Blade of Glass: Chapter 31

Geneve didn’t know why she felt angry. Since leaving the partnership of her fellow Knights, she’d felt… off balance. Like the ground beneath her feet swayed, or she’d taken too much summer wine. The colors seemed different, and her heart was confused about true north.

It kept telling her there was something wrong with the Tresward, and it also told her the Tresward protected her. It’d taken her in when there were no other options. Knights fought the scourges of the world. Their Light kept the darkness at bay. Geneve glanced sideways at Armitage. Darkness like the Vhemin.

That was the problem, really. Here she was, sharing the trail with a killer. She’d seen Armitage fight. He was no stranger to violence. He spoke its language. By the Three, he whispered sweet nothings into murder’s cold ear. Such a thing was far from what a Knight should do.

She felt the world tip again and tried to steady her internal turmoil. We keep the road with the monster to get across the sands. We need to get to the capital, where aid awaits. When we get through the desert, we’ll be free of the creature.

It made good sense, an internal logic she could follow, but Geneve knew it was a half-truth at best. The whole of the truth was deeper, darker, and as uncomfortable as befriending a sinner, or thinking the Justiciars were corrupt. What her off-kilter heart whispered was, I share the trail with a killer, but for all his vile words, I’ve yet to see him work casual murder. He’s kept his hands from my throat, and doesn’t raise arms against the Feybrind. Is he unusual, or are all Vhemin like this?

She might have killed more folk than Armitage, and all under false orders. The figurative sands flowed beneath her, and she wasn’t sure where to step.

Geneve shook her head, red hair lashing her face. Focus. The answers would arrive at trail’s end. Israel would have said, The journey is the destination. Except Israel wasn’t here. He followed her, she was sure of it. They’d set him on her trail. Geneve didn’t know why, because he was a Valiant and she just an Adept. You didn’t set Valiants on a task unless you wanted to be very, very sure it was done. Tasks like catching sinners.

A low keen almost escaped her lips, but she held it in check. Geneve clenched her teeth so hard they might break. To take her mind off the roiling church of her thoughts, she looked to Armitage. “How far?”

“I don’t know.”

“By the Three—”

“I’m not trying to be the asshole here.” The monster straightened, scanning the horizon. “These things are tricky to find at the best of times.”

“What things?”

“Don’t know what they’re called. Never been inside one either.” He pressed forward. “Truth be told, we should have been there by now—”

He vanished from view.

Geneve gaped at the absence of Armitage before hurrying forward. His loss was explained easy enough as she skidded to a halt over a fresh precipice. He’s fallen into a hole. Grains poured into the depths. “Are you okay?”

A grunt came from the darkness below. “I found it. Toss me a shovel. Should be one in my pack, unless the cat stole it.”

She eyed Beck. The big bear didn’t eye her back, completely unconcerned that his master fell from view, or that a tiny human approached. The heat stone on Beck’s saddle was atop the saddlebag flap, so she needed to move it out of the way. Her fingers found it warm, rather than hot as she’d expect from the sun. Closer inspection showed tiny markings around the outside edge, like letters, but not in a language she knew. Not important. She pushed it aside, then rooted through Armitage’s saddlebags.

There wasn’t a collection of skulls inside. A few wrapped packages of what was probably food. A small lantern, which surprised her because the Vhemin were supposed to see as well as Feybrind at night. The spars for his tarpaulin shelter. Knives aplenty. And there at the bottom—of course it’s at the bottom—of the bag was a shovel.

She drew it out, fascinated. It was a folded design, and light in her hand. The blade was well worn but serviceable. Geneve hefted it, then approached the hole. Meriwether stood an uncertain pace or two from the edge. “Careful.”

“I’m always careful.” But she offered him a smile as thanks for the thought before facing the hole. “Ready?”

“No, I decided to take a piss. Of course I’m ready.” She tossed the shovel into the hole and was rewarded with a clank. “Ow. Thanks.”

“No problem.” She backed away from the hole. “I guess we wait.”

Sight of Day pointed about five meters north of the hole. The sand sloped away sharply at that point. {We don’t have to wait long.}

The sand poured inward at the point the Feybrind marked. Geneve approached, Meriwether at her side, his curiosity winning over fear. The sand parted like water into a drain, revealing a narrow, sloping entrance between two walls constructed of the same material the ancients made their roads from. 

Armitage was framed in the entrance atop a dome of sand, shovel in hand. “The entrance was filled over. I gave it a kick from this side.” He beckoned them. “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

Geneve followed him. The narrow entrance widened into a cavern of sorts. A door sat at the far end. It was three meters wide and two high, also made of the white stone the ancients built with. “What’s behind that?”

“No idea. They don’t open anymore. But in here,” Armitage spread his arms, encompassing the cavern, “we can wait out the night. Most of the dune creatures don’t come close to places like this.”

“Is that because they’re unsafe?” asked Meriwether.

“Might be,” Armitage allowed. “We’d be dead already if this one was a problem. Good news is, no one would see our campfire in here. Bad news is, we’ve got no wood for a fire, so it’ll be a cold night. I hope you like cuddles.”

Geneve shuddered at the monster’s leer. “You’re cold-blooded. It wouldn’t help.”

“Cuddles help everyone.”

She shook her head. The Vhemin wasn’t what she’d expected at all. “Why do you have a lantern in your pack? I thought Vhemin could see at night as well as the Feybrind.”

“Different. Not better or worse. Isn’t that right, cat?”

Sight of Day nodded. {We see the world in all its colors, but we need at least a little light.}

“I see heat.” Armitage sniffed. “Plenty of places, just like this one, where seeing heat isn’t that useful. It’s great for hunting, though.”

Geneve went to get the horses. She met Beck at the entrance, the bear wanting in, and she stood aside for the beast. It nosed the air as it passed her, as if making sure she was friend, then ambled to Armitage’s side. She caught the monster scratching behind the bear’s ears.

Outside, Meriwether kept watch as well as keeping an eye on the horses. “Thank you. You know, for before.”

She beckoned Tristan. {Come.} “I told only truth.”

“Truth doesn’t always need to be said.” He gave a small smile. “Actually, truth doesn’t want to be said. And you kind of shouted it.”

“The monster bothers me.”

“Monsters bother everyone.” He clicked at Troubles, who tried to bite him. The young man shied away. “Nice try, fiend.” The horse let herself be led, Chesterfield coming along for the journey. “I guess I’m not sure he’s a monster. This damn horse tries to bite me more often.”

“Troubles likes you.” Geneve grinned. “She’d have kicked you otherwise.”

“Ah.” He patted Troubles’ face. “I’d kick her right back.”

“Meri, we need to help them.” She felt the smile slide off her face. “Israel and Vertiline.”

He stopped, holding his quiet for a time. “I know.”

“No, we need to … wait, what?”

“I know.” He looked back, where the fading light stole details from the dune strewn landscape. “They’re two basically good people, trying to do something they believe is right. They’re in a desert full of monsters.” He had the good grace to not mention they might have died. “They don’t have a guide.”

“So let’s give them one.” She scuffed the sand. “We’ll mark the shelter for them.”

“It won’t be enough.” Meri looked at his feet. “But I know what might.”

* * *

Meri’s plan was stupid. Beyond stupid, if Geneve was assessing the situation right. When he’d laid it out for her, she’d laughed, and he’d waited her out until her laughter died away in a sea of incredulity.

Armitage was on board from the moment he’d laid it out. Fuck, we should have thought of killing you this way two days back, he’d said, then picked up his club and stalked outside. He didn’t profess to love the second part of the plan, but he was happy enough to let it ride, whatever that meant.

Sight of Day wasn’t okay with it, not at all. The Feybrind had shook his head, saying only, {Hearts make fools of us all.} Geneve didn’t know what he meant, but since Meriwether was already outside with Armitage, she needed to be there to help him not die.

I spoke my problems, and he listened. I didn’t need him to fix them, just hear them. If only I’d kept my mouth shut.

The dark outside their shelter was incomplete. The sky was clear, stars bright above, and the faces of the Three kept their watch above. Cophine’s luminance felt especially bright out here without city fires to interfere. A wind picked up, pulling drifts of sand across her boots. The sound was beautiful, if haunting. The dunes sounded like they wept for everything the world lost.

And if you don’t get moving, it’ll lose a stupid, brave sinner.

Meriwether waited fifty meters ahead. He stood atop a dune, no doubt visible for klicks around, which was part of the plan. He held his knife and Geneve’s shield. Of Sight of Day, there was no sign, but she didn’t expect the Feybrind to be visible. They came and went like dawn mist. Armitage was a dark shadow about a hundred meters to her left. The brute hulked as low as he was able, but she couldn’t mistake the glint of his shark-tooth smile.

Despite Cophine’s pale face and Ikmae’s gray one, Geneve felt too blind for this work. She wanted a bonfire. A lantern would do in a pinch. The twenty-one hundred patterns taught Knights to fight in all conditions. Where the attacks should come from, and how to defend even if in a pitch-black room. They were drilled over and over until the patterns were second nature. One bled into another, a blade or shield sweeping where the next attack should come from, returning to strike where their opponent was most vulnerable. 

In her drills and training, there was room for protecting those needing her shield, but she felt the ancients hadn’t made the patterns for moments like this. Geneve wanted light, and a lot of it, so she might better see who she was protecting, and from what.

Meriwether hefted her shield, the movement awkward. He’d not been trained in the use of one, but if he needed the protection all was lost anyway. Saluting to where he thought she was, the gesture made slightly comical by him facing a few meters to her right. He’s not good in the dark either. The monster sees best of all. I hope Sight of Day’s arrows fly true.

The young man hammered on the shield with his knife’s pommel. Good Smithsteel, the shield rang like a gong, the sound an accompaniment to the desert’s haunting cry. The sound faded, so he struck again. Then once more.

Nothing.

Meriwether sighed. “Come on, you—”

The sand erupted ten meters behind him as monsters boiled forth. He shrieked, then ran like demons were after him. He wasn’t far wrong. Five dust hoppers leaped from their nesting burrow beneath the shifting dunes, clawing the ground as they chased him. Their paws dug great furrows, and while it looked like a waste of energy, Geneve saw the intent of the creatures. They scoop sand like water. They’ll be fast and sure.

She broke from her hiding place, blade held low and ready. Armitage hauled himself up, big arms and legs pumping as he ran for Meriwether, club in hand. Geneve saw again just how fast the monster was over short distances. She was pushing herself as fast as she could, yet he’d get there before her.

The dust devils had other plans. The sand before Armitage erupted, three of the creatures clawing for air. One leaped for him, but the Vhemin swung his club like a bat, knocking the dust hopper aside. Geneve heard the sickening crunch of broken bone and was certain the creature would land in a very dead state.

The other two didn’t slow, one lunging with slavering jaws to Armitage’s ankles, the other for his shoulder. The Vhemin kicked the low one aside, but the other got its teeth into his shoulder. He bellowed, stumbling.

He can look after himself, but Meriwether will die. Run! Geneve pushed herself harder, cursing the sands as they stole her speed. The dust hopper at the head of the original pack was almost on Meriwether, and she was still twenty meters out. The hiss-chunk of an arrow finding its mark sounded across the desert’s keen, and the creature rolled, an arrow in the socket of its left eye.

Another arrow found the second one, lodging in the skull. The creature screeched but didn’t drop.

Geneve was almost there. Meri marked her in the gloom and tossed her shield to her. The throw was bad, the rim wobbling through the air, but she’d carried it for five years. She knew its weight and heft. How it’d land, if left on its course.

She swung the flat of her blade, catching the shield on the edge. Smithsteel chimed in protest, but the shield flew straight up. Geneve passed Meriwether, the young man not slowing in the slightest, and found herself amid a collection of claws and slavering fangs. Her shield fell edge-first into the sand behind her, giving her shelter. A tiny piece of steel that would foul an attacker from the rear. It wasn’t much, but she felt the shield would be less useful on her arm against these dog-like creatures.

The Discord of Water. The pattern’s name sprang to mind, and she stepped into the movement without giving it a second thought. Water was the enemy of these harsh, dry climes. These creatures were born of earth and ash, and while she didn’t know how to fight them, they’d never seen water.

Requiem moved in the first three sweeping arcs. The skymetal glinted Cophine’s light back at the moon above. The steel shivered and sang, her weapon slicing low, high, and behind her. A dust hopper fell in two, her blade passing through its neck as if it were made of nothing stronger than smoke. She didn’t even feel the resistance.

Sand and grit blew into her eyes, and she blinked to clear them, but it didn’t help. Night-blind, sand in her eyes, she stood without backup. Armitage had his own problems, and Meriwether would get in the way. She didn’t expect Sight of Day to fire with her this close.

The other two monsters backed off, snarling. I can’t see them clearly. I can’t see what they’re going to do. She felt rather than saw the lunge from her left, but the Discord of Water wasn’t finished. She raised her foot on that side, sword held in vertical guard before her face, free hand held in bladed strike position. I don’t need to see them. Geneve fell into the Discord like a diver into a lake. She didn’t need her eyes or the confusion they fed her, so she closed them. Geneve felt her hair against her face, dune-sand whispering against her skin. 

Requiem sang to the night as she turned the blade into a spinning guard. She swept it behind her, then in front. The Discord of Water was forty-eight perfect moves, and she used them all. From her left, perhaps where Sight of Day lay, she felt a gust of cold wind. The faintest glimmer of a light bloomed through her eyelids and she saw the black-tinged red. She swung her sword as she’d been taught, as perfectly as she could, on shifting sands, with the lonely desert around her.

Done. Other than the sound of her own breathing, she could hear nothing. Geneve’s feet finished the Discord of Water in a ready stance, blade held in her right hand, tip toward the sand. She risked opening her eyes but saw nothing except tear-smeared darkness.

“Geneve?” Meri’s voice, close by. “I’ve got water. For your eyes, I mean. They’re all dead. Everything is dead. Except us, I mean. We’re all fine. I’m fine.” He babbled, unable to stop. “I shouldn’t be alive! I should be dead. That was a really stupid plan.”

She laughed despite the sand in her eyes. “It was the stupidest. Hurry up.”

Geneve heard the whisper of his feet drawing close. “Wait. I need a light.” Need a light? One was lit before. She heard the scratch of flint, and the darkness tinged red through her eyelids again. “Hold still. I’m pouring it now.” Geneve felt his hand on the back of her head, shaking, but gentle for all that. She let her head be tipped back and felt the cool splash against her face. Geneve shook her head, and pulled away, rubbing her eyes, then stabbed her blade into the sand.

She held her hand out for the water. Geneve rubbed the grit from her eyes, blinking the last vestiges clear. She took in the aftermath of the battle. Armitage stood by the corpses of three dust hoppers, kicking one with a certain enthusiasm. Sight of Day walked closer, tail lashing, but his golden eyes were bright. He carried his bow in one hand, something else in the other. Meriwether stood so close she could smell him, one hand half-ready to catch her, as if she might fall and break.

At her feet was a mess. Pieces of dust hopper lay strewn on all sides. She saw legs shorn from bodies, the bodies themselves cut in half. All the cuts were meticulous, as if a surgeon dissected these monsters for display.

“That was really impressive,” Meri offered. “I don’t think I’ve seen it’s like.”

“It was the Discord of Water,” she said. “It’s one of the twenty-one hundred—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He stepped back, eyes hooded. “But the Discord was fine, I guess.”

Sight of Day reached them, handing over what he carried. It looked like clumped white sand. Geneve felt the cold as she took it. “Is this … snow?” She glanced around. “Here?”

{You have a storm inside you, Daughter of the Three.} The Feybrind gave a small bow. {I’d prefer lightning like your friends, but snow in a blasted plague land is good, too.}

“I didn’t make this.” She sniffed the snow. It didn’t smell like anything except cold air. “I can’t command the Sacred Storm.”

“I wouldn’t call it commanding, as such. Snow’s not super useful on the battlefield. No offense.” Meriwether held his hand out, and she passed him the melting snow. “Feels like snow. I think we need to do one final test.” He turned, tossing the snow at Armitage.

The clod hit the Vhemin, who turned with a roar. “Asshole! That’s cold!”

“Definitely snow,” Meriwether smirked. He looked at the sky, sobering. “Let’s get these monsters gutted and strung up for your friends.”

* * *

The plan had been to use Meriwether as noisy bait, then cut down a single dust hopper when it came to see what the noise was. No one thought they’d get eight of the creatures at once. Skinning the beasts took time, slightly reduced by both Armitage and Beck eating pieces raw, bone and all.

Geneve planned to leave out carcasses to dry in the sun, so her fellow Knights would find shelter and food both. They strung meat up to air-dry in the cave, but Geneve wasn’t sure what to use as a lure. The cave was difficult to find. She worked her way through her belongings, finally settling on her helmet. If it was Israel and Vertiline on her heels, they’d know it as if they’d seen her face. She didn’t want to wear it anymore. Geneve felt too uncertain of purpose to wear the radiant sun on her chest or black sash across her shoulder, and the helmet was just an uncomfortable cherry on the top. Desert heat made the helmet impractical anyway, and when they reached civilization she could get another.

The night brought a cruel cold with it. Armitage nestled with his bear and hot rock both. His injured shoulder didn’t seem to bother him. Geneve tried to help bind the wound, but he’d pushed her off. Just a scratch. Be good as new in the morning.

Meriwether sat in a huddle of sober quiet for the rest of the night. He chewed a few pieces of dried meat but didn’t look like they satisfied. Terror sits in your belly, taking up all the room, and sometimes it leaves you hungry for life and all things in it. It sounded like something Israel might have said, but Geneve couldn’t remember when.

They were running low on grain for the horses, and water would be a concern before long. The desert was six hundred klicks across, or so said Armitage. In the morning, she’d ask about supplies. Tomorrow would bring time enough to worry about food. Tonight, she needed sleep.

Geneve pulled her cloak about her, watching her companions. Sight of Day took first watch. As the Feybrind slipped into the night outside their shelter she fell into a haunted sleep. Geneve felt demons hunted her, their long claws reaching for her unarmored form, and no blade in the world was bright enough to keep them back.

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