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

by Matt Thomas

  “He needs his wits about him, Acriel,” Imrail said, almost at the same time as Trian added, “You’re starting again, Rew. I think he’s still recovering from your . . . last expedition . . . if one could call it that.”

  “Another time,” Luc said, shoulders feeling tight. Standing, he started for his tent. He felt a fount of coiled anger. His thoughts were filled with memories of the Furies, brief images, most departing too fast for any one thought to settle long enough for him to focus on it. Naeleis, he decided. He had a score to settle with that one.

  * * * * *

  The next morning he was up and ready to move out early. Imrail had him inspect the men just as dawn was jutting out over the skyline. The general had given a select group leave to depart for the First City. Riven had the charge. In addition to preparing for their arrival in Alingdor, he had orders for Draiden. The First City stood a few days north at a normal day’s pace, so there was some chance they could make it sooner with some speed. The night watch had nothing to report.

  Everything seemed in good order when they met up with Trian and the others. A hundred men for escort would show the Ancaidans they considered the move on their land a violation and hostile action. A negligible force, Imrail said, but large enough to warrant caution. The main body of men would be setting out south later that morning. Lars and Graves had the task of overseeing their departure. It was the beginning, he realized, feeling somewhat distant. They were marching towards the Furies under his authority, his sanction. He could put it off on the Lord Viamar and his mother, but doubted anyone would be daft enough to buy that at the market. They had to finish this business quickly and rejoin the men. Then it was the road south, weeks on horse at the very least. A month might have been a better estimate. He did not think they had that kind of time.

  Prior to starting out he had returned to his tent with his saddlebags in hand, transferring the Rod for safekeeping. He froze the instant his hand touched it, some veil lifted, some sense of perception uncovered. He had no idea what the object represented, but the sense of separation—or perhaps of merging—was sharpest whenever he held it. Far-off images and sensations abounded. Feeling his flesh ripped and torn internally, he stumbled. He did not know if anyone noticed.

  Riding once more between Trian and Rew, he had to squeeze his knees to keep Lightfoot from crowding Imrail. This morning Trian was back in her traditional apparel, dark coat, satiny blouse, and trim breeches. When they met eyes his chest seized up. Under the blaze of daylight streaking through an opening in the dense cloud cover, an image appeared to superimpose over the woman. This morning her smile was radiant. Approving. More. It gave him pause to wonder. He had done nothing to earn the woman’s favor. If the business with the Ancaidans and the Furies led to her sorrow, he would have only himself to blame. It was maddening not to have even a few spare moments alone with the woman, but at least Rew kept his head and seemed intent on lightening the mood whenever dark thoughts threatened to consume him. He was grateful the Acriels had consented to his coming. The road ahead would likely be difficult, but there were already strong hints Rew would be critical to whatever was coming.

  Striking east, they crossed the highway an hour or two after setting off. He found it in remarkably good repair. A wagon train they passed paused to consider the heavily armed company of men in silver and black, likely a merchant out of Alingdor. There was no mistaking the look of speculation directed their way. Imrail rode on.

  Sometime later Altaer and Urian made out signs of recent passage. Here the terrain was lush with wildflowers and tall grasses. Trees along the distant horizon likely stretched out until reaching the boundary of the Raging Sea. Reports indicated the Ancaidans had sent missives to Alingdor; no one to treat with now that the city was in mourning over the king’s abduction and the marshaled forces of Alingdor were sweeping the unsettled parts of the nation in search of Viamar and the Sword, building a shield wall around the First City. It seemed the Ancaidans had moved south, either unable to contact the Legion or obtain a satisfactory answers out of Alingdor or the Watch. Luc found himself attempting to make sense of perplexing riddle. This was his mother’s land. Riven was right about the deep ties he had to the nation and the loyalty the Oathbound had instilled in him. Once a similar bond had tied him completely to the forces of the Giver. That he still had, but little to nothing of the existence was known to him, only distant impressions that would rise up when he slept. He wondered if he would always be pursued by the agony or if one day he would come to terms with it and see the misery end.

  After a few more hours on the move the grim company saw the outline of a sizable compound in the distance. Urian, who could mark a hawk at great distances, rode back at a gallop. Drawing rein, he let out a breath. “Found ’em. That’s no militarized camp. They’re a shambles. No signs of them settling permanently. Far from it. I think they’re making for the wood. Maybe they’ve run out of food.” He scratched his face. “I don’t think they pose any serious threat.”

  “Maybe,” Imrail said. He did not sound doubtful. Not quite. “It appears we’ll have to find out for ourselves.”

  Eager for the answer, the general picked up the pace. “You’ll need to take the lead and speak on our behalf, my Lord,” he said quietly. “This is the moment you make your intentions known to the world. A wrong move could be disastrous. You’re the focal point of this conflict and the only hope of unity for the Nations. Remember that. Some may mistrust your intentions no matter what you do. Be careful not to make claims or demands other than to find out what they’re doing here. That’s the best advice I can give you besides being careful not to show any indecisiveness or weakness.”

  Luc glanced at the man. “You’re not going to give over, are you?” he said bluntly.

  “No. It’s time for you face the world on your own two feet. Not as the boy out of Peyennar. Perhaps not as Siren either, not yet. We’ll have to settle for the Lord Viamar-Ellandor. That’d be enough for most men.”

  Sighing, Luc hitched Lightfoot forward. More than enough. The powerful bay pushed ahead of Imrail’s stallion eagerly. A sunburst of light and energy ignited around him. He felt himself suspended in the fibers of the Making, smooth currents of elemental energy that ebbed and flowed over the contours of the rolling lowland. So much power, enough to debase a man. Ahead the pulses he felt were no different than their own. Hundreds at least. As they closed the distance Luc felt the stratums of creation calling to him. He did not feel small in the wake of the celestial forces. They were his to order. His to direct. Imrail might have been right. He was not Siren in the strictest sense, but today he did not have to be.

  After several minutes it became apparent their approach had been observed. The discovery had an immediate impact. Luc saw scatters of frantic movement. Armed men in gold and white tabards smeared with dirt drew swords. They had wild, wary looks. A closer inspection revealed the desperate state of these men. It took only moments for them to ascertain the danger. Clearly these were not men pledged to the Furies. If they were, they hid it completely.

  With Altaer and Urian moving forward, Imrail paces behind, the company came to a halt just short of the line of steel. A handful of the defenders held bows. None had as of yet drawn arrow. Not taking any chances, he felt the memory of another guide him. Under other circumstances the thought would have made him bury his head in his hands. Still a residue, an echo, weighing in from a remote time. Feeling the Tides catch fire within him, the world took on an azure hue. Perhaps it was a result of the conscious manipulation.

  Glancing at Rew, he shied away from the image of women—some young, some old—and adolescents backing away. They appeared thin, emaciated things. He had no idea what turn had taken them to such a condition. “Is this part of what you saw?” he asked Rew. “The people. Dispossessed, you said.” No sign of a formal campsite—no fire, few horses, wagons, or even a temporary encampment.

  Slowly Rew shook his head. “No. I think I would have known if it was somewhere
here in Penthar.” His took in the Ancaidans again. “You’d better do something about this. They don’t have much left to lose by the look of them.”

  At a cue from Imrail, Altaer stepped forward. The bowman uncharacteristically kept a hand off his sword and strode forward, Urian a step behind. Decked out in silver and black and displaying arms out of the First City, the Ancaidans appeared to hesitate. Altaer was a good choice to speak on their behalf. He certainly would not elicit as much suspicion as Landon Graves or Eduin Lars. Urian was quite another matter, however.

  “We are the Companions, agents of the Crown,” Altaer said. “My name is Jisel Altaer. Do you require assistance?”

  A man in his mid-years stepped forward. Face unshaven, he too was garbed in gold and white, white for the most part with gold at the breast and shoulders. Despite a few rips and tears, the formal attire made it apparent he was someone of import and authority. “If the offer is genuine, I would be remiss in my duties to turn it away,” the man said, hand on the hilt of his sword, tone guarded. Something of a burning intensity seemed to break through his gaunt features. “Penthar has long been known to offer assistance to those in need—to those she deems in need, I should say. Val Mora would be no more without it, but when a nation of equal strength requires it you turn a blind eye. It’s no secret you’ve hoped to see us destabilized, looking to your own borders. I’m well aware of the city you are constructing in the south, so no need to deny it. Perhaps you wish us to beg. Beg as Bevronail begged at the end. Now the nation is no more, as you no doubt wished. Well, we will not be the next. I will hear your terms and decide for myself if the price of your assistance is worth what it is likely to cost us.”

  “As if Ancaidans were ever known to forget their pride long enough to welcome the aid and guidance of their betters,” Urian said around a scoff and a snarl. He spat. “You’re in no position to make demands on our soil. You’ll accept what we offer or will be asked to leave.”

  The man’s face became stark red by the end of the declaration. “Is there someone with a scrap of intellect to treat with or is the nation so craven it has been reduced to the lordship of thugs and bandits? Where is the king? Viamar has been cordial in the past. It is for him I have abandoned my senses and forced my closest kin to leave behind all that they value.”

  Altaer unslung his bow. Slowly, deliberately, he unsheathed his sword, spreading his hands while he carefully set them on the ground. “The king is here, my Lord Thresh. You are Ronan Thresh, are you not?” The Ancaidan blinked, glancing at Altaer in surprise. Quickly scanning the rest of their party, he spotted Imrail instantly, appearing to pause and take a double look. Trian held his eye longer. Something about the woman made him swallow. Luc, peeling off his gauntlets, slid out of the saddle and handed Avela the reins. He seriously considered throttling both men. King? He found himself glaring. They were all born fools. He was going to have to put a stop to this even if it meant he was going to have to leave and never return.

  “My Lord Thresh,” Luc managed to begin evenly, “our offer of aid is legitimate. Food, water, bandages, fresh linens, tents—whatever you need. All we require is word of what has brought you to Penthar.”

  “I am unfamiliar with . . .” The man’s cautious expression suddenly seemed to take on a look of concentration. “Wait, you . . . seem . . . familiar.”

  “Perhaps you know his parents,” Imrail suggested lightly. “I understand they are well traveled. This is the son of Ariel Viamar, Minister Thresh.”

  “The Lady Viamar herself?” Ronan Thresh said in open amazement.

  “And the Warden.”

  For the first time the man looked uncertain, glancing at some of his men behind him. There was the barest hint of hope in his eyes when he turned to face them again. “Is the Lord Viamar dead then? His daughter? We have heard scant news.”

  “Not dead,” Imrail said, folding his arms. “In a matter of days they will be in Alingdor to announce what you and a few others have been the first to hear. The Furies are rising. They sacked Alingdor and abducted the king. This young man saved him, and us. You are not only looking at our next Lord, but the hand that will guide us all in our final stand against the Legion. He is known by another name, but I think it wise if we see to your people first. We will have time to exchange accounts of what brought us both here after. Just know our offer is genuine and had we been able, we would have seen to your people sooner.”

  “I . . . appreciate it,” Ronan Thresh said a touch unevenly, still looking at Luc.

  “Might as well get to it,” Rew said. Something about the plight of the Ancaidans seemed to leave a determined light in his eyes. Luc felt it as well. Growing up in Peyennar had left them sorely ignorant. He hardly understood war, but he did understand peace. What he could not fathom was the gross negligence and injustice that had led to the plight of these people. Exchanging an extended glance with his friend, he recalled the night the Earthbound had stormed the Shoulder. This could have just as easily been his own people had it not been for a little luck and the active memory of his uncle. Taking in a long breath, he began by unbuckling his sword belt. He did not think they would be moving on any time soon.

  CHAPTER 8 — THE FIRST MINISTER

  It took some time to bring the Ancaidan campsite to order. Beyond the immediate needs of food and shelter, some of Thresh’s men were wounded. Seeing no sign of Imrail—no doubt intentional—Luc had the men leading their packhorses begin by settling in for the remainder of the day. He instructed near a dozen to go through their provisions and lay out stores to prepare a meal; he told them to spare nothing. Others left for the wood with orders to bring kindling for campfires and cut saplings to erect a pavilion; they had some canvas they could use for shelter if it rained. Trian and Avela took ten more men laden down with all of the bandages and ointments the factor had supplied them with in the Landing. Satisfied they would see to the wounded and the women and children, he ordered tents erected and was a little surprised to find himself paired with the Ancaidan lord himself. He did not have much skill putting up tents, but he had observed Vandil’s company enough in recent weeks to catch on quickly. Water proved to be the most pressing issue. They did not have enough. There might have been a stream or small pool further off in the wood, but they did not have the time to go off and look unless one of their scouts chanced on a source. Luc had started to issue orders for a swift team to make for Alingdor and send for immediate aid, but Altaer told him there was a sizeable town within a half day’s march to the south. Uncertain what the Lord Thresh would think about moving his people so soon, he ordered a dispatch to the town to procure what they would need. Imrail being absent he had to dip into his belt pouch for the coin. Altaer said the fistful of gold tolmars he pulled out would be more than adequate.

  It was going to be next to impossible to leave these people, he realized. The Ancaidans looked as if they had been run through a meat grinder. This Ronan Thresh did not seem a bad sort. A shrewd man to be sure, but sensible enough not to put on airs. The man must have had steel in his guts to flee his homeland. That was all the proof Luc needed to know something was desperately wrong in Ancaida. After it was apparent they were here to help, the tension among the Ancaidans lessened noticeably. Some of that had to do with Trian weaving her way through them skillfully. The woman never ceased to astound him. More often than not she left him in a daze.

  “Are the two of you betrothed?” Thresh asked him, noticing Luc following her movements. “You seem a bit young to be married.”

  Luc kept his hands moving. “No,” he answered stiffly. What would she say if he asked? The damning memories never gave him a moment’s peace. It might have been nice just existing, not being baited at every turn. Well, he no longer needed his mother’s foresight. He knew. The rest was up to her. How much time they had left was uncertain. That was the rub. War was unavoidable, but if he could delay them long enough to rally Valince and make a move on the Mountains of Memory. . . .

  Something
in that last thought made him stiffen. For a moment, the sliver of a second, he achieved a level of perception almost as if the chords of fate and the power of Memory and Eternity had become linked. Instinctively he realized this would be less about the Furies and more about the unseen force moving to face him.

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” Ronan said under his breath. “I daresay there’s something compelling about the woman. The two of you seem . . .” The man seemed to search for the right word. “. . . well-matched.”

  “You didn’t offend me,” Luc said. “I’d ask, but it’s a bit complicated.”

  “I see.”

  Luc shrugged off the man’s inquisitive look. He was surprised he had answered at all, but he did not want to give the man any reason to mistrust their intentions. “I’m finished with this side,” he said. “I’d better check in with the others.”

  Moving off before the Ancaidan Lord could respond, he was well aware his face was flaming. No way to disguise it. His chest felt uncomfortably tight, too. Striding through the compound, he forced the discomfort aside and brought his mind back to the matter at hand. To the south Imrail’s men were making progress getting the canvas shelter set up; to the east small teams hovered over pots and kettles. Seeing him moving through the compound, Urian steered towards him. Luc had no idea where Imrail had gone to.

  “Everything all right?” the bowman asked. “You look . . .” The Companion caught himself and trailed off. Seconds later he gave Luc a sidelong glance. “If this Lord Thresh said something to offend, I can attend to it.” He was fingering the blade at his side. “Politicians are a peculiar breed. Ancaidan politicians are worse. Self-important and condescending. Manipulators, too. I suppose it’s because they can’t match our strength or Tolmar’s influence. Say one thing and an Ancaidan will read three meanings you may or may not have intended. Be careful with that one. He has his own interests to look to. They may not be ours.”