A garden of glass blades, p.1
A Garden of Glass Blades, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Any name, characters, places, and themes used are fiction and are no more than product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to real world events, people, or other are no more than coincidental.
All rights are held by the author
Cover designed by Miblart
Title page images by Canva
Written by M.A. Morales
Copyright © 2023 by Michelle Morales
The uploading and distribution of this book without the permission of the author is theft. Please contact the author with any inquiries as to the use of the author’s intellectual property.
First Edition: December 2023
ISBNs:
979-8-9871958-6-4 (paperback)
979-8-9871958-7-1 (ebook)
For more content by this author, go to:
elleoaks.com
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Gmail: mamoraleswrites@gmail.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
The bronze sun rises on another day, by the grace of the gods. The soldier looks over the cliff ledge at the community of huts below. Concrete structures with no more than rusty sheets of metal for roofs. The humble living of the farmer.
The mountain village springs to life before the rays of sunshine caress the lands of their peaceful valley. He removes his map from the pocket of his overcoat. Not needing directions, for only one road leads to the village from the north, but to check that this village is the one. The last phase of his journey. The final destination. He marked off the names of the villages he passed through until he arrived here. The winding path through the mountains will lead him there. The tales and accounts of the townspeople along his way assured him in this village, Hoja Rosa, he would find who he searches for. This is the village, the home, to the warrior of the glass sword.
Ilian extinguishes the fire and rolls up his blankets, tying every last utensil and belonging to the saddle of his majestic brown and white horse. He finishes the final knot of the lasso and takes a deep breath. The day heats at a rapid pace with the harsh summer sun. Ilian makes his way down the dirt path.
Dust flies up from the road as the wind sweeps through the land. The dry earth of the valley cries for rainfall, the sight of which will not be seen until winter arrives if the gods choose not to send the blessing. The people of the valley worship different gods than those of the city. Some say for this reason the farmers live in poverty. Their prayers arrive at no more than an ethereal wall, not entering the ears of the gods. Ilian, a faithful servant to the divine Governor of Micacao, wishes those he meets will understand the error of their ways. The compassion he demonstrates to these unknowing sinners will grant him mercy and grace. The gods may forgive the villagers’ ignorance. And perhaps the farmers and laborers will understand it is by their own fault, and not the government, for the poverty-stricken villages and inabilities to find opportunity for growth and progress.
Many a man, woman, and child walk past the soldier. He smiles in greeting, in return they give no more than grimaces accompanied by the seldom glare. They travel to their plots of land carrying machetes, baskets, sacks, and pots of food. Some women of the valley drape their babies to their backs, all those able needed for the harvest. Their feet drag uphill as another day of harvest steals from their energy. Their sunken in eyes and sun spotted faces prove these laborers dedicate themselves to hard work despite the empty table they meet at the end of each day.
Houses appear every now and again along the path. He arrives closer to civilization. Ilian observes with stolid face the squalid conditions. Tattered clothes dry on the canopies of bushes and saplings. Maize and bananas hang from wooden support beams, meant to prevent the metal roof from folding in on itself. Two young children play with sticks in the dirt. When their eyes meet the soldier, they drop their toys and run through the hanging blanket acting as a door. Ilian frowns, sympathy growing in his heart.
A stray wolf, rib cage protruding from its form with an outline pushing against the flesh, passes in search of food for its young. The soldier continues forward. His eyes wander the village in his curiosity. Born and raised in the city, he never strayed beyond its wall despite his occupation. As a soldier, guarding the Governor served as his primary duty. Until now.
Ilian enters the town center. Several teen boys sitting on concrete steps leading from a house smirk at the soldier, whispering their taunts and spitting in his direction. Ilian turns away and ignores it, not wishing for an altercation. Plastic bags and food scraps fill the sides of the streets. The lingering smells of fresh chicharrones, sweet bread, and burning trash piles hit in a distorting mixture. The houses do not appear richer but for the cooking pots with flowers planted within on the roofs. A second level constructed of wood, similar to those houses found outside of the capital, sit atop the concrete base. Ilian passes into the store with the structure as such. Though no more than one’s house converted to sell goods, the owners make a sufficient living off these wages alone.
“Good day,” he greets, the middle-aged woman bowing her head in respect of his class. “I’ll take a jar of milk, bar soap, half a kilo of rice, and cinnamon, if you will.”
The shopkeeper rises from her stool to search the shelves of her store for the items on his list. Every few seconds, she glances in his direction, either to check that he does not steal or in worry of his silent judgments of her humble establishment. One by one she places the items on the wooden countertop the local carpenter constructed for her. Ilian licks his lips in thinking about his sweet treat of rice and milk. He has eaten nothing but stale tortillas and beans for days. His sweet tooth calls to him for attention, desiring the only treat he can recall with the little he has tied to his horse.
Ilian withdraws a gold piece from his pocket and the shopkeeper’s eyes bulge at the sight. He gives the piece to her. She stares in confusion, not having the means to give him change. The woman knows her humble store and any savings she possesses would not be sufficient.
“The change is yours,” Ilian says with a smile. The shopkeeper bows her head in thanks. The soldier turns to leave but then stops himself. “Do you know anything of the warrior with the glass sword?”
The shopkeeper slips the gold piece into her brassiere and nods.
“Can you tell me about her?”
The shopkeeper hesitates. Ilian sighs. He puts his hand into his pocket, withdrawing another gold piece. Ilian slides the coin across the countertop. The shopkeeper looks into his eyes, wondering if she is meant to grab it. Her hand slides toward it, Ilian withdrawing his own, knowing she’s accepted the bribe.
“Her name is Cordaya,” the woman says as she examines her second gold piece. She rolls it around in her hands in the joy which the money will bring her family. “She’s the laborer, though more so the adopted child, of Ernesto and Nelida Morez. Take the road that leads further down the mountain. They live around the first curve. A large bougainvillea bush near the steps to their porch.”
“Thank y-”
“Good luck catchin’ her. She’s probably working.”
“Yes. Thank you for your assistance,” Ilian bows and exits the store. He ties the bag to his horse, and they continue down the path.
The litter filling the road grows scant the further they travel from the busy town center. The houses lack the improvement. Wooden shutters hang limp from the windowsills. Tarps with coffee beans drying in the sun occupy one side of the road, the dust from the dry season and passerby like a fine powder on top. Ilian notices a pack of stray wolves approach. They glare and growl at the soldier, no more than intimidation in their territory. The soldier pays no attention, despite clutching the saber at his side should he need it.
Ahead, he notices the bougainvillea bush in full bloom, its salmon flowers adding a pleasant scent to the air and refreshing color to the community of unpainted, aged houses. Ilian observes the supposed home of the warrior. No sign of prestige nor honor visible on the stained concrete walls or the pile of lumber scattered out front. Ilian gazes at the house, wondering if this is truly his final destination.
Not that he expected to find a castle or palace constructed of diamonds or gold in rural Micacao. However, he did expect more of a famed warrior. The stories and legends the other villagers told of mentioned she may be the child of god and man. The daughter of a demi-goddess of war with mortal man. The soldier shook his head at the ridiculous thought. The warrior, this Cordaya, may be strong, but she is mortal. This house, with its lack of riches and pride suggest just that.
Ilian approaches the house and knocks on the cerulean, metal door. No answer. As mentioned by the shopkeeper, all residents went to work. He knocks again with the same result. Ilian sits on the concrete block acting as a step to the porch, wondering what his next move will be. He notices an older woman walking down the street with a b asket of cabbages on her head. He rushes to her aid.
“Allow me to assist, mam,” Ilian says as he lifts the basket from the woman’s head, the wicker scraping his chest as he struggles to hold on. The basket slips in his grip, wondering if he’ll make it to the woman’s residence. He wonders how the woman managed to make it from town, if not further, without the weight crushing her thin neck. Some from the city spoke of the village people’s incredible strength, though Ilian mistook their jests of invisible muscles as no more than slurs. Ilian peers at the white-haired woman, with a small frame and wrists so thin he knew they would not take much to break. The origin of her strength within the shell.
“Thank you, kind gentleman,” she responds with a frail voice. She offers a smile. Empty spaces exist where teeth rotted had fallen out. The soldier returns the smile with gritted teeth and clenched jaw, his fingers going numb. “Right there on the porch is fine,” she says, pointing to the house of the warrior.
Ilian releases a breath of relief, the distance not near as far as he expected to travel. He drops the basket on the porch, hearing a crack of the wicker underneath. A cabbage hops the edge, but the soldier catches it before it touches the ground. He puts his hands on his hips and takes deep breaths, attempting to calm his heart. He fans at his face, refusing to remove his indigo uniform jacket, made of a thick cotton which causes him to sweat, believing it indecent to undress before the elderly woman. The uniform was not only a show of status but of loyalty to the Governor. Ilian takes a seat next to the older woman.
“Do you live here?” he asks, hoping he had found a resident of the house.
“No, no. This is my youngest sister’s house,” she replies, coughing up phlegm with her response. Ilian looks away, ashamed to think that many of the trained soldiers, younger and in better health than the woman, could not compete in terms of stamina. “I’m droppin’ off a couple of heads for her. Can you believe they’re charging fifteen copper each? They say the heat. Ay, this summer’s been a hot one. Hot, hot, hot every day.”
“Yes, I can imagine. The rays feel harsh here in the valley.”
“They say the forest spirits are punishing us. The priests call us to take to the land, care for our crops and the forests. I see youngins like you throwing trash all over the place. Just remember to do your part. We all have to.”
“Yes, mam. The act of littering is uncivilized.”
Her smile drops and she gazes at him with his response. She examines his uniform and looks toward the road. Ilian bites his lip in irritation at his formalities, understanding his vocabulary and higher-class grant to him a greater vision of the world. But he must limit his intellect if he wishes to bond with the villagers, their education stunted in comparison to his own, which causes pity to course through him.
“Mam. Would you tell me of the young lady who lives with your sister?”
“Their worker? You talk about Cordaya?”
“Yes, mam. Who is she? Where did she come from?”
“Yes,” the woman starts, staring at the clear sky. She licks her cracked lips and swallows the saliva build up in her mouth. “Cordaya... She’s a quiet one. Barely eats. Work, work, work. Say she’s the fastest there is. I don’t doubt it. She can fill a basket of coffee beans in an hour my sister tells me.”
“And what of her fighting? Does she train here?”
“No, no. We do not permit violence here in the town. She has the blessings of the Gods to protect our people.”
“Is she human?”
“Excuse me?”
A series of loud screams fill the air. People run down the street from the town center, panic worn on their faces. They grasp the hands of their children and seek shelter. Smoke rises. Ilian stands and squints, trying to see what could be happening. The older woman uses Ilian’s leg to pull herself up. She abandons her basket of cabbages and takes off. Ilian watches after her, confused by the chaos. He grabs the arm of a young boy running past, stopping him in his tracks.
“Why do you run?”
“The bad men are here. They’re destroying the stores and houses. Killing all in sight. Let go of me,” the boy speaks at a rapid pace and attempts to shake Ilian’s hand free from his arm.
“What of the town’s armies? Where are those set to protect the town?”
“You soldiers really are stupid.”
He breaks of Ilian’s grasp and darts down the road. The soldier throws on his jacket, removes his saber from its holster, and jogs uphill. A group of women in long skirts and sandals stumble as they run, their shrill screams burning into Ilian’s mind. A barbarian chases after them and grows nearer every second. Ilian delivers his prayers to the gods and intervenes.
“Stop right there, brute,” he commands, holding his blade in front of him as a threat if the barbarian refuses to listen. The barbarian slows to a stop and unsheathes his own weapon. A straight blade made of steel. Their weapons glimmer in the sunlight, the harsh heat only adding to Ilian’s irritation.
“I see. The gov’nor’s sent his dogs to deal with us. Well, we’ll show ‘im.”
“I demand you and your people to stop terrorizing these citizens.”
“You think we take orders from dogs. I’ll stick you like the gallos.”
The barbarian swings his blade back and forth in intimidation. Ilian notices a sliver of extra shine where the blade meets the guard.
“Alexandrite in the blade... only one nation I know of does that...” Ilian mumbles, staring in confusion. As the barbarian suggests, their tribes work alone, bands of thieves marauding small towns and villages. But their weapons suggest otherwise.
“Who sent you?” Ilian asks. The question bursts with the strength of a command that comes with consequences if unanswered.
“We ain’t nobody’s dogs. I’ll show you.”
The barbarian charges the soldier. Ilian strikes the blade with his own, dodging the attack. He kicks at the barbarian, clad in thick leather for protection, making contact with his core and pushing him back. The barbarian rises and commits to another charge. He slices through the air with his blade, glaring into the eyes of the soldier. Ilian holds his saber in front of him and takes a deep breath, focusing his energy and strength into his counterattack. The barbarian swings at his head. Ilian slices and ducks, cutting the wrists of the barbarian. The enemy drops his sword and screams in pain. Ilian delivers a swift act of mercy into the barbarian’s gut. His enemy falls to the dry earth, saturating it with his own blood. Ilian gazes upon his opponent.
The yells of the villagers ring out in the center above. Black smoke clouds the sun. Ilian dashes to the scene, uncertain of the probability of his victory given he is only one soldier amongst many barbarians.
He slows to a creeping step when he enters the town center. Houses burn. Blankets torn down from their position in the windows and doors lay in shreds in the streets. Shattered glass litters the roads. Children cry in the alleyways, not knowing when they will meet their fate. Ilian sees the bloodied corpse of the shopkeeper in the doorway to her store. He offers a prayer that she may be forgiven.
“Hey! It’s the governor’s dog!” a barbarian yells to his comrades.
A group of three march up the street. Leading the way is a brute dressed in fine, sturdy leather with a sigil burnt into the chest piece. An eagle. They flash their blades, made with the same alexandrite sliver as the other. This proves to Ilian the piece had not been stolen but gifted.
“The gov is sending his dogs to protect the people now, is he? Since when did he care ‘bout the country folk?” the leader jests.
Ilian wishes to defend the governor but does not wish to admit that his role is not to protect the people but as a messenger. He thinks through a response, not wishing to stain the blessed name of the governor.
“Our governor does what he can to protect the people of his lands,” Ilian states.
As the words pass his lips, he second guesses them. Before today, he would have proudly declared to all the nations this exact statement. But as Ilian gazes upon the destruction, the pillaging of the innocent and razing of their town, he wonders. Where were the soldiers to protect these people? It pained him to look upon the sight.
“Oh, right. That’s why they’re living in cracked, old shacks. These people ain’t even worth our time. How much you think we gain from towns like these, huh? Barely even to make a living, I’ll tell you that much. Good thing we like our jobs.”
