The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (90 page)

“But if Perraneus wasn
’t still…uh, entranced by the time of the Kingsmeet,” Ari said quickly, hardly wanting her to be dwelling on thoughts of Kai just now, “then why did he make his predictions anyway?”

A rich moment of silence fell.  “There are other powers than Il
’s in the world,” she said quietly into it, her voice velvety strong, “and though all are lesser and seek to destroy those who use them, the power is real enough.  Perraneus truly foresaw the future—though everyone misconstrued Raemon as the wielder of the destruction to come—and he gave his life to warn the Realms.”

He thought of the oily light of Raemon
’s triele, of his own fear of that darkness coming to invade his own being, seize control of him.

“I thought I would go mad,” he admitted into the silence.  “When I found out—I thought to be a Tarq meant I
’d lose my mind…turn into a man-killing monster.”  He felt a little foolish, a little uncertain about saying the words out loud, but why not?  At this stage of the game, why not?

When she chortled at him, he looked up surprised and half-offended, which was immediately swept away by a feeling of such buoyant normalcy that he wanted to laugh.

“People who are going mad don’t usually worry about the trip, Ari,” she said.  “You were dealing with an enormous psychological shock…a temporary upset which has been mistaken by many for a permanent state.  As with everything that focuses us inwards, the relief is found outwards.”

That would have made no sense to the Ari wandering in turmoil through the jungles of Cyrrh, but it did now.  Verrena
’s words came drifting back to him.  “I had to look up,” he muttered, lying down wearily.  Heartsore for the Followers, leg pounding out a rhythm of pain, his inner body was still at such peace as he never knew could be. 

“The Imperial 45
th
is here, your Majesty.”

Kane waved his hand absently, not even looking up from the sandtable.  “Put them over by Finnansterne, where the action
’s the lightest, and tell them they’ve saved the day,” he rumbled, voice rough from the smoky air.  The Sheelmen had had good success so far with setting the Daphenian plains on fire—repeatedly.  Most of the Knights bore some evidence of this, running around with singed beards or blackened armor and smelling like a campfire.

The King of the Eastern Seas grabbed a gorgeously carved pewter figurine
from the supply at hand, adding it to the battle plan laid out before him in the sand.  It was painted like a Northern infantryman, and he forgot about it as soon as his fingers left it.  Imperial troops weren’t the most resolute creatures ever to grace the Realms, which they made up for with their vast and unbreachable sense of self-satisfaction, but for decency’s sake every soldier headed to die should be told he was a hero while doing it.  Androssan could have sent a whole half regiment and it wouldn’t have made any difference.  Kane’d heard the western flank was as hard-pressed as he was, but that was hard to imagine—the numbers it would take to keep up that kind of pressure on
both
flanks…well, the thought was enough to curl your beard.

Thoughtfully, he fingered the Lance figurine, complete with a faux sapphire, mind dwelling on the actual one while he toyed with it.  There hadn
’t been so much as a twinkle out of the Sapphire, despite the fact that after five hundred years with nothing to do, you’d think Vangoth would be a little more interested in the current proceedings.  Kane edged the figure first in front of the Chevron of the Stone—if they were going out, they really should do it in a glorious charge—then back behind the Steelmists Chevron, which had to be seeing the most action of the entire allied forces right now.

             
Kane suddenly heard the Lance Knight himself being announced, as if he’d been conjured up, and within moments Alaunus came pounding up on that powerful, flea-bitten red roan that he liked so much.  It had a mane and tail and flowing fetlocks the color of dirty dishwater, was wall-eyed, and had a thick, ugly scar roiling on one flank…but then, Alaunus wasn’t much to look at either.

             
He dismounted stiffly, favoring his off arm, which had a thick black crust over the hand hanging off the end of it.  His limp was even more pronounced, weary as he surely was from fighting through the night, but the gleam in his eye was the same.

             
Kane grunted at him in greeting and his old friend took a moment to glance at the sandtable. 

             
“Kanarron’s got so many holes in his Chevron you could use it as a sieve,” the Knight finally croaked out by way of report.  Even his formidable vocal cords were getting strained by the gritty air and the demands of bellowing over steelsong and screaming horses and men.  He pointed a sausage-shaped, stubby finger at the Stone Chevron, the Merranic Center.  “And he’s flush compared to the left.”

             
“How long?” Kane asked, narrowing his eyes, more to gauge the Steeds’ strength than to make any kind of plans of relief.

             
Alaunus met his eyes.  “An hour.  Maybe.”

             
Kane, whose reports had been indicating something along these cataclysmic lines, nodded.  “We’ll need to form up for the Final Charge, then—”

             
“I got an idea,” Alaunus interrupted him.  The shaggy reddish head swung up, eyes dancing with mischief.  “Let’s retreat.”

             
Kane looked at him like the smoke inhalation was fogging up his brain.  The eyes were sharp and shrewd as ever, though, and you didn’t wield the Sapphire Lance by being stupid.  He grunted, translatable into words as, “What do you have in mind?”

             
“Steelmists almost has that powder ready—up there at the Prow.  His Chevron will feint a retreat, back as far as we can get as fast as we can get.”  The finger was back, hovering over the sandtable where the chunk of Ethammer that was representing the Prow dominated the eastern edge.  

             
He paused and Kane said narrowly, “Even if the Enemy take the bait, we don’t have enough strength in the Stone Chevron to pinch them off or even close off  their flanks.”

             
Alaunus had been bending over and now he straightened—with a handful of pebbles.

             
“Nay,” he growled rakishly, “But the Enemy will pour into that hole right around the base of the Prow, all along its sides and hopefully we’ll even get a nice surge of interest out there in front…”  He dumped the pebbles over the pewter figures of the Steelmists Chevron, streaming them around the chunk of rock and meeting his King’s eye with a wolfish grin.

             
Kane grinned back at him, nodding slowly as the plan seeped in.  “Do it.”

             
For a second they paused, knowing in the way of men who make battle that they’d never see each other again.  They gripped elbows with enough force to crush a beer tankard, solid and fast.

             
Kane cleared his throat as they stepped apart, gesturing at the charred hand, which was oozing a nasty, thin blood now.

             
Alaunus shrugged, moving back over to his wall-eyed Steed and remounting.  “One of the young Knights caught fire.”  He huffed into his saddle, settling with snapping eyes and a grin behind the dirty beard.  “He was finding it a bit distracting.”

             
Kane watched him go.  He wasn’t pretty, but he had the biggest, truest heart of any man he’d ever known.  Merrani would miss him.

             
If there was a Merrani left after the pebbles got done invading.  

“Why me?” Rodge demanded.  “Why ME?”  The frozen earth was completely insensible to his pounding, the spade barely denting the surface.  “Idiots!” he ranted.  “All the minds in the Imperial Army, and they pick these for the job?”

The surveyors had surveyed, the engineers had taken notes, calculated, and dug the hole—and then the imbecile in charge had decided to hold off until the Enemy got closer.  Then he decided to fill the hole with powder, the approaching masses of Sheelmen finally qualifying as a threat; then he decided they weren
’t
quite
a threat, and held off again.  Then he’d gotten killed, the powder had gotten wet from the ground sweating under the sheet that had been thrown over it to protect it, and the long rope leading to it was frozen solid.  Now, of course, the Enemy were a real threat.  Loren had woken him this morning with urgent pleas; they were about to be overrun, the powder wasn’t working, there were no dry ropes for fifty leagues, and apparently he was the only one in the Empire capable of doing anything about it.

Loren came panting up.  “Hurry, Rodge!” he begged.  He was keeping watch with the small task force Banion had sent with them.  “I think they
’ve found a way up here!”

“Dig this!” Rodge pointed at the ground, disgusted with the whole disordered mess.  He was about tired of all this chaotic warring, of Sheelmen popping into his dreams at night and the memory of the smells and the sounds of the Hall of Sacrifices accosting him at odd moments through the day.

Loren began flaying the ground with the spade with much better results.  Slightly appeased, Rodge got his powder and the lone dry rope for fifty leagues readied for action.  They both looked up sharply, though, at a rumbling from the trail from below.  Fortunately, as they weren’t set up to fend off an attack force, it was only Banion and a few of his Knights.

Although, the Knight of the Steelmists, seated on a destrier the size of a tent, was no little thing.  The warsteeds were enormous; Rodge could literally barely see over their withers.  Their hoof prints were as big as dinner plates.  Banion
’s was no exception, a steel grey monster that came clopping up to them like an equine thunderstorm.  The whole ledge shook under his hooves. 

“How
’s it coming?” Banion inquired solicitously.  None of the Merranics seemed disturbed that, statistically, they were doomed.  Rodge looked up at him dourly.  “Oh, it’s great.  Are you certain nobody else in the entire allied forces could dig a hole and pour powder into it?”

“I wanted only the best,” Banion rumbled soothingly.  He
’d been bladed, steel having slipped through the seams of his armored legs, and there was rusty-looking blood all over that side of him.  The Knights hadn’t slept all night, being busy with Enemy, but Rodge figured all those days dozing in the saddle on their journey with Ari had stocked him up.  He certainly didn’t look tired. 

There was shouting from the small force keeping watch, and Loren dropped the shovel like it was a hot potato and sprinted over to them.  Banion urged his huge horse after him, and Rodge, happy to be away from all the drippy, smelly, looming horse flesh, carefully started pouring powder.  There was lots of shouting, but by now he was pretty good at ignoring it.  Merranics were an excitable bunch, especially when it came to Tarq.

But he did look up when the warsteed thundered back over, mostly because it was impossible to ignore.

“Now!” Banion shouted at him.  He had his sword out and looked absolutely terrifying, running up on him like that.  The horse came to a shuddering, jolting halt barely a yard or so away, half-pivoting as Banion yanked at the reins.  “They
’ve found a way up!” he bellowed.  “Right under this ledge!  Now’s the time, my boy!”  He was obviously having a splendid time, but Rodge, looking past him, saw Tarq appearing warily at the far edge of the ledge.  LOTS of them.

He rose awkwardly to his feet, knees half frozen from the ground.  And then Rodge, who eight months ago had fainted at the sight of a mysterious stranger collapsing in his dorm room, looked irritably at the hordes of Enemy massing not twenty-five yards away.  “I can
’t work like this, Banion.  People will be all over this place in a few seconds, disturbing the rope, bleeding all over the powder—I think we better forget it.”

“Nay, we
’ll hold them off!” the Jarl bellowed encouragingly, insistently cheerful.

“There
’s like 800 billion of them,” Rodge told him bracingly.  “You’re not going to be able—”

“Aye, but they
’ve all got to come through that little opening, a couple dozen at a time,” Banion said, dropping his voice to one of guttural glee, gesturing with his sword, and winking outrageously.  “We can give you as long as you need.”

“All right,” Rodge sighed.  “You go.  Hold them off.” 

With a roar that made Rodge jump about a foot in the air, the Knight whirled his steed, charging headlong across the short space separating him from his quarry.  His countrymen were already engaged and shouts and cries and clashing swords formed the background music to Rodge’s deft final arrangements.  Carefully, he ran the rope out, laying down flat at the far end of it and bringing out his flint with numb fingers.  He blew on them urgently, just to get them warm enough to hold the fire-making materials.  Finally, a spark caught the frayed ends of the rope.  Rodge took a quick check to make sure everyone was still on the far side of the ledge, then focused on the rope, blowing gently, encouraging the tender flame like a mother with a child.  He murmured soothingly, fighting the urge to get up and walk with it along its path.  Banion had coated the fibers with something he called ‘enflamer’ but it still wasn’t moving very fast.  Anxiously, Rodge watched the flame’s desultory progress, eyes shifting between it and the action at the edge of his vision.  Loren, healed up from his nasty cut at the Sheelshard, now thought he was one of the Heroes and was ground-fighting in with all the Merranics.  Rodge rolled his eyes, continuing the motion back to the rope.  Agonizingly, the flame crawled across the open space, finally but a yard away.  Then mere inches.  It had gone in to the powder…