The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  She smiled at him confidentially. “Don’t glower at me—I was a Merranic, too, and am not even a little frightened of your scowls. Besides,” she said, suddenly as crisp as Dorian, “you are absolutely right. There is nothing the gods can do. Only Il has the power to subdue the Ruby god, and that is our plan.”

  “And why hasn’t He already?” Ari asked quietly. If he was supposed to believe in a God that could allow all these years of terror and atrocities…“Why would He let this go on so long?”

  Adama must have sensed the difference in his tone, because she didn’t argue with him or try to start an intellectual cat-and-mouse game.

  “Because He did not create mindless toys to be His people; He created thinking, reasoning humans with the power to choose evil over good. Some have chosen such overwhelming evil that it has affected everyone. How is that His fault? And yet, though people turn their backs on Him and throw His Words and Ways to the midden heap, He still brings them good things. Food to eat, shelter, Five Hundred Years of Peace, bounty in the fields of the North and the Seas of the East. Children and family and laughter and puppies and great learning and even the tinkle of gold coins.” She smiled at Cerise without any sign of malice.

  “And,” she continued, in a different voice. “An end, hopefully, to this madness forever. For out of His great love, He now moves everything towards Zkag, that His people might have the very peace your heart longs for.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Anxious as Androssan was to reach the Daroe and start scouting a bivouac for the great Armies of the North, it was almost a relief to hear from Merrani. The Empire deep in autumn made for a dull, grey, chilly ride, enlivened only by the questionable adventure of trying to stay in the saddle as the horses slipped and slid over the rutted, muddy roads and by the challenges of shaving when the water froze.

  His small twenty-man retinue continued south while he took a couple adjutants and trotted over to meet the Merranic contingent. They came around a low hill to see them already dismounted, gathered around one of their big warsteeds and examining a lifted hoof. It was the Lance Knight himself, which Androssan was expecting, but he, too, had only a few Knights with him. The Lance separated himself, heading towards the Northerners when he spotted them, and Androssan stifled a sigh.

  He would have much preferred to work with Kraemoor, the Commodore of the Merranic Fleet. A colossal Merranic, fit, trim, and commanding, he was a man’s man, with a steady, reassuring confidence and a keen eye that missed little. He was related to King Kane somehow—the Merranic Royal Line was a web of indecipherable proportions—and they both had that same kind of common sense intelligence. But Kraemoor commanded the sea forces of Merrani, which might run a blockade but wouldn’t have much coordination with any land campaigns.

  Alaunus, unfortunately, was Commander of the Merranic land forces. Frumpy, rumpled, with haphazard bits of clothing and hair and leftover food trailing about his person in continually surprising areas, he rolled toward Androssan with his characteristic limp, reddish hair and beard grizzled and stained around the mouth with tobacco juice.

  He had the Sapphire Lance with him and Androssan’s eyes drifted to it. He’d never seen it before. Alaunus was not tall for a Merranic and the Lance towered, slim and powerful in solid polished steel, almost an armspan over his head. A wondrous cage of twining, delicate threads of metal, the woven steel that actually held the Sapphire had a silvery glow to it in the frosty morning air. Of all the Realms, only Merrani lugged their trieles to war, but, well, whatever made them happy.

  Alaunus grunted something, probably courteous, through his mat of facial hair, and Androssan inclined his head. It could be argued they were equals, but no one in the Realms would have even seriously considered the idea.

  “You have the Knights mobilized?” Androssan asked, clipped, precise and with utter surety that the answer would come in some barbaric rumble. He had a hefty respect for Merranics, but they were what they were.

  “Aye, they’re ready as a stallion with his first mare,” Alaunus reported cheerfully, not one to disappoint. His hand had to be freezing on that steel column of the Lance, but Androssan wasn’t sure Merranics had the same nervous system as the rest of mankind.

  “I’m on my way down to recon right now. We’ll dig in north of the Daroe, pending more intelligence, but that’s all I’ve set on until I can get eyes on that ground,” Androssan said.

  The bulky Merranic spit, nodding.

  “Might as well encamp the Knights to the East, where they can be easiest supplied…” It was in his mind to keep the Realms’ forces as close to their home territories as possible until they knew more about the Enemy’s movements. If the Enemy was even going to have movements—they were all kind of going out on a limb here with their wild hopes—er, assumptions. And there was no sense having more armed men tearing up the Empire than was necessary, crisscrossing all over the country and alarming the locals. The southern Empire was going to be distraught enough once they learned the burden of feeding the entire standing Imperial Corps was going to fall to them. Besides, for pure morale reasons, Androssan figured a Realmsman would be most interested in protecting his own Realm; might as well take advantage of that until they knew if they were going to have to join forces. He didn’t even want to think about taking the offensive. If they couldn’t find any Enemy…if they wouldn’t give up the Queen...

  “We’ll hunker in next to the Silver Hills,” Alaunus said agreeably. “Hunting Mohrg’ll give the boys something constructive to do while waiting for battle,” he added, eyes twinkling mischievously.

  “Excellent,” Androssan agreed, raising his riding crop in farewell as he turned his horse. Whatever. Just keep them busy. It was almost impossible to imagine that many heavy horse—commanded by Merranics—all existing peacefully in one area. He’d wargamed many times with Merrani, and as fearsome and redoubtable as they were on the field, they were just as quarrelsome and full of trouble in camp. If he had those sorts of discipline problems, he’d resign. But…ninety thousand Merranic Knights on his left flank. Now that made a man feel good. He could not imagine the force that could look three full chevrons in the eye and even stand their charge, let alone overrun them. He could put up with Alaunus for that.

  As far as being bored—the Lance Knight was obviously already there if he would ride almost two weeks out of his way for a few minutes of self-evident conversation.

  They were groggily mounting up the next morning, it being apparent that Ari was not the only one who had spent the night thinking, when Cerise held up a commanding hand.

  Roxarta, who was caring for the herd now, had brought her the little, feisty, black mare she’d been riding. One of her graceful midnight eyebrows rose slightly as Cerise refused her.

  “Another, please. With a little spirit.” Cerise was very dignified this morning. She walked straight-backed and a little ostentatiously over to Irise’s pathetic, prone figure. Kneeling beside her, she said graciously, “Thank you very much for the use of Choral. I will leave her here for you, so she may inspire you to heal and be back upon her.”

  The jaws of the rest of the party dropped.

  “Who’s that?” Rodge asked.

  “Cerise,” Ari answered him.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Being….compassionate?”

  “Though you have been ill-treated by your own, we of the North deeply appreciate your sacrifice. May you heal quickly.” She rose like she was Queen of the North, Irise murmuring something pleased and thankful at her feet. She didn’t even look self-satisfied walking back over to them. Rox had brought her a gorgeous, prancing stallion, his sides gleaming like polished copper in the sun, and she mounted up without a word or glance at any of them.

  “I guess all this talk of peace made it out of her mouth and back to her eardrums,” Banion muttered.

  That afternoon, after quietly delivering a report to Dorian, Jordan called over her shoulder as she was leaving, “V’ren’s got the Mercy o
n the horizon. Couple days, I’d say.”

  Ari’s pulse jumped. They were getting closer. Once the three members of the Swords of Mercy were in, there were only the girls left in the Swamp. Nothing would happen until they were all together, Dorian had said…but how long after? Images of all sorts of possible Halls of Sacrifice spun through his head. He’d be lying to say he wasn’t a little scared, but he was beginning to feel like this was going to be the greatest adventure of his life.

  He’d really, really like to have this Il thing straightened out before he went in there, though. There were times he wanted nothing to do with the whole ridiculous concept, like the night with V’ren and the horses, and times when he thirsted like a man in the desert for…something. Something tied up intrinsically with what Illians claimed was their God.

  Four of the Whiteblades came in together that night just as the northerners were bedding down. Ari paused alertly, blankets half-unfurled. He was closest to the fire (which he’d arranged for just this reason) and stretched his ears in that direction. Dorian, who seemed to take a turn at guard at night or something, because she never slept with them—he had no idea when any of them slept—hadn’t left yet and moved quickly over to those coming off duty.

  As one unit, the four hunched down by the fire, deftly gathering leftovers from dinner and tearing into them so single-mindedly that Ari felt bad about taking seconds. There was no lack of food, though, and a pair rarely came in off sentry without a contribution for the cookpot. Yve had already grabbed the little bushbuck Jordan had brought and was expertly stringing it up.

  Dorian squatted athletically across from the sentry girls, and Jordan said around her food, “The Sharhi-Tir are both fat and lazy.”

  “How many?” Dorian asked quietly.

  “Three patrols, typical five- or six-man teams. All of them stumbled on our trail—we’re leaving a blaze across these mountains a blind toddler could pick up—and were as surprised to see us as anyone could hope.”

  “Anything from Voral or the Oratrix?”

  “Voral’s mad as a hornet there’s not more action—I didn’t even know about one of the patrols until I ran into her, she’d handled it so quietly.”

  “She’ll be mad ‘til she’s got the Hall-full to face,” Yve remarked, cheerfully whonking the antelope’s head off with a swipe of her big knife. Everyone grinned.

  “And as for ’Dama…” Jordan paused, working her mouth clear. “She claims there’s someone on our trail.”

  Yve glanced over her shoulder at her, her knife continuing its expert dressing without a pause.

  Dorian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who?”

  Jordan shrugged. “There’s been no sign, no trail, no clouds forming an arrow—” Rhoda snorted delicately next to her. “You know ’Dam. She just…knows.”

  Eating was an efficient business for the average Sword of Light. In a few short minutes they were done, wiping their hands on clean grass at the edge of the camp site. They vanished as silently as they’d come, and Dorian was left thoughtfully by the fire.

  “Ar, you going to bed or just gonna sit there all night like a squirrel wondering where he lost his nuts?”

  Ari glanced over at Rodge. “I’m eavesdropping.”

  Rodge snorted into his arm. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. By all means, continue to pose there like an idiot.”

  Ari got up and walked over to Dorian. She glanced at him as he settled in a squat nearby, mimicking her alertness. The only time any of them ever sat was when they were deliberately joining the northerners.

  “There’s a lot of action out there,” he said, trying not to look too obvious about wishing he could be part of it. Here they were, bedding down after a big dinner and an easy day’s ride while Whiteblades ate once a day and never slept and were fending off all the forces of evil from their thankless hides.

  She shook her fine head, haloed in gold. “Completely normal. I would only worry if there were no patrols. We are far enough south of the normal range of the Sharhi-Tir that there should be plenty of activity.”

  “We’re close to Zkag?”

  “Close…”

  He stared restlessly into the fire. “We could help with some of the watches—”

  “Ari.” She was looking at him very steadily. “I know you are anxious to swing steel,” she said, without a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “but I would warn you, battle is not what you think. There is excitement, and the glory of fighting for a good and necessary cause, and the exultation of victory…but there is also great weariness, of both body and soul. It is a brutal, ugly, vicious thing, battle, and when your blood cools and you are haunted by the faces of lives you have taken and things you have seen…” she sighed. “I pray it never comes to you. But as a healthy, normal, nineteen-year-old male, I suspect there is no way to convince you to avoid it,” she finished wryly. “Get some sleep. These are liable to be a tense next few days.”

  Ari grimaced as she left him. He had seen battle, had swung his blade and had no trouble remembering that exhilarating rush and desperate action. He remembered, too, the aching doubt, the worried self-surveillance, the fear that a monster would be released in him; but, poisoned blood or no…nothing had happened. He hadn’t gone mad with bloodlust or with mindless enmity against his friends or his hosts in Cyrrh or mankind in general…

  He could still remember the thrill of steel, reverberating up his arm with impact, shrieking in the frantic air as it clashed against its own kind. Maybe he’d been skittish—but it was the fear that made it so real, made him feel so alive.

  A couple of nights later, the group from the north was sitting around discussing the unlikely carnivorous habits of scrub condors. They were alone in the quiet evening, Yve and Dorian off momentarily examining stores. Ari was only half-listening to the conversation, his own mind thrumming with distracting thoughts of impending death and doom and great Gods and lesser gods and the strangeness of the Legends flitting around them. Then Loren said, “…and again everybody seemed to know what to do.”

  The blond Northerner was looking around their circle, searching faces. “Am I the only one who sees this? They all know what the others are thinking. They finish each other’s sentences—”

  “They don’t even talk in sentences,” Rodge corrected. “They just say a couple unrelated words, or look at each other, and everyone seems to magically know what’s on everyone else’s mind.”

  “What’s your point?” Melkin asked abruptly.

  “They’ve worked together…for a long, long time,” Loren said, theatrically dropping his voice. “Think of Rodge’s little spell in the bog. The night it started raining in the Swamps. Dorian wasn’t handing out orders—everyone knew what to do. The scrub condors. We haven’t been through a single emergency where you haven’t seen it.” He sat back, daring anyone to contradict him. “And Voral—” he paused. Even he was a little uncomfortable with Voral. It was one thing to get misty-eyed over the romantic idea of ageless women warriors…it was another to see quite skilled bloodlust where it should not logically exist.

  “What is the big deal about that?” Cerise said critically. “So she’s good with a sword.”

  Banion’s eyes peered disbelievingly out of his hair cover. “She’s an 18, 20-year-old girl. Men that live their whole lives practicing every day with a blade, like, oh, I don’t know—a Dra—don’t get that good. She has fought for years, and she has killed.”

  “Well,” Cerise insisted stubbornly. “This place is crawling with Sheelmen that everyone seems intent on killing. It doesn’t seem so improbable to me.”

  Traive, chuckling, started to say something when suddenly he lifted his head sharply. He peered into the warm dark of the surrounding trees, Cyrrhidean senses alerting him to something none of the rest of them were aware of.

  Ari got a tickle of premonition scant seconds before his eyes made them out.

  They were suddenly there, in the silent way of the Whiteblades, three women sitting wordless a
nd still on horseback. They might have been there for hours, they were so much a part of the surroundings. As the group at the fire stared at them, they slowly began to move, walking the horses out of the shadows of the trees and bringing them to a halt a few yards away.

  They dismounted smoothly and stood, staring back, and a gravitas seemed to settle over the camp. The unsmiling faces in front of them made the other Whiteblades suddenly seem flighty as children. An incomparable sense of distance, of formidable and unapproachable self-possession hung about them, and their perusal was not the curious interest of the other girls. It was more a…weighing.

  Ari had the uncomfortable feeling of being found wanting.

  In the lead, closest to them, was a Cyrrhidean, a short young woman of nut brown with honey-colored streaks in her thick brown hair. She would have seemed small if she hadn’t been built so stoutly, with such a…presence. The woman next to her was also solidly built, with big, dark eyes and lustrous, brassy curls falling to her shoulders. The last was the most remarkable of all, a tall Merranic bigger even than Voral. Thin, fine, mousy brown hair cut in a straight bowl and skin like porcelain were the setting for a pair of enormous, deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes. She should have been homely—none of them should have been pretty, not the sort you’d cross a street to meet. But somehow, they radiated that inexplicable attraction all the Whiteblades seemed to have, as if something beyond physical beauty was at work when you looked at them.

  “Look at their swords,” Loren whispered almost inaudibly. Ari, who’d yet to get beyond those still, arresting faces and piercing eyes, jerked, dragging his eyes away with an effort. There was no clanking and shifting and adjusting of weapons with these women. It was as if they had an extra half-dozen arms here and there about their persons, so much a part of them you didn’t even notice they were as loaded down as the rest of the girls. But, on each hip sat a shining creation they hadn’t seen on any of the others: scabbards of bleached white leather. Rising out of them were polished white bone handles over guards of dull gold, the grips crisscrossed with gold braid.