The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “They’re all torchin’ Sheel-bred,” Spere spit derisively.

  “Sir.” Waylan emphasized coldly, staring down his nose at the Point Sergeant.

  The sound of light, furious hoof beats drowned out their squabble and a big Aerach, dark and layered with lather, came flying up the path to the bluff. On his back was a kid, eyes huge with excitement, clothes bloodstained and his pants soaked from the damp coat beneath him. He was bareback, fighting to keep the big stallion under him still enough to deliver his message, but his voice was amazingly calm.

  “Rach Kyr sends word, Lord General!” he piped, and Khrieg came hurrying up. “He estimates 3-4 hours out!”

  “Stage one,” Androssan rapped out to Spere. “Commence the march out, secure positions. Remind those captains of the cav support!” His Point saluted smartly and swung up on his horse, springing into a run down the trail.

  “Anything else?” Androssan asked keenly, searching the boy’s face. He was hoping for a status of forces report, but the boy just shook his head. Androssan dismissed him and turned to Waylan. “Deliver the news to Toriah, and to Kai if you can find him.”

  He didn’t have to say that it needed to be done with considerably more tact and respect than what Spere was capable of. Toriah’s leadership especially he wanted to remain unchallenged.

  He walked to the edge of the bluff, staring south. The infantry would open, allowing the Rach through, and then close behind them—the Empire used this move all the time in their lightning-fast cav attacks. The foot units were well trained in it. His eyes drifted restlessly to the west, where the Ram cavalry held the plains fading out from the Sentinel-laden Saphilles. When and if they had to retreat, they could do so into the forests that would make the most of their guerilla skills.

  Khrieg came up beside him and Androssan said carefully, “The Lord Regent has briefed you?” He didn’t know how sensitive Cyrrhidean rulers were to the illusion of being in charge.

  “Oh, yes,” Khrieg said, airily grave. “He’s much better at this sort of thing than I; I let him have free rein.” Apparently not very.

  “It probably won’t make much difference,” the Skylord noted heavily.

  Androssan nodded, wanting to slap him. “The Fox seen any sign of…er, dragons yet?” The silver head, now brilliant with the Crown of Leaves, shook a negative.

  How nice, Androssan thought, a touch rabidly. He’s put his crown on for the occasion. Now it was wait time, the worst hours of any commander’s life.

  “Come on, Rodge,” Loren called, twisting in his saddle to look back down the trail. Rodge, who’d graduated from Radish to something a little fleeter (not a hard qualification to meet), was still not quite up to Loren’s equine standard.

  “Do I look like I’m dawdling on purpose?” he shouted back, wincing as his horse slipped and he went knocking around in the saddle. It was freezing out, and though his mount was steaming with the exertion of climbing up to the Prow, he was huddled, shivering, into his borrowed cloak. Army rations were hardly the stuff to put meat on your bones, either.

  “Those surveyors are right out in the middle of the battlefield, Rodge,” Loren insisted. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  “It’s not like I’m needed!” Rodge objected irritably. “It’s simple triangulation. Anyone who’s ever looked at a map can do it.”

  Loren looked blank. “I’ve looked at a map,” he said defensively, “and I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Rodge rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re a special boy. Why I have to be there to bless off on their calculations and dig a hole I don’t know…” he groused as his mount finally drew even with Loren. He gave his companion an unfriendly look. Loren’s cloak hood was thrown back, his flaxen hair stirring in the cold breeze, ruddy cheeks aglow. He looked ludicrously adventurous.

  “I don’t think anyone else wants to touch that powder,” Loren said conspiratorially, and they shared a look.

  “It’s just a thermodynamic chemical reaction,” Rodge said, mollified. “There’s nothing mysterious about it.”

  “Well, let’s get up there so you can set their little military minds at ease.” They both kicked their horses up over the last little rise of the trail.

  He saw them with the spyglass long before his bare-eyed staff, almost dancing with impatience behind him. At his right, Khrieg stared out soberly at the furious action; he’d probably had some inspiring and uplifting things to say, but Androssan hadn’t paid him any mind for several hours now. His stomach lurched and churned behind the stony blank of his face and he was glad for the grilled meats Khrieg had shared. Wouldn’t do to be heaving from an empty stomach turned pure acid.

  Despite the seeming cacophony of movement, Androssan could tell from long experience that the Rach were still fighting in good order. He could make out the individual cyclones now, constantly swirling nodes of intense action that would have made no sense if Waylan hadn’t explained it to him. It still looked like chaos even when you knew what they were doing.

  But it was the sweet, ordered chaos of troops under tight control, and it made Androssan’s heart sing. The line of cyclones was moving in slow, beautiful precision back toward the packed lines of Imperial foot, who were waiting with that dreadful anxiety Androssan knew all too well. Closer they came, and closer. He could see the lean, brown faces, ferocious on their lunging mounts, and the endless rise and fall of steel. Surrounding each node of spinning Rach were ant mounds of Enemy, entirely covered in muddied cloth, even their heads. Faintly, the sound of war, steelsong and shouting and screaming horses, came to them up there on the Bluffs.

  Break. Androssan begged silently. Break! They were within barely 50 yards of the front line—if they didn’t break soon the infantry would be drawn into the storm of combat before they could get the Rach out of there. All would be disarray, then, their advantage lost. His fingers tightened until the knuckles glared white around the spyglass. And then, miraculously, a signal was given. A great shout went up that came clearly through the wintry air, and suddenly a rush of horse bore down on the lines. There was a startled second, then the Imperials scrambled quickly into a formation of chutes and the cavalry thundered down between them.

  Androssan hardly dared to blink for fear of missing the next few seconds—he had forgotten the Aerach were so agile. And, to be fair, after two days of fighting without rest he’d hardly expected such a vigorous sprint out of them. They’d gotten away so quickly the Enemy were literally left stranded on the middle of the plain, looking around. There was plenty of time for the infantry to close ranks, and within moments, the bewildered Sheelmen had rediscovered their purpose in life and were crashing into them.

  It had worked! Perfectly! Ash and Sheelfire, he was proud! Euphoria threatened to engulf him. What magnificent action!

  “Get those ‘Bows limbered up!” he snapped, pulling his eye off the spyglass and handing it to his Major. “Keep me up to date.”

  “Yes sir!” The man almost grabbed it out of his hand and had his eye glued to the battle before Androssan had barely gotten a stride away. He mounted quickly, heading down the trail so promptly that he caught mud from the man fleeing with his message to the archers.

  It was almost as chaotic below as it had looked out on the battlefield. Androssan impatiently pushed his horse through the mass of people, scanning the crowd. He’d seen Kyr’s standard come through, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d come with it. He had to stop near the Daroe. No support troops were allowed south of it, so they were all bunched up, milling around on this side. There was almost a solid wall of healers with their carts, helping Rach off their horses, wrapping their overheated bodies against the chill, or loading still, bloodied forms onto stretchers. Stands of water and food were waiting, and a whole mass of volunteers dying to get a chance to rub down a real Aerach warhorse were in everybody’s way.

  The Rach looked rough, faces gray with exhaustion, leather armor rent and bloodied. Their fiery horses walked sl
owly, stumbling, fine heads hanging and lather crusted in thick streaks through their dulled coats. But they were alive. Finally, he found Kyr, on his third waterskin and listening with weary attention to a half-circle of Wingtip reports.

  The Rach’s eyes lighted when he saw him and they clasped elbows. “The Merranics will be deeply relieved,” Androssan told him, eliciting a grin from dry lips. It was the standard joke that the biggest concern of any given Merranic on any given day was that a shortage of Enemy would develop.

  “We were holding them until their own mass built up and started overflowing around us,” Kyr told him, not wasting energy on words. Androssan went cold. They’d been flanked? If the Enemy had leaked around the ends of the Wings, especially to the west, in sufficient numbers…well, if they poured enough strength into the Dragonspine, it was still possible that they could outflank the Allied Armies. Sheelfire, anything was possible with those uncountable numbers. “So we started backing, drawing them towards the center,” Kyr continued tiredly. His voice was as dry and cracked as his lips and he had a deep blade score on his jaw and the side of his neck, swollen and globbed with dried blood.

  “How’s their strength?” Androssan asked closely, intentionally double-meaning the question to save time. This man needed to get to the healer tent and grab some food and sleep.

  “Quite good,” Kyr said wryly. His eyes met Androssan’s. “…But, there is a definite difference. Their attacks are not the dance of the mad that we knew from the past. The wounded stop in pain…there are distinct leaders and distinct orders being given…” His eyes narrowed. “We fight men.”

  “Did you get a feel for their numbers?”

  “There’s a lot,” Kyr admitted. “We never saw an end to the force they’ve fielded. We need to figure out a relief for the Foot, or they will be fighting without cease for a very long time.” He grinned up at the taller man, and Androssan smiled rather weakly back. No end to their force…This was madness.

  CHAPTER 42

  The fires started within the hour. Kyr had warned them repeatedly of this, and Androssan had brushed it off. Right, the Enemy likes to set fire to things. Got it.

  He had underestimated how disruptive it was. Men screamed, horses neighed and broke their tethers, tents smoldered, and commanders cursed. The air was full of smoke and flashing balls of flame. At first, it was just observed at a distance, the little fires and smoky scorchings marking where the Enemy indulged themselves in their Ages-old fetish…and then they brought up the launchers.

  These were in the records, for they’d been a Sheelman specialty for centuries, and as soon as they were spotted on the southern horizon, Androssan sent warnings flying out to the commanders on the ground. And hoped everyone remembered their training. It was inarguably distracting to have those big tubes, the diameter of a woman’s palm, flying out of the air with their tips a flaming mass of destruction. It was even more distracting to see the canvas tents, damp and muddied as they were, start to scorch. Far down the line to the east, where they hadn’t had rain in a couple days, he could see fires starting up. All the Merranic tents were soaked in fire-shedder, like their sails, but the Council hadn’t been about to vote in that extravagant expense for the acres of Imperial canvas.

  And then, one of the fire harpoons—Merrani had been fighting the same thing on Enemy vessels for as long as there’d been written history—came flying right at the bluff.

  “Get down!” Androssan yelled, pulling the frail Skylord down beside him as the thing whistled ominously overhead. The horses neighed in terror behind them, pulling up their pickets and tearing down the trail. Men were shouting and Androssan raised his head to see the weapon had lodged into a pile of rocks and scraggly brush near the back of the bluff. It had barely missed the Cyrrhidean tent, which, despite the shower of sparks and flames licking at it a few feet away, hadn’t caught yet.

  Several of the Fox waiting around started pouring their waterskins on it and hurriedly scooping up dirt; Androssan’s staff officers rushed to join them. The General grabbed Siles on his way by.

  “Get to Commander Orren and have him send a half-dozen of his best archers up here!” he shouted over the noise. “And get me a horse!”

  What a time to be trapped on foot. He looked scathingly out over the battlefield, a real, honest dislike for the Enemy beginning to color his thinking. Traive had been sending in reports on a regular basis, always a shock as they arrived on a huge, quiet stag that made them all jump when it seemed to suddenly materialize among them. They were taking some flamings there, too, but the Ranks of the Ram were still keeping the Enemy too far out to really reach the forests.

  The problem was that, fleet as a stag was, it still was bringing news several hours old. Androssan had a bad feeling about that right flank, now that he knew the Enemy had spilled around the Rach in that direction. There weren’t enough allied forces to cover the entire length of the Empire—if the Enemy moved far enough to the West…He paced worriedly, eyes on the furious fighting below him. The infantry hadn’t given an inch, holding beautifully despite the macabre habits of the Enemy, but there were at least a dozen launchers that he could see from here. How many were there on the right? If those forests caught…Sentinels smoked out or trapped…precious manpower caught up in putting out blazes…

  He turned around, scanning faces as his agitated staff wandered back from their fight with the harpoon. “Hansin,” he said, spotting his quartermaster’s aide and trying not to stare at the man’s scorched eyebrows. “Hire a team of civilians to the west, as many as you can find—hundreds if you can get them—and ready them to fight any fires that start up in the woods. Go to Crossing if you have to, that’s the biggest town around.”

  “Sir,” he said, saluting roughly and disappearing down the trail to hunt for a horse. And there was Siles, back with one for him. He went to meet him, grabbing the reins and swinging up while the man was still trying to talk to him.

  “When the archers get here,” he interrupted, “have them light their own arrows and pour them into those launchers. If it works, if they can get them to catch, get fire arrows going all down the line. Two can play at this game,” he said grimly, and turned his mount for the west. “Send Waylan to me at the 4th!” he called over his shoulder and gave his eager horse, delighted at the chance to leave, its head.

  The dim light of the winter day was long gone as Androssan rode his exhausted mount into the 4th’s headquarters. It would have been a cheerful place, except all that festive orange glow came from Enemy fires. There was a big, scorched hole in the Lieutenant Commander’s tent and he could see Gailen through it as he walked up.

  A busy aide announced him and Gailen looked up in surprise.

  “Report,” Androssan said quietly. They had been Majors together, but when Androssan’s career had taken off, Gailen had been left to slowly crawl his way up the ranks. There was bad blood there, but Androssan had still wanted him commanding the 4th; he was tough (as well as bitter), and that’s what was needed with an entire quarter battalion of new recruits. Androssan had figured that if there was a weak spot in Imperial defenses, this would be it.

  He was wrong, apparently. It was the 17th, just to the west, that had fallen back several times already. They had rallied, but, in confirmation of Androssan’s worst fears, they were reportedly taking the brunt of Enemy action.

  “They’re too scorching far from water,” Gailen snapped tautly, voice hoarse from smoke and shouting. “We’re having the same issue, but we’ve got time to compensate. They don’t.”

  “They’re falling out from lack of water?” Androssan asked in disbelief. The smoke and flames maybe dehydrating them?

  Gailen looked at him impatiently, barely hiding his disdain. “The Sheelmen are using burning logs, rolling them into the lines off of ramped wagons. They came prepared…” His voice was a snarl of ill-concealed hatred. There was a lot less mud over here, Androssan had noticed; the grass and bushes must be catching.

  “They
need more men?” Androssan asked, thinking of the demands a fast march would place on exhausted men from the center a day or so away.

  “There are no more men—none that can get here in time,” Gailen rapped out, reading his thoughts. “We’ve already sent them all we can spare, and to their right lie the Ram, then the Sentinels. They’re apparently taking it just as bad.” He gestured in the direction of a Fox, forehead sleek with sweat and still panting, standing out of the way nearby.

  “What they need is faster access to the Daroe!” Gailen continued stridently, snatching a message out of the hand of a man who’d just come running in, clothes smoking gently where sparks had caught his uniform.

  “How close are the Enemy to getting through over there?” Androssan asked the Fox.

  “They will not get through,” the man said quietly. The General blinked.

  Gailen threw down the piece of paper, then picked it up and handed it with tightly controlled fury to his General. “Lost 50 yards. Hard pressed. Will lose all if more men can’t be found for waterbucket detail.—Estev”

  Estev was a proud man. He wouldn’t be begging unless there was truly no other way.

  Torch it! “Fall back half a league!” Androssan snapped, hiding his despair. If there was no choice, better to do it in good order and hope it didn’t turn into a rout. “The Ram, too, as the 17th is their left. Redeploy your line in an angle to meet up with the line to the east.” Curse this long, thin, unwieldy front! This was no way to fight, stretched thin and desperate as a thread across the belly of the Empire!

  For a second the tent went still, then burst into frenzied activity. Gailen grabbed pencil and note paper and scribbled it out and Androssan signed it with a thudding heart. That was almost a league of ground wide the Enemy would be pouring into… if only they could use it to their advantage.

  Waylan, flushed with the bite of the wind from riding, appeared in the doorway as Gailen’s messengers flooded around him going the other direction. Androssan could have hugged him. What superb timing. “Ride as hard as you can to the Sentinels—tell Cyrrh that the 17th’s falling back a half-league as well as the Ram. If they’ve got reserves that can be used to pincer off the Enemy that will get drawn into that hole—SEND THEM!” Waylan’s eyes widened, then he flew from the room. Androssan turned back to the map table, catching a sneer on Gailen’s face. That was a long ride…there and back, even if forces could be found. The chances of the Empire being able to even hold the line in the upcoming retreat were slim, nevermind trying to close in on the Enemy that would follow.