The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2

by Matt Thomas

  “I need to stretch out my legs,” he said. “I think I’ve decided. We’ll talk about it.”

  Rew nodded. “Good. I’m going to finish the rest of this and then get something to drink. One of the men has a flagon he offered to share before I turn in.”

  Leaving Rew in the suddenly uncomfortably warm tent, the air hit him like a sudden burst. No sign of Imrail or Ayden at the moment. Hireland was off in the distance. Thumbing the back of his ear, he felt something nag at him. Almost as if. . . . He shrugged it aside and tried to let the open air sheathe him. His thoughts were outpacing him and he thought a brisk walk around the compound might clear his head enough to allow him to sleep for a few hours. Since arriving in Peyennar sleep had for the most part come in short stretches. Now with the weight of the future pressing on him, almost as if Altris herself was attempting to hound him, he had reached a crossroads. Either move on or wait and continue to worry. Sometimes just taking decisive action was enough.

  He lost count of the number of times he circled the camp. Two, maybe three times. That itch was still there. No, not an itch. A pressing weight. The compound had grown still, aside from the guards posted around the perimeter. Luc had just decided to make for his tent when Rew caught up to him.

  “Odd,” the Acriel son muttered, “do you feel that? I thought you might be . . . I mean, that you had . . .”

  Luc shook his head, grimacing. Lately his wiry friend seemed to sometimes look at him as if he had the answers to address every one of their fears. Sometimes it was difficult to remember sitting beside him in front of Amreal learning about some little known fact or forgotten legend. Now the legends had come to life. He did not want Rew to walk this road with him, but he was the only one who actually still saw him, thought of him, as Luc. The other “stuff” he somehow ignored or sidestepped.

  “I’d say it’s a warning,” Luc answered. “They know we’re here. High time we left, but the chains are still there. Get some sleep if you can, Rew. Tomorrow we tell our folks we mean make for Ancaida.”

  Not waiting to see his friend’s response or reaction, he purposefully moved off. For once his strides felt light. Even Shaiar seemed a distant memory. Ignoring the few men still awake, he made his way back to his tent and gripped the hilt of his sword before entering. Useless that, now, against what was likely waiting inside.

  Steeling himself, he went in, prepared to face the end if that was what the Giver intended. Much to his surprise, though, the tent was empty. The sense of that other presence was still there, but perhaps he had been wrong. Confused, he scanned the spacious quarters. Someone had left an oval pitcher filled with wine. Taking off his sword belt, he paused just to breathe. His nerves were getting the best of him. He wished Trian was here now, but that would have only made it that much harder to find focus. Work the problem through with reason, Amreal had always said. Thoughts of Amreal brought a bitter pang to his lips. Sighing, he reached for the wine and filled a vessel, blowing out the lamps.

  Two days and what did he have to show for it? Fumbling for the blankets in the darkness, memories of white light and a storm of chaos brought him no comfort. Something inside told him that storm could no longer risk being hidden in the remote Pentharan north. The Nations needed to rally now. The first War of the Furies had torn the known world apart, leaving the Earthbound forgotten in the distant corners of the world.

  Now their enemies were back and poised to finish it.

  Now it was time for the storm to answer.

  CHAPTER 1 — SIGNS AND OMENS

  The next morning Luc felt a sharp bit of air enter and a light touch on the shoulder that brought him to consciousness with a grimace. Imrail’s penetrating look made him sigh and stifle a yawn.

  “I’m . . . awake,” he said drowsily.

  Imrail grunted. “I’m sure.” The man glanced around the tent, then waited. He was fully geared and had a determined set to the shoulders, short-cropped hair moist, features, sometimes regal seeming, even. “Get up, Anaris,” the man said firmly after a moment. “Time to put your word to the test. We leave within the hour.”

  Luc watched the tent flap flutter behind the captain and then slowly shift to stillness. The man was dogged enough to make a mule climb a steep rise, he thought around a yawn. And at the moment he was bent on seeing Luc to Peyennar. Most men spoke in whispers around him. Most considered him the most skilled swordsman in the nation and the king’s closest confident. From what Luc had seen, there was little reason to dispute either of the points.

  Remarkably he had no memory of his dreams and felt rested, if a touch on edge. Well, no dreams other than images of a woman with silky skin and radiant eyes. Just the thought made him feel a touch lightheaded. After a little broth with more beans than the small chunks of meat the company had rationed out, still with the captain standing outside within earshot and the din of a string of scouts arriving to report, Luc rinsed in cool water from a wood basin and dressed, straightening his gear.

  Pausing to study the Lord Viamar’s sword, his skin pricked at the sight of the Mark. He sensed something had changed during the night, but could not place it. Memories of white light continued to hound him. Hoping a full night’s rest would somehow cure him of the sense of disjointedness was plain foolish. Imrail’s rugged face and tone had been so blank it was hard to say if he knew the young man out of Peyennar was struggling to come to terms with the widening expanse in his mind. The man seemed to treat him no differently than he had when they had first crossed the Overlook together. Not so the others. Ayden was different, Hireland as well. The Sons of Thunder, too. Well, that was not entirely true. He was different. No doubt they knew it and responded by treating him accordingly.

  Now that he was fully awake there was no dismissing the change. The Second Plane was alive around him. He felt its heartbeat, the slight off-centered revolutions of the World-Axle. The winds were crying out in memory. No, he was not the same—would never be the same. He still had that slight pain at the temples, but was able to dull it. Steeling himself with a breath, he sheathed the sword and stood to his full height. Nothing else he could do for the moment.

  Exiting the tent, he left his belongings for the baggage handlers to deal with and found a thin layer of snow carpeting the compound. The air was moist and fresh, the sky filled with white flecks swirling in elemental air. Even in early autumn snow on the plains was not unheard of this far north and close to the Mournful Peaks. This autumn carried a restlessness he was unused to, though. Despite the early hour everything appeared ready. Ayden met him with a crisp nod of greeting and motioned for him to follow.

  “Time for it, my Lord,” the bald-faced man said. “Might as well put some distance between us and whatever was lurking out there during the night. I’ll stay behind and oversee the company break camp. We should be able to join you sometime tomorrow. I imagine the Warden and the White Rose will keep you busy enough in any case, or the outlander.” He said that last bit with just the hint of a grin, before becoming serious again. “Mind yourself. Some think you mean to leave for good. After my wife died I lived a long time with only the thought of revenge to drive me, but this Ansifer is no fool. We gained the day, but he still has the upper hand. I hope you do not forget it.”

  Luc caught the man’s sleeve, finally able to get a word in. “What did you say? Something in the night?”

  Ayden gave him an odd look, rubbing his scalp. “You didn’t feel it? A. . . presence. Hidden but still present. They know you are here, my Lord, sure as day. Things are always worst when waiting for the strike you know is coming. Watch your back and take care of that girl.”

  Grimly, Waylor Ayden gave him a nod and a bow, shouting orders for Luc’s bay to be brought. By then Imrail and Rew were on the approach. Mearl, Hireland, and a man he thought was named Graves made up the last of the outfit Imrail had designated to set out with them. The tall, light-haired captain pulled Ayden aside, still determined, deliberate. Luc had some difficulty following the exchange. He was sw
eating in the misty air. Something oppressive had been working during the night, but to what end?

  Feeling a bit of warmth against his neck, he turned. Catching sight of his bay, he stroked its neck. The horse had proven relentless during their passage through the black lands and the far reaches of the passes. In all that time he had given no thought to a name. This morning the prancing mount was restive and eager to be off. Luc would have to think on it, he decided.

  “You’re going to have to send them south, Captain Imrail.” Eyes swiveled to Rew. The gangly youth appeared to be shielding his eyes, breath raspy. He appeared a touch unsteady on his feet as well. Seemed only days since he had been up to some mischief or other in Peyennar. Now he looked visibly shaken, a gray cast to the skin.

  “South again,” Imrail snapped, mouth tight. “Why?”

  Rew shook his head. “I’d explain it, if I could. Just . . . believe me. It’s south, or it’s a bloody end of the line for us all.”

  The declaration did not appear to sit well with Imrail. Plainly, some change had come over Rew since the Earthbound had assaulted the Shoulder, some ability linked to the Foresight. He wondered if that was why Rew looked about to sick up. Unconsciously reaching for the elements, an innate awareness of them, he was shocked when he came on nothing. Nothing! Beginning to feel a twinge of panic, he masked it by mounting. Mearl, the high ranking veteran with wings of white in his hair who served as one of Vandil’s adjutants, imitated him immediately, his face blank for all that he had seen and heard.

  Something hidden in the night indeed. The thought was almost as worrying as facing his mother and father again.

  * * * * *

  By mid-morning the six riders were moving at a rapid pace. Near silent figures on the plains, there was no indication of anything amiss on the horizon. The rising sun had reduced the thin film of snow to a silvery sheen. Up ahead, though, there were signs an autumn snowstorm had hit the lower belt of the Mournful Peaks.

  He knew these parts well. Weeks prior he had passed through the same region on an expedition that would ultimately strip him of his upbringing and identity. Find the king. Find the Sword. That simple. And few hints to go on. Imrail had been a wellspring of grit and determination. Now the man was back again. The thought brought a cool smile to his lips.

  On the return journey to Peyennar the others left him to his thoughts—slightly foreign, frightfully so. He was angry there was no indication of the Tides. Oh, that spark in him hardly needed it. But he had . . . Luc resisted a shudder. This was proving difficult. A few days was hardly enough for him to make sense of it.

  Suddenly it hit him.

  “What are you doing?” Imrail snapped when Luc drew rein and wheeled the bay.

  “Luc—” Rew began.

  “Sypher,” he whispered. Imrail sat up and scanned the plains. Voids of the Third Plane. And one was here. “Ayden told me something hidden was moving during the night,” Luc said. “It’s trying to cut me off from the Tides, Imrail.” He wanted to growl. They were creatures of the darkness more terrifying than even the Ardan. They were the Lords of Perdition, a sect among the Unseated Powers, able to shift into shadow and still take physical form. During the Stand at Imdre they had nearly tipped the balance. And one had been here, perhaps the very same one Imrail had humbled in the Land of the Exiled. It had to be stopped.

  It was a simple thing. He did it instinctively. He stood straight in the saddle and gathered himself. His will. His living fury. I am here. Unconsciously, he realized he was treading lethal ground. No indication what would become of him if he lost too much of himself in the attempt. When he had moved through the Mirror Planes, the effort had made his flesh feel stretched and ripped. This was similar, willing the creature to acknowledge him. It took an empyrean effort. He directed it at the open areas around them. The land stirred, suddenly awakened. It appeared to throb before him. He laced it with shards of his active will. It was almost something he did instinctively, if not precisely. It came from memory.

  Memories that lanced his soul.

  The Sypher would learn who ruled these reaches, he thought with a snarl.

  There was a hint of answering viciousness in response. And frustration. Nothing compared to the sunburst of radiant energy that swept over him. But the effort made him feel drained. He felt a searing pain and saw double. Some flickering thought told him he was not ready, but he refused to damn himself by imperiling the people of Peyennar.

  “You all right?” Rew asked him. His face was tight with worry.

  Slowly, with a series of short, forced breathes, some of the discomfort began to pass. Some of it. His head still throbbed. Without glancing at his companions, he gave the signal. “Yes,” he replied. The word sounded thin and feeble even in his own ears. “It passed. This needs to be communicated to Ayden and the others.”

  “I will see to it,” Imrail said, searching his face. He himself appeared a touch concerned. Luc wondered if the man was reminiscing over their encounter with the Sypher or Luc’s declaration that they were safe. Not safe, he amended. Plainly the creature had taken on an elusive form of mist and vapor, a specter of the Third Plane. All to shield him from what the Builders had been gifted. A half dozen of them on the field would have rendered the Lords of the Scales powerless. With one here, Peyennar was in dire peril. At least now it appeared to have departed, for the moment.

  Searching the plains, he knew there was nothing more they could accomplish here. “Let’s go, Imrail.”

  The ascent up the pass into Peyennar took twice the time in the snowstorm. Nothing short of a blizzard now, but at least it hid the scars of the Angrat incursion. He had heard accounts of the beasts and the horror of their onslaught. As the afternoon gave way to the evening hour, eventually they climbed the pass leading to the Overlook. Fully manned, the Oathbound and king’s men out of Alingdor were still hard at work attempting to erase the stain of the Earthbound and Ardan invasion. It chaffed him that the agents of the Furies had appeared in these parts. He had spent years expecting it—well, not that precisely—preparing to face the future and the dark threat that had taken his parents from him. Now he was returning home a virtual stranger.

  The Overlook itself was too vast for any hand but the autumn wind and rains to scrub the stonework free of the blood and gory remains of the Angrat and Earthbound onslaught. The frenzied snowstorm might help some. The hills themselves were still littered with gruesome remains but had been cleansed to some degree. The lane leading to the village and Shoulder of Peyennar had seen the most work. The underbrush had been cut back at least a full two or three feet on either side, some of the trees hewn entirely. Despite the effort he suspected the scars of the invasion would never entirely be erased. The realization pained him, but he knew it was nearly time to move on.

  Luc chose to bypass the Shoulder and the village. Rew turned to his folks’ place with a promise to check in on him sometime tomorrow. Snow continued to fall and was already at least a few inches high. Luc did not feel it. Any other time he suspected he would have. His nerves felt frayed. Knowledge that they were here, perhaps. He had waited for it, hoped for it, for more than four years. Now he knew the reputations they had concealed from him, the Warden of Ardil and White Rose of Alingdor. He wondered if they knew his name. A name of dread.

  Infamy.

  Tasting the air, he continued forward until he and the others reached the doors of his home.

  He wondered at the light within and the glowing warmth he detected at the hearth. Leaving the saddle, he stroked the bay’s ear and passed the reins to Hireland. Unclasping his cloak, he shook it at the door and pulled off both gauntlets, smoothing his hair. Don’t think, he told himself. Firmly taking a hold of the door, he twisted the handle, steeling himself. Reluctantly it opened under the firm pressure of his hand, creaking on its hinges. He felt slightly off balance as he entered.

  Trian looked up from the book she had been reading in the rustic sitting room that also served as kitchen and pantry wi
th its sectioned off areas for meal preparation and stores. Standing smoothly, she folded a page before closing it and setting it on the old table that had seen better years. It seemed ages now since they had first met here. A Val Moran, she stood tall, raven-haired, and pale. So pale, skin satiny, milky, dark eyes reflective pools of youth and grace, and something more that looked and felt timeless. She had made the darkness retreat and the shadow of the enemy seem a small and hollow thing. He knew he loved her, had always loved her. But he had never even in his innermost hopes expected her to abandon everything for him.

  Moving to catch her hand, he momentarily lost himself just searching her eyes. She looked tired, but otherwise unchanged. Breathing in her light floral scent, he thought he could dismiss the changes when he was with her.

  “You did not find them,” she said. Not waiting for the slight shake of his head, she raised a hand to his face. He felt the grave tenderness of her touch, and the slight tremble that told him she wanted to do more. “I am so sorry, Luc.”

  “Me too,” was all he could say.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He would have taken her in his arms if not for Imrail filing in; he thought she might have too. “Sypher,” Luc said, pulling away reluctantly. Trian’s eyes widened. “It passed, for the moment. What have you been doing?”

  She shrugged, ringlets of midnight hair shifting behind her. “This and that. The Barsos had a girl. There were the wounded to see to, of course.”

  “She pushed herself hard, my Lord.” Luc glanced down the hall. Avela Lanspree appeared. The woman approached confidently and stepped around the table before curtsying; dressed in her uniform, silver and black embroidered trousers and a tight-fitting coat, she managed it smoothly. Today her auburn hair was pulled back in a clasp at the rear. Save for the two pins at the collar, Trian’s outfit mirrored Lanspree’s. The trimmed attire made his mouth suddenly go dry when he fully took in Trian again. “Harder than was wise,” the Companion added. “Some are beginning to think her skill exceeds what is humanly possible.”