by Matt Thomas
Imrail paused, turning suddenly. “I understand he has you practicing some of the exercises the Diem use. This is just as important. Vandil meant to shape a weapon to make the world tremble. I have other intentions. Keeping you alive for one. That is my priority. You will have to face the world on your own when I am gone. Whatever else occupies you, remember that.
“You and I have come to a mutual understanding.” Imrail stroked his chin, eyes far away. “More. You’re a good lad,” he added, hesitating. “Had I fathered sons, I would have found no better. For now, heed my advice. As for my question, it is simple.” Imrail crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”
Luc could only look at the general, poleaxed. He had no idea what the man was getting at, but in one moment Imrail had revealed more of his mind than he had on any given occasion. Plainly he still thought Yasrin’s vision would still come true. Luc felt himself begin to tense. He liked Vandil, but Imrail led the Companions and understood him in ways he did not understand himself. “I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” he whispered. Unable to respond to the man’s grim assessment of their situation, he forced it aside. “I thought we were going to look over those reports. Are we really going to practice the sword?” Now he was just whining.
Imrail grunted. “What I am asking you, Anaris, is why you are here. You. What we call Siren; Sirien in the Annals. Is it to face the Furies? A little obvious, perhaps too obvious.”
Luc looked away. The question troubled him. That he did not know the answer made it worse. Once, eons ago, he had known. Now he was not sure. “I don’t know, Imrail,” he said finally. “I just . . . I know something has to be done.”
“Then you’d best figure it out. You won’t win not knowing. You have until the moment you face the creature who seized the soul of one of the most powerful Diem. If you don’t figure it out by then, you may never. We made plans to get you there. Not to finish him. That even your father would have difficulty achieving.” He exhaled. “Well, at least it’s out in the open. Let’s go, boy. This time no quarter. Use your blade and your wits to overwhelm me the way you did the Earthbound.”
It bordered on ridiculous. The Oathbound had thoroughly trained him. He may not have had Altaer’s skills, but he could follow a trail and survive in the backcountry. He knew how to handle the bow and sword both, but Imrail and many of the men he sparred with had something he did not. They had trained almost exclusively with a sword from a young age. Some had served during the Stand at Imdre. All he knew was he was chasing the Sword of Ardil. What it was, what power it held, remained a mystery, but he did have his grandfather’s sword. In Penthar that meant something. And maybe for the moment, in the here and now, maybe that was enough.
No, he told himself. There was more. He had an obligation to the Nations, not just Penthar, one he had been born to uphold. It was in his fiber. He had punished the innocent and would need to be redeemed. And maybe redeem. Sometimes he almost remembered. Flashes of memory that dogged him, pursued him. Somewhere in the depths of his being, though, he did know his ultimate purpose. He could not shy away from it. There would be no running. Not for him or any of the Powers intent on restoring the First Plane and liberating the Second.
Taking in a breath, he drew his sword. It slid out of the sheath soundlessly. “I’m ready,” he said, forcing aside the numbing fatigue. “No quarter.”
This time he meant it.
* * * * *
An hour later Luc was dripping sweat from all pores. Imrail was lightning quick. Near impossible to know for sure if the man had held anything back. Luc had been forced to yield twice. Imrail was far and away the best swordsman he had ever seen. His movements were flawless, his style unpredictable. Light on his feet, he parried and countered, rotated and pivoted, movements fluid, the man never in one place. His reflexes were alarming, almost inhuman. He was cold and calculated. Without practice swords both had to exercise some restraint, but their swings would have cut through bone and sinew had either of them been a hair slower or lost their footing. In the autumn air and the quiet of the Landing he felt a sense of exhilaration he had not known. When they wordlessly stepped back and dropped swords, Imrail looked at him with some approval.
“Better,” he said. The admission was somewhat surprising.
Returning to the factor’s headquarters, they strode through the entryway. A waiting room had been cluttered with piled up gear. Men were coming and going. Graves stood when he saw them. “The Companions are within, my Lord,” the soldier said. “I’ll show you the way.”
Imrail nodded. “You will join us as well.”
Landon Graves narrowed his eyes, surprised. Startled perhaps. Luc had spoken to Imrail the morning after their encounter with the Earthbound. This was important. Too important to dismiss as coincidence. Either it was Altris at work or he was a green-faced fool. Working their way across the anteroom, they passed a wide corridor with two considerable work stations, likely administrative offices, on either side. They hooked left across stained floors and walls with ornamental emblems. Indoors the Sparrow was absent, though an image of Reya was present, intricate work with the depiction inlaid into the walls as a mural, a morning sunrise spread over fields of gold, a dainty figure in brown with palms pressed together staring earthward. Wiping his face with the back of an arm, he nearly stumbled, an image becoming superimposed before him. This one was almost as troubling as the Sypher.
Still passing black-coated men moving in and out, each pausing to salute, Graves led them to an area where savory aromas filled the air. “She has a private kitchen staff, my Lords,” Graves said. “The meal will be worth the wait, I think. And the time on the road.”
“One meal.” Imrail chuckled. “A luxury. I imagine Riven has already gotten started. Let’s be sure no one overindulges, though I’m for a tankard if Urian has left us any.”
“Is Trian with them?” Luc asked. He was anxious to see the others now. It had been some time.
“She is, my Lord Siren.”
“Good.” He wet his lips. It was going to take some time getting used to the name and the formal mode of address.
After crossing three or four more corridors, they came to a formal dining room, walls embossed with decorative landscapes, glazed ceramics, leafy plants, and a pair of framed windows opening up to the rear terrace. Imrail entered first, followed by Graves. Luc filed in last, a surge of emotions rising up similar to those Peyennar stirred up in him. In some ways he felt a keener bond and attachment to the men and women seated at the impressive banquet table already laid out with the evening meal. He was surprised by the realization. He had lived his entire life in the rustic village and in many ways hardly knew these men and women. What he did know was their fierce devotion to the Lord Viamar and his daughter. To Imrail. They were selfless, relentless, and fully willing to face the rising darkness.
He found himself fully unprepared to face how they felt about him.
Upon their arrival the collective eyes of the Companions turned to them. Imrail and Luc drew equal looks. Relieved looks, he realized. Some started to stand, but Imrail raised a hand. “No need,” he said firmly, scanning each of them in turn. “Too much to discuss.” He paused, adding, “It’s good to see you. We were worried. Close the door, Landon.”
Luc adjusted his collar and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Indoors he felt uncomfortably warm and found himself moving towards the window so he could feel the slight breeze a touch more acutely. Unbuckling his sword, he left it in the corner. He could hardly believe his eyes. They were all here, right down to Riven. Despite Imrail’s attempt to dissuade them from a display of emotion, the members of the man’s venerated company pushed back their chairs and stood. Lenora Yasrin startled him with a fierce embrace that nearly knocked the wind out of him. The girl’s colorless hair appeared slightly damp against his skin. Riven, Altaer, and Urian bowed. The slant-eyed man was grinning. Luc had worried over the three of them most and had spent roughly two days frantic for any trace of them.
Either they had taken a different route, or they had concealed their passage flawlessly. Now that the trio had been given a few days to recover from their time in the Third Plane and what must have been grueling trek through the wild to reach Edgewood, they appeared an intimidating lot. The formal attire only heightened the feeling. These were men capable of brute violence, but they had other talents and skills that made them even deadlier. He caught Lars nodding, eyes narrowed and expression grimly approving. He seemed expectant. There was a hint of raw power in the room with all of them assembled. Imrail had to fend them off, but did not struggle too overtly. Plainly he was as pleased to see them as they were him. Pleased was not the right word—more at ease perhaps, more himself, in full command of his faculties and a singular ability to lead.
“Well,” the general muttered, clearing his throat, “seems some things haven’t changed. You still don’t listen.” He drew himself up. “Well then. So be it. A few things have changed. I’ll explain.”
Motioning Luc to a seat at the head of the table, the man took one at the opposite end. Graves sat beside Lars. Noting the looks he received, the general nodded towards the man. “Landon Graves,” he said. “He’ll be joining us.”
He caught noticeable looks of surprise at the statement, but no one commented. Luc gave Trian and Rew nods meant to reassure them, but inside felt numb. The Ancaidan capital stood in the deep south, by all accounts a city nowhere near as welcoming to outsiders as Aldoren’s Watch. It might take them a full month to reach it. The four days to the Landing already seemed a month, more; had it not been for dumb luck their entire company might have been wiped out. Did he dare risk taking those he called his friends?
Imrail began filling his plate. The others took it as a sign they were free to do so themselves. “By now you know we recovered the Lord Viamar,” the general began. “And the rest of it. I have no intention of recounting the entire tale here. It’s enough to know we face the most ruthless foe or adversary any of us has or ever will know. We were seconds from utter ruin, and perhaps still are. Most of you were not there to witness the fury the Earthbound unleashed on us. I was at the Stand.” He paused, eying each of them in turn. “You have no idea how much worse this will be. This time mythic beings have sprung from the night’s shadows. Now we learn what befell in Almara. Ardil’s split and defeat, the defection of her most agile-minded, strongest-willed servants, possessed by the Unseated. These are the minds that orchestrated the assault on Alingdor. Now one has been humbled, others wounded.”
“Hardly wounded,” Trian said. Eyes instantly swung her way. These were among the few to know the truth about the Val Moran. In the lamplight her smooth features seemed serene. Disarming to see how the shadows played off her skin. Tonight her full charm had been on display. Her effect on the locals was magnetizing. Besides being fit and robust, she was tall and firmly filled out her creamy blouse and neat coat. Elloyn. A sigh escaped his lips. He did not think it would be long now. He felt exposed around her. He had no idea what he would do if their chambers were near one another. Best to sleep at the inn, he thought. When he finally glanced up and met her eyes, he realized her full attention was on him. Everyone else was silent. Painfully silent. She was gripping the arms of her chair, biting her lower lip. Masking a brief flash of sudden emotion, she took a tray Avela passed her way.
“I do not think they can be killed by conventional means, General,” she said finally, taking a slice of ham before passing the tray on. “They mean to make themselves worthy in the eyes of the Unmaker. They have the power of the Furies, if to varying degrees. In some it may grow. They hold little loyalty to one another, that much I know. That may be our one advantage. Our only advantage.”
“Good to know,” Imrail said. “All the more reason to go slowly. Seems one of them was in close council with the Warden. He has the Sword. I understand he and the Lord Viamar-Ellandor stood toe-to-toe. Did you see him? What word of Vandil? What happened after you rescued the king?”
Altaer and Urian exchanged glances. Urian wiped his face and dropped his fork. “It was a close thing. We held firm until their scouts reached us. We had no trouble picking them off. It was less than an hour before their lead group caught us. We did what we could and peeled off north. The fools actually followed.” Urian picked at his teeth, a snarl on his face. “After a few hours of turning to fight and putting the horses through their paces, we scattered.”
“By then the main body of their forces caught us,” Altaer added. The lean-faced huntsman muttered something before continuing. “That was when someone with the will to rein them in forced them south. I suspect that gave you the time you needed to reach Peyennar. Vandil ordered us to wait. We found a thicket and a small grove to hide in. It was a hard thing, standing aside and seeing the nightmare pass us. Something about Vandil changed. I think he was actually afraid. For the first time, I mean. It must have been their leader. He recognized him.
“He had Urian wait in a ditch a few miles north. It was almost morning when I wondered whether there was any point in staying. But his hunch proved right. This Ansifer came through with the Sword and an elite guard of advisors. Or slaves. He was renting the earth with his curses.” Altaer paused, glancing at Luc and Trian while running his thumb and forefinger around the leather strip that kept his hair tied back. “He is one to fear. We stayed well out of sight and tracked them for days. The . . . thing has no feeling. He had no intention of facing Luc—the Lord Siren, I mean. He conserved the horses until they came to the outskirts of the Landing. They knew the area and avoided the town but raided two farms for fresh mounts. After they struck straight south, right to the river. There was a second company waiting for them. And boats.”
Imrail cursed. “They’ll be well south by now. Now it’s just a question of whether or not Vandil can reach Triaga and cut them off.”
“He means to try,” Altaer said. “My Lord,” he added, troubled. “There were two women with him. The same that stood with Razmoen at the Overlook. I think they are of a similar breed.”
“I am going to end them.” His whisper made heads turn. Unclenching his hands took some effort, but he managed it.
Imrail cleared his throat. “That leads me to it.” He paused meaningfully. “There will be war, on a scale we have not seen. I have dispatched runners to Lord Draiden to begin the mobilization. We will be among the first to cross the border. The Lord Viamar intends the Red Shirts to join us, but there have been rumors of dissidence. It may fall to the Lord Viamar-Ellandor to impose the will of the Crown. We are going to find the Fallen and the Sword of Ardil.
“Day after tomorrow we ride out. Our first task is to deal with the Ancaidans massed to the southwest of Alingdor. After we make for the First City and wait for the Lord Ellandor and his wife. The Lord Viamar will be making the trip, but it may be slow going. There, it is his intention to make the proclamations he announced in Peyennar known to the nation, that he has surrendered the throne. The White Rose has relinquished her claim in her son’s favor. She will rule in his absence, but his word will be absolute.”
Imrail finished it with a finality that left the others wide-eyed and the room in silence. Only Urian broke it with a whistle. Other than that no one spoke. Luc did not move. He wished they would put aside such notions. He had no right. Besides, it was the last thing he wanted. But then no one seemed to care what he wanted. Altris certainly never did. She simply worked her will through the currents that crisscrossed the causeways of the world.
“That’s it in brief,” Imrail remarked somewhat offhandedly. “The evening is yours. We leave at dawn the day after tomorrow. Keep your eyes and ears open for trouble. Harridan, schedule a watch rotation and arrange for me to review the reports. I’ll want to discuss what occurred in the north with you a little later.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Riven acknowledged.
Although the food was by now undoubtedly lukewarm, the others began to fill or refill their plates. Luc forced himself to eat a little. It took some tim
e for the news to sink in, but no one appeared noticeably displeased. They clearly saw the discomfort the subject gave him and steered clear of it. Eventually the Companions conversed at their places exchanging harmless ribs and jabs, at times breaking out into open laughter. Imrail indulged them. Luc did not remember what he ate so much as that. After he emptied his plate, he stood and crossed to Riven, clasping arms with the man. Servants brought ale and wine. He drank half a tankard in a single gulp. It was good to see Riven—solid, dependable Harridan Riven. The general’s second asked about Peyennar and soaked in every detail. Altaer and Urian had briefed the man on their flight through Perdition and the events after. Riven’s tale was almost as compelling. It seemed the man had travelled four or five days from their campsite in the remote north. The prospect of doing so on his own must have been no less daunting than passing through Perdition. Eventually he’d stumbled on the Third Company itself. Finding it out of position, he sent runners on to Alingdor with the news the Companions had uncovered. There had been no time reposition the sizable force. They had discovered a significant Legion band emerging out of the wood making straight for them. Finding them with no formal command structure, out of position and ripe for being picked apart, Riven had been forced to assume command. It had been a close thing. What worried the man was who or what had orchestrated the obvious attempt to crush them and what had occurred to company’s leaders.
