The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  It was impossible not to feel exhilarated—like they’d survived something—once they’d reached the other side. Rodge and Cerise both had white faces, lips pursed and eyes wide, but Loren shook his head, laughing and soaked with spray, and shared an exultant grin with Ari.

  It was a fitting gateway. Like the Kendrick, the High Wilds were so stupendous, so enormous, they seemed to consume their little lives, suffusing them with brilliant light and soaring space. The trail was nothing but a wide, well-beaten dirt path, climbing steadily, lined sometimes with firs and pines and sometimes open so that they could see the land rising precipitously up around them on all sides. It was almost impossible to grasp the sheer size of the place; Ari’s head bobbed around on his neck like a toy as he tried to get some perspective.

  It wasn’t long before they rounded a bit of mountain, the roar of the Kendrick faded, and a little community appeared in the trees ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Ari caught Cerise craning her neck curiously, and for once he instantly understood the female mind. What kind of people would live in such undeveloped, unprotected wastes? These were harsh, empty lands, their emerald green beauty buried in snow nine months out of twelve. The only thing that Ari knew about Addahites was that they were…well, mysterious. Oh, and Illian, which was probably why they chose to stay in Addah.

  The houses here were rough-hewn timber and were all small, no more than huts, organized around a single and much larger building…with a familiar look. Ari’s jaw dropped as they passed through the outer buildings and he saw the unmistakable flash of a Diamond, Marek’s triele, across the front of that biggest one. A Temple of Marek? In Addah? Addah was virtually synonymous with Il.

  Sure enough, the few people who came out to meet them wore the neat, simple white of Marekite disciples. Melkin dismounted respectfully, as did Cerise and Loren. Ari, stubborn, just moved his horse in to hear what was being said.

  “How can we help you?” one of the strangers asked, cool, courteous, and obviously not shocked to see travelers. Several other disciples in the background didn’t even glance up from their work.

  “We’re looking for the nearest Addahite settlement,” Melkin asked with what might be considered gruff courtesy, with a little imagination.

  The man gave a small, tight laugh. “As you know, I’m sure,” he said with an edge to his voice, “such things are hard to find, as Addahites are never anywhere on a permanent basis. Believe me, we have looked, so as to bring these poor, base creatures learning, and knowledge, and true order.”

  Melkin, obviously not interested in irrelevant issues of evangelism, simply waited. Ari wondered if he was the only one aware of that faint sense of patronizing sanctimony. Most Northerners never seemed to notice, but Melkin was a whole different breed of cynical.

  After waiting for a moment—what, for him to agree?—the disciple eventually conceded, “The nearest sheepfold lies about a day’s ride along the First Path here. No guarantee it will be occupied, as most of the flocks have moved to higher pasture by now.” He had a definite don’t-get-your-hopes-up shrug to his shoulders. “May I ask your business?”

  “Cerise,” Melkin prompted, turning and mounting up.

  She blinked. “Er, Queen’s business.” Glancing with just a hint of reproach at Melkin, already turning his roan, she leaned forward with a gracious smile and clinked several tirna into the disciple’s hands. “For your good work here.” He seemed completely unaffected, moving on to take Loren’s offering—who realized belatedly he should be giving one, and had to scrounge hurriedly in his moneybag—with smooth efficiency. The Empire was so great, it was said, because Marek was so organized, adept, and full of common sense that he wouldn’t have his people any other way. Privately, Ari thought all the clinking coins didn’t hurt either.

  Their horses started to climb again as Melkin led them on, and Ari’s spirits seemed to rise with the land. The ground began to drop away from them on one side or the other, and the vastness, the stillness, the great, majestic beauty completely surrounding them brought with it a heady timelessness. It was as if nothing was happening that hadn’t happened before, as if all of Ari’s problems were faint and far away and inconsequential, petty puffs of air in the great winds of the Ages.

  They hobbled the horses when the sun was straight up—Rodge wasn’t even interested in learning, doing more than a little hobbling himself—then stretched out in the sunny little meadow. Some of the packed foods were more perishable than others, and Banion nodded approvingly as Ari and Loren pulled the bread, cheese, and the ripened fruit out of their bulging saddlepacks. Cerise sat waiting to be served and Melkin and Kai talked quietly with their eyes on the road ahead and their backs to the group.

  “Some cheese, Rodge?” Loren asked solicitously.

  “I’m a little bitter right now,” Rodge observed hostilely, chucking a clod of dirt at him.

  “Keep that dirt out of the food,” Melkin cracked as he and Kai joined them. He swept a scathing, truculent glare around the gathered group, and Ari felt resentment stir in his guts. He felt like a boy, still needing disciplining by his elders.

  Perhaps in defiance of the surly quiet, he asked, “How can there be a Temple of Marek in Addah?” Both Loren and Rodge stopped mid-bite to stare at him. He never spoke in public unprompted. Master Melkin didn’t seem the least disposed to answer him, however, taking a big bite of bread and ignoring him completely. He didn’t seem as crazy out here on the trail, the eccentric drama he flung at them in the classroom changed somehow into more of a taciturn intensity. He was no stranger to living out, either.

  Banion had no misgivings about answering, bread or no.

  “Addah doesn’t really have any formal borders,” he said, waving expansively with one of his huge limbs. His beard moved mysteriously as his mouth, hidden somewhere amongst all that prickly brown growth, completed its business with his bread. “And the Addahites are not only hard to find, but they don’t seem to give a barrel of fish whether there are Marekites, or Vangothics, or anyone, for that matter, looking for them.”

  He caught Cerise staring at him, lips pursed in prim disapproval at the whole talking-with-your-mouth-full spectacle. “Which makes it kind of a challenge for them.” He grinned unrepentantly at her.

  It was a quick lunch, the horses left saddled and Kai not even eating. He squatted instead a few paces away, gazing with his hooded eyes over a swale dropping out away from them in a plunging fall of green. He’d been ranging ahead, sometimes disappearing for a half hour or so, ever since they crossed the Kendrick. Keeping up with the horses obviously was not going to be an issue for him.

  It was as they were mounting up again that he rose suddenly into a half crouch, hands going to steady his blades. He threw one meaningful look at Melkin, who came off his horse so quickly that he was at the Dra’s side before the rest of them even knew something was up.

  Over their heads, far across the swale, Ari could see a small party of mounted men disappearing into the distant tree line. Kai and Melkin shared a long look, and Ari was struck again at the two of them. How did a man of the most lethal race in the Realms and a sour old Master of Applied Sciences ever get to know each other?

  “Who were they?” he asked them.

  Melkin rose wordlessly, face set, and remounted. Kai flowed out of his crouch and swung down the trail, but Cerise moved her high-spirited mare to block Melkin from following.

  “If there are significant events that might necessitate a report to her Majesty,” she said pompously, “I need to know about them.” Her narrow nose flared like it could smell news just out of reach.

  “All right,” Melkin said flatly.

  “Who were those men?” she demanded insistently. “If they are not enemies, then why didn’t you hail them? It’s not like we couldn’t use the help.”

  Melkin stared at her coldly. “You want no part of those men, believe me. They brook no foolishness.” He urged his horse forward, the roan’s big body easily pushing the lighter m
are aside. “I’ll let you know what’s significant and what isn’t,” he growled as he passed.

  Cerise was forced to be content with that, looking miffed, and the whole party became more alert; even Banion, whose face had been issuing sounds very similar to snores, kept his eyes open. But the rest of the day was uneventful. They stopped early in a halcyon little glade ringed with evergreens, and the horses, feeling the day’s climb, grazed like they hadn’t seen grass in a week. They’d cocked a leg and dozed off by the time the rest of camp was set up, the water drawn, and the fire going. Twilight fell, fast and breathless in these high lands, and soon their small voices and the crackle of the fire were the only evidence of life under a very, very big night sky.

  “Why do people come out here?” Rodge muttered, huddled between Ari and Loren and peering nervously out into the blackness. “Aren’t there things that eat us out here?”

  “Don’t worry, young ‘un,” Banion said heartily from where he was bent over the fire doing dinner duty. “You’re too skinny to be worth the trouble. Now me, I’ve got to worry.”

  Loren chuckled. “Banion, do you know any Stories?” Ari looked up in eager longing. Campfires needed stories like summer needed swimming holes.

  “Wonderful,” Cerise drawled in high disdain, “Campfire tales.”

  “Oh, aye,” Banion rumbled. “I’ll introduce you to tale-telling Merranic style. Soon as everyone’s eaten.”

  True to his word, once the water was heating to clean their few dishes, he sat back, scratched his stiff beard, and said, “Hm…what shall we have? Perhaps we should start at the beginning…”

  An owl hooted in the far trees, the fire glowed deep and orange in front of them, and against the infinity of darkness closing in around them, man did what he has done since the beginning of time. He cleared his throat, dropped the timbre of his already deep voice, and with wonderful smoothness, began:

  “There came a time, before all things, when the gods grew lonely and the world seemed to them a dull and empty place. It came to them to create a new world, ordered as they desired, that they might have pleasure and amusement and companionship. So, in a great twisting and heaving and uprooting, with many storms and floods and quakings and great winds, they brought the lands into being. And upon them they brought forth all the creatures that are. Man was their special creation, and those first that walked upon the earth were fairer and stronger and keener of mind than any that came after. The gods chose from amongst them those that were the most wise, of the deepest compassion, the sharpest intellect and soundest judgment, to be their leaders—a Royal Line of chiefs. The first ones lived in great peace, for the gods taught them what was good to eat and how to raise it from the soil. They taught them how to make snug homes and how to store for times unplentiful, how to live amongst the wild beasts and the forests and to gather from both so as to live in harmony with all.”

  “Now, there are four gods. Eldest and chief amongst them is Marek. Also, Vangoth, Laschald and Raemon. Of them all, Raemon was ever the most restless, pushing the gods to teach man more, to teach him faster. More and more his voice was ruled against in their councils, for he wished things that seemed more than unwise—dangerous and ill-intentioned. In those days, the gods appeared often to men, and when Raemon, forever reaching beyond his bounds, proposed to take a wife from amongst them, the council ruled in outrage against such unthinkable sacrilege. It grew into a fierce and angry debate, until the council was driven to such shocked fury at his intemperance that they charged him never to appear to man again.”

  “Raemon left them in a storm of anger, and appearing to those of his people loyal to him, led them from their homes to disappear into the wilderness. Now, the settlement of man was called Ethlond, and though the first chords of strife had been struck, it continued to thrive, full of peace and beauty and only faintly touched by sadness. For years, the people looked for the lost ones gone with Raemon, but never found a single sign of them…until…”

  “War came. Driven by resentment, pride, revenge, and worst of all, ambition, Raemon had trained those loyal to him to take by force what had once been freely theirs. They fell on the grandsons and granddaughters of those who had once been their neighbors, and great was the innocent blood spilled that day, for always it has been their way to kill heedlessly, with no thought of honor or mercy.”

  “The gods were deeply saddened. It was to avoid war that they had wished to keep simple the lives of men. Many years had they searched in vain for Raemon, hoping to make amends, but when they met him that day they found no hope of reconciliation. Enmity had come to the world. With sad and heavy hearts, feeling they had no choice, the gods taught Ethlond to fight back, lest they be destroyed. Raemon’s men, whom he called Tarq—”

  “Tarq?” Cerise interrupted. “I’ve never heard them called that.”

  “Shhh!” Loren hissed.

  “That’s what the men who fight them call them,” Melkin growled darkly. She frowned, the firelight barely softening her thin features.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “RAEMON’S MEN,” Banion continued doggedly, “had brought with them their strange, soft metal, forged far beyond the lands of Ethlond. In the necessity of countering these blades, the gods moved man forever from his first home. Far to the north they traveled, to the mouth of the Kendrick where the iron ore lay thick and the land lay rocky, and rough, and defensible. And there they taught him how to forge steel and to make such blades as could never be defeated.”

  “But Raemon’s hunger was unquenchable, his quest for domination so relentless that the war of men became the war of the gods as well. Raemon made the women of the Tarq to bear many children, so that his people swelled up like blood from a wound. He gave them the thirst for fire so that they struck terror into the hearts of men with their cruel desire to burn all in their path. He taught them how to throw fire with catapults, on arrows, at a quick touch of liquid. To save their people, the gods were forced to respond. They brought great Warwolves, born to hunt Tarq, from these wild lands around us. They gave us fire-shedder and the knowledge of building with stone and of building ships to fight them at sea.”

  “And so it went. On and on without hope of end, until all man knew was fighting and all the span of his years was spent in defense against the Enemy.”

  “Now, the Royal Line still lived, and in fact had borne men who became mighty heroes, of great valor. There arose amongst them the mightiest yet, three brothers who had never known defeat, men of great skill with arms and keen judgment: Kendrick, Karl and Khristophe.”

  Cerise snorted softly and Loren shot her an ugly look.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she protested.

  “Well, roll your eyes quieter.”

  “There burned within their hearts,” Banion continued—he had the patience of a professional—“a great discontent and a desire to seize more aggressively the reins of their destiny. So, they formed a plan and went to plead it before the gods. At the Triele, for so the Temple was called when all three gods resided in it, they besought the priest, who in turn cried unto the gods until the Diamond, the Sapphire, and the Emerald began to glow and the gods came and stood among them.

  “What is it, my sons?” Marek asked of them.

  “O my lord Marek,” Kendrick, the eldest, implored, “We are sick and heartsore of ever defending against a dishonorable Enemy that moves about at his will, doing what he wills, as he wills. Each of you, we beg now, take of us a people and lead us out against the Enemy, searching until we find his home and finally destroy him forever. We are many thousands, and while these cities along the sea can be easily defended, a full two-thirds of our people might be moving forcefully to end this endless war!”

  “Now, the gods were greatly surprised by this, and not happy as you would think. For always had it been their wish that man live in peace and ever had they hoped to win over their brother with soft words of reason and diplomacy. They had taught man to live in harmony; the
y’d taught him the facts and skills necessary for survival, moderation and kindness and tolerance to strange ideas. But man seemed to fall easily, eagerly even, into the ways of war. They’d taught him nothing of courage, of honor, of boldness, yet the desire for these things seemed to well out of him of its own accord.”

  “What about women?” Cerise asked pointedly.

  Loren ground his teeth. “Women aren’t in stories because we get quite enough of them in our real lives. Now, be quiet!”

  “Unhappy with the war and saddened at the inexplicable turn to the ways of men,” Banion continued with hardly a pause, “the gods refused them. But the Line of Kings is not so easily quelled. The Brothers led many, many of their people who thought as they did. They gathered them together and went again to the Triele. When the gods came once more and stood among them and saw the fearlessness and determination of their people, they realized they were not to be dissuaded. With great sorrow and reluctance, they finally relented.”

  “Marek chose for himself Kendrick and those who would follow the High King. West they headed, into the wildlands, the huge Diamond Triele wrapped carefully in many hides so that its tremendous power would not destroy those who carried it. Laschald chose the great archer Khristophe to lead his people south and west—for always their north had been free from attack. They carried his great Emerald mounted boldly on a wagon (against his will, for he is a humble god), daring the Tarq to attack. Karl had ever loved the rolling waves and endless horizons of the Eastern Sea, and so Vangoth, the most understanding of war of all the gods, chose him and his people as his own, knowing for a surety that battle would always be found at the edge of the Sea.”

  “But there was another brother, not yet a dozen years of age at the time of the Going Out. His name was Kyle and his heart beat more fervently for war than any of his brothers. Desperately he begged for a people to lead, to more thoroughly search the lands for the homeland of the Enemy, and furiously he denounced the gods when they refused him. Nor did his spirit fade as he gained years. At barely twenty, a fierce warrior, the most skilled horseman in the lands, and more deeply impassioned than any of his elder brothers, Kyle gathered troops about him of his own will. By now, Kendrick was far in the northwest, finding fewer and fewer Tarq the farther he went. Khristophe, too, fighting south of west, was running out of Enemy when he hit the Dragonwall. Convinced the Tarq homeland lay on the other side, his last message read that they prepared to cross.