The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (80 page)

             
“Where’d they come from?” Androssan asked gruffly.

             
“Right down the main road, Sir,” Waylan said, sounding bemused.  “There were no sentry alarms until they’d passed the Ashbows.”

             
The archers were billeted just north of command, deep in the center of the sprawling camp of the North, which translated into either an appalling lack of vigilance on the Northerners’ part or an encouraging indication of the skills of the Ram, depending on your point of view.

             
The muddy, planked streets had been strangely empty, and now Androssan realized why as they came up on a huge, straggly gathering near the terminus of the main road.  Someone spotted him and called attention, and there was a great stirring and susurration, followed by the utter silence of disciplined troops.  Androssan rounded the corner of the group and slowed to a stop, arrested by the sight in the middle of the road.

             
Experienced cavalry
, the technical part of his mind categorized instantly, while his conscious mind was still trying to take in what his eyes were showing him.  They were mounted on strong, shaggy ponies, average-sized men in wool homespun with sheepskins over their shoulders or behind their saddles, completely unremarkable in passing.  There were no signs of a uniform or rank, no polished steel on display or eye-catching gear.  He caught the quiet eye of the man apparently in charge, and watching him dismount and walk over to him, the General got a different impression.  Solid.  Staunch.  That sort of understated, unpretentious presence that some very good, very confident troops had. 

             
They were composed enough to please any commander, sitting quietly in their saddles, unintimidated              by the hundreds of strange men scrutinizing them.  He scanned quickly while the Addahite approached.  Ten man front, and from his site on the corner of their column, he’d estimate about 25-30 ranks.  As many as three hundred experienced men…

Then the Ram was in front of him, bigger than he
’d looked, his stolid presence projecting a distinctly formidable aura.  He held out his hand, bypassing Androssan’s to grip his elbow, Merranic style. 

“I am Imperial General Androssan,” the Northern leader said quietly, “and you are welcome here.  May I ask your intentions?”

“I am Toriah, Captain of this Rank,” he was answered in the accents of the far north, in a voice as solid and bass as the Crown Mountains.  “We have come to greet the Tarq.”

There were disbelieving whuffs of air as nearby soldiers and officers overheard this.  Androssan ignored it, starting with great sincerity, “We are glad to have you…” before abruptly losing his train of thought.  Another sibilant wave of sound, though no out-right cries, circulated amongst the surrounding troops, followed by a simultaneous step backward in almost parade-ground unison.

Out from behind the Captain’s shaggy pony, which was completely unalarmed at the apparition, stepped the biggest canine Androssan had ever seen.  It was lean and long-legged, with a long muzzle and a gaunt, grizzled, feral look to it, and it padded silently toward him with its head low and enormous golden eyes fixed on his from under its brow.  The desire to step back—rather quickly—was almost overpowering.  It padded up beside Toriah, long red tongue lolling out of a head the same size as the pony’s, the cold breeze riffling the thick, greyish fur.  Casually, it sat down at Toriah’s side, and Androssan forced out a deep, steadying breath.

Warwolf, he told himself calmly.  It
’s just a Warwolf.  The Empire used to keep whole Dens full of them for just this sort of thing. 

Toriah, as casual as the wolf, lifted his hand to rest it on the big head—a man and his dog, Androssan thought a little numbly.  Sitting, the beast came up to Toriah
’s armpit.

“How many of those are with you?” Androssan asked
in as normal a tone as he could muster, all other thoughts having fled his mind.

“Fifty or so.   With your permission, Lord General, we
’ll bivouac to the west of your line.  Sometimes oxen and other horses get spooked by them.”

You don
’t say.  Sometimes humans get spooked by them.

“As you wish,” Androssan allowed graciously.

The Ranks of the Ram.  Bones and ash...how was he supposed to prepare for what he had a sneaking suspicion would be a whole host of rationally troubling entities adding themselves to this War?

CHAPTER
38

Barely a month after his meeting with the Fox in the middle of nowhere, two war-baby surprises birthed in Androssan’s life.  Every commander in the world history of conflict knew that such things were inevitable, that plans rarely survived more than a few minutes of engaging the enemy, and that a hefty part of the success of being both a leader and a warrior was simple flexibility.

So, he was nominally more serene than his snarling Point Sergeant.  “If they
’ll be here any day,” he said patiently to Spere, who would have been frothing at the mouth if he were a dog, “then we need to clear tents and set up space for them.”

“Burning empty robes!  BURN ME!  Why in Sheelfire can
’t you meet them somewhere else?  Having those torchin’ prissy girls around in their dresses is bad for burning morale!”

“Spere, the quicker the Council members are set up and made comfortable, the quicker they can get their inquisition—er, investigation—under way and the quicker they
’ll be out of our hair.”  Androssan walked slowly around the tent, mind only half on the comfort of his delicate-minded Point.

“Chunks of flesh, General!” he swore horrendously, “you know as well as I that
’s not the burning way they burning work!  Torch it all!  Once they burning get settled in they’ll just burning figure we can’t run the burning war without them!  This is burning
ash
!  Sheelfire!”

Spere was tremendously gifted as a point sergeant, but you couldn
’t really take him into public.  Androssan had never understood why, but it seemed polite society had a tendency to equate military obscenity and lack of speech variety with a slower rate of cerebral activity.

“Delegate, Sergeant,” Androssan said in crisp command, out of patience.  “And stay out of sight.”

“No, please, don’t force me to stay away from them,” Spere said in spittle-punctuated sarcasm.  “
Robes
,” he hissed in parting epitaph as he flung the tent flap aside and stalked out.

That was only one of the surprises, and to be honest, Androssan could hardly claim to be shocked when he got the message that four members of the council were on their way down.  He
’d known as soon as that Fox had told him messengers were on their way to Archemounte that this would probably happen.  Somebody had to look into the fiscal nightmare accruing from keeping this army standing.  Although it was a testament to both their conviction and their      naïveté that Councilmen were actually coming themselves.

             
The other surprise was the truly amazing message he’d gotten from a soggy Fox almost simultaneously with the one from Archemounte.  Cyrrh’s Lord Regent had, in less than a month, made it to Lirralhisa, rounded up the combined forces of Cyrrh, hit the trail east, and was expected almost any day.  Androssan had no idea how to account for this and it made him feel a little unmanly.  It had taken him five months to accomplish the same.  Of course, he had almost twice the distance to cover, who knew how many more men—the Fox hadn’t brought an estimate of the Cyrrhidean forces—and the Imperial Council to battle, but still…

             
Like any military man, he just hoped the warriors got in before the politicians.

             
He was not to be indulged.  Hope sprouted briefly when, after meeting the rather road-bedraggled Councilmen, they requested a day of rest from their journeys before meeting formally.  Androssan courteously faked regret and hurried them off to their tents, eyes beseechingly on the western road from Cyrrh.

             
It shouldn’t have surprised him, he thought wryly later, that the instant the Councilmen, refreshed, with the avarice and cunning of the Northern politician newly polished up in their eyes, met him in the command tent, word should come in that the Lord Regent had hit the western-most sentries and would be there in a matter of hours.

 
              Exchanging banalities with the Northerners, who had indeed worn their council robes, Androssan forced his mind out of its groove of strategies and Realm-specific tactics and forced it into that of political machinations.  And it occurred to him that perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.  From two minutes of conversation, he could tell that the Council was going to prove difficult to dislodge; any risk of war was a far sight behind the issue of the cost of his Army standing at the full ready for as yet unspecified months into the future.  Perhaps a personal testimony from a credible source (the Lord Regent of Cyrrh, no less) about the Enemy’s plans was just what was needed.  He could have Alaunus come by—who would double as a repellent to any sensible Northern politician—and bring his Knight of the Steelmists, who had rather confusingly been with the Rach rescue party.  Technically, the Lance Knight, as head of the Merranic land forces, should be invited in when the head of the Cyrrhidean military arrived anyway…it would all look perfectly innocuous and reasonable, especially to status- and rank-conscious Councilmen.

             
So he smoothly sent messages flying in all directions, affecting the air of a busy military man multi-tasking with ease.              The day dragged on for several years.  He was just about out of stories and contrived evidence of his frugality, the sun long set, when he began to hear the tell-tale signs of activity from outside.  He crossed his fingers that it was something disruptive; the Council was ready to get serious.

             
“We are very impressed with what you’ve done General Androssan,” Chyle was beginning gravely, “but we need to seriously discuss the risks v. benefits, here—”

             
“General, Sir,” Waylan said, suddenly frisking the tent flap in, “the Lord Regent of Cyrrh.”

             
Androssan rose instantly, walking forward to greet the newcomer, professional dignity completely belying his buoyancy.  They exchanged quiet greetings while the Council members tried to peer curiously around Androssan’s broad shoulders.

             
“You’ve been a long while on the road, Regent,” Androssan said, meaning it.  “Would you prefer to clean up a bit and rest before we plunge into discussion?”

             
“There is no time, though I thank you,” Traive answered in that sensible, strong voice.  He looked just as Androssan remembered him and not at all tired, but there were a couple of new, pink scars puckering on his face and neck.  He had the kind of face that wore scars well, however, tending to dashing rather than disfiguring.  “We could be attacked at literally any time.”

             
“
Any time
,” Androssan emphasized, nimbly stepping out of the way and ushering the Lord Regent closer to the Councilmen.  “That is serious.”

             
Traive gave him a faintly puzzled look until he saw the pasty, soft-faced men in ground-sweeping robes staring curiously at him.  Comprehension flickered across his blunt, rugged features.  “Am I in the presence, perchance, of the Imperial Council?” he asked, with flattering overtones of awe, bending courteously over his arm.

             
Ricking practically preened.   “Well,” he laughed affectedly.  “Only in part.  We’ve come to assess the accuracy and dependability of, frankly, a rather questionable message sent by the Queen.  We are afraid, from the implausibility of the message’s contents, that she is rather traumatized…”  He laughed again.  Androssan considered it interesting that in the course of their long hours of conversation, this had never come up. 

“You have seen her, is that correct?” Stewn asked.  “We do all hope most emphatically that she is not hurt.”

              “I have indeed, and she is well,” Traive said seriously, slowing drawing off his leather riding gloves.  He was in full battle dress, the thick, hardened leather cuirass that covered his torso beautifully worked with a gryphon rampant and stamped with gold (probably real, knowing Cyrrhideans).  The General moved to pour the traveler a glass of his best Daphenian wine—an act that did not escape the attention of four pairs of longing Northern eyes—ear bent to catch every word about his Queen.

             
“I have also seen the planning room of the Sheelshard, and I can tell you our Enemy foments great travail for us,” he said quietly, pretending not to notice as Androssan almost splashed wine over his work table at this pronouncement.

             
“The…the Sheelshard,” Chyle repeated in an unhappy sort of awe.  “I thought that was only… a legend,” he said in a voice that made it clear he would have preferred it to stay that way.

             
“It is very, very real,” Traive contradicted, his calm, powerful voice at exactly the right pitch of ominous conviction.  Androssan handed him the glass, wishing him the whole bottle, a barrel, a wagonload of barrels.  What a splendid fellow.

             
“The threat to the North is especially imminent,” Traive continued, and the pale faces opposite him fell even further.

             
“The threat…” Sollin repeated reluctantly.  He was the only one there whose hair was not gray yet, a fairly new member who had been elected on his passionate anti-traditionalist platform.

             
“Oh, aye,” Traive affirmed, swallowing a mouthful of wine with the appreciation of a man long on the road.  “The Enemy’s plans lay the strike irrefutably at the belly of the Empire, their forces to be amassed into overwhelming numbers and flung straight north, overrunning the Ramparts and breaking into the unprotected innards of your Realm to wreak havoc and destruction.”

             
The Councilmen stared at him with bulging eyes, wordless.  Traive nodded gravely, a veritable rock of trustworthy respectability, letting the thought settle for a minute.  Then he said, “Or, at least, that is what they
intend
.  They do not know, of course, that the Empire is prepared.  That her Council has wisely readied her Armies and that they stand even now, in all their strength, ready to defend the North.”

             
Ricking laughed, rather weaker than before, but with unmistakable relief.  “Yes,” he said, a little wildly.  “Yes.  We’re ready.”  The other councilmen swallowed or smiled unconvincingly or fiddled nervously with their expensive belts.

             
“Well,” Androssan said expansively into the tense silence, “I am sure you gentlemen are tired out.  Let me have you escorted to your tents.  A good night’s sleep will put this all into perspective.  The Lord Regent and I have a little war talk to do and then I’m sure he, too, will turn in.”  He nodded encouragingly at them.

             
“I thought there wasn’t much time,” Sollin said craftily, just as the General had opened his mouth to call for Waylan.  Everyone looked at him.  He definitely did not scare as easy as the others, looking suspiciously between Traive and Androssan with his mind at full capacity.

             
“Yes…” Chyle said slowly.  “Yes, I think we should be in on any war planning.  I couldn’t sleep much anyway,” he admitted, “as I’m sure you two gentlemen will not.”

             
And that effectively called that bluff.

             
A sasquatch abruptly appeared in the tent doorway.  Lost somewhere behind his bulk, Waylan’s muffled voice was trying to announce, in vain, the Knight of the Steelmists.

             
“Banion,” Traive said warmly, rising to grip elbows with him.  The enormous mountain of hair rumbled something that may have been the Lord Regent’s name in response.  It was hard to tell; he had a cold, and when sinus passages of that size were congested, well, it made speech pretty unintelligible.  He shook like an oversized sheepherding dog, and to judge from the amount of water that went spraying around the tent as he moved farther into it, it had started to rain.

             
Androssan stole a glance at the Councilmen, shaking the water off of his hands.  Good, good, now where was Alaunus?

             
“Jarl Banion,” he greeted the Knight cordially and tried not to wince as the creature pulverized his elbow in greeting.  He’d worked with Banion a few times before in the wargames, and aside from being the largest Merranic he’d ever seen, he’d been mildly impressed with the man’s intelligence.  Meaning he seemed to have more frequent stretches of sanity, and even a dash of common sense.  Years ago, in an exercise specifically set up by he and the old Lance to lure the younger Knights into a fight with a diversionary element, young Banion had been the only one to see through it.  It had made an impression on both men, enough with the Lance that it had helped win the Knight his current rank.

             
“Where is the Lance Knight?” he asked him, but couldn’t decipher the hair-filtered, snot-clogged response.

             
“That’s too bad,” Traive commiserated.  “I assume it’s going around?” he asked Androssan.  Androssan shook his head sadly and murmured, having no idea what was being said but getting the general impression.  With sudden inspiration, he turned to the Councilmen.  “Army camps…wellsprings of sickness, no matter how well-fed and cared for the men are.  Just so many of them, you know?  All packed together like that—everybody ends up catching these things.  And of course, the lice and bedbugs don’t help…”  Looking variably alarmed, disgusted, and uncertain, the Councilmen drew back from them all, some of them pulling their robes close to avoid lurking contagion.