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

by Matt Thomas

  “The Guild’s Quarter is this way,” the girl said. “Try to keep up.”

  Nodding, he let her to take the lead. The least he could do was be polite.

  Having no shortage of wonders, he had to give Viamar and his daughter credit for the city they maintained. The streets were in remarkable repair and the city itself was in the height of her power and influence. Homes and establishments were loosely knit together but for the most part appeared separated by distinct districts. But for the news he had kin in the south and Luc was bent on vying with the Earthbound, he might have stayed here. Of course he would have to find some sort of honest work. He was reluctant to admit it, but his folks were right about his less than enthusiastic approach to his daily responsibilities. Oh, he was diligent enough during the harvest season, but for the most part Peyennar lived off of Alingdor’s bounty and the generosity of the king.

  “You’re not paying attention,” the pale-haired girl told him with a reproving glance. “We’re being followed.”

  He almost came to a halt, surprised. In Alingdor? At this hour? “Who?” he mouthed.

  “Don’t look.” She held up the reins suggestively. “Come on. Maybe we can shake him.”

  With no change to argue, he veered after her mare. Moving at a near gallop, the wind whistled in his ears. Still he caught more than one oath from a startled man or woman who had to dart out of their way to keep from being run over. Most the girl deftly avoided, but the streets had dips and bends that made it next to impossible to sidestep everyone. Soon he lost all track of time. They cut through alleys, startling men—young and old—skulking in the shadows. They knifed along paved cobblestone paths where tots romped and heehawed over twined rope and rolling balls. They drew raised fists and curses from teamsters hauling gear at the end of a long day. In the glow of Alingdor after dark, it felt invigorating, the air crisp but not overly cool. He even thought he was beginning to get a head for the city’s layout and better feel for matching the girl’s maneuvers. When she pulled to a halt in the heart of what must have been the Guild’s Quarter, they were both grinning.

  “That was about as grand a time as I’ve had in months,” Lenora said, attempting to tidy her hair. She had dimples, he noticed. “You did well to keep up.”

  Oddly enough he did not think she was teasing, not from the level look she gave him. “Thanks.” He glanced around, exhaling. He had to blink to clear his eyes. She was studying him again, he realized, but kept her wits about her enough to position her mare so she could take in both ends of the street. “I suppose it might be time to be about our business.” He was a bit sorry about that. “I don’t suppose you know where we can find some information. I need to find someone. Someone in particular.”

  She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. No doubt she was curious now. More than curious. “You’ll have to do better than that, Master Acriel,” she said tartly.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head. Nothing for it now. So he told her. He told her what no man of sane mind would openly suggest much less dare to comprehend.

  “I need a weapon,” he began reluctantly. “Not just any weapon . . .”

  * * * * *

  The streets of Alingdor seemed no less active after nightfall. Had it not been for the urgency of his errand, Rew would have soaked in every detail. There had been times when he thought he would have shed his skin to walk the streets of a real city. This city was alive. Noise spilled out of every taproom and alehouse they passed. If not as boisterous as some in Tolmar, the city still had a certain fascination unequaled throughout the Nations. Oh, Tolmar had claims that might rival Penthar, but there was something about the white-walled city and her people that felt distinct. He wished he could put his finger on it.

  As it was he felt a sense of release. If someone was following, he saw no sign or indication. It took time, but eventually they were able to obtain the necessary information at a taproom frequented by commissioned guildsmen. Rew entered first. Most of the bits and pieces of conversation he was able to pick up centered, quite naturally, on the news there was a new king, but it was apparent any and all discussion stopped the instant Lenora Yasrin appeared. He had not realized the authority Imrail’s company commanded. All she had to do was question a few of the patrons, even the dingier sorts—men who scrambled to their feet and hastily pulled back their caps and bowed. By all accounts, the most acclaimed smith in the Quarter was a man named Mercer. He had a reputation for the finest work in the city and a temper to match. Most agreed he could be found at his forges even at this hour.

  Studying the girl from the corner of the eye, he privately concluded he would have long since given up any hope of finding the man on his own. When he returned to the saddle, he gave her a nod before starting underway.

  They found the smith’s place just a few streets over. The ringing of his forge could be heard a considerable distance off. His shop had a hammer inlaid on two ornately scribed doors. A couple of apprentices were still hanging about, men who likely dreamed of setting up establishments of their own, even if not one as fine as this with a three story residence attached. Failing that, he suspected there was a certain amount of fame to be had working for Alingdor’s finest craftsman.

  One of the smith’s apprentices, looking them over, stepped forward into the torchlight. “Good evening.” The man inclined his head, then drew himself up. “I’m afraid it’s a little late to—”

  Lenora left the saddle smoothly. “Our apologies for the interruption,” she said seriously, tone uncompromising. “The Companions would be in your debt if you allowed us to speak to Master Mercer. I’m afraid it’s matter of significant importance.” The pair exchanged glances before looking her over again. Both were large men in their early mid-years. A closer look made it apparent they were men of some affluence, clothes cut finely, expressions speculative. “You may tell him the Crown itself will favor him.”

  One of the two nodded slowly, digging an elbow into the other’s ribs. He apparently recognized the emblems on her coat, one of them anyway. “Welcome, my Lady . . .”

  “Lenora Yasrin.” She folded her arms. “I speak for House Viamar.”

  The man swallowed, face going white. “I will tell him you are here. Or, if you command it, I will grant you entrance. We stand ready to serve House Viamar.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “We need just a moment.”

  The two excused themselves quickly, entering through the double doors. Lenora, turning, gave him a wink. The color had returned to her face and in the torchlight there was definitely something disarming about the way she held herself, a spring to her steps and a self-assuredness few could match. Holding his breath, he reached for the burlap sack and scrambled out of the saddle. Glancing at the dim street, he caught nothing unusual. A few men lurching by glanced at them—one waving when he saw the young woman—but both continued on unsteadily.

  “I appreciate this,” Rew began. “I do, truly. I . . . You haven’t asked . . .”

  Lenora just looked at him. He wondered what secrets she hid behind those polished green eyes. “I have my reasons.” She said it stiffly.

  “No—I just meant . . .” He shifted abruptly. “What reasons?” he demanded.

  “You’re not the only one with certain . . . talents,” she said after a moment. “Let’s just say I have an interest in this as well.”

  He had no idea what to make of that, and by the tilt of her head knew she would say no more.

  They had to wait a considerable amount of time. The ringing sound around back ceased soon after the two men disappeared, but he was beginning to wonder if they meant to return at all. Glancing at Lenora, he turned and was just about to speak when a voice down the street suddenly reached them.

  “Young Acriel, you are careless.”

  Rew turned, suddenly cold. That voice. That had been the voice. Caught frozen, almost in a swoon, he exchanged a glance with Lenora. The pale-haired girl looked staggered and the sudden sweat that drippe
d down his face had nothing to do with her eyes, or her. . . . He shook himself. It was the figure who appeared to emerge out of the haze and dim mist ahead that held him. He had to focus on that. He thought he detected a coat that changed hue, now nearly crimson, but other parts impossible to distinguish as if appearing and disappearing in and out of the blackness. A man. Almost certainly a man. Sparks of light and heat made his skin appear coarse. Unable to speak, Rew could only struggle as the man crossed the street, continuing right up to them. This close he stood tall, hair long, perhaps tied back. His garb was of a strange cut, his gaze drilling. Colors shifted whenever he moved, but right then he did not move. Paces away, Rew felt suddenly dizzy, the heat hotter than a kiln.

  “Rew—” Lenora began.

  “Be easy, child,” the man said with a glance at Lenora in a voice that was far and away the most drumming he had ever heard. And sheathed in power. Shifting a hand to his waist, Rew took a step forward instinctively. That made the man’s eyes swing on him.

  That was when Rew became certain this was no man.

  “As I said, you are careless.” His voice, even low, felt deafening. Otherworldly. “You hide. You crawl. You defer to your lessers. Much hinges on you. The Furies are moving and the darkness has penetrated the Mirror Planes. You are not ready. I have dealt with the immediate threat, but at great cost. The Powers awake, but so too do the Betrayers.”

  “Who are you?” Rew asked weakly. He hadn’t realized he had stepped between the figure and Lenora until he felt the pressure of the girl against him. He could see the powerful lines along the jaw and chin, but the power that was native to the thing screamed out in his very being, his presence. “What threat?” Rew asked hoarsely.

  “The name would have no meaning to you. Not all is as it appears, that much is certain. But that is not the reason I have come and risked the wrath of the Furies. I have a message. Tell the Lord Sirien we do not tarry. We awaken.”

  Rew just looked at him. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  The creature laughed. The sound made his arms tingle. “In his present state there is no way to know how he would react. I hardly know what he remembers. It might seem a challenge, and that we will not suffer. The Furies are rising. The Unmaker awakes. You must leave quickly or all will be lost.”

  “I understand,” he said weakly. Leave. Not the Guild’s Quarters. He meant Alingdor itself.

  The creature nodded gravely, looking Rew over. “It seems you do. There is one more thing. Tell him not all those bound are beyond restoration. He will understand.” Looking at them, he did not smile. He seemed too intent of his presence in the open streets. “Fare you well, young Acriel. We will meet again, though I do not believe it will bring you comfort. Oh, and if he asks, tell him my name. Lins Malden. He will know it.”

  Rew did not realize it, but the girl was gripping him hard. They both nearly collapsed when the being shifted eastward. In seconds it was gone, either vanished or never truly there. No, it had been. There was no mistaking the vapors the creature left behind, trails of smoke and shards of power the continued to pulse through the air.

  “What under the . . .”

  “Good evening, good Master and Mistress!” Flushing, Rew spun. A stout bearded man with huge arms stepped out of the structure, followed closely by the two men they had met earlier. The smith’s apron was charred and singed, but his arms and face appeared to have been scrubbed clean, likely reason for the delay. Looking at him, there was no doubting it. This was the man. “Neel Mercer,” the smith introduced with a flourish. “These are my sons, Armin and Lyle. Sorry we kept you waiting. I looked something of a fright, I admit. I understand you wished to speak with me? We are honored to have one of the Companions pay a call on us.”

  Somehow managing to recover from the alarming experience, Lenora took a step forward and inclined her head. “Greetings, Master Mercer. This is Rew Acriel. My name is Lenora Yasrin. We are sorry to trouble you at this hour, but are in need of your skill.”

  “Name it,” the man said, his jovial features taking them in. If he doubted their claim, he hid it almost perfectly. Lenora gestured for Rew to proceed. Stealing a glance down the street, he reached into the burlap sack and pulled out the dagger. He could hardly believe it—his cursed vision was already proving true. Soon there would be no escaping Denail or the fate he claimed was coming.

  Master Mercer took the blade with a nod. Fingering the Mark, he raised it so he could peer at it in the light. “This is near ancient,” he breathed. “I am unfamiliar with the insignia. How did you come by such a thing?”

  “It’s out of Emry, I’m told,” Rew said. “I’m to join the ranks of the Guardians. I saw your face and knew I had to find you.”

  It was perhaps the most ridiculous thing he had ever said, but he saw the reaction it provoked. It seemed the Free City commanded considerable authority, even here. “For what purpose?” Mercer asked after a probing pause.

  “To replicate it.”

  The man looked suddenly wary. “This is a fine blade, Lord Acriel, but one beyond my skill to match.”

  Rew propped a thumb under his chin, stroking his mouth with a finger. “I think you can,” he said after a moment, carefully studying the smith, arms folded now, feet set. His sons behind him looked troubled.

  “I’m no expert,” Rew continued, “but I’m told the blade is made of unbreakable steel. If it has a name, I have not heard of it. I’ve been thinking, though. Someone of your reputation and skill . . . unequalled . . . one such as you might have the means to come into possession of certain metals.”

  The man had gone stark white. “The Commission would never have it,” he barked. “A discovery of that nature would require sharing. I am a loyal Guild’s man, and will be until the day I die.” He started to glance at the pair of men behind him, then stopped. “Why would the Guardians require such a thing?”

  “To defend the new king and defeat the Furies,” Lenora said.

  Master Whittman scoffed. “The Furies. . . . Nonsense. Lyle—”

  “I did not think a man of your standing and reputation would be a fool,” Lenora cut in.

  “The king?” One of the men behind Master Whittman stepped forward. “We’d heard the rumors, but the Commission has been a little displeased with the Lord Viamar. He has indeed abdicated?”

  “In favor of his grandson and with the full backing of the White Rose,” Lenora said intently. “Young Lord Acriel here grew up with him in the far north. So you see, perhaps it’s time to put aside some of the old grudges that linger. We are marching to face the Furies. Some of us have already witnessed the terror they incite across the land. There are dread times coming, do not doubt it.”

  “Forgive me if I seem to be discrediting you, but you both seem a bit young to be conducting envoys,” Mercer remarked, scrubbing a hand over his head.

  “I can assure you General Imrail would be here himself if time permitted it,” Lenora said. Well, that was a lie, but she was so convincing they would have likely believed her if she told them she was the White Rose herself. “I ask again you consider our request. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor will need the support of men of principle in the days ahead. There are always squabbles that will divide us, but he will not suffer it.”

  Rew turned. “I’ve seen them,” he whispered. The memory still stung. “They stormed our home. They razed our land. They are coming.” The memory had been disconcerting enough, but he knew death and destruction hung like a shroud. He just did not have the words to articulate it. He had done something in those final moments. Become something. He could deny it, distance himself from it, but neither would alter what he had to do.

  “Well, your tale is certainly thought-provoking, young man,” Master Mercer said. “I’ll speak to my sons and consider what you say. That, I’m afraid, is the best I can do.”

  “You’re not listening,” Rew growled. “I have no formal training, but that”—he gestured at the knife—�
�that is what I need to be. I can’t do it without your help. If some harm comes to him because of your refusal, his blood will be on my hands. I won’t have it, you hear me? I won’t!”

  Mercer read something in his expression that made him glance at his sons. Rew was surprised he had not marked the resemblance. Well, he had plenty of excuse. Blasted Malden. Slowly the smith turned back to them, arms locked behind his back. “As I said, what you ask for is simply beyond my skill.”

  “But not theirs.” Lenora was looking at the man’s sons. That was when it clicked in his head.

  “Keep it for the night,” Rew said. He pulled out his purse and carefully counted out gold. “I expect it in my hand in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “By nightfall tomorrow your sons will both be in service of the king,” Lenora said decisively. “They will negotiate the appropriate arrangements with the Commission to have the entire industry of Alingdor committed to the Lord Viamar-Ellandor’s cause. That is his Mark on the hilt. It would be a shame if our own people rejected him when a group of Ancaidans have already pledged to support him.”

  She added that last bit almost as an afterthought, but with a finality no Pentharan would ever ignore.

  One of the Mercer’s sons stepped forward. “I will come,” he said, avoiding his father’s decidedly scarlet face. “My name is Armin Mercer.” He glanced at his brother, who eyed him askance. “If what they say is true, we will quickly be admitted. If not . . .” He shrugged. “If not, well, no harm done.”

  “Thank you,” Rew said simply, breathing easier.

  Armin took the dagger from his father and reversed it, handing it to Rew. “Save your coin. We’ll need a few minutes.”