by Matt Thomas
“My Lord Imrail,” he intoned, bowing. His bronze-colored uniform appeared of a finer knit than the others, and the hint of gray in his dark hair gave him an air of authority. He wore the crest of House Viamar on his left sleeve and was armed with a short sword with an easy draw. “We had word you might be passing through,” he added, “but we were expecting a full company. I trust all is well. If not, we will attend you. My name is Liam Oden, Third Rank. Welcome to Marthon.”
“Sergeant,” Imrail acknowledged, surveying the imposing post. His face appeared to cloud over momentarily, but he masked it. “These are the Companions,” he said somewhat absently. “Some of them at least.”
Oden scanned their small party. He looked the Companions over first, Urian’s greasy features giving him a start. He glanced speculatively at each of them in turn. Just as his eyes reached Luc, Imrail cleared his throat. The man drew himself up immediately. “Forgive me, Lord Imrail. We are honored. If I may, rumor had it the Companions have been combing the wild for the Lord Viamar. Have you any word of the king?”
Imrail nodded, exchanging a glance with Luc. “We have word of him, and more. We will need rooms. I think the garrison will do. I suggest you accompany us. There are substantial matters to discuss. Is Reardon still in charge?”
“Yes, my Lord. He is”
“Excellent. Join us.”
The soldier acknowledged the order with a smart salute. Turning, he issued a sharp command for a horse to be brought. Short minutes later they were riding through Marthon under Oden’s light escort. Still unused to larger towns and cities, Luc found himself paying particular attention to the locals they passed. And some others of a decidedly seedier sort. He knew being raised in Peyennar left him with certain . . . disadvantages. Like Aldoren’s Watch—simply known as the King’s Watch in the south, he had discovered from the Ancaidans—it seemed a gathering point for all sorts. They passed Tolmarans selling and buying wares, a Val Moran who appeared to be browsing, and even a Martyren standing at a saddler’s door with a pipe hanging from his lips. A pair of men in dark jerkins caught his eye most noticeably, however.
“Lawless,” Altaer whispered.
“I noticed,” Luc responded. He kept them firmly in view for as long as possible.
Outside of the strange mix of folk on the move, he paid particular attention to the town’s layout. Not far in they passed a tap room, the Dancing Barrhead, which stood across from an inn and stable. Locals, who like most Pentharans approached work with a seriousness, appeared a reserved sort; the outsiders were anything but. Not surprisingly Rew sighed noticeably when they passed the tap room; Urian’s nod of agreement made Luc wonder if he was missing something about outings such as the one he and Rew had undertaken in the Landing. Along the way they passed a carpenter’s and cooper’s shared workshop, a teamster’s yard and considerable warehouse. Evident Marthon had a functional, orderly design, most of the homes and establishments appeared confined to branching side-streets. Those buildings nearest the highway seemed of newer work, angular roofs, fenced in entryways, cobblestone paths, and narrow gardens or work areas. Altaer, observing his interest, pointed out a foundry, scrivener’s office, mason’s shop, and an apothecary that caught Trian’s eye. Alingdor had a strict policy on only permitting men licensed through the Guild Commission to conduct business. The law required the issuance of permits and certificates, a matter that at times was one of heated debate, he said.
At this hour the vast majority of townsfolk seemed headed home, though the highway was still busy. Sentries moved in pairs. The Companions’ uniforms drew unavoidable attention—though perhaps that was the point—Imrail and Urian receiving second and third glances and nervous bows. The sight of Avela and Trian on horse made some of the women they passed curtsy. Rew, riding in the rear with Luc and Altaer, commented on some of the differences he noted between the sprawling town and Alingdor. The community was clearly one of more than moderate importance. With a fully manned garrison, Alingdor maintained a permanent presence. He wondered what impact the coming war would have. This place seemed exposed. Another duty he had to attend to. Just one of a growing number, it seemed. Inhaling, he gripped the reins firmly and attempted to put aside the worry.
Reaching the garrison a little under a half hour later, Oden moved off ahead briefly to announce their arrival. The structure dominated the heart of Marthon. Gated and standing grimly, it seemed somewhat out of place. Still, it sternly overlooked the highway and reminded outsiders to be wary of bringing trouble. With only one point of entry, it appeared secure. Several men stationed at the entrance looked them over and exchanged flashing looks. Imrail’s gear and badges of office appeared to carry some weight, it seemed. Glances at Avela confirmed who these men and women were; Luc was discovering the auburn-haired woman was one of some repute.
“This is Captain Imrail,” Oden announced. “We are here to see Reardon.”
“General now actually,” Urian advised.
Imrail gave the bowman a scathing look. “We’ll need rooms as well,” the general added sourly. “See to our mounts.”
Trading looks, no one looked about to dally.
“At once,” several echoed.
Oden did not wait to show them in. Taking them across the yard, they dismounted and tied off their horses. Luc scanned the impressive grounds, eying the yard, store areas, work sheds, and watch towers. The men they saw moved with purpose, but there were a noticeable number of women as well. Inside through a guarded corridor, they bypassed bisecting wings, passing administrative offices, common areas, billets and work stations, until eventually they reached what appeared to be a conference room with an adjoining briefing room twice again as large as the sitting room in his home in Peyennar, this one only starkly furnished and littered with documents. At their entry a man of some girth with an unkempt black beard looked up from behind a desk where he was leafing through a stack of missives. He gave their small party an annoyed look before he realized who it was standing before him.
“Imrail!” he roared, standing, both hands repositioning his belt so he could resettle his bulk above it. His pasty white features instantly took on a grin. “Heard you were in the northern wastes wading through Ardan. What word, Captain?”
Imrail wasted no time. “Viamar’s safe. We found him.” Moving forward, he crossed his arms. “The White Rose has named her son to succeed him. In a few days Viamar will be making the declaration official. Wait,” Imrail added when the man’s mouth dropped open. “You’re looking at him. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor. I’ve ordered this image,” he fingered the collar of his coat, “this symbol displayed wherever the Sparrow is. See to it. We are moving to wake the nation.”
Reardon gaped. Swallowing, the heavyset man took Luc in again. Whatever he saw in that moment made him glance away. Reaching a knee, he bowed his head. “My Lord.” He looked up slowly. “There were rumors . . .” He swallowed again. “If I may say, you favor your mother. My name is Anton Reardon, your man. How may we serve?”
Imrail responded. “We met the Ancaidans camped to the south. Why did no one move to confront them?”
Reardon glanced up at the man. No missing the flat edge to the general’s tone. “They never came this way,” he explained. “We did receive word Draiden sent a delegation. Must have been days ago now. You’re saying they never made it?”
Imrail’s face took on a ridged look. “I had no such word. Which way did they go? And why the delay? There was a skirmish south of Aldoren’s Watch. That must have been weeks ago now. The Ancaidans fled. They pose no threat. We have given them assurances. I need a team to scout for signs of the missing men—right now. Make sure it’s at least two hundred strong, the best you can muster. This may be trouble. I suggest Oden lead it. Can he handle it?”
Reardon rubbed his beard. His eyes grew flat. “Yes, Captain. I believe he can.”
“General now,” Avela murmured.
The man whistled. “About time,” he said, grinning again. “You staying th
e night? I can have rooms ready.”
Imrail shook his head. “We made no secret of our arrival and there are some outsiders who may have taken an interest in us. I’d rather we leave at nightfall and make for the First City.” The general glanced at Luc. “If you approve, of course. I have a feeling once your folks learned about our engagement with the Earthbound north of the Landing, they made for Alingdor will all speed. You’ll no doubt want to see the city and spend some time reacquainting yourself with them. I also have some . . . tasks to attend to.”
“That will be fine, General,” Luc agreed.
“Care for a bit of air?” Rew asked. “I think I saw a tavern.”
Imrail glanced at him. “Not tonight, Acriel. I want the two of you where I can keep my eyes on you. I suggest a bite and a bath. Then as much rest as you can manage. It will be a long night. Lieutenant Reardon, a word while the others get settled in.”
“Or course,” Reardon said.
Exiting a moment, moving sluggishly, the man bellowed for his retainers. Not long after a pair of women were leading them through the considerable garrison to rooms and waiting baths. They issued Luc and Rew a room with twin beds. After they departed he first went through his saddlebags and gear. Satisfied the Rod was safe where he had left it, he set out clothes to be laundered and selected a fresh set. One of the young women, a girl really with light freckles and a button nose, poked her head in, keeping her eyes downcast, and indicated the baths were ready. Exiting the chambers behind Rew, he took a fresh towel and bar of soap the girl handed him. Urian and Altaer were already in the bath hall when they entered. The hook-nosed man had stripped and had a pipe hanging from his lips. Looking pleased with a mug of ale in hand, he let out a contented grunt.
“Nothing like a bath and a pipe and a mug to end a long march,” he said, closing his eyes.
“You could have sent for another,” Altaer said sourly. Shaking his head, the lean man glanced at Rew. “How are you holding up, Master Acriel? You’ve seemed a little distant of late.”
Rew muttered something noncommittal, dousing his head and lathering it with soap. “Oh, I’m just fine,” he said. “Couldn’t be better. And you, my Lord Companion? Get to shoot any ’grats today? Our friend here conjures fire and lightning for fun and you folk think it a wasted day if you haven’t engaged the Earthbound before breakfast.” He sighed, then half snickered. “What could be better?” Luc flashed him a dark look. Urian and Altaer shared a laugh. “Some days I wake up and still think I’m in Peyennar,” Rew added, a little more seriously. He dunked his head a second time. “Other than that, I wonder about my folks. Is it true my dad has kin in the south? He never mentioned them.”
Altaer nodded. “Your father was at the Stand. Aren’t many who can say that. I’m told the Acriels had—still have—considerable holdings in the south. He was a high ranking Red Shirt, but you no doubt knew that.” Altaer was already out of the tub with a towel wrapped around the waist. His lean frame was all muscle. With his hair hanging loosely, he still appeared ready to spring to his bow and belt knife at the first sign of trouble. “Living in Peyennar I did not think it was a secret,” he added carefully. “You really did not know? By the end even the Warden held him in high esteem. Why do you think he was selected to help found Peyennar?”
Rew’s jaw had dropped. “My dad?”
Altaer nodded. “That was a long time ago now. I thought you knew, or at least had figured it out. They say you have a way of ferreting out secrets. You have estates in Anneth, Acriel. As far as I know, you’re ridiculously wealthy, too.”
Rew said nothing.
“Not much use for wealth as a Guardian.” Altaer shrugged. “The Lord Denail is known throughout the Nations. I suspect he means you to succeed him. They have extensive training rites, I’m told. Secret ones. You’ll be busy. Best you enjoy the time you have now. You won’t have much after we reach Triaga.”
Now that he thought about it, Luc recalled Imrail saying something similar about Rew. Seemed most of Peyennar was made up of men and woman with some tie to either his father or the Lord Viamar. It was a wonder neither of them had seen through the sham.
Sighing, he decided not linger in the bathwater, electing to wash and dry himself off thoroughly. Despite the days of riding he was anxious to put an end to it. The First City and then the impossibly long road south. He could almost feel the breath of Altris steering him southward.
They ate in his room. Trian sat at the head of the bed, eating sparingly. She watched Rew with some amusement as he nervously picked over his plate. Lenora, seated beside the Acriels’ son, clearly made the young man uncomfortable. The pale-haired girl seemed a little restless. The four of them spoke little, but Luc was well aware the two were up to something. He had a difficult time keeping focus himself with the Val Moran in the room. Her hair slightly damp, she had brushed it straight and pulled it back at the neck. A dark strand curled around the ear. Her pristine features made his chest tight. He wondered if it would always be this way with her.
“You’ll have a hard time leaving Alingdor once you’ve settled in,” Yasrin said, glancing at him suddenly. “Most agree the city has no rival. Perhaps Tolmar. With your new rank, you’ll no doubt be the object of significant interest. I suggest you make no secret of your . . . affections. That will spare you some of the young—and not so young—women at court sending you notes expressing their interest.”
Avela entered halfway through the forewarning. “I would listen to her were I you, my Lord. It’ll shatter the hearts of most of the eligible, but it’s sound advice.” She looked them over with a smile. Her fondness for Trian was evident when she chided the young woman for not eating more. Prior to leaving she sent for another plate and a glass of wine. When it arrived, still steaming, Trian left it untouched and departed with Lenora. He wondered at her silence. Imrail came by not long after with a firm suggestion they put out the lamps. Despite the hour he intended them to be on the road soon.
“That man is starting to get on my nerves,” Rew muttered. “He always so focused? Four hours! He treats the horses better, if you ask me.”
Luc blew out the lamp on the stand beside the bed. “He means well,” he said. “Go to bed, Rew. I’m not going to ride into Alingdor half asleep.”
“I swear, you used to be more fun.”
He yawned. “Good night, Rew.”
Something soft struck him in the midsection. Rew’s pillow. One of them anyway. Wrapping his arms around it, he turned over. Remarkably he was able to stretch out and find a comfortable position. Closing his eyes, he feared sleep would be another matter entirely.
* * * * *
True to his word, Imrail entered roughly four hours later to wake them. Covered in a film of sweat, Luc sat up immediately. Rubbing his eyes, he exhaled and pulled back the covers. Black dreams again, always at the edge of his awareness. The memory of Trian in his arms was just as haunting. So many changes. . . . He still remembered his mother chiding him for climbing Langer’s Point up in the hills above the Shoulder. The level plateau offered a near perfect view of Peyennar. The dreams reminded him that life was rapidly slipping away, though. The merging he appeared to be undergoing felt conflicting, confusing. Luckily they still had some time. At least he hoped they did. He did not know if or when he would be ready to face the Furies.
Dressing, a sense of anxiousness took him. Imrail helped him into the light armor. The routine had become commonplace now. General Imrail obviously refused to allow the Lord Viamar-Ellandor’s entrance into Alingdor to go unnoticed. Rew was ready well before him. He was muttering under his breath—well, he did until Imrail silenced him with a cool look. Stamping his boots into place, Rew was looking less and less like the wiry boy out of Peyennar. He fit his dark coat now, cut into a V-shape just below the belt at the front and rear. His muscled frame, while slight, seemed the perfect size and shape for the pair of daggers strapped to his back. At the moment the look on his face was not so different than the one Urian common
ly assumed. Unafraid and impassive. After sitting to tug on his boots, Luc pulled out his gauntlets and buckled on his sword belt, bending to seize his saddlebags and other gear before following Imrail out into the hall. By now the others were no doubt already waiting.
Reardon met them in the stable yard. “Report,” Imrail said, looking him over.
“I lost a man, General,” he whispered. Everyone stopped what they were doing. “A scout from one of the eastern posts. A farmer found his corpse in his fields. They brought it here. It was ashen and . . . cold. Veins stood out all blue. I’ve heard of such things before. You don’t think . . .” He left it hanging.
“Sypher,” Imrail said, stiffening.
“I’ll need more men if I’m to deal with this,” Reardon said, grim-faced. “You think it’ll pass after . . . after you leave?”
Imrail was looking directly at Luc. Hair recently trimmed, he appeared to weigh the matter. Tall and robust, his features, usually firm and decisive, were no less commanding than when they had first met. In the night he appeared even more so. A dangerous man. “It likely will,” he said finally. “Send our condolences to his family, if he has one, and the necessary compensation. I’ll see you get your men. Some will be raw. You’ll have to take a direct hand in their training, I’m afraid.” He looked at the man pointedly. “Time to shed some of that weight you’ve put on, Lieutenant.”
Reardon winced. “That was unkind, Imrail,” he said.
“But true,” Avela murmured. “You have responsibilities.” She glanced at Imrail. She knew as well as any among them what the Sypher was capable of. “This may not be the best time to leave, Elhador. Perhaps we should wait until morning.”