Blade of Glass: Chapter 30

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 their wake. The Knights following would need to detour around the fracas, buying them time.

The real problem wasn’t the Knights, or that they were coming. They were always coming because of what he could do. What he was. No, the real problem was Geneve. Meriwether wasn’t concerned she’d turn on him, blade to his throat, and march him toward her fellows.

He was concerned not doing that would eat her alive.

It lay in how she held herself. Chin up, but not quite high enough. Eyes cool and hard, but always looking for the glint of sun on metal. Fingers clenching and unclenching. The hand that kept returning to her hair, smoothing it away from her eyes, no matter how much the wind teased it free.

Which meant, for all the high bullshit levels of the plan, he was on board. It would take them further away from their pursuers. Maybe get them out of this shitty desert, and into whatever temple awaited ahead. Armitage would get his prize, they could go on their way, and she wouldn’t be burdened with choice. Not for him, and not for anyone else. Once they were in the capital, she’d be free of one more thing tearing her apart.

Once this mission was done, she’d be free of him.

Meriwether helped break camp. Armitage grunted acknowledgment as they broke down the poles that held the tarp up. Meriwether marveled at them for a moment. Their manufacture was fine, as if by a Tresward Smith. The Knights let precious few of their magnificent creations into other’s hands, and Meriwether wondered whether Armitage had killed a Knight for these.

Beck grumbled to his feet, lumbering about and disturbing the horses. Chesterfield pawed the air in a movement that spoke through any species language barrier: back off, clown. The bear ignored the black charger, fretting at all this movement in the heat.

Rested but still hot was how they started the next stage of their journey. Sight of Day was changeless, implacable, his golden eyes watching all, missing nothing, but also unconcerned. The cat held no fear inside him. Armitage walked lighter without the hot rock in his pack. He’d donated the stone to Beck’s saddle, the surface catching sunlight for the cool night ahead. 

Geneve stood without armor but looked undiminished. Her hair flowed free from Sight of Day’s borrowed scarf. She’d strapped her sword to her waist, scattergun on her back. Her pack yielded clothes, loose cotton garb that looked fitting for a fair, not the desert.

C’mon, admit it. She looks amazing. Despite all that wore on her, she faced the afternoon as if she was ready for it.

Meriwether shed some of his wool but kept his cloak for the sun. He led Troubles, the horse grumbling as they set out in the heat. The shimmer-haze of the dead city ahead beckoned them on. Meriwether heard stories of its kind. He expected sirens to call, hoping to draw them close, but no noise came from the north. Nothing came at all. The city was centuries dead.

Armitage led them at a trot. His speed carried urgency, but not panic. “We’ve got a decent head start. We can make this work, but the timing’s everything. Too fast, and the guardians won’t bother getting out of bed. Too slow, and the Knights catch us.”

“You sure they’ve seen us?” Meriwether panted.

Armitage rolled his eyes. “They’re Knights, runt. They miss nothing.” Geneve nodded at this, red hair hiding her face, but kept on, footsteps sure. Meriwether wondered about the mysterious Trials. What did Tresward do to their Novices to make their hearts harder than stone? Two of her kind chased her down, no doubt wrestling with doubts about their mission, just as she ran from them, wrangling her own inner demons. Yet they did it anyway.

He realized something important: those Trials are bullshit. 

The dead city loomed ahead. Closer, heat shimmer abated, Meriwether saw the buildings were broken like old teeth. Like the edge of the desert where marsh turned to sand, there wasn’t the expected build up from small farms to big buildings. The city sprang fully formed from the earth. Around the edge of it rose a wall, crumbled and broken in many places. Behind the wall, the structures hinted at massive pride. The ancients built so high they wanted to shake hands with the Three.

“Steady, now.” Armitage’s eyes were everywhere, his head on a swivel. “If you see something moving, you move faster.”

“Wait. I thought you said they took time to wake up?” Meriwether felt that queasy feeling of dread grow.

“Usually.”

“Usually?” Meriwether’s voice squeaked. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It’ll be even less reassuring if they don’t come at all. I haven’t been to this place. Could be all the way dead.” Armitage kept looking about like he didn’t believe his words.

They made their way east along the dead city’s wall. The Knights approaching from the west seemed indistinct in the heat haze, but the glimmer of their armor abated when they hit the shelter of the wall. Geneve kept casting backward glances. Meriwether hurried to her side, reaching for her hand. “You don’t have to do this. You could—”

“I could what?” She didn’t take her hand away. If anything, she squeezed it tighter. “If the Tresward is broken, I have to fix it. But to do that, I need truth.” 

“You could leave me here.” He pulled her to a halt and turned her to face him. “It’d buy you time.”

“I don’t need time—”

“It’d buy you freedom.” 

She held still, then shook her head. “I wasn’t made to be free any more than you were. I think—”

Whatever Geneve thought was lost to a massive, bass sound, like the world’s largest trumpet. It vibrated the sand at Meriwether’s feet, and he covered his ears to block it out. The horses’ eyes went wild, tails flicking, but they held their place like Tresward-trained mounts should. Sight of Day lowered his stance, bow magically in hand.

Armitage looked at the wall. “Fuck.”

“Fuck?” Meriwether asked. “What’s that mean?”

“They ain’t dead.” The monster broke into a lumbering run as he half-turned. “Come on, then! Run!”

Sight of Day’s tail lashed, then he headed after the Vhemin. Geneve held Meriwether’s hand for a final squeeze, then she turned and fled. Chesterfield rumbled past in pursuit, leaving Meriwether and Troubles alone.

The horse lifted her head, as if confused at why everyone else was running away. He put his hand on her neck. “Easy, girl. I need to see.” She jerked away, and he imagined her thought: why’d I get the imbecile?

A shadow stole over the wall. Meriwether was perhaps a klick away, but even at this distance he felt the size of it. It moved as smoke, sinuous and low to the ground. He caught a glimpse of red eyes within the shrouded haze of shadow surrounding it.

Another joined it. Then another.

“Okay.” Meriwether took a stumbling step back. “I don’t need to see anymore.” He pulled Troubles’ bridle. “C’mon.”

The horse nickered, following. Meriwether looked back. The smoke creatures swirled a circle of shadow at the wall’s base, watching, waiting. They didn’t pursue. He supposed they knew he wasn’t a threat. Too small, too feeble. Too ordinary, or perhaps too full of sin.

Instead of following Meriwether, they swarmed west toward the two approaching Knights. Meriwether watched them go but didn’t feel happy. There wasn’t any joy left in this dead city. Hell, there wasn’t joy in the plague lands at all.

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