The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (81 page)

             
“The Lance—!” Waylan tried admirably from outside the tent, but it still seemed like Alaunus was rather suddenly in the midst of them, clearing his throat congestedly, ruddy face pale.  The tent began to smell distinctly like wet hair.

             
Two hours later, the Councilmen were still resolutely present.  The war planning had turned even more interesting than Androssan had expected, and the activities he’d assumed would take up the night—placing Cyrrhidean and Imperial and Merranic forces around the big wall map like a giant playing board—had yet to materialize.

 
              “Dragons,” Sollin repeated for the third time.  The other Council members had as yet been unable to say the word.

             
Traive nodded patiently.  “There is incontrovertible evidence they are stirring.  We need to plan on them playing a role—a large, devastating one.  We have only four Talons up and the rule of thumb is three per dragon.”

             
“Wait, wait.”  They were moving slowly, the Northerners needing time to digest the more objectionable facts Traive was tossing out.  He had started by recounting his mission south, though from the surreptitious looks that drifted between him and Banion, Androssan suspected he was leaving out a detail or two.  Normally, the General would have brushed aside all but the most pertinent information, saving the storytales for later and getting down to the business of planning this war…but this was an unprecedented opportunity to amaze and horrify the Council of Archemounte.  It was too good to be true, the shock, the terror on their faces with the descriptions of the firehole that Traive painted Zkag out to be.  He was definitely making an impression.  But now they were laboriously moving on, or had been until the Lord Regent mentioned that one of the Whiteblades had warned him of the viability of the dragons in southern Cyrrh.  That had been twenty minutes ago.

             
“How do you know for sure there are dragons?  I mean,” Ricking gave that irritating, nervous laugh again, “they haven’t been seen in, what, centuries?”

             
“The Ivory Chieftess,” Traive repeated, over what sounded suspiciously like an impatient snort from Banion, “had been on a reconnaissance mission to determine that very thing.   She and the Ivory Thief found two of them, not quite fully awake, but definitely more restless than sleeping dragons that are planning on staying asleep.  In her opinion, and she has seen many dragons rouse to battle in her time, these two will be in play in the—”

             
A flurry of comments drowned him out before he could say more:  “This is second-hand information!”  “Everybody knows Whiteblade parts are acted out—you can’t tell me you believe what she said is true!” “But you said there are only enough talons to fight one dragon; what do you plan to do about the other!?”  “You know of two, what if there are more!?”  “Can we really trust the word of a thief?!”

             
When the onslaught finally paused, Androssan said quietly, “Can we count on the Whiteblades’ help in the upcoming battle?”  Curiously, Traive had said nothing about it yet, though in the legends, they always showed up to such things just in the nick of time.

             
A strange look stilled the Lord Regent’s rugged brown face.  He didn’t bother to disguise the long glance with Banion this time.  After a pause, he said quietly, “No.  They’re…engaged…elsewhere.”

             
This was about to start another round of protests from the cackling Council, when Waylan—bless him—stuck his head in and said briskly, “Rach, Sir.”

             
Finally.  Androssan rose quickly to his feet—they were all seated behind tables now, the Northern bureaucrats scribbling furious notes.  He’d expected word from Kyr ages ago, was beginning to wonder if something was wrong…like the Ramparts had been overrun already.  As soon as Androssan had had access to his bloodhawks traveling with the Northern Army, he’d sent one off to supplement the message Waylan had carried.  But that hadn’t been answered either.

             
The Rach stepped deftly into the tent, so quickly he seemed almost to materialize out of the black wall of rain seen through the tent flap.  Androssan almost immediately felt a pang of dread; the messenger was very serious for a Rach, the face impassive, eyes quiet…they were normally a pretty energetic lot.  This was going to be bad news.

             
But then the sober young man slipped the leather cape off his shoulders and the room went quiet as a tomb.  The leather breeches weren’t dark with rain, they were black, and from the narrow hips they encircled hung the twin, deadly arcs of double-hipped swords.  He didn’t have bad news—he was bad news.  It was a Dra.

             
Androssan had only been a teenager when the Assassinations had swept the ranks of Northern politicians, but he remembered the terror, remembered how overnight the Drae had become the most hated, feared men in the Empire.  Even after they were cleared and that mercenary group from the Swamps had been implicated in the rash of murders, the stain on their reputation had remained.  The majority of Imperials still considered them traitors—low-life, treacherous, devious devils with no honor, no virtue, no integrity. 

             
The tricky part was that the Drae were the deadliest blades in the Realms…too casual a disrespect could earn you a sub-optimal discussion with their steel.  This also may have occurred to the Councilmen present; their faces were ashen, eyes huge.  Chyle and Ricking were positively trembling with terror. 

             
The tension was so thick in the command tent, which was shrinking under the strain of its sudden popularity, that Androssan wasn’t sure he could overcome it enough to move.  Carefully and very slowly, he moved his hand away from his sword, and forced himself to walk with deliberate steps over to the Dra.

             
“Welcome,” he said quietly, forgivably with more caution than hospitality.  The Drae
had
fulfilled their traditional guardsmen duties at the Kingsmeet, with never an incident.

             
“I am Kinn,” the Dra said in the low, understated way of his people.  “Brother to the Dra.  I have been sent in his stead to offer the forces of our people.”

             
Androssan stood carefully, ruminating thoroughly on all of that.

             
From behind him, Banion said almost unintelligibly, “I diddun doe Kai had a brudder.”

“Dra Kai is escorting Queen Sable,” Traive explained helpfully.  Actually, Androssan wasn
’t that concerned with individual personalities.  If he had heard correctly…he’d just been given…a force of
Drae
. 

“This is good news,” Androssan said, absently offering his hand before quickly dropping it.  Drae weren
’t real keen on the hand/arm/elbow clasp thing, preferring to keep both their personal distance and their hands free.  Most people didn’t mind this.

His mind beginning to spin a little freer from the anxiety of a moment ago, he turned with renewed interest to the barely breathing Northerners.  “Well, gentlemen,” he said with grave command, “now this really will turn into detailed talk of numbers and troop disposition.  I suggest you turn in and I shall catch you up on any essential details in the morning.”

The Dra, sensitive to the fact he was blocking the escape route, glided away from the tent flap.  As one, the Councilmen rose to their feet, Chyle gripping the table so hard his fingers were white.  There was no questioning, no debates, just four men headed purposefully for the exit as Androssan called for their escort.  One, Sollin, eyes dilated and fixed on the Dra across the room, hissed at the General as he passed, “You can’t seriously be considering accepting—”

“Yes,” Androssan said loudly, “We are lucky to have them.  With such skilled swordsmen on our side, it will be an unimaginable force of Enemy that would prevail against us.”

Sollin stared at him, face ugly with fear and disgust, but he left with the others.

At last.
              “How you put up with those unnatural monsters, I’ll  never  know,” Alaunus commented, giving Androssan a look at least five times as shrewd as what  the General  thought  him  capable of.

“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.