sadness, and regret, and wasn’t sure why. The world left marks on them all, but it’d been most unkind with him. Geneve was left wondering another peculiar thought, when her mind should have been focused on more important things:

What would the world be like if we helped those who sinned, rather than killing them?

* * *

They happened upon a deserted farm after two hours’ trot. No smoke curled from the chimney. The stables were empty. There was no sign of slaughter; this hadn’t been emptied by a force of Vhemin. Geneve led their group toward the old farmhouse. The building was wood, and not recently painted. The thatching was sound enough, but the porch leading to the front door held a broken plank or three.

“Hello?” Her voice fell flat on the ground. Cold, withered grass gathered up the noise, holding it close.

{Humans haven’t been here for some time.} Sight of Day sniffed the air. {Nor their animals. It’s as if this place just … forgot them.}

“Isn’t this cheery,” Meriwether enthused. He half-fell from Troubles’ back, dodged her bite like a pro, and creaked his way up the steps to the front door. He hammered on the wood. The door groaned wide. No light lapped at his feet. Inside seemed empty. “Could be plague.”

“There aren’t any animals.”

“Could be conscientious farmers turning out the livestock so they don’t starve.” Meriwether’s eyebrows met in the middle, like he didn’t believe his story. “I’m going to see if they’ve got any clothes.” He darted inside.

“Meriwether, wait!” Geneve grunted in frustration as Meri slipped from view. She slid from her horse. The cold ground was frozen, holding her weight like old stone. She marched to the door, throwing it wide.

The door opened onto a big room. A hearth sat cold and dark in the corner, and without ready wood on display. The rafters were bare; Geneve saw no dried herbs or salted meat. Stairs to the right led up. Meriwether was absent.

She tried the steps, resting her foot on the first one to make sure it would bear her armored weight. It creaked but held well enough. The house has been empty so long, it doesn’t smell of anything except cold. There was no odor of old food smells or the tang of people.

The top of the steps held a landing. Three doors were closed, but a fourth at the end was open. Geneve clanked forward. “Meriwether?”

No response. Geneve curled her fingers into a fist, marching toward the door. She pushed it wide. Inside, she found Meriwether beside a small bed. Dark gauze hung over it. The young man’s hand was stretched toward the gauze. As he parted it, the gauze tore, raining dust and cobwebs. “Ah,” he said, the sound small, final, and impossibly sad.

Geneve held at the door. The room was tiny, and perhaps had been cozy. Once-bright paintings sat on a wall beside a window looking out over the farm’s back paddocks. The shutters had long since failed, and leaves littered the floor. She walked to the window, unwilling to see the contents of the little bed. The fields beyond the window were overgrown, a sad testament to what had torn this family apart. She tried to speak, found her voice a whisper, and cleared her throat. “Was it plague?”

“It was.”

“You should leave, then.” She turned. “I can’t get sick, but you can.”

He didn’t move from the cot, staring into the sad, old contents. “Nothing here can harm us anymore. It did all the hurting a long time ago. I wonder…” His voice trailed off.

Geneve took a cautious step toward him. “Wonder what?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” His words shone with false brightness. “I guess I wondered what it’d be like to be loved so much the loss of you broke your family apart.” Meriwether spun from the cot, avoiding meeting her eyes. “I’ll see about those clothes. Meet downstairs?”

“If that’s what you need.” Geneve felt the words insufficient, because something unsaid sat in the room with them. “Is it what you need?”

“It’ll do.” He left her in the sad little room with its broken shutters and not-empty cot. She waited, listening to the wind ease through the eves, the scatter of leaves swirling at her feet. Red hair teased her face, far too vibrant for a place like this.

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