The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “Thou art outnumbered,” Rheine said dispassionately. “And we have business with your priest.” Ari had no idea how she could sound so uninterested. He didn’t even think he’d be able to get words out.

  The Sheelmen stared at them wordlessly, swords drawn. Several more, Ari saw, were up in the rocks on either side of them, perfectly camouflaged except for those eyes. Silence stretched unbearably. Rheine’s hot-blooded stallion, less patient than his rider, snorted, pawing the ground with a fine-boned forefoot.

  Finally, in an accent so thick it was barely intelligible, the Sheelman closest to Rheine said, “You are mad to think to gain entrance to the High Priest.”

  “You are mad to stop me,” she noted casually. “Do you know what I bring him?” She tossed her thumb in the direction of Ari. He felt sweat trickle down his temple as all their shimmering eyes turned upon him.

  The Sheelman shrugged. “What is another Skoline (he pronounced it “Skleen”) ghrak?” he almost sneered.

  “He’s no ghrak,” she said ominously, allowing the red stallion to dance a little under her. “And I would be interested to know what Zakkar would do to you if you accidentally slaughtered the last of the Gaermon. Especially after all the months he’s spent trying to capture him.”

  Silence fell again. Ari could sense they were surprised, uncertain, but you’d never know it to look at them. The cloth covering their faces masked their expressions, and their eyes were unfathomable as a Dra’s.

  “What of all these others?” the Sheelman speaker finally said.

  Rheine leaned an arm on her pommel, her sibilant voice almost a purr, “Do you not think Raemon would like a few samples from the Realms to be perfuming the air when he awakes?”

  For a moment, the Sheelman held her eyes, then suddenly they narrowed and he spat out, “The Shangani do not willingly give up human life, especially to Raemon! We know that is not your way, and your purpose must lie out of our sight!” He backed up, half-raising his sword, and Ari heard Rodge give a faint, “Ahh!” from behind. No acting skills required.

  “And we know,” the Chieftess’s voice was suddenly one of frosty command, “what lies even now in your Hall of Sacrifices, what awaits Raemon on his foul altar. Do you think we do not know the value of trade?” Her voice was scornful, impatient almost. “If you are so stupid that you cannot see the importance of either that prisoner or this, than we are wasting time.”

  The Sheelman threw an almost imperceptible glance at the next closest Sheelman, as if seeking advice, then straightened up, lowering his sword. “I would say that you could not know of that, but that, too, would be a waste of time.”

  “It would,” Rheine drawled, examining her fingernails.

  The Sheelman decided abruptly. “We will escort you,” he stated coldly. ““Do not make any suspicious moves or we will escort your prisoners and leave the rest of you to the carrion birds.” He turned sharply and moved out, the other Sheelmen flowing down out of the rocks and all around the party.

  “We’re trembling,” Rheine observed, and released her restless stallion into a walk.

  Ari was soaked. He’d just realized all the holes in her presentation last night. A hundred things could have gone wrong in this very first step. What if they’d been attacked? What if they’d lost some of their number right here? What if the Sheelmen hadn’t bought their story at all and sent back to Zkag for reinforcements or instructions? Or simply refused to escort them any farther? And who was the sacrifice she was pretending to want to trade for him? She’d made no mention of that.

  Well, what was done was done, and what was started had definitely begun.

  CHAPTER 36

  They left the Pass and headed out into the desert sea that was the Sheel. Stark, empty, searing orange sand stretched endlessly out around them. There was something austerely beautiful about it, something vast and bigger than life, but Ari was not in the best frame of mind to appreciate it just then. There was NOTHING in front of them. Nothing that even looked remotely like habitation, not even a bump on the horizon, and you could see forever out here. It wasn’t like you could hide a settlement that was supposed to house the teeming heart of the Tarq civilization. Or could you? Rheine, who knew where they were going, seemed perfectly at ease up ahead of him.

  Suspicion began to nag at the back of his mind. Was it possible…? Well, what better way to keep the Sheelshard hidden, to relegate it to nothing but legend for thousands of years…than to bury it under sand?

  It was several hours before he knew, though by coming so far south, at least they’d avoided Dorian’s forecasted full ‘hard day’s ride.’ Still, he’d gone through a whole waterskin in the heat of even a partial Sheel day, and could feel his face stinging from the sun and fine sand that had been accosting it, when suddenly the ground opened up ahead of them. He stared in surprise, turning around to show Selah. It was a ramp, actually, that headed down under perfectly flat ground—you’d never see it more than a few yards away. A mass of Sheelmen erupted from the hole like dry, dusty red beetles, and his hand dropped instinctively to his sword hilt.

  They were definitely outnumbered now, even with seven Whiteblades and a Dra. Worse, after a few terse words in some guttural, harsh language that was completely foreign, the lead Sheelman gestured at Rheine to dismount. “You cannot ride through Zkag,” he said coldly.

  Once on the ground, the soundless throngs of shrouded Enemy moved like a whisper of sand through their company, deft hands whisking away swords and axes and boot knives before most of them were even aware of their presence. It was decidedly creepy. He took Selah’s hand protectively, wishing for the thousandth time that she was somewhere safe, grateful to the depths of his bones that she was with him.

  The Tarq ushered them into the hole and Ari craned his neck to get one last glance at the bright blue of the sky. He had not been aware of it until then, but he would have preferred to die, if he had to, out in the open, clean, fresh air. Underground, surrounded by a tight press of the innumerable Sheelmen apparently necessary to escort them, he became increasingly aware of the rocky walls closing in on them, of the thick darkness that seemed to encapsulate them within mere yards of the opening. Several of the Sheelmen lighted torches, which provided a nice atmospheric touch—leaping, grotesque shadows on the walls from the orangeish flame and a sooty, foul smoke that half-blinded you with the acrid burn of it in your eyes.

  It seemed they walked for a long time, long enough that Ari realized these were back hallways. They crossed several that were larger, with soaring ceilings and smoothed floors, but never turned onto them. It made a kind of strategic sense…if they were the first non-Tarq in Zkag, well, the locals couldn’t be expected to show them where the main entrance was and then walk them right into Raemon’s audience chambers.

  Finally, the pace changed. The Sheelmen started peeling away from them as they came out into a big open space and the one in the lead brought them to a set of enormous, towering metal doors. The ceiling was so far overhead here that it was beyond even the lights of the big braziers roaring in the walls. They were in an enormous corridor, the doors in front of them each four yards across and easily twice that high. Metal, riveted, and a man’s hand thick, they didn’t have a very mobile look about them. There wasn’t a doubt in Ari’s mind, however, that these were the doors that were supposed to be pulled shut by what was going to have to be some very determined Whiteblades.

  In fact, Ari was starting to get a really bad feeling about the Whiteblade plan in general. The massive doors had guards, but they were completely different from the spare, agile, dust-wrapped Enemy they’d seen so far. They were bigger, with sneering, heavy faces and bare chests and legs. Oil glistened on their thick torsos, and they held spears instead of swords. The looks they gave Rheine were full of pride and scorn and hate and lust all mixed up together, smearing across Ari’s mind like the foul light of Raemon’s triele so long ago.

  She returned their stares coolly, as if harassment was part and
parcel of these little trips into Zkag, and way too quickly for Ari’s taste they were being escorted into the Hall of Sacrifices.

  There was nothing else it could be. Enormous, it rose cavernously up all around them, the wall off to their left almost 200 yards away. Another huge gate opened in that wall like a black maw, this one in portcullis style, with wicked, sharpened points at the bottom of it. He could barely see the thick ropes that held it up, and he felt his heart sink even further.

  It seemed like a long way to the front of that room. The near wall was right next to them, blackened and reeking of something indescribable. The room was a furnace, literally, several of the braziers set in the walls keeping it uncomfortably warm as well as smoky. Most of the ambience, however, was due to the huge, roaring fire at the front of the Hall. Set high in the raw rock face that formed that whole end of the chamber, it made for a barbaric background. An altar with some poor soul strapped to it was off to the left, and right below the fire, at waist level no less, sat the Ruby Triele of Raemon, roiling with an evil red light. Did they take his power so lightly, to have that Triele within reach?

  Ari was so morbidly fascinated by that head-sized oily red stone that it took him a minute to realize there was a person up there amongst all the decorations. As they approached, he came down towards them, naked and oiled like those at the gate, but with a different look on his heavy face. A cruel, proud self-possession, a sense of power and authority, hung around him. A livid red sash crossed his husky chest, and his orange hair had been greased so it stood up. But it was mostly his walk that set him apart, an unhurried, arrogant jaunt that brought him down the steps from the altar like he was deigning to descend from on high.

  He stopped a short distance away, sensuous, jowly face twisted with dark amusement.

  “Well, well,” he said when they were all in front of him—forced to look up as he was still on the bottom few steps. He had a thick, sneering voice, though his accent wasn’t as pronounced as the desert Tarq, and cunning greenish-blue eyes that slid greasily over Rheine. Ari didn’t think she was going to be able to fool him long.

  “Nice that you should present yourself in such a timely manner for Raemon’s awakening,” he said, his eyes lingering with insulting interest on the trim figure of the Whiteblade Chieftess. “You guessed, I’m sure, that little would please him more than a little fresh Shangani.”

  “I think we both know there are things that would please him more,” Rheine said drily.

  His eyebrows rose. “Ah, yes. You believe you have something of value to me…” his eyes flicked disdainfully to Ari, scanned him, and went back to Rheine.

  “A captured slave,” he said with a dismissive sneer. “Such transparent games are a little beneath you, don’t you think?”

  “You really think I would bring you a ghrak? When you alone have the means to try him, when you and I both know that will be the first thing you’ll do?” She was every bit as disdainful, as if he were hardly worth talking to. Ari could not believe she could be so composed. They were surrounded. And hopelessly outnumbered.

  He studied her, the sensuous face tightening. “You are in a sensitive spot, Zakkar,” she said conversationally. “Raemon’s going to need some powerful appeasing when he comes to…I understand you think you have something that’ll do the job—” An evil, pompous smile spread over his face. “—but do you really think he’ll be more impressed with the sacrifice of the Queen of the North, whom you could have had, in theory, anytime…or the last of the Ones He Seeks? A hundred hundred years you have carefully destroyed that line, and now, the end of it is within your grasp.”

  No one heard the last part of that. Everyone in the northerner party had turned, stunned, to the altar, disbelief and horror mixing on mirrored faces. Queen Sable? Was she saying that the small figure stretched over the altar up there was the Imperial Queen? In the hands of the Tarq?! It was enough to take several of them beyond the bounds of their own fear. In fact, the desire to tear up the stairs to that motionless form threatened to become an unbearable strain. Melkin clenched and reclenched his fists, face transformed by feral fury. He looked like he could kill someone with his teeth. Nearby, Cerise’s eyes were watering with anger and helplessness and fear and doubt.

  Rheine, however, was perfectly collected. She met the High Priest’s hard stare without flinching, waiting wordlessly while he worked things out in his twisted mind. He faked a laugh, eventually, moving a step farther up. “My dear,” he said smoothly, “Raemon is built in the form

  of a man like any other…surely you know he would prefer to have a woman to…ravish with fire,” he said delicately.

  “Yes,” Rheine drawled, “I believe that’s what got him into so much trouble to begin with.”

  “And you’re hardly in a position to deal,” he sneered, sliding around the issue like a worm in soft dirt.

  “I’m in an excellent position,” she countered. “I have the single most valuable thing in the world to Raemon, and we both know your very life may depend on pleasing him, ‘ere he wakes. I would suggest you do everything in your power to make sure that happens.”

  He looked around as if seeking a different viewpoint somewhere in the huge chamber, his face ugly. Ari got the impression he knew she was right and didn’t want to admit it. The Sheelman’s eyes suddenly lighted on Sylvar, glowing coolly in the torrid heat of the Hall.

  “Hah!” he cried in malevolent delight. “That one is ours! Give her back to us and we will discuss this deal.” A look of spiteful satisfaction seemed to settle into the folds of his face.

  Rheine looked bored. “She is no longer yours, and you know it.”

  “She has our mark,” he sneered, imperiously gesturing at her with a thick finger. Quick as dry lightning, one of the bare-chested Sheelmen stepped forward and ripped the tunic at one of her shoulders. “See!” he crowed. “The brand of the slave pens of Czagaroth!”

  Appalled as much by the action as the words, the northern party had whipped around in concern. Sylvar stood there with a look of calm resignation, as if being forcefully divested of one’s clothing happened all the time at these sorts of get-togethers. On her shoulder, on the rice-paper thin, white skin, a pale pink scar twisted and bunched.

  “Since Czagaroth has been empty for almost seven hundred years, I would hardly say you have any claims to ownership,” Rheine said, bringing everyone to face front again. “Besides, her price has been Paid. She has been Redeemed.”

  Suddenly and incongruously furious, Zakkar plunged down a few steps toward Rheine, face working savagely, spittle flying from his mouth. “We do not recognize that Great Sacrifice here!” he screamed. “Do not bring your filthy sorcery into these Halls!”

  The Chieftess didn’t even flinch. “Do we have a deal, or not?” she asked, as cool and impassive as ever.

  With an effort, the High Priest of Raemon brought himself under control, slowing his breathing and fixing a cold, vicious smile onto the thick lips.

  “My dear,” he hissed, “you forget. You stand in the Hall of Sacrifices, surrounded by Raemon’s loyal legions. Queen and Gaermon are both within my power.” Ari, who’d had that exact thought several times already, felt the two butterflies in his stomach turn into a storm.

  “My dear High Priest,” she answered silkily, “you forget…” and she held up an admonishing finger. And the quiet attentiveness of the Hall, punctuated only by the roar of the great fire overhead, suddenly was screaming, shouting pandemonium. Things happened so fast and so close together that Ari could only get it straight afterwards.

  As her finger rose into the air, a great shout went up from over their heads. The northern party jerked their heads upwards where, yards above them in one of the many shadowed depressions in the rock, they saw Saffron, the Ivory Thief—and a veritable deluge of metal. The Whiteblades on the floor rushed in among them, grabbing brilliant white scabbards and bows and quivers bursting with arrows out of the air. Ari managed to grab a sword, but only because it almos
t clanged off his head. A thick rope fell liquidly in front of his eyes and the weapons relief team scurried to tie it and two others off overhead.

  The Sheelmen had erupted into action, too, and Ari’s head snapped around as the clash of blades rent the thick, hot air.

  “NO!” Zakkar screamed, and a blizzard of steel rushed across the Hall to him even as the ropes were being let down from above. He fell back, pierced in a dozen places—but it was Rheine’s throwing knife that quivered in the center of his chest.

  Ari stared around wildly, eyes leaping to follow the dozen threads of activity. Their escort of Whiteblades was in hot action now with their escort of Sheelmen; at the same time, the girls were trying to get their bows strung and do something about the curious Tarq starting to appear at the gates.

  Beside him, Selah suddenly started to talk. He paused from his frantic sweep of the action to give her an amazed glance. Selah, who could disappear in a crowd of two, was talking loudly and boldly, in a voice he’d never heard out of her—to mid-air.

  “Now,” she was saying, “Now is your time come. Rise and face your end!”

  “Selah,” he said, “It’s going to be all right. Hang on, it’ll be over soon.” He petted her shoulder soothingly, a little bewildered, and went to move around her to get between her and the Sheelmen. But something grabbed him in an iron vise, literally jerking him to a standstill. He looked down to find her little hand on his arm. There was no way she was strong enough to hold him, but no matter how mightily he struggled, he couldn’t break free.

  Kai was on the other side of her, both hands full of flying swords as the Sheelmen began to press in. Vashti, fighting at his side, abruptly left him, stepping free of the crowd. In one flowing motion she sheathed blade, pulled a strung bow off her back and, notching an arrow, drew. For a fraction of a second, she was perfectly still. The sight burned itself forever into Ari’s mind, her thick brown hair and braids floating in the heat waves, perfect form outlined against a background of sullen, raging red.