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

by Matt Thomas

  Swinging his eyes to the sky high above Triaga, he suppressed a surge of disbelief. I did it. Likely a Second Circle manipulation, he thought. Alterative. Not something he should have attempted. But aside from his father and Amreal, he had no one to guide him. Once he had not needed such knowledge or guidance. Now the changes were occurring so fast he did not know who or what he was. Not Siren. Not Luc. Something in between. But there it was. He had felt a hint of resistance on the Ardans’ end. Panic when the anathema had been broken. They were twisted creatures not entirely of the First or Second Plane, like him. Should he pity them? he wondered. He was not sure.

  Slowly, he realized Gantling was gaping. The man had taken several steps back. Those in the Silver and Black appeared interwoven with Triaga’s Redshirts now. Well, if the Redshirts had not known before, they did now. Not just the son of the Warden and the White Rose. Something to fear, to loath. Unclenching his hands, he decided to make for his chambers. He did not pause to see the looks they exchanged behind him.

  A short time later Imrail appeared and stood at the door, face unreadable. Apparently he had been in conference with a pair of Ancaidan and Tolmaran diplomats who had been dispatched to Triaga several weeks prior. Both were disturbed by the troops mobilizing within sight of their borders. The discussions had kept Imrail busy much of the day. Now they were impatient for news. Advising Luc to stay indoors, he left promising to check in later. He did not comment on what Luc had done.

  Not knowing what else to do, Luc penned a letter to his folks. It turned out to be far more difficult than he had first figured. When finished, he sealed it and left it on a mantle above the hearth. Eubantis and Mearl took up familiar positions outside his door, the two bulky men a little more open and expressive than they had been when he had first met them. Well, not Mearl. The stiff man just seemed more at ease. Luc was glad to see the two again. He had not realized how much Vandil’s company had grown on him. That was one of the things he would lose if the balance shifted and he lost the consuming battle to maintain control, to remember who and what he was here. Sighing, he deliberately unbuckled his sword. As an afterthought he left the Ruling Rod behind as well.

  The waiting continued.

  The next day he woke before sunup. He bathed, changed, and ordered Lightfoot saddled. “Imrail won’t like it, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” Eubantis told him as they left his apartments.

  Luc glanced at the soldier. The man stood as tall as Urian, and almost matched the bowman’s bulk. Unlike his comrade Mearl, he had an easy manner. Luc had heard the two commenting on some of the Ancaidan women. Seemed Eubantis had taken a liking to one of them. “Won’t like what?” Luc asked after a moment.

  “General Imrail thought you would try to leave,” the soldier said. “He gave orders not to permit it. He told me to tell you the time will come soon enough once we cross the border.”

  Luc folded his arms. “He went after them, didn’t he?”

  Eubantis nodded. “He did, my Lord,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed. A touch guilty as well. “I’m sorry. Generally Imrail insisted I not reveal it.”

  Luc made a face. He did not like it—loafing around waiting while his friends were out contending with the Ardan. These empty halls were one thing, cold and listless. It was the waiting that annoyed him. He did not think he could stomach another day of it. Even Elloyn had been given a task of some importance, no doubt intentional. The thought of her name made him stumble. He caught himself with one hand against the wall and froze. Thinking about her summoned up images of the others. Who was to say they would not make an appearance here? Eridian was certainly bold enough, Maien outright defiant in her power.

  Returning to his rooms, he tried not to pace. After an hour or two, his mind never ceasing to work through the series of endless scenarios they were likely to face in the Ancaidan capital, he gave into his impatience and left for the front grounds.

  Unarmed, he folded his hands behind his back. He exchanged tight greetings with a few of the men he knew, Eubantis shadowing him. He ignored the quiet words a few exchanged when he passed. Walking the grounds, Triaga appeared almost welcoming under the light of the morning sun. He was not sure how many times he circled the grounds. He had held watch countless nights on the Overlook just outside of Peyennar. That was nothing compared to this. This was maddening.

  It was sometime just shy of noon when a commotion near the grounds’ entrance caught his eye. He arrived just in time to see Lars and the others come to a halt. The strident man had a grin on his face. Imrail was with them. “No problem,” he reported in, drawing rein just short of Luc. “Seems Acriel has become something of a footpad. I don’t know how he did it, but they never saw him coming. Whatever you did here, it had some sort of concussive backlash, too. They were hardly in any condition to pose much of a test.”

  Urian smiled. Not a friendly smile. Satisfied perhaps. “Almost too easy, my Lord. Appears the masons didn’t bother to complete the fortifications on the east end. They’ll have to seal them first thing or my guess is more of the bastards will pry their way in. We made sure the Ardan rued the day they came here, though. The Lady Elaine Kryten knows her city well, my Lord,” he added, giving the tall woman an approving nod. Luc blinked. He had not known she had set out with them.

  Gantling looked doubtful, eyes narrowed. “This has been going on for weeks. You’re saying the few of you managed to put a stop to it? Alone?” He shot a glance at Eleina Kryten. “Why were the Ardan here in the first place? There haven’t been signs of the Earthbound south of Innisfield in years, not since before the Siege.”

  “If you doubt my word, maybe you’d like to have a look see for yourself,” Lars responded flatly. He continued to eye the Redshirt coldly, waiting until Gantling looked away. Luc doubted anything would convince the man short of seeing the Ardans’ dead corpses. No one seemed to care much about convincing him, though.

  From there the day got busier. Ronan Thresh’s Ancaidans arrived first. They looked a little better off than they had just south of the First City, though not much. Finding Triaga virtually empty did not raise their spirits. Commander Kryten met with them and personally vouched for their safety, including seeing to all of their needs. They would have to take a hand in seeing the city on her feet and established, but when done would found the Ancaidan Quarter of Triaga. The Lord Viamar had plans to raise up similar Tolmaran and Val Moran Quarters in the event the Furies proved too much for their nations to contend with.

  Not giving his men much time to recover from their long search, Imrail ordered the Companions to make ready to return to their Outfits. Luc fell in beside Rew and got a firsthand account. Even the lesser details were chilling. Rew said it matter-of-factly, though.

  “That woman—Kryten’s daughter—was almost as set on finding the Ardan as Lars. Odd, that one. A little brash, but he seems to have taken to me. A little protective, you might say. Not that I mind having one of the Companions looking out for me. Once he had the trail, he had us moving most of the night. We holed up in a back alley for a few hours and kept moving before sunrise. That . . . haze . . . It was almost enough to make a man wish he’d never heard of the Ardan or was a babe still clinging to his wet nurse.”

  Rew paused, glancing at him. “Don’t think I’ve met a group of more tenacious men. They like to banter. Almost felt as if . . .” Luc waited, crossing arms and studying his friend. At the moment his features, normally indolent, held a vicious light. It almost made him seem another man. Rew finished the statement with a shrug. “They’re used to one another, I guess. Know what they can and can’t do. Don’t think Angar slept a wink. He saw the Ardan first. I got in behind them and Altaer already had two arrows in flight before I . . . before I . . . Well, you know.” He was moving back and forth from the bed to a narrow basin at the far end of the chamber. He did not complain about having little to no time to get ready. He splashed a little water on his hands and face, scrubbed with a bar of soap, put his arms through a rustic coat from o
ut of Peyennar, and slung a sack over his shoulder. It was under a quarter hour before the two of them were back in the courtyard with Altaer, Lars, Urian, and Graves. Imrail spoke to them firmly.

  “Once you get back to your outfits, I want you across the border by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Don’t engage any troops you come across. Bully them if you must. Convince them we are responding to a formal request from the Privy Council for assistance. Use Thresh if you have to tie him to a saddle. Absorb any patrols you come across into our forces. We don’t know if they’ve been cut off the capital. For now, assume they have been but take precautions. I want you in position in a week. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor and I will be setting out with the Redshirts, but I suspect we will lead a smaller team into the capital. Send messages as we discussed.” He looked each one over. “No questions?” He waited. “Good. The Giver willing, we’ll meet again.”

  The others nodded and made for their saddles straightway. Luc wrung his hands behind his back as he watched them go. All but Rew bowed. His friend gave him a crisp nod, face tight. He’s hardly the same, he thought. Some part of him was sorry about that. He had promised the Acriels he would look out for their son. For his friend. For Peyennar. Now it seemed Rew was going to have to look out for himself. If anything happened to him, it was on Luc. Rew, who knew him well enough to read his expression, just grinned.

  “Think you can manage without me?” he said wryly.

  Luc shook his head mutely. His dry mouth made it next to impossible to speak. The Giver defend you, he thought silently. All of you.

  Watching them go, he exchanged a glance with Imrail. “We’re out of time,” he said.

  Imrail nodded. “I know.”

  He hesitated. “Are we making a mistake?”

  Imrail stroked his chin. “Don’t think so, lad. The worst mistake is often the one you never know you’re making. Win or die. Those are the options as we all saw it. Rally the Nations. I think you may be surprised by the response from some of the others. Ancaida is one thing. Tolmar another. Val Mora will not fail you.”

  As the day continued bands of Redshirts Imrail had ordered pulled off the border began to file in. Most came in groups of ten to fifteen. They trickled in at first, but soon the grounds became jammed full. “It’ll be days yet before they’re all recalled,” Kryten told Imrail.

  “Do what you can.” Luc caught the man’s gaze narrow suddenly. Following the direction of his eyes, he saw—much to his chagrin—Gantling debriefing the arriving men. Imrail seemed to have the same thoughts and came about as close to snarling as Luc had ever seen the man, jaw locked, austere eyes harsh. “Just get them ready,” the general snapped. “We’re leaving in the morning with whatever you can muster. Have the men assembled and ready to march by sunrise. Assign anyone who arrives after here and hold this point even if the Unmaker himself makes an appearance.” He muttered something, then added, “Damn Vandil for leaving this mess for me to clean up. Something tells me this will be over in a matter of days. Now we have this fool meddling in matters his hair-brained wits can’t comprehend. I’m done with him. He steps out of line again, he hangs.”

  Kryten started to protest.

  “Enough,” Imrail cut in. “This is Pentharan soil. He’s convinced himself he can show the world he’s another Manx Andus and win enough support to split the realm. Well, he won’t do it on my watch. Get him out of here now. I need a scouting team at the border by nightfall and runners back here with news as soon as possible. Send him. His time in this city is over.”

  Kryten sighed. “He was well intentioned at the start. He succumbed to certain . . . ideals. We in the south have lived well enough, but we hear more of the news out of the east than you know. Things do not go well for Val Mora.”

  “The tide is about to turn,” Imrail said. He pointed, gloved hand steady in the air. “Get him moving. Now.”

  Kryten nodded, still gray-faced. “About my daughter . . .”

  Imrail held up a hand. “Later.”

  The old veteran turned Lord of Triaga sighed.

  Unwilling to leave Gantling alone with the arriving Redshirts, Imrail muttered something under his breath and moved off to join them. Luc folded his arms behind his back, waiting. The general stepped deliberately, tall, imposing. Hard to say if one in the silver and black would ever be able to win the trust of the arriving Redshirts, but it was evident Imrail meant to try. Weaving his way through the men, hand on his sword, he snapped a few words here and there. After several minutes of this he saw someone he recognized. Making a sharp motion, he spoke firmly. Luc was too far away to hear what the man said. It had an immediate impact, though. Instantly whispers began to ignite and the Redshirts began to roll into the compound, Imrail motionless. Kryten had pulled Gantling aside. The outspoken soldier looked black-faced, clearly displeased. In under a quarter hour grooms were leading horses to the stabling grounds and Imrail was back inside. Luc entered to find more and more men spilling into the main hall where the supplies were being kept. It did not take long for the hall to fill. Luc, not wanting to be noticed, hung at the rear, heart pounding. The lines of waiting men looked on expectantly. Still Imrail waited. Another few minutes went by, men continuing to hurry in. Slowly the general held up a hand. Silence hung over the hall of the Crescent Moon. A silence not just of expectancy. It was the silence of a hanging doom.

  “My name is Elhador Imrail, General of the Realm. I speak for House Viamar and the Lords of Penthar. I have news. Some good, some not so good.” No Orator, Imrail’s tone had changed nonetheless. It was clear like a cutting blade. Commanding, compelling. At the moment he had the full attention of every Redshirt standing within earshot.

  Imrail paused, weighing the men in the front ranks. When he continued, his voice hardened. “I have been told some among you have little love for the First City,” he said. “Rest assured if we do not put aside our differences and any uncertainty about the stability or direction of the realm, our enemies will take note. Several weeks ago Legion forces abducted the king. The Earthbound have returned. They are here under the command of the Furies. Some of you will no doubt question this, but I assure you they are real. I have seen them. Hundreds have seen them and their agents. I was there to witness their first mustering since the Stand at Imdre. Many died. Many more undoubtedly will.

  “The Lord Viamar made plans for the south. I assure you they will come to fruition. A city gleaming in the night—a beacon for the Nations. Unshakable. Unwavering. The vapor that took the city is proof the enemy fears what will come of that vision. Thankfully the Lord Viamar-Ellandor and the Companions have taken steps to free the city of the corruptive influence. Now you must free yourselves of any anger or mistrust. We are here to make binding what has thus far been known only to a few.

  “Within a matter of days the White Rose herself will arrive to attest the king has been saved—saved by her son, the Warden’s son. The Lords of Alingdor, Anneth, the Watch, and all of the realm we could gather in haste witnessed Eldin Viamar and his daughter surrender the crown to Luc Viamar-Ellandor, Siren. Some may have heard whispers of the name. He has come among us to vie against the Furies and recover the Sword of Ardil, taken when the king was abducted. He is here. I have given every oath I have to serve him. My expectation is that all here will do so for now and all time. He has a terrible burden. Facing—defeating—the menace in the east. Our differences pale before the weight of that task. You will surrender your swords and lives to him and serve him. It is either that or wait for the darkness to take you.

  “We have no misconceptions we will be able to defeat our enemies while the realm is divided. I am asking you to trust that this city will rise to greatness. Emry will soon declare its support and cede its authority to him. Even now they are marching towards Ancaida. It is there the Sword of Ardil has been taken to. By dawn we will be riding in force across the border. Our undertaking is clear. Deliver the Ancaidans from a fate worse than death and slavery. We will bind the Nations to our cause: Freeing all land
s from the grip of the Earthbound. Those of you who wish to serve will do so with all rights the forces of Alingdor hold. We will ride under one banner, the Mark of Chaos. Those who do not wish to do so may resign without shame. There is work enough to do on many fronts. Those who wish to join me, bring your swords and your bedrolls. Ancaida is but the beginning. We will be moving to Val Mora to take the fight to the Mountains of Memory. Choose where you would stand.”

  Imrail took one last look at the assembled men. “That is all. We leave at first light, defenders of the Lord of the First Plane. Other companies will simultaneously be moving across the border. We will number just under seven thousand, strong enough to challenge but still move swiftly and in stealth. A second outfit ten thousand strong will be marching for Triaga. We will be bringing men of strength and skill to speed the completion of the City of the Crescent Moon. Those who are willing may join me. You will be the first arm of Siren in the final War of the Furies. Choose swiftly. We are out of time.”

  He finished it bluntly. Nothing more needed saying. Now it was on Luc. When Imrail moved in between the ranks of men, it was as if a shroud had been lifted. More than one Redshirt bowed and gave way before the general. Compelling arguments. Convincing. Imrail carved a path through the throng, making straight for him. Eyes swung his way. Dozens. No, hundreds.

  Somehow Imrail had done it.

  “Orders?” Imrail asked when he reached him, loud enough there was no mistaking whom he was addressing.

  “Make ready to depart,” Luc said. “I am leading the advance team into Ancaida.” He judged Imrail would better serve with the full company of Redshirts at his disposal. Now it was up to Ivon Ellandor’s son. Somehow, he suspected it always had been. “Send word to Tolmar and Val Mora. I am calling a meeting of all lands. When Ancaida is free, we will take the fight to the Furies. I mean to make them suffer for what they have done here. And elsewhere.”