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 these days. Sight of Day raised a majestic eyebrow from atop Fidget’s back.
“I know. I look amazing.” Meriwether tossed the cat a wink, which he caught and tossed right back. Sight of Day clapped his hands, which Meriwether remembered meant pleased. Or was it happy? Did it matter?
After an exciting couple of minutes trying to catch Troubles’ bridle, Meriwether mounted. Geneve looked away when he caught her watching him, and that worked just fine, because there was nothing he wanted to talk about, and definitely not with a Knight of the Tresward. After the predictably sad deserted farmhouse, they pressed on. North, and north some more. They spent a little time walking the horses, letting them graze the meager grass by the roadside, before mounting up to keep ahead of the Vhemin. The grass hadn’t looked satisfying, but today was full of disappointments for everyone.
Of their tame Vhemin prisoner there was no sign. Meriwether half-hoped the monster died. It’d solve one problem, in exchange for a handful of others, but they felt smaller. More manageable than, say, trying to figure out a watch rotation with a creature that fancied human flesh.
Night joined them soon enough. It stole color from the heavens, husbanding them for tomorrow. Meriwether squinted at the darkening sky, then jabbed a finger to a dark mound to the west. “Artifice.”
Geneve gave a weary nod and nudged her horse from the road. He hadn’t remembered seeing her tired. Not in the middle of battle, and not after. He paused Troubles by the roadside for a moment, staring behind them. Nothing but the road. It’s been a bad day all around, but she moves like she carries a mountain on her shoulders.
Meriwether gave Troubles a nudge, and she obliged by giving a tiny half-kick to remind him who was in charge before following the Knight and Feybrind from the road. He patted her neck affectionately. “Sour bitch.”
Fields gave way to ragged, scrabbly trees. Leaves had fallen from their boughs long since, and in the gloom they appeared to be monstrous skeletons. Monsters the world hadn’t seen for a long time, and hopefully wouldn’t again. Dead wood and leaves crunched under Troubles’ feet.
Ahead, the Artifice loomed high. It was a huge one by Meriwether’s guess. No expert, he’d seen a few of the relics across the land. Travelers used them for shelter, as the mighty metal carcasses kept the rain off. Some old trick or magic meant trees never grew close to them, which created a set of natural clearings across the countryside. A little spooky, but Meriwether wasn’t afraid of ghosts. There was so much else worth being scared of than things already dead.
Geneve gained a little distance on them in the gathering dark. He followed the glint of her armor as it led the way. Of the cat, he saw nothing. His friend was no doubt in the trees above, waiting to jump out and scare Meriwether’s soul right out of him. Or he was hunting. Whatever, he was either not here or invisible.
The Knight’s silhouette merged with the scrabbly, pale figures of leafless trees. Meriwether slowed Troubles, who spent the time nosing the ground in a surprising display of hope. He patted her absently. “Geneve?”
He heard nothing. No night birds, no crickets, and no Geneve. Meriwether leaned down, whispering to Troubles, “Steady, now.” She gave him an ear-flick, continuing to search dead ground for something worth eating. “Geneve?”
A light flared from the trees ahead. It wasn’t brilliant coming-of-ages stuff. It was a steady, warm, yellow, exactly the kind of thing a lantern might give off. As the light bloomed, it showed Geneve holding a lantern. She fussed with it, no doubt letting out a little more wick, and the flame grew. It illuminated her armor, and while her back was to him, Meriwether imagined the golden sun on her breastplate challenging the night.
The lantern also illuminated the dead, blasted trees about her. That’s not right. Trees don’t grow near the ancient’s machines. She was right beneath the Artifice. Six legs rose like pylons above her, the sheltering canopy of its body lost in the dark. What Meriwether first took for trees resolved in the lantern’s light to bones.
Lots and lots of large bones.
It’s okay! Don’t panic. Bones means everything’s dead. He nudged Troubles with a little more vigor, and she grudgingly gave up her search for a stray stem of grass. Getting closer to Geneve showed the size and shape of the bones about the Artifice. Troubles rode between curved arches that must have been a beast’s ribcage. But what a beast!The bones arched high above him, so tall that even in death’s sag he wouldn’t be able to touch the top standing on Troubles’ back. Geneve stared about in wonder, lantern raised to ward away the night. She slid from Tristan’s back, debris under her boots crunching to dust.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure.” She tossed a look at him over her shoulder. It might have been, come see, just as it might have been, do you want to see? “The bones go for meters.”
He slipped to the ground, steadying himself on Troubles. For once, the vile beast didn’t bite him, instead joining Tristan for comfort. Chesterfield loomed out of the gloom, the massive charger pawing the ground. Where his metal-shod hoof struck bone, sparks flared. What bone is hard as steel? Meriwether hurried. He told himself it was to keep up with Geneve, but he knew it was simple fear. This graveyard wasn’t a place to be alone.
The lantern’s light and the gleam of her armor led him on. She stopped ahead, lantern held high. He joined her side, unsure of what he was looking at. Before them was a massive white rock. Jagged edges held pieces of Artifice. Thick metal braids ran across the ground like blood and veins. Meriwether blinked, took a step back, and his perspective shifted.
That’s not a rock.
“It’s a dragon,” Geneve breathed. She pointed at the massive, ancient skull, and when she stared at him, her eyes were alight with glee. “Do you see? It’s a dragon, Meri!”
The dragon’s skull was larger than all of Chesterfield. It lay at the end of its long length of skeleton. Bones that must once have been mighty claws held fragments of the Artifice’s metal hide in a fierce fist. He marveled at the size of that clawed fist. The dead bones stood taller than he did.
Meriwether tried to imagine what happened here so many years ago. He padded away from Geneve’s side, light leaving him behind. He was used to hiding in the shadows and didn’t admit to fearing the dark any more than ghosts. He left the Knight’s side, following the metal braids that must have come from within the Artifice. Fifty meters on, he found another skull, no less massive. Two dragons. By the Three.
He didn’t know how long he stood in the dark looking at the skull. It was broken, circumstance less kind to it than the other. A hole perforated what he liked to think of as its forehead, and jagged cracks ran down from the hole. Despite that, it still had all its teeth, and lay amid pieces of the Artifice’s metal skin. After a while, yellow light touched it, Geneve joining his side. “There are three more.”
“Five dragons?” Meriwether put his hand to his chest, feeling something inside him sink. He glanced back to where the Artifice’s massive bulk lay. “Five dragons died killing this thing.”
“You don’t know that.”
He gave a short laugh. “No one knows except the people who were here. They’re dead. Long dust. Forgotten, like last Sunday’s breakfast. Here, though, are physical memories. Look.” He pointed. “Those look like metal entrails. Over there, a machine arm. The dragons tore this thing to pieces.” He felt his heart flutter, in fear or excitement he didn’t know. “Why?”
“I’ve a better question.” Geneve strode closer to the damaged skull, walking the long length of the neck. Her lantern’s light led the way. Where the wing bones sat, a ruin of steel and fabric lay. She set the lantern down, then pulled the debris. They snapped, coming away easily enough. She wiped her hands against each other, then retrieved her lantern. “Why do they have saddles?”
Meriwether realized his mouth was open. Before Geneve was, unmistakably, a saddle. For sure, it was made of different materials. Metals that still held their shine. Fabric that hadn’t rotted to nothing. But for all the ancient’s skill, they clearly made saddles in the same shape as people of today. “You know what this means?”
She nodded, eyes bright. “They rode dragons.”
* * *
Meriwether poked the fire with a dragon bone. The bone didn’t burn or char, which wasn’t surprising—if legends were true, the dragons breathed fire. He’d expect ‘em to be at least a little resistant on the inside.
Geneve dragged the dragon saddle to the center of what they called camp while Meriwether built up the fire. There was plenty of fallen wood, making the task trivial, but the quiet of the area around the dead Artifice was getting a little creepy. After he’d got the fire good and bright, and a stockpile of wood to keep it going all night, he’d spent a few minutes examining the saddle. It had a seat that looked like leather but wasn’t. The saddle’s padding was long gone. And while the ancient’s faux leather withstood many of the ravages of time, it was still fragile and brittle. He’d poked and prodded the contraption, marveling at how the metal wasn’t tarnished. But his fascination stopped there, because there weren’t any dragons, and even if there were, there was no way he would get on one.
Sight of Day returned an hour after Geneve’s discovery of the saddle. He brought two pheasants and two geese. The large birds were a surprise. “Geese?”
The Feybrind looked to the darkness, hands moving. Geneve ran a hand through red hair. “He says the Vhemin will arrive soon, and it’s better to have something on hand to feed it.”
“Good thinking.” Meriwether set to helping prepare the birds. Plucking them wasn’t fun but being eaten by Vhemin was going to be less fun, so he felt all his incentives were correctly aligned. That’s how they spent a couple hours: plucking and roasting birds, while Geneve fussed with the dragon saddle. She appeared enchanted by it, as if being next to it would conjure a dragon from the ground.
For his part, Meriwether cast a nervous glance up. The bottom of the Artifice reflected back a little firelight. It was massive, and aside from six legs it also had huge pincers like a crab. He didn’t know what this one was built for, but he suspected it wasn’t for fancy parties.
About the time the dinner was close to ready, a stomping, crashing sound came from the trees. Sight of Day glanced into the night, cat eyes able to see just fine. With a sigh, the cat shook his head. Moments later, the Vhemin crunched from the forest verge. He was cut in about thirty places but wore a grin like it was his birthday. He led a bear, an actual bear, by a rope. The bear was seal brown and had what was probably blood matted around its muzzle. The Vhemin appeared to have resupplied en route, and wore piecemeal leather armor, including one of the hot-stone backpacks of his kind. He carried a large spiked club in one hand like it weighed no more than a toothpick.
The Vhemin let the bear’s rope go. Meriwether scrabbled to his feet, aches and pains of the day forgotten. Geneve made her feet in a fluid motion, scattergun clearing its holster as if it had never wanted to be there anyway. She took a step forward. “Hold.”
“Fuck’s sake,” the Vhemin offered by way of greeting. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be standing here, balls dangling in the cold night air. You’d be dead.”
“I think he’s lying.” Meriwether licked too-dry lips. “His balls aren’t out.”
Geneve didn’t move. Her scattergun may as well have been held by a statue. “Will your bear hurt the horses?”
The monster scratched under his jerkin. “Depends if he gets anything else to eat before he gets hungry.” He frowned. “But I think it’s okay for now. Beck just ate.”
“You named your bear?” Meriwether tried to keep the stammer from his voice.
“Sure. Even miserable fucks like you get a name, so why not my bear?” The Vhemin stretched, tossed the club to the ground, and spread his arms wide. “We going to fight, or eat?”
Geneve looked like the question needed serious consideration, then spun the scattergun around the trigger guard and slid it back into its holster. “We’ve got pigeon and geese.”
“No man flesh?” The Vhemin offered a horror-smile. “Just kidding. That’s a different tribe. I don’t like red meat.” Sight of Day gave a huge, obvious sigh, then walked into the night. “What’s with the asshole?”
Geneve glanced at Meriwether. “Is he talking about you, or—”
“The cat.” The Vhemin lumbered closer. “Sworn blood enemies of my kind, all of that. Where’s he going?”
“Firewood,” Meriwether suggested. “Could also be the boiling rage in his blood after your kind slaughtered his.”
“Could be,” the monster agreed. “I like how you’re not pissing yourself, manling. Most of your kind do, and you’re an especially runty example.”
“Thanks.” Meriwether glanced at Geneve, who’d made no move to sit. “I guess I’m glad you’re not eating me.”
The monster laughed like a smith’s forge, a roaring, rumbling sound. “I like you. I promise not to kill you for at least a week. The name’s Armitage.”
“I thought we were going north.” Meriwether’s mouth was dry.
“Eh. I only need the Knight, and I’m not all the way sure she needs to be alive.” Armitage wrinkled his nose. “Pretty sure she does, so she’s got that going for her.”
“Also, that she’d kill you if you tried killing her.” Meriwether crouched by the fire, removing a spitted goose. He offered the smoking bird to Armitage, who took it with a nod. “She’s good at it.”
“Truth, I’m terrified, just too tired to show it.” Armitage tore the goose in half, then started eating a drumstick. He crunched, bones and all. “You got names?”
“Meriwether. The Feybrind’s Sight of Day, and she’s—”
“Geneve, Adept of the Tresward,” Geneve said. “It’s taken you a long time to get here. What kept you?”
“Oh, that. I had a meet-up with my kin. Told them all about you. We’ve set a trap. They’ll be along to kill you in your sleep.” Armitage leered at Geneve, then tore another mouthful of goose. “Sound about right?”
She glanced at Meriwether. “It does.”
The Vhemin coughed, hawked, and spat a fragment of bone into the fire. “I had to kill some fuckers for their wood. And their stones. Then I had to kill more fuckers who wanted it back. Other fuckers needed to die so I could get their weapons. Took a while to find a decent one, then I broke what felt like a good sword over someone’s skull. Then I had to build a fire, heat my rocks, and find my good buddy Beck. I thought I might have lost you, but you imbeciles lit a fire you can see for klicks.”
“It’s cold.” Meriwether heard the defensiveness in his tone.
“I ain’t judging. I need the fire for the rocks. Also, I like a front-on fight. Calling my idiot kin here with a signal flare gets all the puss out in one go.” He tapped the side of his scaled head. “Good thinking.”
“I’ll take first watch,” Meriwether offered.
The Vhemin’s snake eyes caught the firelight, holding it close. “You do that.”
* * *
First watch was cold and lonely. Meriwether also felt it carried a little more terror than he’d hoped for, because while the fire kept the chill from the bones, Armitage’s assessment of it being a beacon for danger felt more or less accurate.
The wind picked up, tossing leaves about. Their rustling distracted him, drawing his attention, and what with being partially night-blind from the fire, he wasn’t sure if he’d die because his hearing or eyesight let him down the most.
Geneve and Armitage dropped off to sleep without needing encouragement. Meriwether wanted to ask what weighed on her, but it didn’t seem like the time or place with a Vhemin freshly arrived. He was surprised she’d been able to sleep at all, what with a flesh-eating monster five meters away, but she’d done all the work today. She was probably exhausted. Geneve and Armitage slept on opposite sides of the campfire. Armitage lay atop a hot rock, and his bear Beck snuggled his side like a dog of unusual size. Geneve had taken off her armor, but if Meriwether’s assessment was right, her sword was closer to hand than usual. The horses, wanting no part of a bear, huddled in the darkness.
Sight of Day dropped to the leafy ground in front of him, and Meriwether let out a short scream. Geneve moaned in her sleep, rolled over, and drew her blanket with her. The monster Armitage didn’t move at all; the creature slept like the dead, arms flung wide, mouth open.
The Feybrind gave a half-smile and waved his hand in front of his face. Meriwether knew that word: {Sorry.}
“It’s okay.” Meriwether watched the darkness again, letting his eyesight do a little of the hard work. He kept his voice soft. The cat could hear him whisper from thirty meters, and it was better to avoid waking the others. “I’m sorry, too. It’s shitty you have to travel with a monster who killed your family.”
Sight of Day nodded. {Still sorry.}
“Everything feels … wrong. I should be dead, or at least ready to be judged. Geneve should be with her Knights, doing something important. You should be doing whatever cats do. On someone’s lap, by a fire, I guess.” He gave a brittle laugh. “I don’t know if you do that. I figure everyone loves a fire.”
Sight of Day nodded with his head and fist at the same time. {Yes.}
“I’ve been using my watch time to think. No, don’t go.” Meriwether held up his hand as the Feybrind turned away. “I could use a friend. I’ve precious few. It surprises me sometimes. Handsome, charming, and yet bereft of companions.” He shook his head, rueful. “Mind you, the only people who say I’m charming and handsome are getting paid by the hour.”
The Feybrind half-smiled, covering his silent snicker with a hand.
“I wish all my sinning could do something useful. I wish it could take back time. Bring people back from the dead. Move mountains, or save an innocent. But all I can do is steal, and make things that aren’t real.” His eyes found Geneve’s still form. “It’s a wonder I’ve not been killed before.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Sight of Day’s wonderful, golden eyes on his own. The cat very slowly, very deliberately shook his head.
“Sorry.” Meriwether tried for a laugh and managed to make it sound half decent. “I saw something today that reminded me of another thing I’d tried to forget. Or run away from. Makes no difference, really. Go. Get some sleep. All our problems will be waiting for us in the morning.”
The cat nodded, then stroked Meriwether’s cheek before padding toward his bedding. The Feybrind paused by the fire, looking at Meriwether’s bedroll between the monster Armitage and Geneve, then shook his head. He picked up his blankets and put them between Meriwether’s and Armitage before curling up to sleep.
Who’d have thought. There’s one person in this world who cares who gets eaten first.
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