The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  Androssan was waiting anxiously for them, middle of the night or not. It was down-pouring with Imperial single-mindedness out, so the General reluctantly gathered everyone in the command tent. He’d much rather have met them in the open. On the other side of the bridge. Sheelfire, half way to the Ramparts, if the truth was told. For the hundredth time he mastered the urge to stand and pace, the tension rising unbearably as minutes ticked by. The tent smelled overpoweringly of Merranic—body odor and wet fur, with overtones of sheep from the Ram Captain and the odd, wild smell of the Cyrrhideans. The Rach, despite being right off the hot griddle of the Sheel and savages to boot, were meticulously clean. The frigid Daroe was filled daily with their splashing, half-naked brown bodies.

  Androssan’s eyes drifted over the Shagreens, wondering what it was that made them seem so fierce. Their eyes? That intense, athletic energy? That fellow in the corner even had a spotted panther skin over his shoulders—which didn’t do much to dispel the air of barbarism that clung to them.

  As his eyes pored calculatingly over them, the muttering of military brain-storming in the background, they rose abruptly to their feet. The tent went quiet in surprise, wondering what they were up to; some of them had been mid-sentence in conversation. Then over the drumming rain, they all heard it—shouts and the pounding of hooves over the Terring. It was only moments before the tent flap was thrown open. Waylan may have tried to make an announcement, but it was drowned out by a thunderous cry of:

  “RACH KYR!”

  Eight Shagreens sank instantly to a knee as Kyr strode in, filthy and soaked and with his eyes flashing like black gold in his mud-spattered face. The rest of them started violently, the Councilmen grabbing their tables—or chests—and the Merranics rumbling something approving.

  “They come,” Kyr said, eyes blazing. “Probably four, five days at the most on our tail.” The tent was breathless, every eye glued to that young face. There were no greetings, no niceties, no comments on the weather.

  “I think it best,” he continued, without a pause to let that horrible announcement sink in, “if the Wings fly about a half day out to meet them. It will give us more maneuvering room than if we stay backed up against the river, the ground is less treacherous, and it allows the river to serve as another, separate defense.”

  Nobody said a word. Androssan, though he mentally sketched out military tactics in the face of oncoming danger for a living, would still have liked just a moment to absorb some of this. “We have not spoken of when to destroy the bridges …” he said instead.

  For a long moment Kyr looked gravely at him, until Androssan began to feel an edgy wariness creep across his shoulders.

  “We need to move our front line out by a league or so,” the Rach finally said. Surprised murmurings circled round the tent, both at the distance and the sudden change of plans. “We do not want this force to get a foothold on any land north of the Daroe.”

  “That’s a better plan anyway!” Alaunus said staunchly. Merranics were aghast at the idea of sitting and waiting for the Enemy to come to them, far preferring a nice, thundering charge to make their intentions clear. Their voices drowned out the others in the tent as several people began arguing the wisdom of this and the drain on logistical support it would entail. Thoughtfully, Kyr’s eye settled on the loudest, hairiest section of the chaos.

  “How much of that powder is there?” he asked, and the discussion quieted.

  Alaunus half-turned his bulk, “Steelmists?” he muttered gruffly.

  The Jarl Banion said promptly, “Enough for every bridge in the Empire. There’s more than enough for any bridge we want blown, from the Silver Hills to the Dragonspine.”

  “Get powder and teams dedicated solely to that task for every one of those bridges, just in case,” Kyr said, and anxious surprise crawled around the tent like a living, insidious force. Every bridge? That was over two hundred leagues of land, from the Eastern Outcropping of the Bitterns to the western bluffs at Cornton.

  “What did you see?” Kane asked quietly. Silence fell, rich with trepidation.

  “I will show you,” he said.

  They left on disgruntled horses within the hour, the rain mixing with snow in the shivery light before dawn, and the muddy ridges of the road crackling with ice under the horses’ hooves. It was only a select few of them, it being a testimony to Kyr’s charisma that he not only talked the Councilmen out of coming, but convinced them of the need to get to the safety of Eldoreth as quickly as possible. All the Merranics of the warcouncil were there, Cyrrh’s Lord Regent and the Foxlord, Dra Kai, Captain Toriah of the Ram, Androssan…and Lt. Waylan. He had been the only other Imperial Kyr had allowed; a point he’d insisted on so firmly that it riled up both irritation and uneasiness in Androssan’s gullet. Imperial Generals did not go trotting around the Empire without aides (much as he’d secretly desired it a couple times), and, what—did the Rach think them so soft-bellied that they’d faint in fear at the sight of their Enemy?

  Androssan was not in a good humor as they set out. It was a long ride to the eastern edge of the battlefield, where the Silver Hills rose from their odd, pale beauty into a formidable and conveniently defensible mountain. The side facing south, even more redoubtable, was almost sheer, with an enormous overhang that looked from a distance like it was ready to drop off at any moment. It was in sight for quite a while until they crossed over the last bridge, ingeniously hinged so Merranic ships could pass upstream. Then they were climbing into the foothills and beside him, Waylan was in a state of barely appropriate delight. When Androssan had objected to having not a single Imperial to accompany him, Kyr had relented only when the lieutenant had quietly offered his services. They’d stared at each for a minute, Kyr’s white teeth gleaming in a grin out of his dirty brown face.

  “Waylan,” he said gravely, eyes twinkling.

  Waylan, manfully trying to keep discipline in the face of that infectious smile, said formally, “My Lord Rach.”

  “You’re on duty,” Kyr had said, voice rich with unlaughed laughter.

  “Yes, my Lord Rach,” the lieutenant struggled, freckled face red with the effort of maintaining his bearing.

  Androssan urged his horse faster. It was half-Aerach, him being a General and all, and he’d never imagined anything that could best it…but the nimble stallions of the Rach, Kyr and his messenger, were drawing steadily ahead as the trail steepened. It seemed to take a long time, that slipping, jarring, clawing up the side of the Prow (what else would a Merranic call such a mountain?), every minute of it filled with imaginings of the sight at the top. Or, in Androssan’s case, every other minute—he alternated with sour reflections on the injury to his pride.

  There was quite a flat, clear, open space when they finally came out on top, the mountain rising up behind them another 100 yards or so into the air, but the view wide open in front of them. Kyr was waiting quietly—he’d been there several minutes already. Once the Merranic horses had come laboring into view, he gave them all a meaningful look and led the way out on the exposed ledge.

  It was plenty wide enough for them all; in fact, a whole troop of Ashbows could fit easily up there. It was such an obvious vantage point that Androssan’s mind began instantly churning on how they could use it, and it took him a second to realize what he was seeing spread out below him.

  The light was fading fast, slanting weakly through sodden clouds, but it was still strong enough to see clearly the numbers of Enemy before them. Even through the spyglass, they were far too distant to make out individuals, but in a way that made the vision even more alarming…that the space of leagues could not soften the impact of that massive force bearing down on them. They were not making any attempt to camouflage themselves…indeed, Androssan thought numbly, why would they? From the Eastern seacoast all the way across the world until the curve of the horizon hid them from view, they swarmed like black ants, a seething carpet of tiny movements and taunting, triumphant numbers. Stretching out of sight to the south
that had spawned them, like some vast, endless flood of malevolent insects, they had come. The Enemy had come, down through generations, through Ages, through legends, through all the denials and scoffings the North could muster, and now they were here.

  The other Realms’ leaders were talking, subdued and gruff, but Androssan didn’t join in. What did it matter? Now he realized why Kyr had been so adamant about limiting the viewing. Now he realized why the Rach had been so strangely unimpressed with the enormous numbers of his allies amassed and waiting for him.

  They stood there for a long time, watching the Enemy Army crawl forward. They watched as it paused, halted, stirred around making camp. They watched as a thousand thousand campfires blossomed out on the night-dark plain, too numerous to count, too distant at their edge to even fully see.

  And when they finally turned their horses back down the slippery trail and hurried back to headquarters, Androssan barely noticed the driving sleet in his face. For he had realized something else as the shock and the horror wore off…they could not win this war.

  CHAPTER 40

  “So, I said—real gentle, so I didn’t scare them—well, flames, I’d hate for you to get your robes dirty,” Spere said, so furious he was polite. “And do you know what they said?”

  “What?” Androssan asked absently, regretting that it had been Spere that had had the duty of sending off the Councilmen, but rather busy with his concern about the survival of the Empire just at the moment.

  “They said, ‘We all must make our sacrifices for the Empire!!!!!’ Smoking ash!” His Point threw up his hands. “So that’s what happened to our best wagons, General, if you’re wondering,” he said, so abruptly courteous after his outburst that it made one suspicious of his sanity.

  “I wasn’t,” Androssan told him, sparing a glance at the outrage on the other side of his desk. “Find some other way, then, just get that firewood to the 28th. With this cold snap, we’re going to be losing men if they don’t have fires.” We’re going to be losing them anyway in a day or so, that still-appalled part of him interjected.

  “We’re also going to be losing Rach, soon, if we don’t take torching steps to stop it,” Spere noted, eyes fixed grimly on a spot in the tent wall just over the General’s head and making no move to get on about his business.

  Androssan sighed, giving him his reluctant attention. “Now what?”

  “Well, Sir,” the sergeant said, still dangerously polite, “It’s their horses.”

  “What about them?” Where in the world was this going?

  “Seems, Sir, the Cav are nervous about their mares.” He was almost grinding the words out, face fixed in a rictus grin.

  “What are you talking about?” Androssan was beginning to get impatient. Spere rarely bothered him with nonsense, so there was obviously something of import here somewhere…

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Sir,” he continued, in a voice that said he could care less about the current topic, “but apparently those are all stallions on the other side of the Daroe. Untethered stallions.” He cocked his head, a glaringly insincere smile marring his features. “The Cav are convinced those lusty little desert devils will be jumping the river any minute now to get to their sweet little mares—”

  “Spere, are you jesting with me? The Enemy could be upon us as early as tomorrow. Those mares, the whole cavalry, could be dead, tomorrow. Talk some sense into them, will you?”

  His Point Sergeant looked deeply put upon. “Burning cinders, General, they’re officers,” he said, pained. “They’re talking about marching over there and demanding the Rach tie up those stallions—or doing it themselves if the Rach won’t listen. I thought you ought to know.”

  Great. Had it escaped everyone’s attention that they were fighting a war here? After almost two decades of wargaming, Androssan was beginning to think these sorts of things were the way some soldiers dealt with stress. Resigned, he stood and followed Spere out of the tent. He wasn’t really all that worried about offending the Rach—Waylan had already alerted him to several situations that made it clear that was almost impossible. But he’d seen some of those stallions first thing in the morning, even with their own riders. And that big red of Kyr’s was the meanest of the bunch—his officers went over there rolling up their sleeves with thoughts of securing them, they were likely to come back on stretchers.

  Stumping towards Fulton’s, the Cav Commander’s, tent, he saw a strange, misfit collection of people gathered in a little knot up the road, their union briefly punctuated by a flash and sharp little explosion. They backed up, by all indications delighted, and he made out the looming Jarl, Steelmists, with those two youngsters…that had never been satisfactorily explained to him, come to think of it. How had such a motley collection of personnel and Realms ended up in the ’Shard, rescuing the Queen? Though it did not bother him near as much as the thought of that Merranic fooling around with that powder.

  Down the road, Rodge said, “Chemical,” playing with his lower lip. “Definitely a chemical reaction.”

  “Who cares? It was great—let’s do it again,” Loren urged. Banion, who had caught the frown on the face of the Commanding General of the Imperial Armies, said hastily, “Once is enough. Don’t want to waste it. Might need it.” He closed the oilskin bag as tight as he could against the rain—it was high-maintenance as a woman, this powder.

  Loren sighed in disappointment, but Rodge said, continuing their previous conversation, “So, what else did you see from the Prow?”

  Banion beamed, turning to gaze affectionately down the length of the Empire to where you could just see the Prow as a bump on the horizon. “There’s plenty,” he rumbled in satisfaction. The boys looked at each other.

  “Plenty of what?” they asked almost in unison.

  “Enemy…” he rolled out smoothly, like a man savoring a swallow of fine wine.

  Rodge rolled his eyes. “Oh, good. I was worried. After we went to all that trouble to stir the Sheelshard up, it would have been a shame if they didn’t come to the party.”

  “Melkin’s still not back,” Loren noted, looking a totally different direction, back over the dirty white canvas town all around them.

  “And he said he’d be back in time for the war,” Rodge said, affecting a girl’s singsong pout. “Let me see, Banion.”

  The Knight had pulled out his famous Merranic looking glass—famous because the Northerners couldn’t believe Merrani had figured such a thing out before they had—and was gazing intently at the distant mountain. He took his eye away and handed it absently to Rodge, muttering, “Seems like there should be something we could use that ledge halfway up for…too far up for anything accurate, I guess…could just let archers rain down arrow fire…”

  “Why don’t you bring it down?” Rodge asked, squinting mightily while his one eye roved.

  Banion went still, the hand stroking his beard stopping mid-pet. Slowly, he pivoted to look at Rodge. “What?” he said quietly.

  Rodge dropped the glass, making strange faces as his eyes re-adjusted. “Why don’t you bring that big chunk of rock suspended off the front of the cliff down, preferably on the Enemy?”

  “How?” Banion said, small eyes bright as a ferret’s with its tail curled around its face.

  Rodge gestured at the bag of powder at Banion’s overworked belt. “With that. An explosion at just the right place up on top and that thing should shear off like a piece of flint—see how narrow the neck is that holds it on?” He offered the glass back and Banion grabbed it.

  “Can you do that?” Banion asked hurriedly.

  “Me?” Rodge said in surprise. “No, you’d need…well, first you’d need a surveyor so you knew just where to dig the powder in—”

  “Got one,” Banion beamed. Rodge raised his beetle brows. “It’s the Imperial Army,” Banion waved a hand at the sea of tents. “They have one of everything.”

  “Yeah, but I have no idea how much to use or…” Banion had put one gigantic arm, r
oughly the size of a six-year old child, across his skinny shoulders and was shepherding him encouragingly towards the tents, head bent attentively.

  “Wait, I’m in on this,” Loren chortled and trotted after them.

  Ari woke suddenly, heart pounding, the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils and his mind’s eye brimming with the sight of the dead and dying.

  “It’s just a dream,” the Empress said sleepily from a few feet away, but she rose to a sitting position, too. They slept and got up whenever they wished, since there was no way to gauge time.

  “I was back in the Hall,” he said huskily, the vivid images fading only slowly from his consciousness. The smoky torch, planted firmly in the ground next to him, lit her face with eerie yellow light, but even it couldn’t erase the tranquility glowing off of it. They had no way to relight a torch, so they kept one burning all the time, despite the fact that the stock piles of replacements were now few and far between. They were all very, very dry, as if they had been collected uncounted years ago.

  Ari didn’t mind the light—it warded of the increasingly oppressive leagues of passageway—except for times like this, when the smell of smoke and the greasy flames brought back memories he’d rather let stay dormant.

  They rose and picked up their few burdens without having to discuss it, munching on raw potatoes. They almost always walked as they ate, driven by the urge to cover as much ground as quickly as possible and certainly not hindered by the requirements of preparing a meal. Ari had no idea how many leagues they had already covered, but his chest wound had scabbed over and was almost completely healed, and the stab he’d taken to the arm was closing quickly.

  The worst part was, they didn’t know how far they still had to go…and Ari had only the vaguest idea of what they were going to do when they got there. “What are we looking for?” he asked, stewing over this. She’d been as vague as Rheine about the next step of this mad plan. So surprising. Did Illians take a vow of uncommunicativeness? He couldn’t believe they’d gotten as far as they had. Couldn’t believe any of the northerners had made it, let alone all of them plus the Queen of the North and half a Rach.