by Kari Cordis
The other surprise was the truly amazing message he’d gotten from a soggy Fox almost simultaneously with the one from Archemounte. Cyrrh’s Lord Regent had, in less than a month, made it to Lirralhisa, rounded up the combined forces of Cyrrh, hit the trail east, and was expected almost any day. Androssan had no idea how to account for this and it made him feel a little unmanly. It had taken him five months to accomplish the same. Of course, he had almost twice the distance to cover, who knew how many more men—the Fox hadn’t brought an estimate of the Cyrrhidean forces—and the Imperial Council to battle, but still…
Like any military man, he just hoped the warriors got in before the politicians.
He was not to be indulged. Hope sprouted briefly when, after meeting the rather road-bedraggled Councilmen, they requested a day of rest from their journeys before meeting formally. Androssan courteously faked regret and hurried them off to their tents, eyes beseechingly on the western road from Cyrrh.
It shouldn’t have surprised him, he thought wryly later, that the instant the Councilmen, refreshed, with the avarice and cunning of the Northern politician newly polished up in their eyes, met him in the command tent, word should come in that the Lord Regent had hit the western-most sentries and would be there in a matter of hours.
Exchanging banalities with the Northerners, who had indeed worn their council robes, Androssan forced his mind out of its groove of strategies and Realm-specific tactics and forced it into that of political machinations. And it occurred to him that perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. From two minutes of conversation, he could tell that the Council was going to prove difficult to dislodge; any risk of war was a far sight behind the issue of the cost of his Army standing at the full ready for as yet unspecified months into the future. Perhaps a personal testimony from a credible source (the Lord Regent of Cyrrh, no less) about the Enemy’s plans was just what was needed. He could have Alaunus come by—who would double as a repellent to any sensible Northern politician—and bring his Knight of the Steelmists, who had rather confusingly been with the Rach rescue party. Technically, the Lance Knight, as head of the Merranic land forces, should be invited in when the head of the Cyrrhidean military arrived anyway…it would all look perfectly innocuous and reasonable, especially to status- and rank-conscious Councilmen.
So he smoothly sent messages flying in all directions, affecting the air of a busy military man multi-tasking with ease. The day dragged on for several years. He was just about out of stories and contrived evidence of his frugality, the sun long set, when he began to hear the tell-tale signs of activity from outside. He crossed his fingers that it was something disruptive; the Council was ready to get serious.
“We are very impressed with what you’ve done General Androssan,” Chyle was beginning gravely, “but we need to seriously discuss the risks v. benefits, here—”
“General, Sir,” Waylan said, suddenly frisking the tent flap in, “the Lord Regent of Cyrrh.”
Androssan rose instantly, walking forward to greet the newcomer, professional dignity completely belying his buoyancy. They exchanged quiet greetings while the Council members tried to peer curiously around Androssan’s broad shoulders.
“You’ve been a long while on the road, Regent,” Androssan said, meaning it. “Would you prefer to clean up a bit and rest before we plunge into discussion?”
“There is no time, though I thank you,” Traive answered in that sensible, strong voice. He looked just as Androssan remembered him and not at all tired, but there were a couple of new, pink scars puckering on his face and neck. He had the kind of face that wore scars well, however, tending to dashing rather than disfiguring. “We could be attacked at literally any time.”
“Any time,” Androssan emphasized, nimbly stepping out of the way and ushering the Lord Regent closer to the Councilmen. “That is serious.”
Traive gave him a faintly puzzled look until he saw the pasty, soft-faced men in ground-sweeping robes staring curiously at him. Comprehension flickered across his blunt, rugged features. “Am I in the presence, perchance, of the Imperial Council?” he asked, with flattering overtones of awe, bending courteously over his arm.
Ricking practically preened. “Well,” he laughed affectedly. “Only in part. We’ve come to assess the accuracy and dependability of, frankly, a rather questionable message sent by the Queen. We are afraid, from the implausibility of the message’s contents, that she is rather traumatized…” He laughed again. Androssan considered it interesting that in the course of their long hours of conversation, this had never come up.
“You have seen her, is that correct?” Stewn asked. “We do all hope most emphatically that she is not hurt.”
“I have indeed, and she is well,” Traive said seriously, slowing drawing off his leather riding gloves. He was in full battle dress, the thick, hardened leather cuirass that covered his torso beautifully worked with a gryphon rampant and stamped with gold (probably real, knowing Cyrrhideans). The General moved to pour the traveler a glass of his best Daphenian wine—an act that did not escape the attention of four pairs of longing Northern eyes—ear bent to catch every word about his Queen.
“I have also seen the planning room of the Sheelshard, and I can tell you our Enemy foments great travail for us,” he said quietly, pretending not to notice as Androssan almost splashed wine over his work table at this pronouncement.
“The…the Sheelshard,” Chyle repeated in an unhappy sort of awe. “I thought that was only… a legend,” he said in a voice that made it clear he would have preferred it to stay that way.
“It is very, very real,” Traive contradicted, his calm, powerful voice at exactly the right pitch of ominous conviction. Androssan handed him the glass, wishing him the whole bottle, a barrel, a wagonload of barrels. What a splendid fellow.
“The threat to the North is especially imminent,” Traive continued, and the pale faces opposite him fell even further.
“The threat…” Sollin repeated reluctantly. He was the only one there whose hair was not gray yet, a fairly new member who had been elected on his passionate anti-traditionalist platform.
“Oh, aye,” Traive affirmed, swallowing a mouthful of wine with the appreciation of a man long on the road. “The Enemy’s plans lay the strike irrefutably at the belly of the Empire, their forces to be amassed into overwhelming numbers and flung straight north, overrunning the Ramparts and breaking into the unprotected innards of your Realm to wreak havoc and destruction.”
The Councilmen stared at him with bulging eyes, wordless. Traive nodded gravely, a veritable rock of trustworthy respectability, letting the thought settle for a minute. Then he said, “Or, at least, that is what they intend. They do not know, of course, that the Empire is prepared. That her Council has wisely readied her Armies and that they stand even now, in all their strength, ready to defend the North.”
Ricking laughed, rather weaker than before, but with unmistakable relief. “Yes,” he said, a little wildly. “Yes. We’re ready.” The other councilmen swallowed or smiled unconvincingly or fiddled nervously with their expensive belts.
“Well,” Androssan said expansively into the tense silence, “I am sure you gentlemen are tired out. Let me have you escorted to your tents. A good night’s sleep will put this all into perspective. The Lord Regent and I have a little war talk to do and then I’m sure he, too, will turn in.” He nodded encouragingly at them.
“I thought there wasn’t much time,” Sollin said craftily, just as the General had opened his mouth to call for Waylan. Everyone looked at him. He definitely did not scare as easy as the others, looking suspiciously between Traive and Androssan with his mind at full capacity.
“Yes…” Chyle said slowly. “Yes, I think we should be in on any war planning. I couldn’t sleep much anyway,” he admitted, “as I’m sure you two gentlemen will not.”
And that effectively called that bluff.
A sasquatch abruptly appeared in the tent doorway. Lost somewhere behind his bu
lk, Waylan’s muffled voice was trying to announce, in vain, the Knight of the Steelmists.
“Banion,” Traive said warmly, rising to grip elbows with him. The enormous mountain of hair rumbled something that may have been the Lord Regent’s name in response. It was hard to tell; he had a cold, and when sinus passages of that size were congested, well, it made speech pretty unintelligible. He shook like an oversized sheepherding dog, and to judge from the amount of water that went spraying around the tent as he moved farther into it, it had started to rain.
Androssan stole a glance at the Councilmen, shaking the water off of his hands. Good, good, now where was Alaunus?
“Jarl Banion,” he greeted the Knight cordially and tried not to wince as the creature pulverized his elbow in greeting. He’d worked with Banion a few times before in the wargames, and aside from being the largest Merranic he’d ever seen, he’d been mildly impressed with the man’s intelligence. Meaning he seemed to have more frequent stretches of sanity, and even a dash of common sense. Years ago, in an exercise specifically set up by he and the old Lance to lure the younger Knights into a fight with a diversionary element, young Banion had been the only one to see through it. It had made an impression on both men, enough with the Lance that it had helped win the Knight his current rank.
“Where is the Lance Knight?” he asked him, but couldn’t decipher the hair-filtered, snot-clogged response.
“That’s too bad,” Traive commiserated. “I assume it’s going around?” he asked Androssan. Androssan shook his head sadly and murmured, having no idea what was being said but getting the general impression. With sudden inspiration, he turned to the Councilmen. “Army camps…wellsprings of sickness, no matter how well-fed and cared for the men are. Just so many of them, you know? All packed together like that—everybody ends up catching these things. And of course, the lice and bedbugs don’t help…” Looking variably alarmed, disgusted, and uncertain, the Councilmen drew back from them all, some of them pulling their robes close to avoid lurking contagion.
“The Lance—!” Waylan tried admirably from outside the tent, but it still seemed like Alaunus was rather suddenly in the midst of them, clearing his throat congestedly, ruddy face pale. The tent began to smell distinctly like wet hair.
Two hours later, the Councilmen were still resolutely present. The war planning had turned even more interesting than Androssan had expected, and the activities he’d assumed would take up the night—placing Cyrrhidean and Imperial and Merranic forces around the big wall map like a giant playing board—had yet to materialize.
“Dragons,” Sollin repeated for the third time. The other Council members had as yet been unable to say the word.
Traive nodded patiently. “There is incontrovertible evidence they are stirring. We need to plan on them playing a role—a large, devastating one. We have only four Talons up and the rule of thumb is three per dragon.”
“Wait, wait.” They were moving slowly, the Northerners needing time to digest the more objectionable facts Traive was tossing out. He had started by recounting his mission south, though from the surreptitious looks that drifted between him and Banion, Androssan suspected he was leaving out a detail or two. Normally, the General would have brushed aside all but the most pertinent information, saving the storytales for later and getting down to the business of planning this war…but this was an unprecedented opportunity to amaze and horrify the Council of Archemounte. It was too good to be true, the shock, the terror on their faces with the descriptions of the firehole that Traive painted Zkag out to be. He was definitely making an impression. But now they were laboriously moving on, or had been until the Lord Regent mentioned that one of the Whiteblades had warned him of the viability of the dragons in southern Cyrrh. That had been twenty minutes ago.
“How do you know for sure there are dragons? I mean,” Ricking gave that irritating, nervous laugh again, “they haven’t been seen in, what, centuries?”
“The Ivory Chieftess,” Traive repeated, over what sounded suspiciously like an impatient snort from Banion, “had been on a reconnaissance mission to determine that very thing. She and the Ivory Thief found two of them, not quite fully awake, but definitely more restless than sleeping dragons that are planning on staying asleep. In her opinion, and she has seen many dragons rouse to battle in her time, these two will be in play in the—”
A flurry of comments drowned him out before he could say more: “This is second-hand information!” “Everybody knows Whiteblade parts are acted out—you can’t tell me you believe what she said is true!” “But you said there are only enough talons to fight one dragon; what do you plan to do about the other!?” “You know of two, what if there are more!?” “Can we really trust the word of a thief?!”
When the onslaught finally paused, Androssan said quietly, “Can we count on the Whiteblades’ help in the upcoming battle?” Curiously, Traive had said nothing about it yet, though in the legends, they always showed up to such things just in the nick of time.
A strange look stilled the Lord Regent’s rugged brown face. He didn’t bother to disguise the long glance with Banion this time. After a pause, he said quietly, “No. They’re…engaged…elsewhere.”
This was about to start another round of protests from the cackling Council, when Waylan—bless him—stuck his head in and said briskly, “Rach, Sir.”
Finally. Androssan rose quickly to his feet—they were all seated behind tables now, the Northern bureaucrats scribbling furious notes. He’d expected word from Kyr ages ago, was beginning to wonder if something was wrong…like the Ramparts had been overrun already. As soon as Androssan had had access to his bloodhawks traveling with the Northern Army, he’d sent one off to supplement the message Waylan had carried. But that hadn’t been answered either.
The Rach stepped deftly into the tent, so quickly he seemed almost to materialize out of the black wall of rain seen through the tent flap. Androssan almost immediately felt a pang of dread; the messenger was very serious for a Rach, the face impassive, eyes quiet…they were normally a pretty energetic lot. This was going to be bad news.
But then the sober young man slipped the leather cape off his shoulders and the room went quiet as a tomb. The leather breeches weren’t dark with rain, they were black, and from the narrow hips they encircled hung the twin, deadly arcs of double-hipped swords. He didn’t have bad news—he was bad news. It was a Dra.
Androssan had only been a teenager when the Assassinations had swept the ranks of Northern politicians, but he remembered the terror, remembered how overnight the Drae had become the most hated, feared men in the Empire. Even after they were cleared and that mercenary group from the Swamps had been implicated in the rash of murders, the stain on their reputation had remained. The majority of Imperials still considered them traitors—low-life, treacherous, devious devils with no honor, no virtue, no integrity.
The tricky part was that the Drae were the deadliest blades in the Realms…too casual a disrespect could earn you a sub-optimal discussion with their steel. This also may have occurred to the Councilmen present; their faces were ashen, eyes huge. Chyle and Ricking were positively trembling with terror.
The tension was so thick in the command tent, which was shrinking under the strain of its sudden popularity, that Androssan wasn’t sure he could overcome it enough to move. Carefully and very slowly, he moved his hand away from his sword, and forced himself to walk with deliberate steps over to the Dra.
“Welcome,” he said quietly, forgivably with more caution than hospitality. The Drae had fulfilled their traditional guardsmen duties at the Kingsmeet, with never an incident.
“I am Kinn,” the Dra said in the low, understated way of his people. “Brother to the Dra. I have been sent in his stead to offer the forces of our people.”
Androssan stood carefully, ruminating thoroughly on all of that.
From behind him, Banion said almost unintelligibly, “I diddun doe Kai had a brudder.”
“Dra Kai is
escorting Queen Sable,” Traive explained helpfully. Actually, Androssan wasn’t that concerned with individual personalities. If he had heard correctly…he’d just been given…a force of Drae.
“This is good news,” Androssan said, absently offering his hand before quickly dropping it. Drae weren’t real keen on the hand/arm/elbow clasp thing, preferring to keep both their personal distance and their hands free. Most people didn’t mind this.
His mind beginning to spin a little freer from the anxiety of a moment ago, he turned with renewed interest to the barely breathing Northerners. “Well, gentlemen,” he said with grave command, “now this really will turn into detailed talk of numbers and troop disposition. I suggest you turn in and I shall catch you up on any essential details in the morning.”
The Dra, sensitive to the fact he was blocking the escape route, glided away from the tent flap. As one, the Councilmen rose to their feet, Chyle gripping the table so hard his fingers were white. There was no questioning, no debates, just four men headed purposefully for the exit as Androssan called for their escort. One, Sollin, eyes dilated and fixed on the Dra across the room, hissed at the General as he passed, “You can’t seriously be considering accepting—”
“Yes,” Androssan said loudly, “We are lucky to have them. With such skilled swordsmen on our side, it will be an unimaginable force of Enemy that would prevail against us.”
Sollin stared at him, face ugly with fear and disgust, but he left with the others.
At last.
“How you put up with those unnatural monsters, I’ll never know,” Alaunus commented, giving Androssan a look at least five times as shrewd as what the General thought him capable of.