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

by Matt Thomas

  “Yes, my Lord,” Imrail said diffidently. “You will receive these men?”

  Luc swallowed hard. “I will.” He was shocked his voice held firm and clear.

  Imrail did not wait long to have a path cleared to the far end of the hall. He did it, Luc thought again. It was something Vandil himself would have had difficulty accomplishing. More than one bowed or saluted when General Imrail passed. If his words had not been sufficient, his unwavering resolve to defeat the Earthbound had lit a fire in these men.

  Slowly, Luc found himself moving forward. He waded through their ranks and felt a collective shudder come over the hall. Moving to the far end, he gathered himself and turned, hand on his sword. He did not know it, but what the waiting Redshirts saw was not a northerner. What they saw was not even the son of the Warden and the White Rose. His blood already cool, his eyes appeared founts of an otherworldly power. Kryten motioned towards a high-backed chair he had called for. When Luc sat, Imrail on his right and Kryten on his left, he felt as if it was another man sitting.

  Slowly they came forward. Some appeared hesitant at first. Others came quickly and bowed low. In the end he met every last mans’ gaze. Some promised him their lives. Others pledged their souls. It was jarring. And in his mind something finally shifted. He understood now. He had the right of birth to receive these men’s oaths, but it was duty that made him accept them. Man after man; sword after sword.

  By the end he left with one certainty, that the boy out of Peyennar was no more than a memory.

  * * * * *

  Slipping away, Luc returned to the open air. The feel of it, the caress against the skin, felt enlivening. After a few minutes Imrail and the other men in silver and black joined him. “I need Lightfoot saddled and all of my gear brought,” he told the general. “I’m leaving as soon as Trian and the others arrive.”

  “You’re sure?” Imrail asked. His tone was neutral.

  “Yes.” That sense of forewarning was like a distant drumming in his ears. The chords of fate tightening around him. Past time to be off. “I’ll need you to lead the Redshirts and coordinate with the other outfits. They need you, Imrail.”

  “I think your folks would have something to say about this,” Imrail warned.

  “Perhaps. I’ll stay within a day’s ride. We’ll see each other, I’m sure. Time to do for myself, Imrail. I suggest you wait another day here so the south remembers your name. You’ll have two cities to see to once we’re finished with Ansifer.” Imrail had started something here that needed to be seen through. If events unfolded as he foresaw, Vandil would be riding with him all the way to Val Mora. Too many other things that needed doing. Ardil, Gintara, Laringail, a stop at Atan Martyre. And a nation to revive. He could not forget that.

  “I see you have more of this worked out than you led on,” Imrail remarked. He looked grimly pleased. “As you say,” the general added with a bow.

  Luc nodded gratefully. “Send for me as soon as Trian arrives. I need the best men you can put together by nightfall.”

  “It will be done, my Lord Siren.”

  Nodding, Luc returned to his quarters. Ensuring the note to his folks was in plain view, he did not remain idle. He had to try. Retrieving his sword and the Ruling Rod, he drew in a breath and focused his will. The active parts of his mind suddenly seemed to waken. Before him a fissure opened. The light that burst forth was blinding. Still waiting for me. Fighting down a spark of panic, he sought the Oneness. At the same time, he opened a second fissure. This one radiated a rank and fetid darkness. He did not leave them open long. He just had to be sure. The two met for a second—heartbeats—twin forces that immediately rebuffed one another. Closing the portals, he sank back. Forcing the two strains to meet would have been cataclysmic. Dare he try?

  The answer was not forthcoming.

  It was some hours before Mearl appeared with word Trian and the others had returned. Bounding to his feet, his first steps were unsteady. He was halfway to the front when he met her in a hall. She nearly took them both to the marble floor. Her grip was fierce with no sign of lessening. “You did it,” Trian breathed.

  “So did you. Should I see them?”

  “Just one second.” Her breath was warm and sweet against his skin. “It’s been almost two days. Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Imrail says you’re planning to leave tonight.”

  “I wasn’t going to leave without you,” Luc told her.

  It was a moment before she responded. He had a hard time gauging it with their arms entangled. “I know,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “It’s nothing,” she dismissed. “We should go. The people are eager to meet the Lord Siren. The word is spreading. This is something you need to see for yourself.”

  Catching the bit of wonder in her voice, he pulled back. Her scent was enough to drive a man to his knees; rather than fight it, he embraced it. She understood. They were not what they had been. They were more. It was for her to decide the right time, though. He no longer held any thoughts of proceeding without her. Imrail was one thing, but she had a role beyond his immediate perception. “I’ll come,” he said. “I’m curious what they had to say about the Lady Elloyn. My name is hardly mentioned in the Annals.”

  She looked at him directly. “Yours is the name that will free them. Mine will only remind them of what was.”

  “We can hope. It might be best if you get in a few hours. I can go on if you like.”

  “I’ll come,” she said. “They know me now.”

  The arrival of the residents of Triaga was almost as jolting as what had taken place in the audience hall. They were of a size and scope beyond his first imagining. They were still streaming in. The range of bright colors, canvas strips to identify wagons, seemed to breathe life into the barren city. There were young and old, women and children. Stout but reserved men. On Lightfoot he saw them extend well into the city. The craftsmen entered under heavy escort. Kryten’s men scrambled to direct them. Elaine seemed to be coordinating their resettlement. Luc, surrounded by a train of men in silver and black, evoked a noticeable reaction. Penthar’s young master. He heard whispers of Viamar and son of the White Rose. Something in him stirred up in response to the sight. Trian ensured he was not only seen, but greeted the arriving men and women personally. He had to rein her in as they would be at it most of the night. Some of the laborers would take more time to relocate. Firmly suggesting they take the opportunity to redouble the watch at the city’s gates, it was not long before he turned his thoughts to the city’s defense. They could not strip it and leave these men and women in this condition. They would need more than just room to sustain them, about the only thing Triaga could boast of at the moment. Elaine Kryten, now flanked by Luc and Imrail, made mental notes to all of their suggestions. She looked pleased.

  “Your father has requested you remain behind,” Imrail told her. “He asked me to make it an order.”

  The striking woman clenched her fists, teeth bared. “He would. He’s far too protective and meddles in matters that are my affair. I need to do something, General.”

  “You will. Get the city ready for evacuees. Lots of them. You will also need to prepare for the arrival of Ariel Viamar and her husband. Few know this, but Ancaida may already be doomed. I worry Tolmar will be the next target. If I were to hazard a guess, General Vandil may return to take command, but you will have a role in this city’s governance. When the Lady Viamar arrives, you will learn more. Until then, follow the instructions as they were issued.”

  The refined woman nodded soberly. “As you say, my Lord General.”

  Luc turned to Imrail and made a motion for them to make their way back to the hold. It was time to turn his thoughts to leaving. Past time now. He was leaving Penthar. No use in denying it or delaying. Seeing Trian to her quarters, he and Imrail waited in the hall a moment. He felt the need to say something. Perhaps the relentless king’s man did as well. The man had changed in rece
nt weeks. More open, though certainly no less decisive. Tonight he had undoubtedly changed the landscape of the south for years to come—pending the outcome of events in Ancaida, of course.

  Imrail looked a touch wry. “You’re trying to keep me from coming,” he said. “Don’t deny it, Anaris.”

  “Maybe,” Luc admitted with a sudden grin.

  “I don’t need a nursemaid, boy,” Imrail said crossly. “You’re not—”

  “I’m not ready.” Luc acknowledged. Inside he was a cold force of pent up fury. He thought if he but bent his will he could unleash the torrent. Imrail was not the only one changed. “They aren’t either. They’d be fools to cross me.”

  Imrail regarded him for several moments. “That doesn’t mean they won’t try.” He said it flatly.

  Luc shrugged. “We’ll know when the moment comes,” he responded. “For now, Triaga needs you. Our men need you. I promise I won’t do anything headstrong.”

  Imrail eyed him evenly. “That remains to be seen. Just remember you belong to this Plane now. If you bleed, you will die. We all may die.” He rubbed his wrists, exhaling. “We do it your way, then. I can’t say I like it, but I suspect the Ancaidans will be more likely to receive you without an army at your back. You have three, maybe four hours before you need to set out. I won’t be far behind. Send word as soon as you cross the border.” He paused. “I assume you have a plan for that as well?”

  He finished it with just the faintest hint of interest. Clearly he had no doubt Luc would be able win the crossing. That was something at least. “I have a few ideas,” Luc said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Imrail nodded. “Get some rest then, boy. I’ll have someone wake you.”

  In the end it was just prior to daybreak when he and Trian were moving with a light company of Redshirts and Silverbands. That was the name they had for Vandil’s company in the city. It sort of resonated. Imrail, Avela, and Lenora watched them depart in silence. Doing his best to curb his impatience, he raised a hand in farewell. They cut south immediately and rode at a steady pace. Sections of the city were already being settled, though these were within sight of Kryten’s sprawling compound. Ironic they had the light of a partial moon to guide them.

  It took them at least an hour to reach the city’s southern gates. These would be the most important. Finding it fully manned, the men on duty saluted. Several appeared to know him by sight now. He was sorry he’d had only a few days to get to know them. Raising a hand in farewell, he set his jaw and rewrapped the reins around his fingers. Making a soft sound, Lightfoot darted forward. Moments later they were cutting through the darkness and the vacant fields north of the border.

  I’m coming, he sent the thought out.

  He wondered if he should feel foolish for hoping their enemies took notice.

  CHAPTER 20 — INTO ANCAIDA

  It took Luc some time getting accustomed to traveling by nightfall again. Not quite what he expected. They had done so often enough in recent weeks. Maybe it was the twisting winds beating across the dirt road that made it next to impossible to keep his cloak in place. He had chosen to wear the one Reeva Tanalo had made for him. It rested lightly atop the banded armor Vandil had compelled him to wear when they had finally cleared the Third Plane. There the darkness had been impenetrable. Now he used it to cloak their passage, unwilling to risk detection. They might be forced to continue in secret all the way to the Ancaidan capital, if necessary. Somehow he did not think it would be that simple. Imrail was going to have his hands full keeping the armies of Penthar on the march. He dismissed the notion his discomfort was due in part to this being the first time he was leading a company on his own. Other than Trian most were virtual strangers.

  No, that was not it, he realized abruptly.

  It was the grim hope Naeleis would attempt to intervene and reveal himself finally.

  As they rode Trian appeared to read his thoughts. She did not say anything; she did not need to. Her expression conveyed enough, a hint of warning and mounting worry. He tried to dismiss it.

  Imrail had designated Mearl and Eubantis as his chief aides. That suited Luc well enough. Both were solid. Mearl had served as Imrail’s adjutant in Peyennar when the Earthbound had ripped through the remote mountain settlement. The man’s next assignment, should they survive this, would be just as pivotal.

  Difficult to weigh the other men assigned to him. Originally Imrail had intended this to be no more than a scouting party to report on activity along the Ancaidan border. Gantling’s lead pathfinder, a Redshirt named Cael Harlin, indicated both sides of the border were unusually quiet. Tensions between the two nations being what they were made that unusual in and of itself. Luc intended to find out for himself and, like Thresh, find a way to persuade the Ancaidans they had no choice but to permit the Pentharans entry. Imrail hoped to have two thousand Redshirts ready to ride in two days at the latest. That many would be difficult to muster. They had to hold Triaga until the relief squad out of Alingdor arrived.

  “You cannot be serious about this,” Gantling told him at one point, bringing a muscled chestnut up beside Luc and Trian. A glance at the Val Moran made his face tighten. Plainly he did not know what to make of the Val Moran. “My Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he added grudgingly when throats cleared around them. “My Lord,” he continued smoothly. “I meant no offense, but thirty men giving challenge to the armies of Ancaida. Why would General Imrail consent to this?”

  Luc spared the man a passing glance. At least Imrail had succeeded in minimizing any influence he might have over the mobilizing troops, but the Redshirt could still complicate matters. Luc had prepared himself for the worst. “He consented because the Lord Siren commanded it,” Trian said. “And because they know our goal is to unify the Ancaidan people, not give challenge Master Gantling,” she added. Her Val Moran tone, resonant, betrayed no hint of contempt.

  “You say that but you have shown little—”

  “Captain,” Luc growled, “This is an advance team. I am prepared to submit myself into their custody if it will aid us in reaching the capital uncontested. We have to stop our enemies from seizing the city.”

  Gantling chewed his lower lip. He did not speak again.

  Continuing south, Luc sought the Tides. Awareness immediately blossomed in his mind, in his inner being. A conduit, he had some innate ability to control it. That was not the way it was supposed to work, though. Remembering his father’s warning, he simply let the awareness wash over him. They had three, maybe four hours to go. Something in him, some latent perception, perhaps, told him it had to be tonight.

  He drove on.

  Difficult to say what the men behind him thought of this. Of him. Instinctively he gave them glances when he needed a scout or two to move forward or cut east or west. Twice he sent runners back north to cover their rear. The Masters Ingram and Varel had taught him a great deal about scouting some years prior, so he knew enough to take precautions; Urian and Altaer were even more expert. Judging by the blue-black horizon, they still had some hours until dawn. No, not at all nervous to be leading a mismatched band of men on a perilous errand. Just expectant. He would leave them when it became necessary, leave them with their lives intact and still some chance to return to Penthar. He could hope for that much. That was why he pushed them hard. As hard as Imrail would have. Harder perhaps.

  Halting just once to rest the horses, he consulted with Mearl and Harlin as soon as he flung himself out of the saddle. “How long?” he asked the reedy scout who stood several hands short of him. Feeling Lightfoot’s impatience beside him, he stroked the bay. Seemed the horse could sense something of his mood.

  “A couple hours, my Lord,” the tracker replied, beady eyes hesitant to stay locked on his. For some reason the man looked a little unsettled.

  “Mearl?” Luc said.

  The reserved soldier considered it. Prior to setting out he had donned the insignias of the Mark and the Sparrow. Imrail must have thought it important. “A fair es
timate, my Lord Siren,” he said. “This wind is something fierce, but at least it isn’t against us. It does not seem entirely natural, but we should make it with time to spare.”

  “Good,” Luc told them. “We’ll risk a short stop here. Spread the word and post a watch.”

  Mearl nodded, moving off with a salute. Turning, Luc saw the majority of the Redshirts clustered around Gantling. Although the men appeared intent on seeing to their mounts, the Silverbands waiting just to the south presented something of a problem. It seemed breaking the divide between the two factions was going to prove more challenging than he had first given thought to. Well, they were going to have to settle their differences. One way or another, they would.

  Sighing, he made his way towards Lightfoot and checked the bay’s hooves and wiped down the bridle. He waved aside Eubantis when the man offered to help, making a motion towards Trian’s mare. None of them had the time to stand on ceremony. Taking a skin, a bit of crusty bread and cheese, he waited until Trian was settled, mystic eyes fatigued from what had already been a long day. This when they had another march to go. Something in her look told him she was still troubled. He was not certain why.

  After waiting the prescribed time, Luc gave the signal for the company to start underway. The men sprang into motion immediately. In a matter of minutes they were speeding south. Scanning the distant parts of the nation, knowing in just a few short hours they would be leaving it behind for good, on some level he found himself existing in another time, a forgotten age of the world, the land shivering, preparing itself for the return of the forces native to the Making. Some were innately good, some neutral or indifferent. Others were not so keen on the way in which events in the Mirror Plane were unfolding. He could feel it in his fiber, his perception multiplied beyond anything the boy out of Peyennar had ever imagined or experienced. The changes should have terrified him, not emboldened him. He had seen so many humbled. He suspected his end might be no different.