Meriwether lay on his belly, peering over a dune’s rise into the encampment below. It looked like a small military setup. He spied a makeshift smithy, complete with bellows and furnace. Horses were listless in a pen with a fabric gazebo to keep the sun off. Tents lay in neat rows, and Vhemin patrolled like soldiers. They were equipped with new-looking armor, but didn’t wear it the same way a human might. Many made do with a cuirass, not bothering to strap the breastplate and backplate together. It couldn’t be heat, what with them being cold-blooded, but it could be plain old laziness. The horse pen was their destination, but Meriwether couldn’t help but stare at the monstrous structure of the temple. From where he lay with Sight of Day on the sand, he could see the main building was a circular Read More …

The stables yielded Geneve’s prize: an ox-wagon front assembly. The hitch was sound oak, linked to two metal-rimmed wheels. Too heavy for her, but with four? Manageable. They also stole chain and pulleys, a set of hammers, and shovels. Kytto’s hand to hand training might not have been good for beating Wincuf, but working beside the Smith taught Geneve a thousand things most Knights would never know. They hustled the assembly from the stables with whispers and giggles. A few times they had to freeze, fearing a night-delivered noise as discovery, but through the Three’s grace no one found them. They made it to the hall. Geneve directed them on her plan. Hettie shimmied up the walls, the glint of her bald head disappearing into the gloom. Raja and Barbet stayed with Geneve, humping the wagon assembly to the middle Read More …

“Meri!” Geneve stabbed her blade into the sand, dropping to a crouch before him. His hands were in front of his eyes, and blood leaked down his face. “Let me see.” Sight of Day was beside them faster than thought. The Feybrind’s fur soft hands pushed Geneve away gently, but very firmly. He touched Meriwether’s face, trying to coax the young man’s hands from his eyes. Meriwether hunched away, a low, anguished moan coming from him. Sight of Day glanced at Geneve. {Keep him calm. Try not to hit him again.} She watched him run into their shelter. “Meri? I’m sorry. I … it felt like I was being attacked.” She remembered the flow of the pattern, the weight of the blade in her hand, and the sun on her face. Geneve thought she was at peace for that timeless moment Read More …

Meriwether chewed the inside of his lip. “Could you be more specific?” “There’s not a lot of room for confusion, runt.” Armitage scratched an armpit. “You want food, we find someone who’s got it and punch it out of them.” “I got that part,” Meriwether said. They trudged along the sand. The sun’s hammer beat the cold right out of him. While the brutal frigid night left him aching, the blasting heat of day wasn’t much of an improvement. “The missing piece of the puzzle is where we might find people.” Geneve walked to his left, eyes downcast. “The horses need grain. We need water.” It was like she wasn’t listening to the conversation. She had bags under her eyes so deep Meriwether thought they might be bruised. Sleep wasn’t good for anyone, it seems. Only Sight of Day appeared well-rested, Read More …

After Kytto gave her Requiem, he’d told her to get a good night’s sleep. Geneve had no intention of doing that. Sleep wouldn’t help her now. Wincuf was already completing his Trial, and if the monster didn’t need sleep, neither did she. She snuck into the long hall of combat where the fight would take place tomorrow. Geneve knew she’d stand as Wincuf’s last fight. He’d have his eyes on her, working his way down the line of opponents with one thought. Kill Geneve. She knew he’d cut her down like a single blade of grass against the scythe. Geneve couldn’t use the Storm, and she was tiny. But Kytto taught her well over the years. How to fight with bare knuckles, or using a man’s weight against him. He’d said a weapon gave false confidence. Knights were full of Read More …

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 Read More …

Meriwether ran after the others until his side hurt. He didn’t look back. The pursuing Knights would make it or they wouldn’t. Looking wouldn’t change anything and seeing the smoke creatures on his heels would just make his last moments more terrifying. Troubles trotted along at his side, and he thought he sensed something snide in the horse’s sideways glances. He imagined her thinking, Is this the best you can do? His cloak billowed free of his head in the rush, but it didn’t matter. A little sunburn wasn’t the thing likely to kill him right this moment. He saw Armitage lead the group up a sand dune, their menagerie of horses in tow. Geneve kept an effortless pace on his heels, but the cat was plain annoying. Sight of Day loped along like the speed of both human and Vhemin was glacial. Read More …

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 Read More …

Wincuf’s Trial was like any other: bloody. All were different, except for two things. The Novice must fight fifty peers and must also destroy their tree. There were no rules within those two constraints. Tradition said the Novice selected their foes. They would normally pick the biggest opponents to prove their worth to the Three. Wincuf chose forty-nine opponents before his last: Geneve. That was why she stood in ill-fitting armor along with forty-nine others, waiting to cut Wincuf down. Wincuf didn’t have to beat them. He just had to survive. Get through them out the gates at the end, and then a clean run to his tree. That was the rule. It was the end of his Trial; two days passed with grueling physical tests. Geneve watched as he’d been kept without sleep. Waterboarded and beaten. If the Storm Read More …

The plague lands. Some called them a desert, others a misery, but all people agreed: if you stepped on the sands, your life was forfeit. Geneve knew she might be able to walk the blasted steppes. The Light in all Knights kept them safe from disease and most of the ravages of time, but the sands were forbidden to all. No Knights came back from trying to cross them. The Tresward Great Library held no clues as to what lay in the middle. All maps ended at the border of such areas with a simple word: DANGER. The world was littered with plague lands. Vast stretches of scorched ground from the time of the ancients. Most were hundreds of klicks across, and without water or a horse, survival seemed tricky. Armitage snorted at her concerns. You’ve never had a guide with balls, is all. Read More …