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

by Matt Thomas

  “Take all the time you need,” Rew said.

  Turning back to face the street, a hint of relief ran through him. It’s not over yet, he reminded himself. The arrival of Lins Malden had stymied his enthusiasm. He wondered what the others would say when they delivered the message and brought back news that two staunch men high in rank among the Commission were ready to throw their support behind the king. Not bad for one night’s work, and it wasn’t over yet. Still, a chill ran through him when he thought of Malden’s warning. Returning to the saddle, he watched the two men retreat, both ignoring their father’s impassioned forewarnings.

  He turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Only a fool would doubt the end was coming. Now it was all the more pressing to get underway. Not for himself. That would have been plain selfish, an indulgence his father never would have allowed.

  “I think you just started something significant, Rew.”

  He glanced at Lenora. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but someone else is going to have to finish it. Anyway, we’ll have to wait to hear what they have to say. After that, the world will see regardless. We will all see.”

  It was a wonder she did not ask him to explain. A second glance made him sorry he had said anything at all.

  Nothing for it, he thought. Time to get started.

  CHAPTER 13 —TO WAKE THE NATION

  That morning Luc would have stayed in bed well after sunrise had his folks permitted it. After the signing, he had been forced to engage in idle courtesies with the lords and ladies of the realm. The Lord Viamar had given him stern advice: be firm but empathetic; uncompromising when necessary; and at all times convey the full authority of the throne. Difficult, if not impossible, to carry out under present circumstances, as these were the highest ranking houses in the nation and he was an outsider untrained in court politics. Still, he found most discreet. Men—the majority hesitant to meet the Lord Viamar-Ellandor’s eye—politely introduced themselves, their rank and region, inquired after Peyennar, no longer secret. Those a touch bolder steered the conversation to his plans for the nation and what his intentions were with the coming war. The women were a different matter. They did not sweat, for one. Some made formal requests for audience and petitions; a few begged their sons not be swallowed up in the ranks joining the Pentharan armies. His jaw nearly dropped when he caught sight of the younger court women gathering, though. No less than a handful of minutes later, Trian and his mother had appeared, each firmly linking an arm through his. It had taken more than an hour to clear the hall, longer still to steal a moment or two in private.

  After, they reconvened in a briefing room where they spent the remainder of the evening in conference pouring over maps and intelligence reports from operatives throughout the west. Viamar, Imrail, Draiden, Denail, and his father had done most of the talking, each acknowledging they would rue General Vandil’s absence if the man did not resurface soon. Luc’s contributions had been minimal. Imrail, appearing preoccupied throughout the deliberations, had called off whatever outing he had planned knowing he would be executing most of the decisions reached here. Luc and Trian closed out the day closeted with his mother and father. There had been no shortage of warnings from the pair, but also a few revelations that had left him feeling numb. The one bit of news that had come just prior to turning in was that Rew and Lenora had left the grounds. He had no idea where they had gone.

  Having at least gotten in a full night’s rest—still sore and fatigued from the march out of Peyennar—he dressed, leaving a covered tray untouched in the sitting room, and went off in search of Imrail. Today the armies of Alingdor would begin mobilizing. Tomorrow he suspected Alingdor would be well behind him.

  “Good morning, Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” a man in formal palace livery greeted with a low bow. No surprise the marble hall with its pristine walls and inlaid floors was closely guarded. “The Lord Imrail awaits. I will show you the way.”

  “Thank you,” Luc said politely. He thought he recognized the man. “Your name?”

  “Protector Kirran. First Rank.” Seeing he did not understand the designation, the guardsman went on. He had even more bulk than Vandil and in some ways was even more blunt-faced. “We are sworn to serve House Viamar and the line, my Lord.”

  Luc did not know what to make of that. He was tired and privately worried he had no memory of his dreams. Odd with the afterimage of a city in ruins haunting him. “Please, just call me Luc,” he said finally. “If it’s all right, I’d like to look in on my parents before we leave. Are they in?”

  The man raised an eyebrow, but let the request pass unanswered with a bow, gleaming armor clinking. “They are overseeing the deployment of the troops setting out today, my Lord. General Imrail will take you to them. If you will accompany me.”

  Nodding, Luc fell in beside the man. He did not think he was ready to witness the massive mobilization the leaders of Alingdor had set in motion in his name. Steeling himself, he still had to face the surging swells he felt whenever his thoughts turned to the Furies. Even if he ever managed to dismiss the personal animosity, he was going to have to prepare for the possibility, perhaps the eventuality, that they would strip the city just to spite him. With Eridian potentially playing both sides, Luc found himself admittedly confused. Still, no matter how hard he tried to work the problem through in his mind, he always finished right back where he started. Hesitant. Indecisive.

  Imrail was just finishing up with the First Clerk when Luc entered the general’s quarters. The two were seated across an elongated writing table, the Clerk shuffling through leaflets. Both stood at his appearance. He found Imrail’s sober expression concerning. Whatever the two had been discussing, it did not appear to be pleasant. Bowing, the First Clerk gathered up his documents and excused himself. The general retrieved his sword and made a motion towards the door. Imrail’s quarters were roughly the same size as Luc’s, but these were stark and clearly tailored to meeting his duties and obligations to the Crown.

  Exiting, he murmured his thanks to Kirran and stepped in beside the general.

  “How did you sleep?” Imrail asked him as they started down the hall.

  “Well enough,” he admitted.

  “No dreams?”

  Luc glanced at the man. Sometimes it was hard to gauge how much Imrail knew. More than he let on, that much was certain. “Not last night.” That was something, he supposed. He had been too exhausted really.

  “I’m having your things packed,” Imrail said. He passed a hand across his eyes, noticeably gray-faced. “The others have been told. Riven is making the arrangements. Your folks know as well.”

  “We’re leaving?” He had some trouble believing it.

  “We’re leaving,” Imrail acknowledged tightly.

  Luc let out a breath. “What changed your mind?”

  “My mind never ‘changed.’ ” Imrail continued with a searching glance. “I had to find a way to convince your mother the timing was imperative. After you turned in, she reluctantly agreed. It was not easy. I will explain later. Today is going to be difficult. We are riding to war. The city has a new lord she may never know—we will be taking steps to make it near impossible for them to forget—and you and I will be saying goodbye to them, perhaps for the last time. I had some arrangements to make. Yours will not be easy. Today you must show them the Lord Siren, I’m afraid. It may prove more difficult than accepting the throne.”

  The man fell silent, their footfalls the only sound in the halls and corridors.

  Trying to put down a host of questions, he had a harder time getting around the man’s anxious tone. He could deal with the man’s anger or irritation, but Imrail nervous or anxious just did not sit well with him. Having had a bit of time to adjust to the size of the city, he found himself subconsciously scanning the palace for signs of weakness. He had little understanding of war in the traditional sense, but he had to learn. Quickly. Making their way to a side exit, guarded by protectors in gear similar to Kirran’s, they stepped o
ut into the open air. Lightfoot and Imrail’s stallion were saddled and waiting for them at what appeared to be a private stable yard. He and Imrail mounted and started north without discussion.

  Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed the brief ride through the serene palace grounds bordering the Soldier’s Quarter. The grounds themselves were tranquil, an intermingling of carefully tended rolling green hills, groves, flatlands, and winding creeks with arched bridges connecting the branching cobblestone paths. To the north the unending rows of clustered barracks spoiled the view somewhat. Covering even more ground than the palace, they were in many ways even more formidable. Closer up he suspected the sight would be dizzying. Alingdor had always been a power. Now Draiden and the Lord Viamar were intent on making it one to wake the Nations.

  He had been right about not knowing what to expect. There was no way one born and raised in Peyennar could anticipate or ever imagine the sight that greeted them. Even from far off the evidence of activity came from all angles. A string of runners constantly moved between sections of the city and to and from the palace. The garrison was not just a row of barracks, it was a military compound. There were grounds for training, armor smiths commissioned by the Guild, horse grounds, an academy, housing for higher ranking men, and row after row of three or four story structures. Soldiers worked in clusters, each garrison apparently responsible for supplying and provisioning squads of men. While the force in Peyennar had been large, this one was an army in the truest sense. Men moved to supply wagons hauling arms—swords by the dozen, spears, lances, bows, and others of unknown design and function. The sight of so many horses being saddled and supplied meant Ivon and the Lord Viamar intended to follow through with their plans to have the armies leave the city that same day. Taking it all in, he felt chilled. Five companies. That meant at least five thousand would be leaving.

  Imrail took him straight to the heart of the compound where Draiden and his family stood overseeing the deployment, officers reporting in directly to Waylor Ayden, the bald-faced task-master bellowing out orders. Steering first towards Trian and Avela and looking around for some sign of Rew, his mouth tightened when Avela curtsied even in her riding apparel. Leaving the saddle, he let the bay nuzzle against him. He somewhat absently noticed the wind picking up.

  “Good morning, my Lord,” Avela murmured. “It’s a clear day. Perfect for a little sightseeing. Don’t you think, Imrail?”

  They both ignored the woman’s forced cheer. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?” Luc asked irritably.

  “No need to be crotchety,” Trian told him, moving up to him and straightening his collar. Her open affection in some ways was almost as dizzying as the unfolding scene before them.

  “Will you tell them to stop?” Luc complained.

  Imrail gave him a level look. “Why ask me?” he said pointedly. “Let’s get going.”

  The others turned when they saw the four of them approach. Ariel smiled at the sight of her son. Ivon just regarded him, the slightest hint in his expression making Luc’s throat tighten. He recognized that look. He understood it, this time. The sight of the two together in the midst of all the activity seemed a dream. Tilting his head to one side, Luc moved off a little. His folks followed. After a second glance, his grandfather did as well.

  Taking them in, he cursed his luck, his timing. Just as he had finally found them, he was losing them all over again. “Imrail says we’re leaving.” The words came out like frost.

  Eldin glanced at his former captain, then looked at his daughter. “I understand he was quite persuasive.”

  Ariel, standing in a white cloak and flowing skirts, somehow still appeared dominant in the midst of the ordered chaos. Looking at him, she appeared composed, if not a touch grave. “I would have insisted on one more day, perhaps two, but cannot afford the luxury of keeping you to myself if it means the people of Ancaida can be saved.” Seeing the spark of panic in his eyes and the rush of sudden emotion, she stepped forward, a hand on his upper arm. A gust of wind made him look around hastily. “What is it, Luc?” she asked.

  Sighing, he shook his head, drinking in the sight of the woman’s face, storing the image, the memory. Looking at his father standing with the former king, he did the same with the two of them. Only Amreal would have completed scene. “I’ll miss you,” he said quietly, roughly. Now that the moment had come, he ached suddenly for Peyennar. There was nothing else he could say, though, nothing he could do other than to ask them to join him, which he would not.

  “We know,” his mother said, holding her arms close. “At least this time I have every assurance we will see you again. We will be waiting.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You sound almost sure,” he said.

  “As sure as you will defeat the evil taking shape in the east.”

  Swallowing, he squared his shoulders. This morning nothing seemed certain. He wondered what had occurred during the night. Something significant. She had come to terms with it as if willingly surrendering to the unseen currents and eternal forces hidden in the fabric of the Making. Some years back she had no doubt reluctantly done the same. Today she appeared willing and at peace with the decision. Turning to his father and grandfather, he shuffled his feet. He did not realize how difficult it would be to face them. “I’m worried about the city,” was all he could say.

  Ivon, who had been taking the two of them in silently, seemed not to hear him. Eldin took the opportunity to respond. “I wouldn’t discount your father just yet, boy,” the Lord Viamar said. “He has plans to deal with our enemies should your . . . rivals . . . I’m not sure if that is the right word . . . should they attempt to seize the city. For now, it is important the men see you. We have orders for the first company to be underway within the hour. Why don’t we go for a walk? Ayden! Imrail!” he called. “Attend us. Some of these men have yet to meet my grandson. Let’s make sure they have no doubt, no reason to ever doubt, who will be leading them.”

  * * * * *

  They spent much of the morning working their way through the compound, generally observing the preparations. Sometimes Imrail stopped to make close inspections. He looked over the work of a supply master making tallies on parchment. He stopped a sweating lieutenant and requested an update on the man’s progress. After listening to the man’s report, he reiterated the need for speed. Sometimes he and Ayden were more vocal, commenting on rushed or shoddy work most often relating to supplies and provisions improperly stored or sealed. Those supplies were imperative as they would have to keep until the armies reached Triaga. They met with the commanders of each of the five outfits. Men handpicked by Vandil, men Imrail would be assigning each of the Companions to directly. Imrail introduced them to Luc and Trian. The bows and in-depth reports were one thing, the looks of awe and even dread entirely another. Apparently word of his coming had spread. It was perhaps the first time he began to perceive the power and influence the Furies would command if they ever took hold of another nation. He was determined it would never happen.

  He found the men formidable enough. Expertly trained and held in reserve for this moment, tools shaped to shake the world at its foundations. To a man all paused and came to attention when they passed. Walking with Trian on his arm and his mother and father a step or two behind them, there was no disputing the respect, the reverence, these soldiers held for House Viamar. His identity only recently disclosed and the winds coming alive before him, the sight of the rapid mobilization lit a fire in him. After eons spent in waiting, the moment had come. There would be losses, but the world would awake free of the Earthbound and their shameless masters. It was a moment the Nations had been awaiting, one deserving of some sign or sendoff.

  His mother’s slight intake made him pause and look back. She was staring above. “Ivon, did you—?”

  “Not me,” his father answered.

  Glancing in the same direction, the warping air and pulsing energy held his eye for a few seconds only. Wherever he looked the work had come to a sudden s
tandstill. Now they would know and never doubt.

  Satisfied everything was proceeding according to plan and in due order, Imrail touched his arm. “It’s time,” he said. Nodding, Luc glanced at his folks standing a little to the side. Raising an arm in farewell, he took his leave. He was reluctant to do more out in the open. Retreating to the palace grounds, it took some effort to contain the forces sheering through him. It was happening more and more of late. He was changing, no doubt, becoming something that privately terrified him. Something he could almost remember.

  This part of their plan was one he hardly favored. He supposed his folks had insisted. His reluctance to turn it into a spectacle meant the pair would be remaining behind. Well, they did have a great deal to see to. Moving off with the ever-present escort forming up behind them, Protector Kirran in the lead, they met Urian and Altaer at the palace entrance. Nodding towards the two men, he distanced himself from the elemental forces churning within him and tried not to think about the Mark of Chaos still visible in the northern sky.

  The ride through the city proved uneventful for the most part. His discomfort at being the focal point of so much attention was somewhat offset by the feel of the open air. He had no doubt the people of Alingdor would soon forget him. Life under the rule of the White Rose and the Lord Viamar would remain relatively unchanged. Under daylight and with an escort numbering well into the hundreds, he still had difficulty coming to terms with the size of the First City, but managed to maintain a controlled expression. The residents of Alingdor were gracious, though after a day it was hard to say if the people even knew who they were. No matter.

  After circling the Administrator’s Quarters, where hundreds of bureaucrats, diplomats, and other officials important to governance of the realm were housed, many who left their posts to witness their passing, they crossed to the Merchant’s Quarter and indulged in a meal at an inn with a reputation for being the finest in Alingdor—calculated on Imrail’s part as the support of the city’s merchants was imperative. It ended with the four of them reemerging into the city with a full throng of people waiting for a glimpse of the Lord Siren.