Blade of Glass: Chapter 8

The long road left Meriwether plenty of time to think. The cold had got into his bones, so he spent much of the journey shivering, but the thick blankets the Knights draped over him served to keep him from death’s door.

He’d found hot rocks sharing his blanket, which he kicked out once they started being cold rocks.

Meriwether’s careful fingers found the angel’s kiss nestled in a pocket. He hadn’t been so cold-drunk to lose it, then. Stacked around the cage were the Knight’s belongings. Not the precious ones—their glass swords, scatterguns, shields, or other means of wizard murder. Not coin, neither. But tents, pots and pans, and food.

Their eyes didn’t linger on him. He was baggage. An item to be delivered, by pony express. It didn’t bother him; he didn’t much like them either.

It’s hard to like people who think of you as a demon’s instrument made flesh. But just imagine! They must be amazing fun at parties.

His quiet rummaging through their baggage revealed various things of note. Dried nuts, which he munched, and raw chicken wrapped within wax paper, which he didn’t. A bottle of amber liquid, which tempted him sorely, but he figured he’d need his wits before too long.

No herbs, or coffee—are these people savages?—but, almost as he was at the point of despair, his fingers found a small tin. Inside, the bittersweet aroma of tea. He didn’t fancy tea much. Too bitter, not enough honey in the world to take away the tongue-curling flavor. But good enough for his purposes.

He retrieved his twist of angel’s kiss. The day was long, and he had plenty of time. Meriwether used the hours to render the kiss’s leaves into tiny fragments, distributing them into the tin. He resealed it, gave it a shake, and packed it away where he’d found it.

The rest was in the hands of the Three, who were, in his experience, a pernicious bunch of pricks. He settled back in his blankets, stifling a cough, because he sure as hell wasn’t getting sick, dying of the cold or black lung. Meriwether wouldn’t give these Knights the satisfaction.

They made camp at journey’s end, which was amusing not least of which because the fools spent more energy on physical efforts when already exhausted. His eyes kept straying to red-haired Geneve. She wrestled her horse, rope clenched in gauntleted fists while the beast dragged her across the clearing.

A weaker person might have sworn, or hit the animal, but he caught her fighting a laugh as the blue roan reared, then lunged forward, dumping her on her backside. Meriwether considered the angel’s kiss for a moment but tamped down on his residual pity.

They hunted me without reason.

He considered that for a moment. To be fair, there’s some reason. You’re a thief, a good one if a little pride’s not too much, and you have a trick or two up your sleeve.

The meal they gave him was terrible. The chicken was burnt, the seasoning nonexistent or also burnt. But there was plenty of it, and he was thankful for that. He watched, heart in mouth as they made tea, the angel’s kiss roiling with the bitter leaves.

Night slunk in, tail between its legs. The giant snored first, which surprised Meriwether because he expected the big man to have a little more stamina. The ice woman nodded off next, her chin touching her chest, glass sword by her hand.

Geneve stood the longest, back to the fire, staring into the dark. But even she settled, first yawning, then settling into a crouch, before slipping into slumber.

Now, the cage. Meriwether shook himself free of blankets, but carefully, quietly, like a ghost. He examined the lock holding the cage closed. It was a fancy affair, the Tresward’s sun emblazoned in gold on good iron. The lock was the size of his clenched fist. There’d be no breaking it.

He closed his eyes. Touched the metal with delicate fingers. Felt inside, the tumblers and gears of Tresward-wrought metal a marvel to behold. Get a grip, man. They make good stuff, but they’re assholes, High Justiciar right to the lowest Novice. 

He reached with his mind and, with a flick of his fingers, tickled the lock. It snapped open. He eased it free of the metal hoops holding his cage closed, setting it against a blanket to avoid the clunk of metal on wood. So slowly it almost hurt, he eased the door open.

It didn’t creak. Tresward Smiths made it better than a common blacksmith could. Bet they’ll regret that come the morrow.

Meriwether slipped from the cage. His boots found dew-wet grass. He snuck toward Geneve’s form, eyes on her blade and scattergun. Then he remembered the slip of steel she’d let him keep. It’d be poor form if he took her weapons after she’d given him one.

It wasn’t like he could lift her bastard sword anyhow. It looked like it weighed as much as Meriwether with a good meal in his belly and winter furs about his shoulders.

Recharting his course, he made for the burlap sack of supplies near the fire. He helped himself to some dried meat, eyes watchful for the Knights stirring. By the Three. It wasn’t a lot of angel’s kiss. I hope I haven’t killed them.

He shook his head. I should cut their throats and leave them bleeding their last. If I was the sinner they claim me to be, I’d have done it already.

Meriwether could tickle locks, and a few other tricks as well, but he wasn’t a murderer. He’d be damned if the right arm of the Light would make him one. Making sure his stiletto was secured, he stuffed a sack with a water skin, a hunk of cheese, and a loaf of bread. Then he set off into the darkness.

* * *

The darkness didn’t like him very much.

Branches slapped him in the face. Twigs broke underfoot. He was good at being a padfoot, but only in city streets. The wilds weren’t a home for him.

The night seemed to grow brighter ahead. He rubbed his eyes, feeling like the world conspired against him. He was going to die of the black lung, or on the unforgiving edge of Tresward steel, and to round it all off he’d had so little sleep he was seeing things.

Pressing on, he found his eyes hadn’t lied: the night was indeed brightening. The murmur of drums grew louder. Meriwether crouched low beside a tree that smelled like sandalwood. He listened. Drums, no talking. The light was urgent, insistent, like a blaze.

Go the other way. Don’t look.

Hells, but he wanted to look. He crept up a small rise, nosing over the top. Below him lay another clearing, but this one hacked from the belly of the forest. Trees were torn down, a bonfire of their bodies in the center of the clearing. Around the blaze, the massive bulks of Vhemin warriors stood. They beat drums as they watched the blaze.

He’d never seen Vhemin before. Feybrind, sure. Their quiet kind were welcome in the cities of humanity, their master artisans making Tresward Smiths look like bumbling novices. But the Vhemin? Never. Humans warred with them in the warmer north in all but the most brutal pirate city ports. They were ugly, brutish creatures, known for making war above all else. Meriwether heard the stories. Ones like, They eat human babies for dessert, and they’re five times as strong as humans, kilo for kilo. 

He counted twenty, but was left uncertain of the number as they moved about the flames. Their skin was gray-green and lightly scaled. Mouths wider than a human’s, hiding a horror show of shark’s teeth. They wore motley armor and carried no uniformity of weapons. This group stole their equipment from their victims and made no move to hide that.

Meriwether slowed his breathing. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. There shouldn’t be any Vhemin this far south, but clearly no one told them that. He wondered why they watched fire while beating drums, and patience rewarded his curiosity.

The Vhemin extended metal poles into the heart of the blaze. They dragged free slabs of stone, smoking and hot. The brutish figures tucked the stones into backpacks, lashing them tightly to their bodies. That put truth to one rumor at least: the Vhemin were cold-blooded, like lizards. The stones would keep them warm, like a portable basking rock.

But that means they’re here for murder work. Meriwether wanted no part of that. He knew of no townships close to here. He was more familiar with the north. No clue what their purpose is, but you want to be far away from them and their target.

He backed away. His foot found loose scree, slipped, and he oomph’d on the ground. Twenty faces turned to him, then the group let out a communal roar.

Three’s mercy. Meriwether dropped his satchel, turned, and fled. Branches lashed at him, and more than once he tripped on a root or stone. His face slammed against the coarse bark of a tree, but he pushed himself on. The pain was like an old friend, one that urged him on. Keep going, old son. If I don’t it’ll hurt more, then stop hurting forever.

If it’d taken him thirty minutes to get from the Knight’s camp to here, it took him five to make it back. The Vhemin were on his heels, grunts and roars behind him. He spied the glow from the Knight’s fire ahead. “Help!” Nothing. He kept going until a massive hand snared him from behind. Meriwether was hauled from the ground, feet dangling as a Vhemin brought him to its face. Fetid breath washed over him. “You should try chewing mint.”

The Vhemin grunted, slamming a fist into Meriwether’s gut. He curled up, a curious motion since he was still suspended in the air. “We have him.”

Meriwether blinked. The Vhemin could speak? Truth, the words were rough, like listening to an anvil talk, but words they were. “You do,” he wheezed. “I’m not sure why, though. The Knights are,” he jerked a thumb, “that way. I’m not with those assholes.”

The Vhemin wrenched its head away from Meriwether and his no doubt tasty insides, and toward the Knight’s camp. From that direction, a cry came up. “’Ware!”

Vertiline, unless I miss my guess. The Vhemin ululated, then slammed Meriwether into a tree. He slumped to the ground, stunned, as the beasts ran past, roaring, blades out. Twenty Vhemin against three Knights.

What have I done? Nothing answered, not even the part of him that urged he cut their throats. They cannot win.

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