The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “Come, Kinn,” Androssan gestured to their little gathering around the tables. “Even now we speak of war plans.” He strode back over himself, barely seated before shooting questions. “How many, er, Drae do you bring?” What a deadly company that would make.

  “There are roughly 30,000…but we work best alone.” There was respectful silence for this profound understatement. “I would suggest, General, that you allow us to disperse throughout the line, leaving individuals to help out where need calls.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Androssan conceded, feeling slightly out of his realm. Drae…a fighting force of Drae. He cleared his throat, then business-like asked, “How many did you bring, Regent?”

  “The Stagriders—roughly 40,000—which can act as either light cavalry or messengers, and about 150,000 Sentinels. Another 280,000 Sentinels should be on the road as we speak; there had to be some restructuring of the Torques first. I’ve called in 15,000 Fox to run as messengers, and serve as personal guard, if needed. They can also be used as small, special assault forces. Some are with me, the rest will join us in the next few days.” His voice was calm, precise, switching effortlessly from tactful political pandering to cool, objective tactical calculations.

  “You all know, surely, that we cannot plan on the stolen Enemy intelligence,” Androssan said firmly, trying to gain time to compute all the astounding numbers just thrown at him. Who would’ve thought Cyrrh held such numbers of men!

  “Aye,” Alaunus grunted. “The Fleet’s spread out over torching leagues of the Eastern Sea, a safety net that’ll prevent any of the jewel-eyed buggers from flanking us east.”

  “We’ve a skeleton crew of Sentinels and the Jageers left to man the Torques, as well,” Traive said in agreement, adding further to Androssan’s surprise. He had been sure he was going to have to talk blustering Border Realmsmen into the probability that the attack plan had changed.

  “The Sheelmen will come through the Ramparts,” Kinn said quietly, and everyone turned to look at him. There was just something about a Dra’s voice…he could have been singing a nursery song and everybody would have looked at him intently, with respectful consideration.

  “They surely know that we know their plan,” Androssan said, the words already rehearsed in his mind.

  “It is never unwise to prepare for contingencies,” Kinn said patiently, “but the Tarq are not imaginative warriors. They fight by flooding the battlefield with more men than can be defeated.” His words hung unpleasantly in the air, until Androssan said boldly, “Well, we have a force now that they have never before faced.” Over a million soldiers—there was no record, ever, of such a collection of Armies! The Merranics both gave congested, approving grunts.

  “And they know this,” Kinn answered in that unflappable Dra voice, “and they do not care.” That made cold chills run up and down Androssan’s spine, his elation deflating like a spent balloon.

  “Do you know more of their plans?” asked Traive, who one would think, being fresh out of the Sheelshard, would be fairly confident he was in possession of the latest facts.

  “I know only of their ways,” Kinn said. “For them to plan such an unsophisticated, focused thrust speaks loudly of their characteristic confidence in their numbers.”

  “Da Rach realdize dis, doo?” Banion asked, and while Androssan mentally converted that into recognizable speech, Kinn fixed his unnerving gaze on the Merranic and nodded slowly.

  “Kyr came to—with a little persuasion.” If that had been a Northerner voice, it would have been wry.

  “You’ve been to see him,” Traive accused slowly, and Androssan’s face lit up alertly. There were an instant dozen questions on his tongue, but he held it, letting the conversation play out.

  “Kai thought a personal touch might be needed,” Kinn said laconically. Traive and Banion exchanged looks. “He never said a word,” Banion objected in garbled tongue.

  “Even when they do involve themselves in affairs of the Realms, the Drae keep close council!” Traive accused with a chuckle, but without anger or—to Androssan’s ear—much respect.

  “What did you tell the Rach? What are his plans?” Androssan asked quietly, unable to wait any longer.

  “Kai feared the decimation of the Rach were they to make their traditional stand at the Ramparts,” Kinn said slowly. The tent was so quiet you could hear the faint talking of men outside even over the rain thrumming on the canvas. Banion swallowed noisily, snuffling snot. “Rach Kyr came to see this too, with the Enemy plan laid clearly before him; they are no strangers to the ways of the Tarq, the Rach who brave the Sheel. It came to him that he must bring the Wings here, to make his stand at the very feet of the Empire, in order to make them count.”

  Androssan could have crowed with delight, staring raptly at the Dra, at the narrow, aquiline, bronzed face so reminiscent of the fierce peoples they were discussing. To bring the full force of the Ramparts here! Here, where they could be integrated into the massive array already present instead of just being thrown uselessly into the swarm of Sheelmen and devoured! It was more than he could have hoped for, the entire reasoning behind the urgent message he’d sent with Lt. Waylan.

  “When?” the General asked urgently, all his inner excitement threatening to overflow in that one word.

  “I am but a day or so ahead of Kyr’s forerunners,” Kinn said expressionlessly.

  “HA!” Alaunus did shout then, Banion chuckled around all his nasal blockage and Traive’s rugged face broke into a grin.

  “That deserves a toast,” Androssan said with quiet triumph.

  When the Rach came, the earth trembled.

  “Blood and ash,” Spere swore, awed in spite of himself. “The privates’ll think the end of the torching world’s come.”

  The leaders of the allied forces stood at the banks of the Daroe, forewarned by repeated Rach messengers of the imminent Wings as if such an event needed to be braced for. Androssan was beginning to understand why.

  For almost an hour now they’d been visible, first as just a smudge against the flat grey winter sky and the flat grey dead plains south of the river, stretching out of sight to both east and west. But now, as they approached, a detachment of a dozen or so could be seen separated out front and moving much quicker. Long before individuals in the clumped masses behind them could be made out, the advance party was riding up to the Daroe, the thundering of their bright Aerach horses as they crossed the main bridge drowning out the deep, bass rumble of the thousands of horses moving up behind them.

  Almost as one, the Rach dismounted gracefully at the foot of the bridge on the Northern side, falling into step slightly behind one of their number. Their beautiful horses shone like jewels in the dull day, tossing their heads and neighing spiritedly at being left behind as a couple men gathered their reins. They made a fiery backdrop for the energetic group advancing toward them. Androssan didn’t think there was any contrived Northern ceremony that could have been more dramatic than the approach of that group of men. At their head was a very young, well-built man with eyes you could see flashing even across the yards of distance. The raw energy in his powerful stride captured the eye, a compelling, vigorous magnetism that made you almost blind to the fierce, lean men striding dangerously on his flanks, four to each side.

  Rach Kyr and the Shagreens of the Wings off Sheel.

  Androssan could never remember the details of that initial meeting later. It had been full of the summing up, the measuring, that most men do upon meeting anyway, amplified amongst the fit, ferocious Rach to the point the General wasn’t sure there’d even been many words spoken.

  Since none of them had gathered to chat over tea, it wasn’t much of an issue. The overwhelming urge was to get into war council, and Androssan herded them all almost impatiently into the command tent. He wanted everyone moving before the Council, who’d horrifyingly insisted on being present at every step of this process, could say anything. He’d noticed a marked hesitancy among the other Realmsmen to
interrupt a Councilman once he started talking. It only made sense tactically to prevent them from starting.

  He’d set the tent up in a half-circle of ranks around the big parchment map at the front, leaders closest to it, immediate inferiors just behind, with aids as needed mixed in. The four Councilmen were in the very back, with big rolls of blank parchment to keep them happy. If they were making Important Notes, hopefully they wouldn’t be interrupting.

  To be courteous, Androssan realized, as everyone settled into their seats, he should have allowed the Rach a chance to rest or freshen up or at least take food. But it just seemed ridiculous; they were by far the youngest men in the room, so obviously athletic and unwearied that they made the other military men look like reenactment gameboys in need of a bracing meal and a nap.

  Surreptitiously, Androssan scanned the Imperial section of seating in the middle. The Cavalry Commander, Fulton, looked positively effeminate with his bright, fine wool and lace and his white-plumed hat—especially next to all that browned, virile vitality swirling into seats nearby. Androssan winced at the barely concealed sneer on the man’s face; he had thought that his cavalry officers were the most obvious choice to interface with the Rach. They could talk sabre techniques or hoof picks or something. Next to Fulton sat the Ashbow Commander, Orren, a grizzled veteran of everything that could happen with a bow and arrows…but who seemed glaringly geriatric in the current light. Even the Infantry Commander—that dazzling glory so unique to the Empire—didn’t fare well in comparison. Bale had taken the unmatched Imperial Foot to new heights, training them in pikes, spears, and stunning shortsword maneuvers that had brought exclamations of delight at the last wargames, but he seemed a dull and lackluster sort of fellow now, lank greying hair flat against his enervated, seamed face.

  Between the Imperials and the newly arrived Rach were ranged the Merranics. King Kane had arrived a day or two ago, had immediately caught his countrymen’s cold and was now silent, miserable, and leaking facial fluids. Kraemoor was also silent, for a Merranic, and sitting next to his equal on land, the Lance Knight. After centuries of wargaming with the North, the Merranics had finally been persuaded that communications were prone to failure and now routinely had down to third rank present at councils. So, the Lance’s three Knights, each the leader of a chevron of 30,000 heavy horse, were ranged behind him: the Knight of the Bitterns, Jarl Heisar, distinguishable from other Merranics by the nose he’d lost in a brawl, the Knight of the Stone, Prince Kanarron (titles didn’t pass in the logical hereditary way in Merrani; none of Kane’s sons had been able to best his nephew for the Knighthood), and the Knight of the Steelmists, Jarl Banion. Next to the Rach, Merranics tended to look oafish, malformed, and hampered with hair, though you’d think it’d be just the opposite…the Rach should’ve looked like children, their slender, slightly curved sabres like toys.

  He sent his aides scurrying to pour wine for everyone and water for the travelers—and Toriah. The Captain of the Ranks he had inconspicuously placed just to the right of the Northerners, next to the famously tolerant Cyrrhideans. Kinn was between him and the Imperials. Curiously, though every man in the room was armed, some repeatedly, one didn’t notice anyone’s steel but the Dra’s. Those twin-hipped blades might as well have been painted in neon. Even Kyr’s blazing eyes gave them a glance.

  The Cyrrhidean contingent took up the whole right of the tent. Lord Khrieg, though he commanded a gryphon, had not yet arrived, which brought tears of regret to not a single eye, for in his place sat the eminently capable and far preferable Lord Regent. The single commander of all military in Cyrrh, Traive had a perfect gaggle of quiet brown men spreading out in a triangle behind him. Closest to Toriah sat the Sentinalier Achan, a bewilderingly beast-oriented pyramid of support right behind him: the Jaglord, a handsome, outgoing man, the Staglord, taciturn as a Dra, and the Captain of the Sentinels, in charge of all the Torquelords of Cyrrh and looking the most self-important of any of them. Next to Achan sat the very plain and unremarkable Foxlord, possibly the most powerful man in the room when it came to knowledge and skirted by an alert, hovering cluster of Silver Fox. At the far edge of both the room and reality was the Cyrrhidean Sky Captain, Kourain. In charge, improbably, of four Talons of gryphons. Androssan had no idea what he was supposed to do with him.

  The Imperial General settled into his seat, feeling like he’d rather be doing laps around the tent, he had so much nervous energy and expectation built up.

  “Welcome, Rach Kyr,” he began, forcing himself to look at that corner of the tent. It seemed to shimmer with energy and edginess, the impatience of the young in the face of the thorough-going wisdom of the, er, matured. Of all the Realms, the Rach alone had no third rank, just the direct stares and hard planes of face and body of the Shagreens. “We are deeply pleased that you are here. Tell us of your journey and what you know of the Enemy’s actions.”

  Kyr sprang to his feet, and Androssan heard parchment crackle in alarm at the back of the room. But his intent was verbal. He stood very straight and still as he greeted them, a man in tight control of himself and no stranger to making speeches. It was no red-faced, stammering embarrassment over losing the Northern Queen that filled the tent; there was no sign of intimidation in the presence of such older and wiser monarchs and military men. In fact, he was so perfectly poised, so unselfconsciously full of life and vision that it didn’t occur to any of them that he was lacking in either age or wisdom.

  As his strong voice addressed the gathered strength of four Realms, Androssan realized that all his careful, months-long preparation for this moment had been unnecessary. Rach Kyr simply and easily and without the notice, let alone objections, of any of the other leaders…took charge. With smooth and flawless tact he moved through the upcoming campaign, sure of the Enemy, sure of their tactics, and oddly, for his seclusion down on the Sheel, sure of his allies. He placed Realmsmen around the big map behind him as effortlessly and certainly as a boy places tin soldiers for a battle that exists only in his head. He had that rare, natural leadership that included faultless judgment, his statements utterly sensible, and—even more rare—the ability to do it without sparking even a whisper of resentment.

  Watching him, unable to stop analyzing men’s character, weighing their qualities, even in such dire circumstances, Androssan realized that there was another thing on Kyr’s side. Something intangible that all the other Realms seemed to understand. The barriers that a Northern leader always faces when dealing with men from the Border Realms, that odd cultural disparity, didn’t exist for Kyr. It hung, a tacit understanding somehow outside of Imperial consciousness, in the still, focused air of the tent…as if the rest of the world danced to an intangibly different strain of music that the Empire could barely hear.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sable fussed nervously with the reins, the only sign of the distress surging through her. She was the Queen, of course, under the admiring gaze of hundreds of eyes, and it was hardly possible to let loose with more than a few inconspicuous twitches.

  It had been a long, hard, miraculous road their party had traveled on its harried way back from the Sheel. When they’d emerged from the ’Shard, it had been full night. They’d stumbled, exhausted, hungry, wounded, burdened with wounded, all the way back across the empty desert, driven by the knowledge that the Sheel would erupt behind them very shortly with bottomless malignance. The whole trip had held a remarkable similarity. Slow, because of Kore, and almost submerged in a frantic fear that admitted no rest and little food. Even when they came across some of the Whiteblade horses and rigged a litter for the wounded Shagreen, which more than tripled their pace, they still could not relax. There were more Tarq patrols swarming up on them than tirna in a tradehouse—and they were in an interactive mood.

  Sable hadn’t exactly had a vigorous recovery on the return journey. But, unlike the other Northerners, she had that Other Strength to lean on. Her vitality, reaching the Ramparts, escaping the Tarq, bringing news of the Enemy�
�s plans—all were in much greater hands than hers had proven to be. What a joke to remember her self-important surmises on the various forms of sacrifices Il had in mind for her. She was done trying to place herself in this tornado of events.

  The cheers picked up, the men of the Northern Army not only happy to see their monarch but, really, happy to see any woman that was clean and decently dressed and didn’t have louse bites on her cheeks. Sable had finally filled out again, though it had taken almost a good week of solid sleep and endless quantities of healthy Aerach food to do it. The rest of the party had been amazed when the Sharhi-Tir patrol had found them, a serendipity that defied probability as they were currently running for their life from an unusually large and angry collection of Sheelmen.

  Just like that, the furtive marches were over, the overwrought emotions calmed, their lives turned once again into the surety and dependability that most of the world took for granted. They had no sooner reached the Ramparts than a cloud of Fox descended on Traive like pages on a rich lord. While he issued tomes of instructions, Fox and Postal birds and ’Tips flowing away from him in a flood of men and animals, Sable lasted barely long enough to send the message that she was alive and to ready the Armies immediately before collapsing into the soft hammock in the Shagreen’s tent.

  His name was Qarasca, the Shagreen of the Sharhi-Tir, as ferocious-looking as any she had seen at the Hilt when Kyr Stood in Judgment, and he ran to meet her, sinking to his proud knee, savage face upturned with joy. She was tremendously fond of the Rach, but sometimes she really felt their priorities were misplaced. He barely glanced at Kore, even though he was a fellow Realmsman and a fellow Shagreen, merely giving terse orders for him to be seen to and returning to the rapt perusal of her face.

  His tent was quickly emptied for her, and over the course of the next week she was able to repay him by what she had learned of the Sheelshard—which was undoubtedly the thing that pleased him best. Even after Androssan’s message had reached her, after Traive and Banion had been long gone back to their Realms and Melkin had sped north on the fastest Aerach he could borrow, she tarried. She wished desperately to know if Kore would recover before she left him, but though he didn’t die, he didn’t pander to her anxiety much either. He was still unconscious when duty called her inexorably north.