The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked wearily.

  They were walking side by side, as companionable as ever.

  “About what?” she asked, rather relevantly since there were several things he felt he’d been deceived about.

  “About how you’re the Empress. About why you lied to me. About why you didn’t tell us you were the Statue and we didn’t have to go running all over the Realms looking for you,” Ari morosely listed off the ones right at the top of his head.

  “I never lied to you,” she said, woman-like. “And if I deceived you, you must believe it was for your own good and necessary.” She slowed, stopped, sighed. Lowering the food bags, she sank wearily to the ground, and he joined her, collapsing against the rock wall. Without any forward momentum, he was suddenly beat, sure he couldn’t take another step.

  Her face would never be the same again, he thought, watching her as she handed him another roll. The memory of that reflective brilliance clung to it, beautifying the plain, making extraordinary the unaffected simplicity. “Don’t you miss them?” he asked quietly. He barely had the energy to talk.

  She glanced at him. “We were together a long, long, time, Ari. We’d known for years before Montmorency that something like this might be possible. You have to understand, life can get wearisome after untold centuries of it, even with wonderful friends. We were all as anxious to join Il as could be and still be effective here.”

  Questions crowded through his mind, warding off the drowsiness muffling his brain like a down comforter. “What happened to Raemon? Is he…dead?”

  “That’s probably the closest we could understand it. The Trieles channel the gods’ power. Only rarely do they ever use enough to drain themselves, but if they do, they simply stop using them until they’re…recharged. The rational ones, at least. That’s why Raemon had to be kept talking. His fanaticism was most helpful, but still, it was crucial that he not realize he was expending himself down to the very last, critical, dregs.”

  “How did you know it would take…just twenty?” he asked heavily.

  “Because there were twenty,” she said quietly. “That is the way Il works.”

  “You guessed?” he demanded, too tired to be upset. “What if you were wrong? What if he still lived after all of them had wasted their lives?”

  She dropped her head back against the wall, weary and endlessly patient at the same time. “There are different kinds of knowledge, Ari. Not all of it comes in the form of scientific facts. I knew because it was given to me to know, the same way that you know He has come for you and you are His.”

  Ari swallowed against that flash of Light in the gloom. “We didn’t avert a war, did we?” he asked after a minute, thinking of the map room even while the deep, bright joy that her words brought sparked somewhere beneath the bone-deep fatigue.

  “No, that is inevitable. Even with Raemon gone, the Tarq are fundamentally entrenched in this way of life. It will take several generations, probably, before they start considering other options. What we have done,” she added, dropping her voice so that he could hear the power thrumming through it once more, “is give the Realms a chance in the fight…which they have not had since Raemon tore that first fragment of peoples out of Ethlond.”

  Androssan was beginning to understand Alaunus. Here he was, riding back north to intercept his crawling Armies for no reason other than looming insanity if he stayed still. They had just ridden into the Winnowing Hills, happy to be off of the chill and windswept Plains of Daphene, when his wry thoughts on his own lack of discipline were interrupted by one of the Cyrrhidean Fox.

  He came walking out of the woods a few yards ahead in the inconspicuous way of such men, in unremarkable, muddy homespun. The only thing at all notable about him was the deep brown skin of his face. All but the most weathered Northern farmers had lost their summer tans by now. Androssan dismounted unhurriedly—the Fox wasn’t going anywhere—and gave the reins to an adjutant, heading wordlessly up to walk with the intelligence agent at a discreet distance from the rest of his entourage.

  “Lord General,” the man said respectfully in a tone that wouldn’t travel more than a half-yard.

  “You have news?”

  “My lord, the Queen had been rescued.”

  Androssan’s head whipped around to look him in the eyes. They weren’t a smiley bunch, but this Fox flashed him a quick grin. They never wasted time in jest, either, so the General didn’t bother with expletives of disbelief. He felt his heart hammering double-time in a wave of relief.

  “When? Where?” he said, voice rough with emotion denied.

  “A Rach rescue party brought her to the Sharhi-Tir less than a week ago.” The Fox’s voice took on a faint glimmer of awe. “She’d been taken to the Sheelshard.”

  Androssan looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. “That should produce some interesting revelations for the Council.” Who didn’t even believe such a place existed.

  “For us all. While there, she and her rescue party gained access to the war plans of the Enemy.” The General made it a point not to stare directly at those giving a report, preferring the objectivity offered by the disconnected listener, but for the third time in less than a minute, his eyes snapped onto the messenger’s.

  “A massive surge, Lord General, their entire force punching straight up through the Ramparts and into the southern Empire. There are no diversionary attacks, no flanking maneuvers planned-—their intent is to drive their full force north and overwhelm the Realms with numbers.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. With the Queen safe I was wondering how I was going to convince the Council that almost 600,000 soldiers needed to be kept mobilized in the backyard of the Ramparts,” the General said. His tone was light, but his mind was striving to work through the stunned disbelief that war was, now, finally, going to be a reality. In his bedlam of thoughts, dread and excitement were inseparable strands in a noose around his neck. Terrible as the consequences of such a plan of the Enemy’s would be, he realized, even worse would be the consequence of assuming it would proceed unchanged. He doubted very much the Rach had made off with Queen Sable without anyone in the ’Shard being aware…and if the Enemy knew the Queen of the North was gone, they would surely assume their war plans were compromised as well.

  “That will please the Lord Regent,” the Fox said, with some appreciativeness. “He said that unless the Northern Army was already on the road and marching, he doubted the Realms could be ready in time to ward off this threat.”

  “That was Queen Sable’s doing,” Androssan said wryly.

  “I suspect a little effort was required on your part, Lord General,” the Fox said, tone absolutely neutral. The Fox weren’t obsequious, but they were well aware of how things worked in the Palace. Androssan had got the impression more than once that they resented being openly denounced as “devious” and “untrustworthy” and Cyrrhidean “spies”—followed closely by the underhanded, dark-corner meetings that attempted to bribe them into one politician’s or another’s personal service.

  “There are messengers on their way to Archemounte, I assume,” the General changed the subject.

  The Fox nodded, adding obliquely, “Though they were not under the same time constraint as I.” Androssan swallowed a grin. Whether that was Sable’s order or an internal decision amongst the Fox, who was he to interfere?

  “Then can you run a message back to the Imperial Queen and the Lord Regent?” It didn’t even occur to Androssan to send a Northern messenger. Even on horseback, they were no match for a Fox, especially traveling cross-country, as the straightest route back to the Western Ramparts was. He’d made great strides improving the coms and intel abilities of messengers within the Army, but racing around a wargame drill was a whole different world than the long days of wintery travel and the desert conditions ahead of this messenger.

  The Fox nodded, a barely perceptible motion you had to be looking for to catch.

  “Tell them the Northern
Army will encamp where Kamitan Way greets the Daroe,” Androssan lowered his voice, minimizing lip movement. “Let the Queen know I am eager to meet her there, if she is agreeable and able. And tell your Lord Regent that if he can mobilize Cyrrh in time, we would be glad to see whomever he can gather on our right flank. We will hold War Council as soon as he can manage, and in the meantime, he knows where I’ll be.”

  “They’re privates, Sir,” his Point Sergeant explained painstakingly, as if they were back in the days when Androssan was a raw young Captain and needed lessons in the way the real Army worked. “Their only thought processes involve chow, girls, sleep, girls, dice, girls, and getting out of guard duty.”

  “Spere, we don’t hang Imperial soldiers,” Androssan repeated patiently.

  “The flaming Merranics do it!”

  “Is that supposed to persuade me?” Spere was the typical crusty, weather-beaten sergeant if there ever was one; the General didn’t know if he was serious, but he wouldn’t put it past him. The entire enlisted Army lived in fear of the man.

  But he was the best Androssan had ever seen at his job, and with the Imperial Corps settling in along dozens of leagues of the Daroe, with all the logistics issues and the endless stream of administrative and disciplinary problems that strangled a standing army in the field, he was grateful to have him. They were training rigorously, and not just because of all the new recruits. This many men gathered together, given sharp steel and encouraged to think high-testosterone thoughts, and then left standing around waiting for battle—well, it was a nightmare waiting to happen. Training kept them alert, sharp…and busy. Still, even rotating back up north to wargame, there were issues. He expected Spere to handle them.

  “Find another way,” Androssan told him.

  All at once, he heard a rush outside the tent and the flap was thrown forcibly open. Lt. Waylan’s wide-eyed face appeared in the door.

  “Sir,” he said hurriedly, “I think you’d better see this.”

  Androssan rose, reaching for his heavy cloak even as he asked, “What is it?”

  For a second, Waylan just stared at him, licking his lips, then managed, “Ranks of the Ram, Sir.”

  Androssan paused in his stride across the room, throwing a glance at Spere to see if he’d heard correctly. Not much caught the Point Sergeant unawares, but he was surprised now. “Burn me,” he muttered. “How’d they get through our sentries?”

  That was not the most pressing question on Androssan’s mind. What in Sheelfire were they doing here? He threw the tent flap out of his way and entered the chill drizzle of a wintry afternoon in the southern Empire. Striding through the mud with Waylan silent and nervous at his elbow, he tried to recollect everything he knew about the Ram. In all his studies of military history, to his knowledge they had never, ever, been south of the Kendrick. It was just a given; they stayed, fought, and died in Addah. There was little enough written about them, too, regardless of where they were, as big or bigger a neglect than omitting Aerach military techniques. The North had fought side by side with the Addahites for centuries, and the only thing in the histories was the fact that they were probably the finest guerilla warriors in the Realms. The Merranics were obsessed with them, to the point of running unauthorized raids up into the Wastes north of Alene, but all they’d found out was that they used horses, were deadly shots with spear and bow, and were as elusive as smoke. They’d never found a single settlement, except those of the sheepherding civilians.

  “Where’d they come from?” Androssan asked gruffly.

  “Right down the main road, Sir,” Waylan said, sounding bemused. “There were no sentry alarms until they’d passed the Ashbows.”

  The archers were billeted just north of command, deep in the center of the sprawling camp of the North, which translated into either an appalling lack of vigilance on the Northerners’ part or an encouraging indication of the skills of the Ram, depending on your point of view.

  The muddy, planked streets had been strangely empty, and now Androssan realized why as they came up on a huge, straggly gathering near the terminus of the main road. Someone spotted him and called attention, and there was a great stirring and susurration, followed by the utter silence of disciplined troops. Androssan rounded the corner of the group and slowed to a stop, arrested by the sight in the middle of the road.

  Experienced cavalry, the technical part of his mind categorized instantly, while his conscious mind was still trying to take in what his eyes were showing him. They were mounted on strong, shaggy ponies, average-sized men in wool homespun with sheepskins over their shoulders or behind their saddles, completely unremarkable in passing. There were no signs of a uniform or rank, no polished steel on display or eye-catching gear. He caught the quiet eye of the man apparently in charge, and watching him dismount and walk over to him, the General got a different impression. Solid. Staunch. That sort of understated, unpretentious presence that some very good, very confident troops had.

  They were composed enough to please any commander, sitting quietly in their saddles, unintimidated by the hundreds of strange men scrutinizing them. He scanned quickly while the Addahite approached. Ten man front, and from his site on the corner of their column, he’d estimate about 25-30 ranks. As many as three hundred experienced men…

  Then the Ram was in front of him, bigger than he’d looked, his stolid presence projecting a distinctly formidable aura. He held out his hand, bypassing Androssan’s to grip his elbow, Merranic style.

  “I am Imperial General Androssan,” the Northern leader said quietly, “and you are welcome here. May I ask your intentions?”

  “I am Toriah, Captain of this Rank,” he was answered in the accents of the far north, in a voice as solid and bass as the Crown Mountains. “We have come to greet the Tarq.”

  There were disbelieving whuffs of air as nearby soldiers and officers overheard this. Androssan ignored it, starting with great sincerity, “We are glad to have you…” before abruptly losing his train of thought. Another sibilant wave of sound, though no out-right cries, circulated amongst the surrounding troops, followed by a simultaneous step backward in almost parade-ground unison.

  Out from behind the Captain’s shaggy pony, which was completely unalarmed at the apparition, stepped the biggest canine Androssan had ever seen. It was lean and long-legged, with a long muzzle and a gaunt, grizzled, feral look to it, and it padded silently toward him with its head low and enormous golden eyes fixed on his from under its brow. The desire to step back—rather quickly—was almost overpowering. It padded up beside Toriah, long red tongue lolling out of a head the same size as the pony’s, the cold breeze riffling the thick, greyish fur. Casually, it sat down at Toriah’s side, and Androssan forced out a deep, steadying breath.

  Warwolf, he told himself calmly. It’s just a Warwolf. The Empire used to keep whole Dens full of them for just this sort of thing.

  Toriah, as casual as the wolf, lifted his hand to rest it on the big head—a man and his dog, Androssan thought a little numbly. Sitting, the beast came up to Toriah’s armpit.

  “How many of those are with you?” Androssan asked in as normal a tone as he could muster, all other thoughts having fled his mind.

  “Fifty or so. With your permission, Lord General, we’ll bivouac to the west of your line. Sometimes oxen and other horses get spooked by them.”

  You don’t say. Sometimes humans get spooked by them.

  “As you wish,” Androssan allowed graciously.

  The Ranks of the Ram. Bones and ash...how was he supposed to prepare for what he had a sneaking suspicion would be a whole host of rationally troubling entities adding themselves to this War?

  CHAPTER 38

  Barely a month after his meeting with the Fox in the middle of nowhere, two war-baby surprises birthed in Androssan’s life. Every commander in the world history of conflict knew that such things were inevitable, that plans rarely survived more than a few minutes of engaging the enemy, and that a hefty part of the succes
s of being both a leader and a warrior was simple flexibility.

  So, he was nominally more serene than his snarling Point Sergeant. “If they’ll be here any day,” he said patiently to Spere, who would have been frothing at the mouth if he were a dog, “then we need to clear tents and set up space for them.”

  “Burning empty robes! BURN ME! Why in Sheelfire can’t you meet them somewhere else? Having those torchin’ prissy girls around in their dresses is bad for burning morale!”

  “Spere, the quicker the Council members are set up and made comfortable, the quicker they can get their inquisition—er, investigation—under way and the quicker they’ll be out of our hair.” Androssan walked slowly around the tent, mind only half on the comfort of his delicate-minded Point.

  “Chunks of flesh, General!” he swore horrendously, “you know as well as I that’s not the burning way they burning work! Torch it all! Once they burning get settled in they’ll just burning figure we can’t run the burning war without them! This is burning ash! Sheelfire!”

  Spere was tremendously gifted as a point sergeant, but you couldn’t really take him into public. Androssan had never understood why, but it seemed polite society had a tendency to equate military obscenity and lack of speech variety with a slower rate of cerebral activity.

  “Delegate, Sergeant,” Androssan said in crisp command, out of patience. “And stay out of sight.”

  “No, please, don’t force me to stay away from them,” Spere said in spittle-punctuated sarcasm. “Robes,” he hissed in parting epitaph as he flung the tent flap aside and stalked out.

  That was only one of the surprises, and to be honest, Androssan could hardly claim to be shocked when he got the message that four members of the council were on their way down. He’d known as soon as that Fox had told him messengers were on their way to Archemounte that this would probably happen. Somebody had to look into the fiscal nightmare accruing from keeping this army standing. Although it was a testament to both their conviction and their naïveté that Councilmen were actually coming themselves.