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

by Matt Thomas

  Luc nodded, still having some difficulty putting the Val Moran out of his mind. He was finding it more and more impossible of late. “Everything’s fine,” he said firmly. “It has nothing to do with him.”

  “As you say. Anything else?”

  Luc thought about it, still moving. He stopped abruptly. Nightfall was approaching swiftly. At the edge of his awareness he detected the movement of the Tides, images outlined in a brilliant blue, brighter and more penetrating than the sun at high noon, a suggestion of memory and power. More. He hadn’t realized he was still consciously connected. “One thing,” he said, aware he was still breathing hard. “Our defenses. Imrail picked a fine time to disappear. Best we not forget the Furies.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Urian said.

  “Thanks.”

  Feeling a little unsettled, Luc wandered a bit. The movement helped work out some of the stiffness and kinks from the ride. He thought he heard the word water on more than one set of lips, but it was the look on the faces of the Ancaidan women and children that troubled him. Most stood huddled together in small groups waiting for Trian and Avela to look them over. The two women looked up at his approach. At the moment Trian was seeing to a girl who might have been fifteen. Like the others, her white skirts were smeared with dark streaks. Her cheeks, also sooty, showed white lines where they were tear-stained. The girl seemed to grow deathly pale when he came to a stop beside Trian.

  “They’re afraid,” the Val Moran said. “Seems they’ve been moving on foot for days. Did you find out what happened?”

  “Not yet.”

  Nodding, Trian soaked a fresh washcloth and cleaned the girl’s palms, scored with cuts and puffy inflammations. She took her time, asking the girl to lift her skirts slightly. A man—Eubantis, he realized—hurried forward with a kettle steeping with fragrant herbs. Bowing, he poured it into a bucket the two women were sharing between them. Soaking the cloth again, she wiped the girl’s face. A pretty thing with hair the color of honey, he realized. Odd that. Most of the Ancaidans had hair an off shade of red and brown, somewhere in between, a few with a sandy coloring. While the two women saw to their needs, the Ancaidans waited patiently, if a touch anxious. At the moment he knew he was the focal point of their attention. When Trian was satisfied the girl would be fine, Lenora handed her a bit of bread and cheese and forced her to drink a mouthful of water from a skin.

  Seeing this was likely to take most of the evening, he bent to kiss the Val Moran’s forehead. Her eyes, already deep pools that could make a man forget his own name, widened noticeably. The answering smile that touched her face was well worth the discomfort a display of emotion around strangers elicited.

  Moving off, he scanned the perimeter. They were too spread out. A messy business with no way to ascertain if Eridian or Naeleis had pinpointed their location. Spotting Rew hauling blankets and provisions to the tents, he had to blink twice to keep up with his paces. Back in Peyennar Rew was notorious for ducking out of anything strenuous, but at the moment he hardly seemed the same man. Responsibility had been something Allard Acriel and Amreal had discussed to no end. Rew had none. Everyone knew it. He was not sure what Master Acriel would say now had he been here to witness this. Likely something dismissive. Old ways were hard to break. That said, Luc was not so sure Master Acriel would have been right, not anymore at least.

  With the world still brushed in a shade of cobalt blue, he worked his way back to the First Minister. The man was engaged in a quiet exchange with a tall man wearing white and gold. “My aid,” Thresh introduced, “Olhm Grivas.”

  Grivas inclined his head politely. “My Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, bowing. “Our thanks. Your arrival was . . . fortuitous.”

  Luc acknowledged the gesture with a return nod. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come sooner,” he said. “If you’re satisfied with our efforts for the moment, I think it best if we discuss a few matters.”

  “That might be best,” Minister Thresh agreed. “A little apart perhaps. We have certain . . . reservations.”

  Luc motioned the man to follow. The worry over finding a source of fresh water would have to wait. Moving north a ways, he felt his conscious mind continue to wrestle for a solution. Where was Imrail? he wondered irritably. After clearing the area where the tents were being erected, he came to a halt and turned to face the Ancaidan nobleman. “You were saying?” he asked as smoothly as he could manage.

  Thresh glanced at his aid, a hard-faced man who had a crisp air and serious eye, hair an off-shade of white and almost totally bald at the Crown of his head. His movements were still vigorous, though. “The guaranteed safety of our people is our first concern,” Grivas began. “Lord Thresh has three sons. In his current position, it is customary for one of them to assume his office. That may be some time off yet, but we have had no word of the other council members. We would like assurances the Pentharan Crown will recognize the legitimacy of Minister Thresh’s claim and will make efforts to secure it while safeguarding our people.”

  Luc could only look at the man. Had they walked under the skies of the Third Plane, such claims would hardly matter. “You have every assurance your safety is as important to me as that of my own people. I don’t know your laws, but if what we suspect is behind this, behind you fleeing your homeland, I will do whatever I can to restore you to your office. If you wish it, I will have your people housed in Alingdor. The city in the south—Triaga, I understand—may have been built for just such a need. If that is satisfactory, you may join us. We will have a sizable force making for the south. I will be requesting more men. I mean to move into Ancaida itself to deal with the Fallen and the Furies.”

  “Move into,” Thresh said, glancing at his aid. “In what capacity? Is it your intent to see the streets under martial law and Pentharan rule? And these . . . Furies. We are familiar with the term. A year ago I would have dismissed such notions as imprudence.” He hesitated, some memory clouding his eyes. “I see now we are caught up in something larger than the events of a single city.”

  Luc waited a moment, wondering what might have prompted the man to believe him so readily. He had expected some sort of opposition or objection. Seeing the man fall silent, he went on. “I have no wish to rule your people, Minister Thresh. My mother would not only disapprove but would likely censure me. I myself would like to fulfill my allotted role and die in peace. Nothing more. An end. And a beginning. Hope for you and yours and a world free of the mounting darkness. I will see the suffering of the Nations end or endure the same fate you do.”

  Thresh did not respond, searching his face. A trace of doubt still lingered on his gray-cast features, but that look took Luc in fastidiously. The Ancaidan Lord saw his intensity, the ripple of hate that flashed across his features, storms only barely contained behind the eyes. “You offer no guarantees and only hints of a bleak future,” he said finally. “Nothing to ease my people or our plight. Mere words without assurances. But . . .”

  Luc growled. “Bleak? If that’s so, we have yet to see it, Lord Thresh. There will be misery and suffering enough to make us all wish it was only the loss of the Powers and the unchaining of the Forerunners we have to fear. There are no assurances. The world is about to rue the day they heard even the mention of the Unmaker and the Furies. We have given you our word. Stay in Penthar or travel south under heavy escort. No Nation will be left to face the darkness unaided should they ask for assistance.”

  “I was about to say I believe you,” Thresh muttered, wiping a sheen of sweat off his forehead with his shoulder. He turned to face his people. “You are young,” he added, the bitterness ripe on his lips. “Young to speak with such authority and conviction. There are hints in what you say, and in what you do not say. You have encountered the Furies?”

  Imrail chose that moment to reappear. “I am afraid that is one tale that would take quite some time to explain,” Imrail said. “Perhaps it would be well to do so over some refreshment.”

  Master Thresh lifted his chin
. “I would prefer to wait until my people are seen to.”

  “Elhador Imrail,” Luc introduced. “Captain of the Companions, General, and Steward of the First City.”

  Imrail shot him a glare, smoothing it rapidly. Luc just looked at him. The man’s timing was no doubt deliberate. No sense in letting the charade go on without making it clear he would push back with just as much force. Amreal had declared it with a decisiveness that was almost prophetic. If Imrail’s elevation in the First City was that certain, no sense in putting it off.

  It was a moment before he realized Rew, Avela, Altaer, and several men had joined them. Avela’s open mouth made it apparent his voice had carried. A significant title, one advancing the man in rank above even Vandil as he understood it. Luc folded his arms behind his back. He doubted his mother would fault him or attempt to block him. He owed Imrail that much. And Amreal. At the moment the image of Amreal was all he could see.

  “You are welcome in Penthar, Lord Thresh,” the general said. Quite intentionally he did not add anything further.

  “If I may,” Avela cut in, noticing the coolness in the man’s voice and the tightness around the eyes, “I feel obliged to inform you it would be in your best interest to remain here at least another few days, Minister Thresh. At the least. I’m told you left Rolinia in a hurry. Weeks to reach Pentharan soil with poor stores or proper provisions. Whatever you have left appears to have spoiled. I am confident most of your people will recover after proper rest and nourishment. Food we can supply. I’ve given the women instructions on how to care for the young and your men, but one thing we do not have enough of is water. Fresh water. The nearest town in this part is at least a half day’s march off, but I would not risk you moving your people now. We can ration what we have until our troops return with provisions, but your people need proper baths and a change of clothes. While we consider our options can you be persuaded to put down for a few days?”

  Ronan sighed, unable to mask the fatigue and constant worry. “Of course, my Lady. Our thanks. Whatever you feel is best.”

  “Unfortunately we have business in the First City that cannot be put off,” Imrail said. “We will leave our company to care for you until the supplies we sent for arrive. After, it will be up to you to decide if you wish the protection of the First City or choose to move south. Under heavy escort if you wish.”

  “Will you tell us what brought you here?” Luc asked politely.

  Ronan’s face darkened. A man of medium height and build, he still looked ready to do violence, but it did not take much prompting to loose the politician’s tongue. “Our command structure appears to have been compromised. A calculated plan months in the making, I suspect. Over the years our house has gained a great deal of support, enough that House Thresh assumed direct oversight of our armies. When the other Ministers went missing, I took precautions. For weeks there was a general feeling of mistrust. Lords and landholders began to demand session after session to debate the course of the nation. Tedious proceedings with onerous, ignorant men claiming Tolmar was undercutting the markets and Penthar was rallying to move on us. Idiocy. It went on for weeks. We had to move the Lancers in to maintain order. I’m afraid that did not sit well with the Whitefists or the people in the Lower City. But worse was to come.

  “One morning, weeks ago now, the houses convened in the Ruling Hall in the People’s Plaza. That was the last public forum. Most were slaughtered. Those who escaped spread tales of creatures that rent the council chambers—explosions in the earth and fires that broke from the sky. The next morning a banner had been raised. An iron fist. I do not know what it means.” Ronan’s gaze crossed to Luc. The man saw the noticeable flicker of his eyes and paled at recognition in them. “This was all carefully planned. Some of our own stood against us. I took those loyal to me and retreated to my estates in the far south, the Heights we call them. We had barely arrived when these . . . creatures stormed it. I’m told the same occurred to the other Ministers and lords loyal to me. Thanks in part to our precautions, I had already moved most of my household to our swiftest ships. My generals stopped making their daily calls. There was looting and rioting in the streets. The Privy Council went into hiding. With few other options, I chose to make for Penthar, to save the few we could save and turn to the Lord Viamar for assistance. As I said, he has been a supporter in the past.”

  Pausing to drink from a skin Grivas handed him, he exhaled and continued. “We set sail and nearly came apart three times. We are not seafarers by nature and my men had to learn as we sailed north. We thought of putting down west of Anneth, but powerful storms caught us and forced us further north. I thought we were done for at that point, but after two days we were able to steer back northeast. We thought to dock in the King’s Watch and send word to Viamar, but we did not know our precise position and my aides felt we could not wait with our stores emptying. Too many were already sick and our need for fresh water forced us to put ashore. We were as you see us now. Too weak to make for the First City, but forced to try. That was when the darkness took us.” The horror on his face was unfeigned. “Fell beasts. They slaughtered my already weakened guard. I lost almost a half-hundred of my best men. They gave us no chance to retreat, and the memory has led most to believe the end has come.”

  “Not the end,” Imrail muttered. “The beginning.”

  “These folk have a dangerous edge,” Grivas murmured, barely a whisper. “Best we be cautious.” Luc read his lips more than he heard the actual words.

  Minister Thresh glanced at them. His eyes skittered towards Luc, then returned to settle on Imrail. “You have heard our tale. What of the nation of Penthar?”

  “As I said,” Imrail began, “the matter will take some time. You do your people no honor standing here ready to faint from fatigue and worry. Will you join us in a meal?” Slowly, with a glance at his aid, the man reluctantly nodded. Imrail gave a crisp command and led them back to the compound, moving slightly east. Eventually they reached a cluster of tents set slightly apart from the others. His command center and likely where he intended Luc to bed down for the night. Not something he would willingly do when most of the others would be sleeping under the stars.

  The meal was rustic but hearty. Instead of bread they had biscuits, preserves, salted pork, and a savory medley of beef, vegetables, and barley. Having lived it and already shared the account more than once, Luc did not pay attention to Imrail’s narrative. He still found himself missing Amreal. The knot in his throat swelled and his arms felt heavy. Forcing himself to breathe, he began the mental exercises his father had taught him. Becoming and believing. Not for the first time in recent days he drifted through the currents and inspected the area around the encampment. It was becoming increasingly apparent he was able to take in far more ground, far more space; he even thought he detected something beyond the fabric of the Making, through a hidden barrier he had never actually perceived before. The sudden realization was jarring. Keeping a straight face, he ignored it, this time pressing deeper, mind probing. It did not take him long to find it.

  Water, and plenty of it.

  His father had cautioned him about attempting anything too soon. But it seemed such a simple, subtle thing.

  Urian’s description of the Ardan settlement in the north caught his attention, if only momentarily. Minster Thresh’s face held traces of skepticism; Altaer’s separate, succinct account confirming the Earthbound presence made it virtually impossible to discount. From there Imrail continued the tale. His portrayal of the Third Plane was so vivid Luc found himself snarling. The general continued with their escape, his arrival in Alingdor and the passage between the Planes, and the events that had occurred under Vandil’s watch, those of some significance at least. Grivas and Lord Thresh asked few questions, likely reserving them for the end. Luc, not wanting to hear the rest, set his plate aside and moved off to the east. He was a little surprised no one followed.

  The manipulation did not require spells or incantations. That was not
how it worked. He simply became a conduit for the Tides and activated a spark that ripped through him, from him. Something clicked within and a churning sound filled his ears. Lines of power instantly sliced through the earth. There was no sound. The force became a tunneling chute—he imagined the shaft of a well—forcing the dirt, rock, and clay to give way and coalesce. Sweat beaded across his forehead, but the effort felt negligible. The focused concentration was a different matter. The Tides shifted from a cone into a column, drilling deep. The power took on a sapphire light, luminous, blinding. He did not think anyone without the Trace could have seen it. Seconds or hours passed. He did not move, did not blink.

  Eventually after another conscious trigger the glow faded. Now where there had been only bare earth, a circle of inky black rock surrounded a deep pool of crystalline water. Clean water. Pure. The rock’s smooth surface reminded him of the cool surfaces of the Shoulder.

  Exhaling, he realized he had been holding his breath.

  He had done it.

  Discharging the primeval substance, separating himself from it, he sagged and gripped his knees, drained by the effort. Not just drained, more like depleted. He stood there panting for several moments. He was just glad the enemy did not choose that moment to strike. He did not think he could have summoned up the will to even raise his head.

  He thought at least a quarter hour had passed before he took a final breath and peeled his eyes off the spot. When he turned and took a step, he almost plowed into Imrail. The general just looked at him, unsurprised. He did not comment on Luc likely appearing winded. Ronan Thresh was looking on from several yards off. Others too. The ominous silence was almost as unbearable as the flashes of awe that shimmered across their collective faces.

  “Orders?” Imrail whispered.

  “See to the Ancaidans’ needs. I’ll be in my tent.”

  Nodding towards the First Minister, he made his way back. Sweat leaked down his spine into the small of his back. The effort and considerable burden he bore weighed on him heavily. Arriving at his tent, he unbuckled the straps to the scale armor, difficult without another hand. He peeled off his boots and set them in the corner. Seeing his saddlebags propped next to his belongings, he peered into one of the compartments. Satisfied everything was in order, he poured himself a glass of wine from a decorative decanter likely given to them by the factor and settled in on the comfortable rugs and cushions, which for once escaped his notice. Settling back, he waited, hopeful Trian would look in on him before turning in.