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

by Matt Thomas

  Imrail eyed him coldly, clearly displeased. He did not press the issue, though. Not yet at least. “I’ll pass the word,” he said stiffly.

  By early evening the horses were covered in a lather and the air was noticeably cooler. Rather than risk a halt, Imrail had them slow to a walk. They had come a considerable distance already. Glancing behind him, he could not help but wonder at the line of determined men formed up behind him. He did not think it would be long now. Fighting hard not to appear too anxious, he let his mind drift. That proved no more advantageous against the flow of images that raced across the boundaries of his subconscious.

  Rew was the first to make out the slight ripple on the horizon. They were still moving at a slow saunter, though Imrail made a motion and he and Luc picked up the pace for the final leg. A scout scanning the north marked them and met them with a look of surprise. Bowing hastily, he hurried off. With a few hours of daylight still left, Hireland looked dumbfounded when he saw them.

  “Report,” Imrail said bluntly as they reached the soldier, the two of them dismounting.

  “My Lord—?” Hireland wiped the stunned look off his face and restarted. “All is well, General. I hadn’t expected you for some hours yet.”

  “Trouble,” the rugged-faced man responded. “A Legion company,” he added shortly. “We’ll have to risk a few hours’ rest. I need you to reposition your scouts. Come with me.” He glanced at Luc. “You should sit tight, my Lord. If they move against us it won’t be during daylight. I’ll see the men are positioned and get in a few hours before dusk.” Nodding, the general quickly moved off with Hireland and a few of his aides. He was making sharp motions and speaking brusquely. Luc left the man to it.

  Returning to Lightfoot, he reached for a water skin hanging from the saddle. Waiting for the others to reach them, he clasped his hands behind his back where he held them clenched tightly. Safe and still free. That was something. He no longer strove to trace the Tides; the continued effort made his head feel light. Amreal would have been able to explain it, or his father. The last residue he recalled put the enemy perilously close to the southeast. He was not sure if Imrail would weigh the risk of staying against attempting to reach the Landing. Regardless, he was beginning to feel it in his blood. The sense of anxiousness, unrest. He reeled his mind in sharply.

  Once the main column arrived, Imrail moved off to oversee their deployment. Luc scanned them momentarily, then caught sight of Rew who had yet to dismount. That sick look was back on his face. Feeling a touch nauseated himself, he peeled off his gauntlets and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Trying to shake off whatever it was that might be troubling his friend, he strode towards Trian and extended a hand up towards her. Likely saddle sore, she gave him a grateful look and dismounted with both arms around his shoulders. Unwilling to stand there too long in full sight of the men or displace the feeling of imminent danger, he tucked his gauntlets into his belt and waited for nightfall, electing to sit at the opening of his tent. After a few minutes he gave in to the temptation of closing his eyes, searching his censured soul for answers to a host of questions he had put off considering. Imrail knew what he was about and did not need him inserting himself into the business of their defense. Luc made no outward sign of movement for some time.

  * * * * *

  Nightfall came and went. He suspected he had dozed off just as the last suggestion of daylight faded and the world became shrouded in darkness. The company camped cold. Rew sat a few paces off to his left. No sign of Trian or Imrail. He wondered if the enemy was aware of their preparations. More than likely, he thought.

  Feeling something strike him in the midsection, he glanced at Rew. It was an apple. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “No problem.” Rew stretched. “Couldn’t sleep. Think I should still try?”

  Luc bit into the apple. “Maybe,” he said a little dubiously. “You feeling any better?”

  Rew shrugged. “A little,” he said. “Takes some getting used to—the flashes, I mean. Denail makes it sound some high thing. Makes me want to soil myself if you ask me. You have all these men hanging on you, tongues scraping their boot flaps—and that girl who . . .” He shuddered. “What am I doing here, Luc?”

  Luc shook his head. He had no answer.

  The World-Axle continued to turn. In some distant place dawn was no doubt rising, but here each moment seemed to hang and only slowly, grudgingly, inch forward. He did not need the Tides to feel the hint of oppressiveness in the air. Coming now. Tossing the apple core aside, he continued to wait. It was almost as difficult as waiting for the Earthbound to show themselves in Peyennar.

  At an hour sometime after midnight with a mist rising out of the earth, a sudden tumult to the east made him spring to his feet. Casting aside the fatigue he felt deep in his bones, he rushed to Trian’s tent. Just as he reached it the two women appeared, Avela holding a spear and Trian the sword of the Blade Orphans. Glancing at Rew, he gave his friend a level look and gesture meant for him to stay put. Instants later six men reached them and drew steel.

  Luc left them there in what he hoped would prove a hub of relative safety. He was dimly aware of two black-coated men moving up beside him. Not pausing to spare them a glance, he continued eastwards. In the darkness it was difficult to make out the Peaks and the thick wood bordering the interminable plains. Luc kept on until some sense forewarned him. Sliding his sword out of the sheath, it made a hissing sound. The ground seemed to heave; it groaned. Growing cold, he hesitated. Why would they so carelessly confront him here when it was obvious they had dug in?

  He did not have the time to consider it. Abruptly a horn sounded. Or maybe it was a cry of command. Imrail, at his side now, bellowed out orders. “Torches!” he snapped, his voice ringing out sharp and clear in the cold nighttime air. “Archers ready! Foot, draw swords! Hold until I give the word!”

  Instantly the coverlet of darkness became alive with a band of igniting light. The sudden intensity was blinding. The tolling thunder did not waver, though. Slivers of charged power arced through the air in answer. Coiling eddies of voidless light sliced downwards, cutting through the night. The swift salvo was shocking. “Deathshades.” His whisper was lost in the sudden offensive. Pulling Imrail back sharply, he rolled to one side, feeling something whip by his ear. Coming to one knee, he gaped at the intensity of the onslaught. He had never conceived they would come so fiercely. Smoke rose from the earth where he had been standing. Creatures under the command of Maien. He would see her pay.

  Struggling to regain his senses, the drumming in the earth grew deafening. Angrats. Luc surged to his feet, knowing they would be overwhelmed in minutes. He realized it was always when he was most desperate that the unseen barriers in his mind broke. Dangerous, his father would have said. Yet he had no choice. “Archers!” he cried. Racing forward, he threw himself at the front line and felt all of the dread and intensity that had built up in him on the ride to reach Hireland unleash. Unari. They had broken the peace and had been a pestilence to the Children. He would see them erased from existence and the arteries of the skies alive again and filled with the echoing voices of Eternity and Memory, the Spire repaired and renamed anew. Altris free to foretell a new day.

  Distantly he thought he heard Imrail mutter a curse. Leveling his grandfather’s sword, he felt the world take on a white hue. His rage stoked the heat of his wrath. Hardly aware of himself, he strode forward. The Angrats, previously closing the distance at an alarming pace, seemed to hesitate. That was when the first rain of arrows hit them. The tactic was hardly inventive or one to make the beasts of the night know fear, but with his sword poised and the world a bleeding white, arrows that hit the mark scorched and burned. Those that missed were worse and made the ground teem with scorching matter from another plane of existence.

  “Second strike!” Imrail commanded. Immediately another hail of arrows struck, then another.

  Luc continued forward. I am Sirien. Something in the thought puzzled him. Realizing he ha
d left the Rod behind, he snarled. One of the Angrats had managed to work its way through the field of beading white light, pockets of the First Plane the Earthbound could not suffer. His sword was encased in it. He was alive with it. This was what he was, he realized. Despite moving on all fours, this Angrat sometimes appeared to stand on its hind legs. It was the size of two men, powerfully muscled and totally enraged. It pounced and as it came on him, a streaking shadow sped downwards. Shifting, he twisted his wrists, feeling a hair of resistance as his blade tore through the shadow. Ignoring the repercussion as it was torn apart, like a small tremor, he leapt back, just in time as the Angrat lunged at him. Sword held between them, he bared his teeth. Crazed, the beast could do nothing but charge him. He was slightly disappointed when it folded over, a half dozen arrows ripping through its hide and armor.

  Mind numbingly blank, he took another step forward. The gallop of horse hooves sent tremors across the fields. Riders stayed clear of the pools of pulsating white flame. Still he pushed forward. Some instinct told him he was not finished here yet. An awareness had opened up in him and he was awash with the presence and power of the winds. With the Tides beckoning to him, he turned his thoughts to the Ardan, ready to break the twisted creatures whose veins ran red with the tainted blood of men and the Forerunners.

  “Luc!”

  That scream made him pause and glance behind him. Like some warning voice from memory, he jerked himself back to the present. He was almost certain this had not been the first time Elloyn had reined him in. Of all the others, only she ruled him. Clutching a hand to his face, he felt himself slide to his knees, recalling the Dread City in ruins and the host of the Faithful scattered. Trian. Feeling something—someone—holding him, he scanned the perimeter. Everywhere he looked he saw men shielding their eyes. Ahead there was no sign of any imminent danger, other than some shrieking sense within that warned him otherwise.

  With pockets of white flame still throwing off a piercing light, he was able to detect what the Val Moran must have well before. Stunned, he hardly moved. One Sypher he should have expected. This one would have ripped through Peyennar had he not confronted it, challenged it; now he suspected it would relentlessly pursue him until one of them fell, to the utter ends of the earth and beyond if necessary.

  One he expected, a creature of ancient power and menace, arrayed in the armor of the ancients and wielding a black sword with the power to maim flesh and rend the soul.

  What he had not expected was the second figure. A creature of fallen grace and glory. Even from far off he recognized the face—the Sypher was making no attempt to mask it—a woman’s face, perilously colorless. Once he had thought it Maien herself. Now he knew. Of a slighter size than the other, this one was no less chilling to behold. She too held a black sword between her gauntleted fists and raven armor hidden beneath illusory robes.

  “Two,” he breathed.

  This one must have escaped on their exit from the Third Plane outside of Edgewood. Now he knew the truth, though it brought him no comfort. It had not been Maien but a second Sypher. Still standing frozen, he gathered himself for a confrontation he was not sure he could win. These were creatures to make even the Unseated—the Forerunners—flee. War and Ruin alone commanded them.

  And he had helped one of them, if not both, escape.

  “You do not know yourself,” the first Sypher said, striding towards him. Its tone was arresting, commanding, cavernous and hissing and chilling to the bone. “The One commands us; we will not be ruled by you. Release us.”

  With his conscious mind unleashed, he started forward. The ripping of his flesh made it next to impossible to see through the blinding light and the burning pain. So be it, he told himself. A hand caught him. Two hands.

  “Luc,” Trian said urgently, “this is their plan. Stop before you lose yourself.”

  “I must break the Ban,” he whispered. Forbidden to end the ancient armistice until the appointed time. Unari had broken it. But he had been born to end it. “Finishing them would be worth the price, Elloyn.”

  Her sudden intake made him flinch. Taking another step forward, a final step, he felt himself cross a once inaccessible divide. There would be no quarter here for the Legion and the Unseated. Not knowing exactly what it was he did, his active mind burst open. He gave in to the images, the memories, the guilt and the grief. No turning back now. Once he had purged the Dread City itself. The price had been too high, though, and that with a rival force rising. Feeling himself beginning to become disconnected, he was dimly aware of the wind picking up and the skies breaking open. Forces absent during the five thousand year watchful peace—peace between the Powers, misery for the Children—were returning. He reveled in it. He would become it.

  “Boy,” Imrail hissed. Abruptly he felt something shaking him and attempting to pull him around forcefully. Lowering his sword, he panted. Imrail. And Rew. “It’s over, boy. You’ve won. Don’t do this. The Giver take me, do not do this!”

  He’d won? Turning, he glanced towards the edge of the wood. Under the light of his eyes and the naked power he’d revealed, the twin Syphers dissipated into nothingness. Their presence as spirits were no less daunting. But they were fleeing, no doubt. One was wounded, he thought. It was not a comforting thought.

  Now there were two of them free to wander the wild and wreak havoc. Hardly a victory. Perhaps he could give chase. He might have had his flesh not felt torn and ripped open. He might have had the Val Moran not fully pressed herself against him. She was weeping. He couldn’t stand her weeping.

  Slowly yielding to her insistent cries, he dropped to his knees, panting. His head throbbed so hard he was not sure he would have any memory of the encounter. He certainly did not recall how he reached his tent.

  Or what came after.

  CHAPTER 6 — AN OUTING

  Two days later they reached the serviceable gates of Edgewood, a tidy frontier town founded under one of Eldin Viamar’s more recent initiatives. They arrived several hours prior to nightfall. After the skirmish, Imrail had made up for the delay by pushing the previous day’s march well into the night. If Vandil had been disciplined on the road to Peyennar, Imrail had pushed them to their limits, perhaps intent on keeping to some timetable he and Luc’s father had set. Now the sight of the walls was welcome.

  After facing the Syphers, the collective mood of the company had been difficult to gauge. Some moved on horse with black looks, while others wore the clash like a token or badge on their sleeves. Following the encounter he had slept most of the night and the morning after. Chills and convulsions had worried Imrail and Trian both. He had been told Rew had not slept that night at all. The entire company had been awed by the display, but worried he had done himself some irreparable harm. No disputing most were still uneasy. Few met his eye now. He was sorry about that. Imrail’s men had worked well into the morning attempting to erase all memory of the skirmish. An Earthbound basecamp in the wood had been torched. No doubt word of the encounter would eventually reach the Furies. He was hardly proud of the outcome, but took some satisfaction from the thought.

  At this hour the gates were still open. A significant company of men in gray wearing the emblems of House Viamar on one sleeve and three shoots of grain on the other held watch. Lookouts had given them advance notice of their arrival. Imrail rode forward, tight-lipped. It seemed only days since they had left the orderly community. Where Vandil had a blunt persona, Imrail’s was more refined and distinctive. The general was admitted without delay. Their full company followed, taking no liberties with the safety of the Lord Siren. Luc ached for the days when the Oathbound had held him in virtual ignorance and his only worries had been keeping watch at the Overlook or scouting the lower passes. Now he was moving to openly declare himself against the Furies. He had made his choice. There would be no turning back now.

  A suggestion of movement caught his eye. Luc followed it to where a tall man in silver and black worked his way through the locals. On seeing him, Imra
il raised a hand and brought the company to a halt. When the man reached Imrail’s stirrups, he bowed slightly. He appeared to take a forced breath before turning and reaching Luc’s stirrups. With one arm locked across his chest, he took a knee. Caught off guard, Luc exchanged a glance with Trian. This was one of the last things he would have ever expected to see.

  Lars. Eduin Lars on his knees.

  Leaving the saddle, a gust of wind picked up. Luc passed the reins to Graves. He still found it odd when his boots hit the ground; he felt himself wading through unseen currents, existing outside of memory. Readjusting his sword belt, he was grateful when Imrail made a motion for the man to stand. This was proving to be difficult. Perhaps it was because they had endured days together under the pall of the Third Plane. Perhaps it was because they were pledged to him now.

  “Eduin,” Imrail said, chiseled features noticeably pleased. He clasped arms with the Companion who appeared to breathe somewhat easier after the gesture.

  “Lord Imrail,” Lars responded. He had Imrail’s height if not the breadth of shoulders, and moved with crisp strides and sure feet. In his uniform, with eyes a striking blue, he would have dominated most rooms. Now he looked hesitant. “My Lord,” he added finally to Luc, voice no louder than a murmur.

  Taking a forward step, Luc extended a hand. The man did not flinch when he took it, but his return grip was noticeably slack. “It’s good to see you, Lars,” Luc said, genuinely grateful the man had been spared any lasting harm after their flight through the Third Plane. Riven had explained the man’s reluctance to accept him. As simple as failing the Lord Viamar the night he had been abducted. Luc could hardly begrudge the man for being loyal to the king. He just hoped the man would find it within himself to let it go.

  “Report,” Imrail said.