by Matt Thomas
“There’s going to be rioting,” Thresh said darkly.
Grivas nodded, looking gray-faced. “No messages are coming out of Rolinia. The city’s sealed. It looks like you’re going to have to fight your way in.”
“Me?” Luc pushed the maps aside. He started to stand, then decided against it. His tent was too warm. Odd that just days in the weather had changed so noticeably. “You worry there are Pentharans moving freely within your borders, but you want me to put them in harm’s way first?”
Thresh narrowed his eyes. “This was your idea. You promised—”
“I promised to face the Furies and the Earthbound,” Luc cut in. “I did not promise to fight your war or send my people to slaughter. We will aid you, but only if you commit the troops you have assembled. Troops I have helped you assemble.”
“I won’t have Ancaidans butchering Ancaidans,” Thresh snapped, crossing arms. Someone had found him a jerkin and suitable riding gear. Recent events had toughened him up. Recovered from the scuffle against the Earthbound south of the Watch, his gray eyes were kindled. He was determined to retake his nation at any cost.
Luc, well aware everyone in the tent was waiting for his response, answered immediately. “I will warn you once. When the betrayers rose up against the Dread City a number of the Powers fled and did not aid the defenders. I held them accountable. I broke them. They are chained to the Third Plane for their crimes. I regret it now and have paid my penance. But I will not wait for you to decide if you want to join me in my fight against the Furies. I have the backing of the White Rose, the Lord Viamar, and the Warden to seize the capital if need be. If your men will not march with me, they are against me. Your choice is simple. Either side with me or the Furies. If you wish to find them, I suspect you know the way.”
Thresh stepped forward, incredulous. “You’re mad,” he hissed.
“No, I am following the will of the Giver.” He gave a measuring glance towards Gantling. “What do you say? Does the City of the Crescent Moon agree?”
The Redshirt drew in a breath. He was studying Luc so intently it was hard to say what the man was thinking. Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze. “The City of the Crescent Moon is yours,” he said after a moment. “Besides, I hardly understand any of this. But I have seen the Ardan. And we still remember the Stand.” Slowly his expression firmed. “He’s right. If you don’t join us, your people will perceive us as an occupying force, not as liberators.”
Thresh shook his head in frustration. His refined features were a shade on the scarlet side. Slowly, he exhaled. “I’ll consider it,” he said grudgingly.
“You don’t have long,” Luc told him.
They waited out the remainder of the day and set out at dawn. When he left his tent the next morning, his escort formed up around him. He was getting used to it now. Reaching Lightfoot, he met Trian’s eyes and mounted. His dreams were growing darker. He was beginning to perceive things in sleep he did not notice in the waking world. There were shifts in the Tides, a nameless force or presence beating at the World-Axle. His enemies were moving in ways he could not detect. He had only a vague intuition to go on, nothing more. It did not seem fair he was going to have to counter whatever their designs were with only his wits. No, not fair at all. Not in the least.
Continuing at a frantic pace, he led their advance party—now numbering almost five hundred or more—until high noon. Messages continued to pass between the other outfits, the Companions combing Ancaida on their long march south. Word from Altaer came the most frequently. Some of his scouts had pushed deeper towards the southern coastal areas. Entire villages had been abandoned, examples made of anyone who resisted. Remembering the Whitewood, he shivered. There was no doubt a blackness hovered over the Ancaidan capital. Three days in, following the highway south, there were noticeable signs of turbulence. Evacuees. Droves of them. A runner brought word they were making for a sizable camp to the southeast in the shadow of the southern stretch of the Mournful Peaks. The undertaking had all the signs of someone making a coordinated effort to provide safety and succor to the Ancaidan people. Apparently they had been massing for weeks.
“At least someone out there knows what he’s doing,” Thresh muttered. “We need to send aid.”
Luc glanced at Dremor. “Assemble a few of your fastest riders.” Turning to Eubantis, he hesitated. He did not want to send the man. They had leagues to go to reach Val Mora. When this was over, he suspected it would be Landon Graves and the Sons of Thunder powering east near the coastal areas that led to Emry; he intended Mearl and Eubantis to accompany the outfit. But this was important, too. “I think we can spare a handful,” he told the Silverband. “Take enough to provide some muscle. Do what you must to assess the situation and get word back to Imrail. I don’t know how long it will be safe to stay in the hills. If need be, get them moving towards Triaga.”
“Your word has a way of shifting to suit your ends,” Thresh said.
“His ends are mine as well, Ronan Thresh,” Trian warned.
That silenced the man. His glance at the Val Moran was brief and hesitant. In the end he nodded curtly, letting the matter drop. Eubantis saluted and rode off.
Taking the lead, feeling the sultry air seep into his pores, he dug a heel into Lightfoot’s flank and angled forward. The further south they rode, the more the lack of trade or traffic gnawed at him. These parts seemed only sparsely settled, especially considering how heavily populated southern Penthar was. Well, he supposed contact between the two nations being what it was made the discovery hardly surprising; maps were one thing, but the real thing conveyed an entirely different perspective. From what he had been told, Pentharans and Ancaidans did not interact often. Official delegations were rare, most of their contact centered around the Harvest Rite, what Pentharans referred to as the Gathering in Aldoren’s Watch. Ronan Thresh could have explained it to him, but he knew the man’s chief aid, Olhm Grivas, was far more impartial. He was also a formidable tactician from what Imrail had told him.
Calling for the man to ride with him as they trudged along the highway, Luc commented on the lack of movement or military presence. There were no posts that he could see and only the occasional town. The one commonality he saw from north to south were the extensive holdings. Orchards and vineyards dominated the landscape. Workers, the ones left at least, tended them with care and a singular assiduousness. Those latter often paused as their party—now a significant outfit—passed, the concern apparent in their eyes. No doubt by now word of trouble in Rolinia had reached them. He wondered if rumor of the Furies would be enough to make them flee their homes.
“Arrogance,” Grivas said, white hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. He was a military general without a doubt, but also had the refinement of a court noble. “Or shortsightedness. A fault of the ruling houses, I’m afraid. We were bystanders during the Stand and did not suffer the tumult to our economy that the nations of Penthar, Tolmar, and Val Mora endured until we had no markets to trade with. We lacked vision and understanding, I must admit, but we were not alone. Gintara hid behind her borders. Now their western fence is gone, Ardil abandoned. Our shortsightedness may be our undoing. In contrast you have a vibrant land and a people willing to flock to your banner.” Grivas shook his head. “Ivon Ellandor’s son. The word is running rampant. You do not know what that name heralds here. Some doubt him, scorn him, but there are men who remember his cause and would be willing to take it up and see the mistakes the Ruling Council made righted. Some are calling for stronger leadership.”
He paused. “Some are calling for you,” he added blankly.
Luc just looked at him.
“You must understand our governance structure,” Grivas added quickly. “Ancaidan houses vie for the right to sit on the Ruling Council. There are always three. One minister oversees trade and commerce, taxes and the like, another the welfare of the people—everything from the upkeep of roads, waterways, land titles and rights, and grievances. Minister Thresh bein
g the most powerful commands the right to oversee our military forces. With the ministers missing or in exile, there will be anarchy unless we can locate the Privy Council. Ancaidans are by nature neutral in outside matters, our undoing I fear. Our people prize the capital for its conveniences. It is there our power is centralized.” He made a face. “I’m afraid in truth having strong neighbors to the north and east who pose no threat has led to a certain inattentiveness. We have patrols and a strong presence near the borders where goods are tariffed, but outside of that we rely on landowners to maintain their own affairs. Still the prospect of a king, one of the Furies, intrigues some.”
“I am not one of the Furies,” Luc growled. “My folks—”
“Are esteemed and renowned throughout the West.”
“That hardly matters.”
“Don’t tell me, my Lord Siren,” Grivas said, shrugging. “It is Minister Thresh who fears what you will do here. Elegran is gone. Our last king,” Grivas explained when Luc looked at him blankly. “Some see in you what might have been. Or what can be. You have made allies. This worries Minister Thresh.”
Luc gave him a direct look. “Then you will assure him when this is over I will leave. In peace.”
“That is well. We have no quarrel with the nation of Penthar.”
Luc sighed. “My quarrel is with the Legion, Grivas. I know them. They should be Minister Thresh’s too. What can expect between here and Rolinia?”
Grivas considered it, Gantling and Mearl hovering behind silently. “Hard to say. Caldor lies between us. We may learn more there. It has some time since our departure. So far whoever seized power seems to have focused almost exclusively on the capital. If I were to hazard a guess, he or she, or they, have not moved openly. Perhaps they enlisted dissidents who assumed command. But what we have seen so far also suggests someone is taking steps to counter them. I imagine were I there I might do the exactly the same.” The man held up a hand when Gantling opened his mouth. “Think about it. Seal the city and find a way to send out evacuees. Coordinate some type of resistance.”
“You’re assuming there’s someone with the insight and experience to do so,” Gantling said. Luc and Grivas glanced at the man. That was when they all stopped.
“General Vandil?” Mearl suggested.
Luc considered it. “Perhaps,” he conceded. Hard to see a foreigner establishing any kind of authority in the capital, but if anyone was capable of it, it was Armenis Vandil. “We will have to wait and see.”
Riding together for much of the remainder of the day, he listened more the he commented, weighing what they were up against with what Grivas believed had become of the Ancaidan militia and the Council. The man made recommendations that seemed sound. Infantry stationed north of the city, archers and horse to the east and west. Communication reestablished from the inside, a command structure put in place as soon as possible. Taking the city with the support of the Ancaidan military was vital. That meant countering the Legion of the Earthbound. That was Luc’s task.
For two more days they powered south. Mearl and Gantling sent out scouts to scan the level terrain, taking every precaution imaginable. From sunup to sundown, Luc pushed the men hard. Harder than was likely sensible. He worried the men would be too road-weary to engage the Earthbound if it came to that. His fault, but he had few options. They needed to put down for a day or two prior to moving on the capital. Messages came in at an increasingly rapid pace. Imrail and the other outfits were within reach. Everything appeared to be going smoothly. Perhaps too smoothly.
Deciding to chance moving an hour or two after nightfall, they struck for the outline of a town directly south. Luc, with a ring of the Sons of Thunder surrounding him and six Redshirts taking the lead, felt a sudden itch behind the ears. Reining in, the men came to a sharp halt. They were deep in Ancaidan territory now. He had lost count of the days. He needed a bath and a warm bed. They all did. Attempting to pierce the night sky, wishing he had Urian’s eyes, he relied on senses still largely unknown to him. It did not happen all at once. As he stared hard into the distance, a slow shudder escaped him. Some spark of insight came over him. Feeling limp, he forced himself to admit he had erred in his original assumption—more a foolish hope—that the Furies would allow him to reach Rolinia uncontested.
“Set camp,” Luc whispered. “This is as far as we go.”
“Trouble?” Mearl asked.
“They’re here.” It took a colossal effort to keep his voice even, expression untouched by the rank feel in the earth and air. He did not need the Tides to sense what waited ahead. He felt it. Not just an irritating sensation, skin rubbed raw; it was the stench of the betrayers, his ancient kin. The more he became accustomed to his native self, still at conflict with it, in need to control it, the more attuned he became to the latent forces moving unseen. Not only that, he felt it.
The Sword of Ardil.
The distinct awareness called him, urged him. Not like before. The cries were deafening. Demanding. No using denying it. Ansifer was here, here with the weapon the Diem had forged in secret to save the world at its blackest hour.
Seeing his expression, Ronan Thresh rode up. “That’s Caldor,” he said. “A sizeable town. I have kin there.”
Luc bowed his head. I’m sorry. Letting out a breath, he fixed his eyes on the man. “We are too late, Lord Thresh,” he told the man. “I doubt there is anything left that resembles the town you remember.”
Thresh paled. “Surely you jest.” He said it weakly.
“I’m afraid not.” Luc stabbed at a rising feeling of dread. “It’s what they will do to every city this side of Val Mora if we do not stop them.”
“What are your intentions?” This time it was said without objection. Hesitant. A touch wary. But also resigned to whatever the fates decided.
Luc was hardly a tactician, but knew they had few options. “We do what we can to cleanse Caldor,” he told the man. “Then we move on.” Little else they could do now. Bypassing the town would leave them vulnerable from the north and south. That would leave them caught in a vice and cut off. No, this was it. This was the enemy’s answer.
Under Mearl’s oversight the men camped two or three miles north of Caldor. As Luc dismounted a Redshirt handed him a skin. The gesture was slight, but seemed a beginning. Gantling watched from some distance off, still silent.
“Get the men ready for an immediate assault,” Luc warned Mearl. “And send word.” He resisted the urge to rub his temples. “I need General Imrail and all of our forces.” That was if there was still time.
“Yes, my Lord.”
* * * * *
Urian arrived first. Seeing Luc, he let out a half dozen expletives. Catching his breath, he moved forward, relief evident on his slick features. “This is it, isn’t it?” He did not wait for an answer, just bowed in the saddle, looking over the detachment curiously. “Quite the . . . company you assembled here, my Lord. Word of your march is on every tongue. Your name—the other one—is spreading. Seems we won’t have to worry about the Ancaidan people obliging us. You and the lass have seen to that. How are Mearl and Thresh? Not sure how you stand them. Did you hang Captain Gantling yet?”
The Redshirt, well within earshot, stiffened. Luc just shrugged. “I haven’t decided,” he said.
Urian spat. “Let me know if you want me to take steps.” The bowman’s glare was clearly meant for the Redshirt.
“What word?” Luc asked him.
“About what we expected, my Lord,” Urian said, dismounting. “Most of the locals fled. Ran into a camp with more than three hundred folk who’d escaped the capital weeks ago. They’re in no condition to reach Triaga let alone one of the border towns. Triaga would be better, drab as it is. At least there they’d have the safety of the walls. So far no sign of the Earthbound that we could detect, but word from the coast is bleak. Some shadow ripping through wreaking havoc. Altaer can tell you more.” He glanced at the campfires. “Anything to eat, my Lord? I’m starved. Been in the sadd
le for some time.”
Luc made a sign to a runner towards grounds designated for doling out meals. Judging by the scent swirling in the air, they were boiling beans with bits of cured pork. Not the best fare, but it kept a man on his feet. “We’ll have to eat fast,” Luc said, turning towards his tent. “Ansifer is here. He has the Sword. I need you to get a look at that town up ahead.”
Urian glanced at him. “Here?” the bowman said doubtfully. “Thought he’d find some hole to crawl into after the beating you handed him before.”
“Here,” Luc said. Here they’d either take the battle to the Furies or turn tail and run. The latter he would not do.
Ducking into his tent, the brazier hot and soft rugs carpeting the floor, he found Trian seated cross-legged holding the Rod in her slim hands. Seeing Urian, she smiled fondly. The Companion’s face instantly beaded with perspiration. He bowed hastily.
Luc caught himself studying the lines of her face. In the confines of the tent he was very much aware of her. Odd that he could not recall their first meeting—the one ages before ever seeing her for the first time in Peyennar. “What are you doing?” Luc asked her curiously.
She glanced at the Rod. “I have been wondering what this is. And why your folks went through so much trouble to find it.”
He knew what it was. The Eye and the Ruling Rod of the Dread City. Broken in its fall. Now seemingly complete, a sphere clasped in an ancient claw, it bore a perfect likeness to the Mark of Chaos. It was the Mark. “So much of what we knew is forgotten. But this. I think you sent this here. I think this is what will protect you when you face the Furies.”
He wondered if it was that simple. “Can you use it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Nodding, he resisted moving towards her. “They’re here,” he said, changing the subject.