by Matt Thomas
Perhaps a half hour later they reached the Overlook. Difficult to summon the restraint not to turn his horse around for a final look. This time it seemed odd, him leaving and his folks staying. At least they were well and wielded the power to protect themselves. Despite what his father claimed, he did not think Ansifer would risk challenging the Warden in this lifetime, not without aid. Recalling his father’s eyes, the hint of veiled might and potency, his offer to join Luc appeared to have been genuine. He suspected the man had to rein himself in to keep from pursuing the Fallen right then. A hard thing for the man who had rallied the Nations during the Stand at Imdre.
Turning his eyes to the Overlook, the outer edge of the mountain retreat, he caught several figures emerging from the keep. Avela was already standing beside her horse. She nodded towards them, though her eyes stayed on Imrail. Luc did not expect the Lord Viamar himself to come forward with a few of his retainers, one of them the Lord Denail himself.
“It seems you did not give thought to saying goodbye,” the Lord Viamar said, still in the flowing robes of his office. He did not seem so gaunt now. There was a sheen to his eyes, a glow. The Lord Viamar looked him up and down and nodded to himself. “My apologies for making the declarations public. Should you choose to stand with me in Alingdor, it will be worse. The news will spread beyond the boundaries of the nation. This is my will, your mother’s will, but we leave it for you to decide.”
Eldin Viamar drew himself up. This was the symbol that had held the nation through the hunger and famine, through war and bloodshed. The world revered the Sparrow and White Rose. What they would make of Luc was impossible to say. “I wish you well, my boy, and would have you know the hard choices we must make are never easy. Take your ease on the road and remember the oaths of the men under Imrail are to you now. You saved Peyennar, now you must see to the Nation. Two nations.
“Ancaida is broken now, or soon will be. They are a hardy people, though, and must be given relief if what we fear is true. Do not forget it. Do not think the Furies will lightly give up any foothold they have achieved. We are beginning the greatest muster of our times. The Nations must swiftly follow, even the lost people of Bevronail. If Almara can aid us, it must be soon. Everything we do must be aimed at protecting our people and still committing unparalleled forces to buffer Iron Hold and Val Mora. It is there the final stroke will fall.”
The Lord Viamar went on. Luc made mental notes of his suggestions, his knowledge of the southernmost nation, its capital—built on water with an island sanctuary for the noble houses of the land?—but he realized it was not in the tones of the Lord Viamar the man spoke but as his grandfather. He shook his head somewhat in disbelief. For some time his only intent had been to spare Peyennar the wrath of the Furies. Now he knew he had to look to the Nations. It took some effort to resist the powerful forces at play in the wild skies above. His father understood innately he had attained abilities that ranged well beyond the Tides, but he was still a foal seeking to find his place in the vastness of the world. Letting out a breath, he lowered his head and slowly felt his knees bend slightly. Giving the Lord Viamar a bow, it was the rough embrace that followed that conveyed everything he felt for this man. Eldin gripped his shoulders a moment before pulling away.
Remounting, he waited for Imrail to give the signal. He was surprised the smooth-faced man had chosen only a light escort. Perhaps he meant to reserve the bulk of their forces for the nobles bound for Alingdor with his mother and father and the king. Even then, though, something seemed off. These days the Shoulder held more men than Peyennar had ever seen. Plainly something was afoot.
After passing under the arch leading to the hills, their small party remained silent. Under the light of the moon and the stars in the distant north, he and Imrail carefully surveyed the slopes. There had been so many changes since his time in Peyennar. He had seen himself change from the stolid, perhaps a little naïve, idealist intent on protecting his people. Knowledge of the Fallen and the Furies had changed him. Knowledge from a hidden place, too. They had cut through the plagued lands of the abyss known as Perdition, the Third Plane, and tread the distant parts of the known world. All of this to bring him here and prepare him for this moment.
He was making for the open world now. He suspected they would need at least a day’s rest at the Landing before turning west. He also suspected Imrail and Ivon had other plans.
Imrail chose to keep to the cover of the peaks to their left. Luc managed to ignore the acrid remnants of the Angrat invasion. These parts were still under heavy patrol. More than once a pair of men would appear out of the shadows, greeting them with bows and murmurs that all was well. Imrail did not take their reassurances for granted. For some reason the man had donned the garb of his office. He did not wear the light scale armor that Vandil wore, but the trimmings of the Companions, a black coat with lines of silver along the sleeves and at the cuffs and collar. Today he had three insignias pinned at the collar, the Sparrow of House Viamar and silver spear on the left, and the Mark of Chaos on the right. The sight made Luc grip the reins.
About halfway down the pass they dismounted and led the horses on foot. Luc felt a tinge of anticipation building within him. It suppressed some of fatigue he felt. Imrail had a faint gleam in the eye now, and Rew had slipped a silver flask out. Perhaps it was the open air or the knowledge that they were moving to counter their enemies, but something about being on the move felt right.
The remainder of the night passed with them carefully making their way down the rugged slope. Twice more men immerged from the darkness with the word everything was quiet. Just as a suggestion of dawn flickered in the east they reached the base of the hills, the gateway to Penthar. He was surprised to find a considerable campsite waiting for them, tents pitched, a light meal prepared, and several men moving out on errands.
Hireland stepped forward to greet them, giving Imrail a bow. “Welcome, General. All went well I trust?”
Imrail nodded, leaving the saddle and tossing the man the reins prior to peeling off his gloves. The tall man surveyed the work of the men a moment before nodding that everything met his satisfaction. Moving off, runners filed in to make their reports. Clearly Imrail had planned their departure precisely.
Swinging a leg around, Luc dismounted and ran a hand through Lightfoot’s mane before he strode towards Imrail, leaving the bay to pick at the grass.
“. . . whispers of menace,” Mearl was saying. “Something moving. Scouts to the south ran into a small pack of Angrats, but put them down. Despite their defeat the northern passes are hardly safe, my Lord.”
Imrail exchanged a glance with Luc. “Draiden will have patrols sweeping through the nation, considerable patrols. We will put them down. What else?”
Mearl came the closest to smiling Luc had ever seen. He was a drab man for sure, but dependable. Plainly he had been holding something back. “The Companions arrived at the Landing. And word from Vandil at last.”
Luc froze.
“He’s giving chase, my Lord,” Mearl continued, this time with his eyes fixed on Luc. “They found the trail. No word on how he and Urian managed it, but it appears Vandil knows how we fared in Peyennar against the Earthbound’s offensive. He is content to leave Imrail and Draiden with the defense of the northern parts of the nation, under the Warden and House Viamar’s authority of course. And yours. He may choose to assume command in the south at Triaga. That’s all we know, for the moment.”
Imrail clasped the man on the shoulder. “Good news at last,” he said, not masking his relief. It was the oddest thing. Imrail was normally about as dour as a crusty apple. Now there was a light in his eyes. “We’ll have a foothold into Ancaida and someone competent to see to our southern flank.” He rubbed his face, thinking. “I have to get him a message, Mearl.”
“He anticipated just such a need, my Lord. He left two of his men at the Landing. They have instructions on how to reach him.”
“Excellent.” Imrail turned to Luc. �
��Well, Anaris, it seems your luck is holding. We’ll see for how long.” He glanced at Hireland, a direct look. “Something to eat for the Lord Siren and then you had best be off and on your way. We leave at noon. Have your men make ready for the Lady Viamar-Ellandor and the noble houses. We may not see them for some days.”
“Yes, General,” Hireland said. Luc had seen the flicker in the young man’s eyes at the mention of his name. It made him exhale heavily.
Returning to the ring of tents, he found Avela and Trian already moving their things into one of the tents. Rew lingered by the fire and spooned himself a bowl of a stew. He looked a bit on the haggard side. Choosing to join him, Luc unbuckled his sword belt and carefully set it aside. Hireland looked about to protest when he emulated Rew and filled a bowl for himself. He did not feel hungry precisely, but was eager to see dawn break prior to turning in. He had said his goodbyes and had now an opportunity to look to the future. The part of him that would always linger in Peyennar would have to vie with the part that existed in another time and place.
They were chasing history now—the long forgotten past and the uncertain future. The Furies had come, refusing the call of the Giver. He was the answer. He was the face to make Ruin pale and return to the depths she had spawned from. They would know wrath and misery. That much he vowed. And before the end, he promised himself they would know his sorrow.
CHAPTER 5 — UNLEASHED
“I thought it was pronounced Sirien,” Rew said somewhat offhandedly. Allard Acriel’s son had sprawled himself out near the fire, bowl balanced between the knees. The fire itself was substantial and gave off a liberal heat in the crisp early morning autumn air. Imrail’s men had pitched five tents around it, the terrain dotted with countless others. Heavily armed men kept watch, dangerous men in matching midnight black coats. He’d heard the Sons of Thunder were the Lord Viamar’s most lethal outfit, unmatched. Now they were his men. His people. He swallowed hard at the thought.
Searching the sky and feeling his blood pulsing at the power and memory it contained, he thought he could almost pierce the haze on the horizon, thin clouds veiling the northern skies of the world. At the moment a faint glimmer to the east shone through. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned to face Rew, a grimace coming to his lips. He thought he would rue the day they had ever set foot in the Landing where the name had been revealed, but then his folks had access to other insights. Amreal had known, too. Was he the only one who had been blind to the truth? Well, if there was anyone who deserved to know, it was Rew.
“Guess something gets lost in the translation,” Luc responded. He gestured at the bowl. “That any good?” He had set his own aside, his stomach a touch tender.
Rew shrugged. “Good enough. It’ll do after riding through the night in the cold. It’s freezing. Is it always like this? Somehow I imagined there would be more . . . excitement.”
Luc studied his friend. Plainly something was eating at him, but Rew would tell him when he was of a mind to. He was sorry Rew had been dragged into the middle of this, but knew him well enough to see there was no resentment. Perhaps a bit of uncertainty and discomfort. Shifting, he sank to the ground and tried not to think about the twin blades sheathed at angles across Rew’s back. The Mark of Chaos was visible on the hilts. Seeing them was another reminder of the memories that sometimes randomly resurfaced, hidden impressions he had once sought to contain. At the moment he was too tired to claw at them. “I imagine there’ll be more than enough excitement before the end,” he said finally. “We have a long way to go.”
“They gave me my own tent,” Rew said, apparently not hearing him. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that.”
Luc shook his head. “Not me.”
Rew eyed him carefully. It was a moment before he nodded. “Denail then.” He sighed. “Don’t think I’ll ever be rid of the man now.”
“He didn’t seem all that bad,” Luc disagreed.
“You have no idea, Luc. No idea.”
Nodding absently, he leaned back. Dawn was breaking. Moments later Trian and Avela appeared, taking up places near them. Shortly after Mearl moved forward automatically, gesturing at a pot hanging over the fire on a suspended iron rod. Avela dismissed the man with a slight shake of the head.
“I can’t read you,” she said softly, not looking at Luc. “Either of you. I thought you should know, my Lord.”
He glanced at the auburn-haired woman. “I understand.” He was not sure what else to say. Fingering the dirt, he resisted the memory of the earth under the pall of the Third Plane. There had been no light or life there, not in the soil, not in the air. Nowhere. Only beings of abstract memory. Rubbing his temples, he struggled to distance himself from the images that flashed across his eyes. Somewhere in the hills above his folks were preparing to depart.
Amreal would not be with them.
He was not sure whether the others ate. Rew slipped away a few minutes later and Avela and Trian stood, announcing their intent to do the same. The night had been long, the northern Pentharan landscape unyielding. Prior to moving off Trian regarded him. Slowly, perhaps tentatively, she inched forward and caught his hand. “Do you feel it?” she whispered. “Why do they wait? Their eye is fixed on us now.” He looked at her sharply. At the moment he felt nothing. Only a gust of air off the Peaks. And a far off hint of power calling to him that thundered in his ears. He needed to seek the Tides. At the moment Trian’s crystalline features were caught in a look of determination. “Do you know what we need to do?” she finished.
Absorbed by the feel of her eyes and distinctive curves that showed even in her riding apparel, he did not respond immediately. Difficult to fight the foreign sensations and still find the will not to take her in his arms in full sight of the men. What were they going to do? Was Ancaida already lost? “We move south,” he said finally. “They’re waiting for me.”
She nodded, still uncertain. Squeezing his hand again, she looked about to do more, then hesitated. Hard to say what she was thinking. “We had better try to sleep,” she said. “It’s going to be a long day. I think Imrail means to push hard for the Landing.” She turned, then paused, eyes taking him in. Her long hair shifted in a cross breeze. The sight of her in the dim backdrop of the world should have been reassuring, but he almost thought he saw someone else. Something else. “They are waiting for you to try and seize the Sword. The Fallen are relentless. They will not back down, not with the whips of War and Bedlam to drive them.” Naeleis. “Seems to me this Mardanin Far is of two minds. I recall he yielded before. He is watching, isn’t he?”
Luc stood and caught her arm. “Trian,” he said, a bitter taste on his lips, “what about your sword?”
The words left him in a rush. The effect was instantaneous and brought a blush to her cheeks, and a smile he marked even with her not facing him. “We can negotiate the price, my Lord Siren.” She glanced at him and winked. And then he was suddenly alone.
Imrail was still engaged in any number of tasks Luc was content to leave to his oversight, not that the man needed him. Imrail was just that good. He suspected the man would have been promoted sooner had it not been for his role as Viamar’s captain. He had been a reserve general, Ayden had said, a title that gave him sufficient influence throughout the nation. His role as one of the Companions exempted him from any authority outside of the Crown. Somehow the man had gathered the others. It would be something to see Lars and Riven again. All of them. This time he only hoped he would be able to counter whatever move the Furies were preparing.
Deciding it best to turn in, Luc made for his tent. Someone had already set out fresh linen. Peering into his blanket roll, he sighed when he caught sight of the Rod. He was going to have to find a safer place to hide it.
Stripping off his clothes, he stared hard at the tent flap. He did not relish the thought of falling asleep. Sleep meant dreams. Dreams and memories not of his making. Steeling himself, he knew there was nothing for it. Days to the Landing and Alingdor after, if
he chose to risk that road. Pulling the blankets up under his chin, he kept a hand on his sword. It was some time before his thoughts gave way to a deep-seeded exhaustion. And the dreams.
* * * * *
Making his way through the compound, Imrail strode back to the inner ring he instructed remain secure at all times. Hireland and his squad of men were on their way and should have the advance site ready by nightfall. If all went as planned, they would reach Edgewood, now likely known as Siren’s Landing, a small town just west of Peaks and within a few day’s march of Alingdor, in less than four days. Glancing at the fire surrounded by a ring of carefully arranged stones, he did not quite feel the heat. Nights in these parts were exacting. He’d been awake the night the enemy had sent the subfield of Perdition against them. Somehow he suspected that action had only served to accelerate the changes in the boy who just a short time prior had served among the Oathbound.
He wondered what would become of Peyennar now that it had fulfilled its purpose, rearing and protecting the line of the Warden and the White Rose. Ingram, his old mentor, seemed to think it important he stay on. Perhaps with some effort the mountain community would withstand the years ahead and become more than the fledgling village it was. Master Renfather seemed to think so. For Imrail, at the moment, it was the nation and the Silver City that concerned him. Before the end, Ardil would have to return to some level of influence and stability. The Warden had seen to some of it, but a great deal depended on what Sathon would do when he returned to Almaran shores. Well, that was well outside his purview and something the lad would have to consider.
Siren. Sirien in the Annals. The White Rose had anticipated the day and assembled nobles of every house and community of influence. Angtan, a staunch Viamar supporter, standing for the Administrators; Reagan and Dunham for Anneth; Baldwing for the Watch. A score of others. The shock at Viamar’s announcement had been palpable. Siren was a name spoken only among the learned. Even the wise thought it an invention of some academic. Now the truth was standing among them. The matter would prove the subject of fear and paranoia if not carefully handled. For the Companions and the Sons of Thunder—soon the First City herself—there was a renewed sense of purpose. Perhaps hope. Penthar was rising to heights she had never known. For the world, who was to say?