The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (7 page)

“
Hello, friends,” he greeted them, with such hearty familiarity that Rodge whispered, “Do these people realize they don’t know us?”

“
Well met,” Melkin said, casual as if they got together every Tuesday.  In the strangely gracious Addahite speech, he asked, “We come to beg a moment of your time, good Shepherd…”

The good Shepherd promptly raised a hand, shaking his head.  He had twinkly blue eyes, like a grandfather with a couple treats up his sleeve, and an unhurried, mellow kind of voice. 
“You are welcome, but first you must rest and refresh yourselves.  Travel tightens the throat and makes talk an ungenerous thing.”

He waved them to follow him and led off across the grass to a stand of shushing cedars.  There, the ground grew velvety with moss, and filtered sunlight picked out dainty wildflowers and the bright red of mushrooms.  They
hadn’t gone far when the ground dropped away abruptly in front of them and the Shepherd made a sharp left hand turn, traveling along a path—not a very wide one—etched into the side of a very precipitous cliff.  As Ari turned his agile brown down the trail, a big timber building loomed into view a short way ahead.  It was larger than any structure they’d seen yet north of the Kendrick and clung daringly to the plunging, grassy slope that formed the side of the cliff face.  Rodge muttered nervously behind him, eyes closed and hands clenching his reins so hard they were white.  To one side of the trail was a very large empty space, and far, far down you could almost make out what might be the bottom of a canyon.  It was hard to tell…there were clouds in the way.

Running up the path towards them, faces alight at the sight of visitors, came a small herd of young boys, probably eight to ten years old and all dressed in identical plain white shifts. 
“Acolytes,” Ari heard the Shepherd explaining affectionately to Melkin.  “They may overrun you with eagerness, but they’re otherwise harmless.  Please feel comfortable letting them take your horses; service is part of their training.  And keeping them busy keeps them out of trouble,” he added with a chuckle.

Then the boys were upon them
, milling around with bright eyes and chattering in hushed, excited tones.  When they drew near the big building, they eagerly grabbed at the reins as everyone dismounted, casting quick, mischievous looks at the riders as if daring them to refuse.

The building was partially buried in the rocky land of the Wilds, but it had an enormous
, open verandah that embraced the yawning, velvety green chasm in front of it.  Rodge chose a chair—clever things built of wood and hide and sinew—far back from the edge.  His face was still a little pale.  No sooner had they settled in than another swarm of grinning, silent, courteous acolytes swirled through their midst, offering mugs of cold, frothy liquid.  Ari, staring at it in puzzlement, realized it was milk.

“
How…exquisite,” Cerise murmured diplomatically, blinking down into her cup.  In the Empire, liquid from udders was normally reserved for infants.

For the most part, there was just a collective sigh.  It was enormously contenting, this environment,
the stupendous view, being out of the saddle, the old man chuckling indulgently at his happy acolytes…it had the feeling of a journey’s end, a quest over, a reward earned and received.

“
I am Galeb,” the Shepherd began once the youngsters had slipped out of sight, and after they had all introduced themselves, continued, “And now, tell me, what brings Northerners so far into the wilderness?”

“
We come in search of information…lore…lost to us through the centuries despite our chronicles.  Lore we hope that you have retained.”  Melkin’s rough voice was patient, as if he hoped to start a long conversation.

“
We are secluded in these high places,” the Shepherd warned when the Master paused.  “Much of what concerns the Realms does not reach us here.”

“
It is the Empress we wish to discuss,” Melkin said carefully.  The word seemed to hang in the jewel-bright air, the memory of a child’s story the world had long outgrown.

“
We think,” Banion muttered as he stroked milk off of his bushy face.

Galeb
’s thick white eyebrows rose.  “You come all this way to ask of her?  She whose great life was devoted to the Realms?  Is there no knowledge of her left below the Kendrick?”  It was gently said, but Cerise jumped in quickly, “The Histories deal with facts, sir, not stories and legends.”

He gave a deep chuckle (thankfully
unoffended—the boys wanted to throttle her).  Raising his hands expansively, he said good-naturedly, “Very well, my friends.  Leaving the FACTS behind, what part of her long life are you interested in…her beginning, her miracles, the wars…?”

“
The end,” Melkin said.  Ari’s eyebrows inched up.  For not knowing anything about her, he seemed pretty sure of himself.

“
Well,” the Shepherd grunted, “Like all great Good, her whole life was devoted to the fight against Evil—to include the very person of the fire-god himself.  They were bitter enemies…”

“
Yes,” Melkin said softly, leaning forward.  When the Shepherd made no sign of continuing, he pressed, “Could there be an association between her story and the possibility of war coming again?  There are signs, worrisome, old omens that are now only half understood, that our peace may have an end.  That the Sheelmen stir in the south and with them the malice that would threaten the Realms.”

“
There will always be war,” Galeb answered, unconcerned.  “The Realms will fight themselves eventually if the Tarq do not provide.”  The idea didn’t seem to disturb him much.

Ari frowned slightly.  Before Banion
’s story the other night, he’d never heard Sheelmen referred to as anything but ‘the Enemy.’  Yet now, here at the far end of the world, amongst these rustic, secluded people, not only was their presence known, but so was this other name.

“
There are Ram patrolling almost to the Kendrick,” Melkin said gently, eyes like a hawk on the seamed face across from him.

“
Are there?” Galeb seemed genuinely surprised.  He shook his heavy grey head.  “I will tell you, there are ever wars and rumors of wars.  It concerns us little here, for we are always prepared.”

The sun had already passed behind the high crests of the surrounding mountains, and the verandah was cooling in more ways than one.  A great eagle floated with inimitable grace out over the deep crevasse in front of them
, hunting—probably considerably less frustrated than the predator after knowledge on the verandah.

It was a good time for dinner; the acolytes appeared again, this time almost overburdened with heavy plates of delicately grilled lamb, a surprising array of vegetables, and best of all, such thick, rich, redolent slices of fresh bread that Ari almost dripped saliva all over himself.  The acolytes giggled, the Northerners inhaled and gave small exclamations of delight and for several minutes there was nothing but the sound of a simple meal being deeply savored. 
The atmosphere was much more convivial once they all sat back, indolently choosing grapes from the desert platter and picking lamb unobtrusively out of their teeth.  Banion rumbled out casually:

“
The Five Hundred Years of Peace are known here in Addah, are they not?”

And Galeb, who with great
and oblivious courtesy had yet to give Melkin a single bit of information, said readily, “But of course!  They began not a hundred leagues from here!”

Melkin
’s chin, which had been resting pensively on his chest, came up.  Everyone looked at the Shepherd.  Curiosity became almost palpably intense, sparking like a current of electricity through the group.

“
You mean…the last battle?” Melkin said, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

“
We refer to a different event with that title,” Galeb said with a quiet smile, “but the Battle of Montmorency, yes.”

“
Clarmorency Fields!” Loren whispered reverently.  He and Ari exchanged deeply satisfied looks—history was the only class they’d paid any real attention in, especially when it came to the legendary battles, the Great Heroes and the Lesser Heroes.  Loren had even studied.

“
The Fields of Clarmorency once lay in what is now the northeast Empire,” Cerise began, in the voice of one setting things straight.

Banion
smoothly drowned her out.  “Perhaps we should hear the Addahite version, seeing as we’ve come so
far
for it
…
”  She narrowed her eyes tightly at him.

Galeb chuckled. 
“Aye, and it might be a bit different, at that,” he conceded.  “But I will give you the Truth and you do with it what ye will.”  The acolytes swirled though one more time just as he opened his mouth, distributing heavy skins thick with silky fur.  The temperature had already dropped rather dramatically, summer evening notwithstanding.

Galeb settled
the beautifully tanned pelt over his knees and began, “The Battle of Montmorency was the culmination of all the dark, endless centuries of the Ages of War.  Since Raemon had turned his face to evil, the thousands of years that had passed had been spent trying to stem the tide of Tarq, swarming from their desert hole like ants over a carcass.  With the power of Raemon behind them, they were a formidable, insatiable, tireless foe, literally unstoppable.  They gained on us, by the will of Il, through all the long, bloody centuries.  It was the last stand, there at Clarmorency, north of the Kendrick by several leagues and just west of Ramshead.  All the Realms had warriors there, for in those days we all gave our lives equally to defend any border, and this battle had been in the gathering almost twenty years.  The Tarq had poured in from the Kendrick’s mouth, but it was their discovery of a way around Ramshead that allowed them to sweep down from the north in such droves that they vastly outnumbered the gathered Realms.  All that could be mustered were there, and word has come down of the great despair of that day.  The high ground had been thought to be the last refuge, and to see it taken, aswarm with the foe, to see Raemon walking down, long-strided and vicious and proud in front of his unbeatable army…well, it was a dark hour.”

His voice had gone quiet, respectful, like he was discussing a family member that had passed on.  Ari caught Loren
’s eye, just a gleam now in the fast-fading light.  They’d grown up on stories of Montmorency, played at Enemy and Hero since they were old enough to whack each other with sticks…but neither had ever heard this version.  When gods walked among men…

“
But Il’s ways are not ours, and often He brings us to darkness before we can see light.  And so it was that day.  When Raemon strode, uncontested, to the middle of the Battlefield, he gave a great laugh and cried out in his overloud voice:

“
Now, Realms, kneel to me and I will spare you utter destruction.  Or, if you wish, keep fighting—” flippancy and casual cruelty were ever his way “—and I will repopulate your lands with real men.  In fact, that will save me the trouble of chasing down your pitiful survivors!”

“
And in all that great, silent, grim theatre there was no answer for him…save one.  Clear and pure as the great clarion bell at Merrane it was, and it belonged to the Empress.  She cried, “Hold, Raemon!  These Realms do not yet belong to you!”  And she strode forth until they two stood alone amongst all that immense host, but yards apart.”

Galeb was as much a master of storytelling as Banion.  On the entire verandah, not a sound was heard, his audience spellbound.

“And Raemon smiled a slow smile when he saw her, for she was beautiful beyond the knowledge of men, and long had he desired her.  “I will consider a bargain,” he proposed to her, and his voice was dark with foul meaning.”

“
You wish a union with me?” she roared and all could hear them, for Raemon used his unwholesome power and the Empress spoke with the power of Il and with His Justice.  “Yield this Battlefield,” she cried, “and take your foul hordes back to the Sheel or you will know such burning bonds as are not even imagined in your furnaces!”

But Raemon just laughed and leered, and then he began to grow taller, swelling himself until he towered dozens of feet in the air, the Ruby Triele on his chest almost incandescent with power.  Then, still laughing his unholy laugh, he reached out one hand toward the Empress and bent his will to draw her to him, finally, by pure force.
”

“
A great beam of his foul red light hit her, engulfing her body, and she cried out, bending away from him.  Mightily she resisted, bending further and further back until one hand touched the ground even while the other was raised as if to ward him off.  And then, his laugh faded.  Raemon frowned and threw his hand more insistently at his prize.  Still she held her pose, though her face was twisted as in agony.  Before another moment had passed, a look of fear came to Raemon’s blue-black eyes.  The gathered armies then saw clearly that the stream of power had changed, turned a white gold that pushed back against the flow of flaming red, that somehow she was now drawing him to her.  And then the armies saw something else…that a change was coming over the Empress.  She was solidifying, her essence stilling.”