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

by Matt Thomas

  Lenora stepped forward. The pale-haired, winsome girl surprised the obstinate man with a hand on his arm. “I’d listen, Lord Gantling.” She had a way about her that made the man go still. “I know your end now. You will die for the Sparrow. Some might even remember your name.”

  The man paled. “Witches.” He snatched his arm away. “What manner of folk—”

  “Enough.” Imrail glanced at Luc. “We may want to rethink a few things.”

  “Probably so,” Luc said somewhat crossly. This had dragged on long enough. The arrogance was one thing, but the Redshirt did not know whom he was addressing. The general had stood on the battlements of the Shoulder of Peyennar singlehandedly overseeing their defenses. No one had really expected to see the sun rise the next day. Before that, with Alingdor humbled, Imrail had taken them through the seaport city known as Aldoren’s Watch all the way to the far north where they had learned beyond doubt the ancient forces were rising in power. Imrail’s doing. His sheer will holding them together through the long night and the changing seasons. Now they had this thick-headed southerner trading insults with the man who was to have full charge of the nation. Imrail was of a fiber of an earlier age. Luc was not about to let another insult pass.

  “What is it?” the general asked quietly, reading something in his face.

  “Nothing.” Luc took a calming breath, smoothing his expression. He had some difficulty keeping his tone even. “I think I’d like to have this settled and the people returned as soon as possible,” he added. “We need to look over the plans for the rest of the city; the Lord Viamar had some recommendations. If Ronan Thresh can find a way across the border, tell him to use it and direct his people here. That gives us two days before everyone will need to be back with their outfits. It might be best if you and I stay on a bit.”

  “My thinking too,” Imrail said. Something in his expression seemed to shift—no longer a stone veneer, unyielding and impassive, but marked by approval. Not only that. Warmth. Affection even.

  It was at that moment, with Gantling now unquestionably white-faced as for the first time he openly studied Luc, some look of dread seizing him, that the door at the opposite end of the chambers opened.

  A hardened, stalky man entered with a striking woman at his elbow. It looked as though they had come with all speed. Luc deliberately folded his arms in front of him, hands inching to seize either his sword or the Rod. The brash soldier Gantling nervously stepped aside. His wild eyes flashed between Trian and Avela. Neither paid the man any mind. For several seconds he continued to stare at Luc, mouth sometimes flashing open only to close abruptly. Not taking any satisfaction in the sudden change, Luc waited.

  Commander Kryten had arrived in full gear. He wore a silver breastplate and brown leather breeches. A man in his late midyears, he had harsh features, face weathered. For some reason he reminded Luc vaguely of Draiden. At the moment his face was split in two by a wide grin. “General Imrail,” he said respectfully, bowing. There were undertones of relief. He did not stop at that, though, greeting the man with a crushing grip. “You knave, you should have sent word. Another day and I would have had runners hauling you here by the ears.”

  Imrail smiled. “Rumors made us unsure if we’d be welcome here,” he said. “Seems we were right.”

  Kryten’s rugged face darkened. He did not look at Gantling. “The sun sets and the sun rises. Some choose to fear the sunrise, some choose to deny it. Some claim we’d be better off free of dictates from the First City. The world is full of fools. Live well for ten, fifteen years, milk and honey plentiful and the fields golden with wheat and barley, and the next generation forgets the planning and sacrifice it took to win the day. The White Rose herself wandering in the wild. A king sitting in cold halls brooding over the stability of the realm. Not just one nation, mind you. All nations.

  “Well, we will see they know the truth before the end. To other matters.” Kryten grinned again. “They’ve finally done it to you. A full promotion. Word is they’ve raised you to the rank of Steward, too. Viamar had fits trying to get you to take on a new title. I heard he almost had you throttled once. How did he finally manage it?”

  Imrail grimaced uncomfortably. “He didn’t.” Clearing his throat, he turned. “This is the Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, waving a hand towards Luc. “He has also demonstrated quite definitively he is the physical embodiment of Siren—Sirien in the Annals. He rules the nation now. The end you speak of has come.”

  “The Giver Defend us,” the woman at Kryten’s shoulder whispered. Both immediately started to kneel. Imrail forestalled them.

  “Not now,” Imrail interjected. “I’ve seen enough of the city to know how dire things fare here. My apologies. We had the Furies to contend with. They sacked Alingdor and abducted the Lord Viamar. We had little hope of finding him, but I will tell you in brief what has gone on over the last few months. It will take some time. If you will see the Companions are settled for the night, I would appreciate it. They will ensure the Ardan pose no more threat first thing.”

  The woman bowed again and stepped forward. “My daughter,” Kryten introduced. “Eleina.” The woman was in full gear. Two swords sheathed on either side, laced boots long, jacket trim, her long hair uncommonly light. Luc noticed a few of the others eying her with open interest.

  “You are welcome in Triaga, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” she said. Her voice had a rich, throaty resonance. “We have apartments meant for the master of the nation. They have not been used, I assure you. Will you be speaking to the men?”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Imrail,” Avela said, fingering her lips.

  The general nodded. “I could live with one in four pulled off the border. Any chance you can have them assembled in a day or two?”

  “I will see it done,” Kryten said gravely.

  “We should be able to deal with matters here tomorrow,” Imrail said. He glanced at Lars. “Any indication of where to get started?”

  The tall man, still keeping Gantling in full view, nodded firmly. “I’d say they’re holed up in the eastern part of the city. Perhaps in the waterways or an abandoned outpost. If you’ll permit it, we can take steps at first light. They won’t expect it.”

  “Do it,” Imrail said.

  “Luc . . .” Rew began.

  Luc tensed, glancing at Rew. His friend’s face had taken on an ashen hue. “What?”

  “Nothing bad,” Rew whispered. It was obvious he had not intended anyone else to overhear, but at the moment he undoubtedly had everyone’s undivided attention. “I see it. I don’t know how or when. I just . . . know. Banners. Towers. People from all over the west. Something is definitely going to change here.”

  Eleina exchanged a long look with her father, relief evident, then glanced at Gantling. “Well, if that doesn’t bode well, I’m not sure what else will.” She said that last bit tartly, her distaste for the man apparent. Glancing at the Companions, she smiled. “If you will all follow me. It’s late, and I know you pressed hard to reach us. If anyone’s inclined to have a meal, I’m afraid the larder is a little light, but I can rouse one of the cooks and see what he can put together.”

  “I think a few of us would welcome that,” Imrail said. “You have our thanks.”

  She nodded respectfully. “Yes, General. This way,” she said, motioning for them to follow.

  * * * * *

  Electing to be shown to his rooms with the others, Luc felt a numbness take him. It was really going to happen. Viamar’s vision of a new Penthar. And here they were at the beginning. The others did not know it, but Imrail had something in his possession that might make it possible for him to be in Alingdor in moments. He suspected there was another way. Just then he would have given almost anything to see his folks, but doing so would have made it that much more difficult to leave. No, he had to proceed as planned. Something in him told him he had only a few days left, if that. Choosing to turn in—needing to—he knew the next few weeks would pass in a blur and aff
ord them little opportunity to rest. Too many things to do, a people to rally in another Plane. He did not know whose side they would choose, but he was going to have to try. The day was coming. First he had to deal with Ansifer. Then Naeleis. Or both.

  After the Companions were settled, each given rooms in a wing near his chambers—Avela had saved him the embarrassment of ensuring Trian’s rooms were near his own—he paused in the cold, unused hall. If not for Alingdor he would have blushed at the finery; now, he hardly noticed. Meeting Trian’s eye, he forced himself to ask. He did not want to frighten her, but she was the only one who had any insight to offer.

  “How many do you think will to side with us?” he asked softly. “Any chance some could be . . . convinced to change sides?”

  The Val Moran’s face, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question, was still far and away the most arresting under the shifting tides and winds of the world. It did not matter that the question made her ivory skin grow even paler. She ran a hand through her lustrous hair, then moved towards him. “Luc, I just don’t know,” she told him seriously. “I think it terrifying to try, to trust any of them. I remember . . . The war had taken so many.” The First War of the Furies. Bedlam. Chaos. “The world was beyond help or hope. That was when the skies broke and Unari came. The Faithful knew he would have no mercy. Had we known the Unmaker was simultaneously taking shape and planting the seeds of discord. . . . It might have been different. Now they know only corruption and vileness. Having eons to gnaw on their rebellion, knowing they nearly succeeded in supplanting the faithful, they will be more likely to stand against us. No,” she said finally with a shake of the head, “I do not believe many will be able to shake their lust for war and vengeance. They want you dead, all memory of you blotted from existence.”

  He nodded. Difficult to keep the bitterness from his voice. “And if I did not try?”

  She hesitated, taking his meaning. “You would be no better than the masters they currently serve.”

  Luc squeezed his eyes shut. The very same conclusion he had reached just days prior. A terrible risk. A gamble with the lives of the very people he claimed he had come to shelter. Drawing in a steadying breath, he opened his eyes. When he did he saw Elaine Kryten staring at Trian. Not the first time he had seen someone look at her with open awe. Or dread.

  “You begin to see the urgency of our errand, Mistress Kryten,” Avela said. “You must instruct the Redshirts—convince them—that there are forces at play here that go beyond our understanding. This is Elloyn, returned from the long night to face the Furies and the Earthbound one final time. The general and I would appreciate it if this wing was accessed only by your most trusted servants.”

  The woman nodded mutely.

  After settling Trian in rooms near his own, Avela intent on staying with her, they were rejoined by Lars and Urian. Still unsettled, Elaine Kryten took him to rooms almost as fine as those in Alingdor. She directed two men to light lamps and see to heating water in a private bathing chamber. Lars and Urian posted themselves outside, even though both intended to be up and on the move early. Luc peeled off his coat and searched through his rucksack. Finding a robe, he bathed and went to bed immediately. He knew it would be difficult to sleep. Next to impossible really.

  Sometime later Imrail entered. Luc sat up. “Sorry to wake you,” the general murmured, shutting the door behind him. He set a lamp on one of the end tables. “I think we may be able to salvage something out of this situation yet. The Viamar name still carries too much weight to dismiss. You may be something more. Word is already spreading, I hear.”

  “That’s something,” Luc said.

  “Yes. Let’s be clear on tomorrow morning,” Imrail went on. “I don’t want you taking part in locating the Ardan. You no doubt remember what took place outside of the Landing. You were almost a full day recovering; even then we weren’t sure if there’d be any lasting effects. The time will come for you to reveal yourself, but not here.”

  Luc shuddered at the memory. In his mind the memories were overlaid by the torrent of brilliant white light. He had almost lost himself confronting the Syphers. He could not afford the same to occur here. He had come too far, tasted love and loss. He did not want to be a force of wrath and vengeance only. Besides, now was not the time. He agreed on that much. He could not risk losing himself to the seething rages. He had to focus on reaching Rolinia. That was his task. Nodding, he sank back. “Just make sure Rew joins them,” he told the man. “I think he may surprise them.”

  Imrail exhaled softly. Plainly he’d expected Luc to dispute the point. “I planned as much. He may surprise us all. Well, I’ll let you turn in. Get some rest, my Lord,” the general added. Luc did not look up to see him leave.

  The next morning he was up a little after first light. He chose not to rise immediately and instead waited out the majority of the day in his quarters. Imrail entered sometime after midmorning indicating he had sent Trian, Avela, and a few dozen Redshirts north to retrieve the displaced people meant to found the sprawling city, draftsmen, masons, carpenters, and foremen among the most important. He sent for the plans of the city, penned in a precise hand. Luc had to dress when Imrail asked Commander Kryten to join them. After an hour or two of lengthy discussion, they had added so many notes and annotations he was afraid the document was going to be next to impossible to decipher. He was hoping Master Jebb might be able to make some sense of it. The man had a head for such things. Imrail promised to send for him. Both men left him in good spirits.

  By early evening Luc emerged from the keep to find the mists still working through the streets. He was surprised to find a detachment of men from Landon’s outfit patrolling the grounds. These were the men who knew him best—the only permitted to wear the silver and black. Seeing the familiar faces grimly keeping a watch over the sprawling compound put him a bit more at ease. The Redshirts still in the area looked a touch bemused. Not as unwelcoming as he had first feared. What the rest of the troops would think of Imrail and Luc remained to be seen.

  “You were quick to display your emblems.”

  Luc turned and glanced at Gantling. He had not heard the man approach. The rising mists were beginning to rile him equally as much as the man did himself. Staring at the silent streets, he attempted to penetrate the miasma. Still concentrated, he thought, with no signs of lessening. It was rank and fetid, too. He had not realized he’d unconsciously sought the Oneness. The effort was becoming instinctive. He existed. He flowed in the currents. “It wasn’t my doing, Captain,” he told the man finally. It took some restraint not to clench his teeth.

  “What does it mean?”

  Glancing at him, Luc had a hard time deciding if that squat nose fit with his slicked back hair. “It’s the Mark of Chaos.” A sign of domination and destruction. Now a warning that he was here. A reminder to the Furies their betrayal would lead to their annihilation. Complete and utter annihilation. I should have finished them the first time. Maien chained to the World-Spire. Eridian burnt to a cinder in the Great Chasm. Naeleis erased from Annals for all time.

  Hard to say if Gantling believed any of it. His face was so rigid he almost looked in pain. “Sounds like you mean to make Triaga a prime target for your enemies,” the southerner muttered.

  Luc ignored the man for a moment. Night was falling and still no news. Not that he’d expected the Ardan would be easy to pinpoint.

  “This city and all cities were targets long before we got here, Captain,” Luc told the man. He gestured at the mists. “This was not my doing. With us here, I doubt they will risk doing more than they have already. Not yet. They remember what happened before. After the first War of the Furies an edict was placed against open conflict. For now, this nation at least is under some protection. The others are not. When the Ban is lifted, it will be chaos. That war will make the Stand seem a scuffle. If we survive it, rest assured after this is over—if there is anything left to rule or govern, you will be free to voice your displeasure. For
now . . .”

  Stepping forward, he forced a long, focused breath. He did not have any formal training, true, but he had the memory of Amreal guiding him. Here Luc was an instrument of the Tides, an agent of the winds. He refused to allow his people to exist this way, in fear and uncertainty. Mistrusting him, his intentions. Tracing the currents of the enemy’s construct, he detected swells that gave off a rancid feel ripe with evil. Slowly, deliberately, he consciously directed the Tides. As he did a wind stirred. Not a soft breeze; this was a gusting wind like a blast off the slopes of the Mournful Peaks. Sensing a bit of strain on the other end, a hint of resistance and panic, he forced the Tides into an eddy. Suddenly awakened, he almost threw his hands up. The mist flared, like catching fire—not the white light of the First Plane but a brilliant crystalline blue. The essence of the Tides in its pure form. And like a raging maelstrom, the vapor twisted and coalesced above the Second City of Penthar. Not into the Mark of Chaos. He suspected something else would be more appropriate.

  A Crescent Moon.

  Whether mere moments or minutes later, the deed was done and the night air stood still again, clear and unsullied. It had begun. Now they knew he was here.

  So be it, he thought grimly. He was just getting started.

  CHAPTER 19 — UNREST

  Wiping the perspiration off his face, Luc straightened. Realizing his left hand was clutching the Rod, he froze. Images flashed across his eyes. Impressions—no, emotions—he had once contained, emotions that flooded forth like a deluge. Feeling the little left of himself begin to slip away, he pried his hand free. The effort, the strain, nearly brought him to his knees. So much rage. The infinite Tides could not contain it, or thoughts suddenly unbounded. This is what it will be like at the end, he thought. One form. One focus. But now was not the time.