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

by Matt Thomas

* * * * *

  Halfway across the channel, the Heights became increasingly visible. Not something Rew thought he could stomach here. Peyennar was far off, and every depiction or description of the Earthborn and the fancies of the Furies proved worse than any daydream or hallucination he had envisioned while working his father’s fields. Those were simpler times, with his folks attempting to drill in him good Pentharan sense despite his resistance. Now he knew there was a great deal of difference between northern and southern “sense” and no arrangement between his father and Amreal could have ever prepared him for this.

  There was no sense in this. No denying or defying what was coming.

  Still he breathed. The blood. The spray. The screams. He was wet with water and sweat but alive and with purpose.

  I’m insane, he chided himself. Cursed himself. A significant distance from the mainland, and with rough waters separating the landmass home to Ancaida’s highborn, it appeared a storm had been unleashed. The mists surrounding the isle were a veil of smoke and fumes, unnatural, fetid, but clouds were gathering, winds were marshaling, thunder was peeling in the distance, and with the Almaran ship moving at full speed, heavily muscled bronze-tinged men—and more than a few women in clinging tan apparel, some spotters and others taking part in full duties—they made the crossing at speeds that were unmatched. Any other time he would have given his full attention to the strange folk that most of Valince held in fascination, but not today. Today they stood amongst the Guardians, equally enigmatic. And without Aurin or Denail to lead them, the son of Allard Acriel appeared to hold some sway.

  “Do you feel fear, young Acriel?”

  Rew froze. The sudden warping heat made him step back. He needed only a lone glance to know the two of them had met before. The reddish-orange coat appeared even more intense. Skin and hair seemed to shift in hue, but the power that radiated from the being was immediate and undeniable.

  “Malden,” he mouthed.

  “The same. Do you feel fear? It is an unknown . . . concept among my kind. Or was. But it may aid me here. The enemy is full of guile. We must not let them break him. Will you help me?”

  “How—?” He wasn’t sure how he even managed to speak.

  “You will know when the time comes. For now it appears I am causing something of a disturbance. Fare you well, young servant of Iones.”

  Rew just stared, paralyzed by the stocky being, hair wild in the wind. Hard to say what color it was, as it appeared to shift whenever the creature moved. He felt suddenly warm, too, almost as if the heat of the man’s breath was hot. But just as quickly as Malden had appeared on deck, he was gone, and the Heights were rapidly approaching.

  * * * * *

  Flesh feeling stretched and at the point of breaking, Luc inched forward. Something was wrong. He had slipped into the First Plane, but had failed to fully leave this one. The attempt alone had been crushing. Now he knelt only a few yards from where he had tried to breach the Planes. For a moment he had glimpsed what stood on the other side, but something was suppressing the ability to fully pass through. No, not suppressing. An urgent missive. A summons. That one glimpse had left him in agony, craving more. Dazed, the boy he had been whimpered for an end to the madness, but he was hardly able to hold a coherent thought. No matter. The creature he had become—or was becoming—dismissed that past, dismissed that pain. Still, whatever he had done had made an impact. A pillar of light that swallowed up the darkness. That was something.

  An all-out onslaught. Even the being out of the First Plane understood the necessity, if not for revenge then for the men and women still fighting. Did it matter the Dread city stood abandoned, lifeless? If it did not, then why continue to mourn it?

  Dragging himself up, fighting swirls of dust and tiny flecks that cut through the air at alarming speeds, he tried to get his bearings. Hands hauled him upright. Vandil likely.

  “It didn’t work . . . ?” he heard the general say.

  Luc coughed. Between gasps for air some sensation took him. “I was . . . called back.” That was the only way he could explain it. But by what. No, by who? “The Earthbound are in the city, aren’t they?” he whispered. He did not need an answer.

  Vandil nodded. At least it appeared a nod, grim but unyielding. “We are fully engaged. Our men are exposed—some have already landed on the other side, but I do not know what that will gain us if the capital is lost.”

  I’ve sent them to their slaughter.

  “My Lord,” Vandil said roughly, “if you’re going to blame yourself, blame us all. They’d have seized the city regardless. Don’t doubt Alingdor will be next if we do nothing.”

  Luc reached for his throat where the crystal shard hung on a thin leather cord. He wondered if it was time. His father was somewhere out there already, though. Perhaps the Diem could manipulate the Tides in some way to get him—

  It hit him then. It struck him hard enough it might as well have been Vandil’s fist taking him square in the face. “They’re here,” he whispered. Not just one. And perhaps more than two.

  Still unsteady, he looked the general over. I will not lose, he thought with a snarl. “See to the defense of the city, Vandil. I am going across. Someone is demanding an audience. That, or the Ban holds me. Whatever it is, I’m afraid by nightfall you are going to have your hands full. I won’t be able to help. Raise the standard. No one does anything until I am on the other side. I want the Companions assembled if there is any way to reach them.”

  Vandil caught the look in his eye. It was a long moment before he nodded. “You were born with ice in your veins,” he whispered with a hand over his heart. “I will see it done.”

  That was all the man said. They clasped arms, both equally bleak. Then, in seconds, Luc was in motion, the Tides suddenly shifting in the distance. With the Light of the First Plane shattering the darkness, he sent swells of protection over the channel and much of the Lower City. The strain was beyond any reckoning, the limits he set for himself unbounded. He had lost the Dread City, but still had the memory of its unchaining to guide him.

  * * * * *

  It seemed only minutes to the bank. He would have to return one day to consider the decadent grounds—still somehow unharmed with the city likely fully contested, something that worried him, something he suspected only a fool would dismiss as unintentional. Between the People’s Plaza and Elegran’s Crossing there were tiered walkways, busts, intricate gardens, and cascading inlets intermixed on either side. Ancaidans, for all of their reputation, were a complicated people. But the sight of hundreds of Pentharans crossing the channel held him, the air above alive, pulsating, flashes of light clashing against the gathering darkness. He had some memory of men flanking him, someone issuing orders to protect him. Then he was being ushered into a sizable craft, one of the few left that looked serviceable. He did not see the faces of the men who cast off with him, or feel the spray that rushed at them, or even the air. Battle had been engaged on both sides of the channel. Once before he had felt the merging of Amreal’s will with his own. Now he knew enough to feed the unseen protective dome above them and where it was being probed. Balance to maintain it. Alteration to smother attacks sent from high above. Shards of his will shattering pools where creatures of ancient evil crossed the Mirror Planes.

  He felt ripples in the Making tremble, the Foundation of the World beginning to unravel. He felt it all. Pressure points began to pierce his temples. No man was made to wrestle with such forces.

  But he was a man. Or had been. His soul existed in the light and glory of the Dread City. But his heart rested in Peyennar and the people who had sustained him, the gentle hands of the one who should have been queen, the forceful strength and hardened upbringing directed by Warden.

  Ansifer’s greatest rival.

  “The Giver help us!” someone yelled. “Fire in the sky. Is that a ship, my Lord Siren?”

  Before he could pause to look, something elemental shot out of one of the voids of darkness. Just as fast a bla
st of heat met it, sending it thrashing into the water. His mind shuddered at the power of the blast. Then it hit him. With a brushing of thought and will, he understood.

  He’s here.

  Willing the single-mast craft forward, a surging current rocked them. Locking his feet, he managed to hold his footing on the glossy deck, men scrambling to keep the vessel from capsizing. Abruptly he realized he was drenched. Pentharans were by no means seamen—these ones even less so. But in the face of the hissing wind and the tidal forces locked in conflict, they showed their mettle. Wiping his face, he kept his eyes fixed on the other shore. He knew he had committed everything, committed more than everything. His people. His home. All on a gamble that he would be strong enough to rally them against the darkness.

  Now he was not so sure.

  Hold on, a voice beyond the threshold of his consciousness told him. Just hold on.

  * * * * *

  It was well beyond nightfall by the time they reached the southern shore, the air tepid but bearable at this hour. Negotiating the channel had proven more costly than he and Vandil had feared. Lightning and darkness assailing men clinging to barges. Creatures outside of memory soaring through the skies. . . . Men not weighed down by the terror launched arrows at the scaled beasts—beings armored like the Sypher, wraiths themselves that made no outcry when they died—but for the most part were defenseless. His mind shied away from whatever he had done to save them, from the blasts of flame that had ripped them to the shreds from the inside—the author some otherworldly consciousness that defied this existence.

  It was all almost more than he could fully comprehend. He never would have believed Ansifer capable of fielding such forces, not without consent at least, but something of Luc’s determination seemed to spark the Sons of Thunder and the Redshirts. What he had not expected was the savage unleashing of the Lancers and Whitefists on the scale the Privy Council had ratified. Vandil must have been more than persuasive. They were proving tenacious. Now that word had spread that they were facing a brutal enemy from the dawn of existence intent on defeating the combined forces of the Nations, the Ancaidans had fully committed themselves. That was far more than he had thought possible. Runners would send word to the refugees, refugees he intended to provide shelter to in Triaga. The word would spread. First into northern Ancaida and on into Penthar, but then further into Tolmar where it would spill into the other nations from there. In months no one would deny rumor of the Furies return.

  Or the truth that the Unmaker had awakened.

  That was his hope, at least, but in the here and now for every five men who had made it across safely, one had been forced to turn back or had been lost in the rapids. Caldor, for all it had cost them, had not levied such a high price. This was their last stand, one neither side could afford to lose. On the isle both sides were pinned down, and a cornered, desperate enemy oftentimes became the more ruthless. If the Earthbound decided to take possession of the city, it would fall to Vandil to defend.

  Taking the gangway down, he would have rolled up his sleeves had he not donned the heavy armor, soaked by the ocean spray. Something about setting his feet back on solid ground made him momentarily light-headed, but the end was near. It ends! Snarling, he stepped into the avalanche of assembling soldiers. They seemed beyond number. Instantly men in silver and black formed up around him. Others hailed him as he passed, men he did not know. Whitefists and Lancers, brawlers and formally trained and attired warriors. Odd that he no longer found it as unsettling as he once had.

  “Orders?” a voice said cautiously. Luc turned. Lars had taken to wearing a sweeping silver and black coat that hung straight at the back all the way to his heels. He must have been among the first to cross. At the moment the strident man looked about as pale-faced as Luc had ever seen him. Grivas and some of their aides were with him. “Bad?” the man asked warily as he handed Luc a towel.

  “Worse,” Luc replied. “You saw for yourself. The dome will dissipate in time. We need to search the waters for survivors. Quickly.”

  “I will see to it, my Lord,” Mearl said.

  Luc nodded, turning back to Lars. “Report,” he said coldly.

  “All is as you and Vandil requested,” Lars said with a bow. The man’s face was plastered with sweat, but he had a determined cast to his sharp features whenever he glanced towards the southwest. Tight lines across his normally smooth face made it clear there was something coming that would not please Luc, though. “We secured the square first,” the Companion began, raking a hand through his sodden hair. “The inn is serviceable and supplied—untouched and unspoiled.” Luc glanced in that direction. A sizable establishment seemingly seized to tend to the wounded. Men who had come here on his word, his authority. A burden he was intimately aware of. “There’s a stable where prized horses were housed,” Lars continued. “All were killed or scattered. The good news is we were able to retake the garrison,” he added, “but not without cost. It’s my fault, I’m afraid. I thought . . I mean . . .” He shook his head. “I lost two Red Shirts before I realized Ardan were masking their presence, some trick that makes me wonder if they know more about our abilities than we . . .” He swallowed, searching Luc’s eyes, eyes that instantly became piercing. “The enemy has centered its strength among the estates up the rise. They are dug in deep. Some of the Ancaidans have gone over. Lancers. There have been a few skirmishes, but I would say they are waiting. My guess is the respite is a ruse to entice us—to lull you—into engaging them.”

  Luc nodded. The latter seemed likely enough. Carefully studying the square, he caught sight of men battling fatigue, men determined to aid those yet to come ashore. Some were spellbound by the awesome forces still at conflict above the Ancaidan waters. The inlet itself was alive with activity. Two ships were docked, one that seemed to have taken a pummeling. Almaran, by the rigging. Everywhere he looked on the ornate shoreline with a tiered loading zone and raised levees, men were scrambling to secure the landing and prepare for a frontal assault. A team of capable Redshirts seemed to have the charge at the moment. One met eyes with him—Gantling, by the thick build—offering a solemn salute.

  Turning, Luc bit back a grimace. He had to swallow twice to fight back the taste of bile on his lips. Lenora had foretold a grim end for the man in the near future. He only hoped today would not prove to be the day. Letting his eyes slide to the south, and slightly further, the gateway into what appeared to be the center of Ancaidan power was a hive of activity. Shaded by the not-so-insignificant garrison jutting up against the Raging Sea, the square stood firmly in Pentharan hands. Torches had been erected, revealing architecture with a definitive noble air. Men made their way through adjoining structures, still securing them, boots crossing the intricate cobblestone clearing, the standard at the heart thrown down and shredded. With the island all but abandoned, there was a palpable sense of turbulence. And a menacing presence.

  Lars cleared his throat, catching Luc’s attention. “There is more, I am afraid. Someone is demanding a parley. She has . . . She is not one of us, my Lord.”

  Luc froze. This was it. “Maien?” he demanded.

  Lars shook his head. “Not so evil, if no less cold. She claims you will know her. She is waiting inside and has commanded we assemble every man within earshot.”

  Luc gripped the Ruling Rod. He was drained and did not think he could face one of the Powers here. It had to be her. First Elloyn, then Reya. Someone else was out there, too. Despite the changes he had undergone, he felt compelled to answer. That alone made him all but certain who it was. Only one force under the ethereal winds could compel him. But that had been then. Now there were some moments when he wished he was nothing more than his mother’s son.

  “My Lord?”

  Luc pulled himself upright. It was not easy. “Gather the men,” he said. “As many as the place will hold. I will not hide any exchange that takes place here.”

  Lars bowed, issuing sharp commands. Calls rung out, but Luc dismissed them. He
had a battle to finish. The twilight hour was less than ideal, but no less so than a prolonged stalemate. “How do things stand currently?” he asked. Difficult to moderate his tone. The pull from the fallen Diem was so strong it was grating. Their song had cadences and rhythms that transcended time and memory. They were waiting for him. All of Ardil was waiting.

  “No word from Urian and Altaer yet,” Lars responded. “Some of the Guardians arrived on the Almaran ship.” He made a backhanded gesture towards one of the sizable crafts docked. “Acriel was among them. We were lucky he had the wits to leave us when he did. This Ansifer had all but secured the docks in the city and had an ambush waiting here. Young Acriel appears to have led the rout himself and was one of the first to set foot on the Heights. Seems there was no one to lead the Guardians after Endar’s defection. After we joined forces, we gained the lower pass. The men are tired, but Graves has our best men in position.”

  Lars leaned forward, looking at him seriously. “I’ve acknowledged I am not Imrail. I have no wish to be. Perhaps serving at the Lord Viamar’s door and losing him was meant to shame me. I don’t know. Now I can only serve as best I can. A word of advice if I may?”

  Luc raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

  “A frontal assault seems the only option, but I would caution you against it,” Lars began seriously. “We have men in position to warn us if they move first. I understand you want to finish this, but I suggest you remain here. That is the counsel Imrail would have given. It is what the White Rose would have commanded. More, it is what the nation needs. Will you consider it? Have you decided?”

  That was the question. Could he afford to make the first move? He felt cold inside, detached. But the pulsing heartbeats and the ever-present whispers stabbing at whatever soul he had left were no longer possible to ignore. Perhaps the subterranean tunnels and bitter crossing had masked it, but now no longer.

  “The Sword of Ardil is here,” he whispered.

  Lars mouthed something under his breath before tugging off one of his gloves. The sheen of sweat on his brow made it apparent he was still struggling to come to terms with his new role. A more than handsome man, the strain of duty had made him a touch more reflective. Luc, unsure which Lars he needed more now, drew in a breath, making a motion for them to answer the summons. Events would unfold as they were meant to.