by Matt Thomas
Losing himself in the rhythm and fury of the bay’s long strides, the terrain became a blur of indistinct land features draped in shadow though laced in a brilliant blue. The night seemed poised to drag on. He felt its cold touch, its distinct caress, aware both sides were waiting to see what word dawn would bring. It had to start here, but who knew what events were unfolding in the other Nations and beyond. So much hinged on Ancaida, but they could not be blind to the Furies cunning and unrelenting hate. Once they had served, if only out of fear. Now they were unfettered with three or four millennia to plan and brood in the hidden places of the world.
Sometime later, with Lightfoot in a full lather, a shadow sped across his field of view. He thought he detected someone calling him by name. Pulling back on the reins, he came to a halt. He was caught off guard when he heeled the bay and saw both Mearl and Trian riding up in haste to reach him. Gantling followed close behind, a wild light in his eyes. “Is he mad?” the Redshirt snapped. “We’re here. Did you plan on bulling them over? Damn it,” he said, glancing at the others, “he’s so absorbed with his—”
“I wouldn’t,” Trian warned, silencing the man.
Luc caught himself reaching for the Ruling Rod. His first impulse more often than not now, he realized. Already cold from the autumn air and the relentless pace, he gave the man a look that silenced the Redshirt. He’d had enough. Lars had been bad enough, but at least the man had come around. This one showed no signs of yielding. “Master Gantling,” he began, “I am bound to the path the Giver laid out for me. You are more than welcome to choose another.” Hitching Lightfoot forward, he made for the border outpost. The Pentharan side of the crossing appeared on full alert. He suspected the Ancaidan side was too.
Even at this hour a full contingent of men were on duty. More Redshirts, only intermingled with men in mismatched cloaks and coats. New recruits? he wondered. No, their movements were too controlled, their glances too discerning. Something about their presence made the Redshirts appear uncomfortable. Well, Kryten had been advised to take precautions; it appeared the man had made good on the request. A hint of expectation was in the air. Clearly someone had briefed them.
“My King,” a veteran greeted, bowing formally. He was rough-faced and a little on the brawny side. For some reason he seemed vaguely familiar. “Welcome to Eagle’s Crossing.” Seeing Luc’s questioning look, he went on. “Most of the permanent border posts have names. Nothing elaborate. I suppose it makes sending messages a bit easier. This one may not be much to look at, but it will serve. I have taken precautions to ensure the compound is secure. You’ll no doubt want billets for your men and grooms to see to your horses. If you will come with me, there are a few matters we should discuss.”
Trian was the first to read the riddle. “You were in Peyennar,” she said.
The soldier nodded. “Yes, my Lady Emening. My name is Dillan Gandar.”
“You did not send word to Triaga.” It was not a question.
“General Vandil advised I do so only in secret,” Gandar said. “He was here briefly. That was several weeks ago now. This place was a mess. Still is, in truth. The men, on the other hand, are ready. We have seen to that. You now have access to two hundred swords should you need them.”
Luc found himself looking on with some disbelief. Word from Vandil at last. Thank the Giver. But there was more going on here than just that. The men in mismatched coats and cloaks. A closer look showed one wearing a black ring with some insignia branded on it. Another man standing somewhat nearer wore a similar crest on the sleeve of his deceptively plain coat. The depiction was a pair of crossed knives. Emry, the thought came to him. These men were from Emry.
The Guardians had come.
“Are they aware of the current situation?” Luc asked.
“Yes,” Gandar said. “We are ready to trade blows with the Furies.”
Luc nodded, pleased, even if the man was incapable of fathoming what he was suggesting. “Good,” he said. “Let’s get settled. We leave at first light.”
* * * * *
Making their way through the border outpost, corridors in a sorry state, he winced at the sight of cracked walls and uneven cedar floor planks that groaned at each footfall. Stiff from the ride, he made a mental note to send word to have this and every other border post repaired or replaced. If the neglect was this widespread, he understood in part why some in the south begrudged the First City. Well, he hoped Imrail could put an end to that. They did not have long now. Soon everything would be chaos. Both north and south had to be one.
At the moment so many were crowding in the clamor was deafening. Luc’s original outfit out of Triaga kept close, Trian at his elbow, with Mearl and Eubantis stone-faced just behind them. They kept on until reaching what appeared to be a common area. The cramped confines did not dissuade many from attempting to follow. Luc did not mind. If a man was going to risk his life, he deserved to know why.
Deciding to stand, he peeled off his gauntlets and tucked them into his belt. The Redshirts and Silverbands cleared a small space for Vandil’s aid and a few of the men in mismatched gear.
“Report,” Luc said. He suddenly found himself missing Imrail.
Gandar inclined his head, silver and black uniform standing out in the flickering torchlight. “Yes, my Lord. As you know, I stayed behind with General Vandil when you rescued the Lord Viamar. Two of the Companions were with us. We had some word of what’s passed, but once we were in the wild were on our own.
“After you escaped with the Lord Viamar, Vandil ordered us to cut north,” Gandar went on. “He hoped to split their forces. It seems it worked. We bought you a half day, perhaps more. We pushed our horses to the limit and spent another day pinned down in a canyon while the Earthbound raised a firestorm trying to reach you. There were eight of us. Not much we could do. After they passed, we started south immediately. Almost stumbled straight into a second band led by Ansifer himself. He had the Sword of Ardil. I was so close I caught the thing gleaming in the morning light. He was raving, cursing Unari and someone he called Naeleis. General Vandil reckoned he was the orchestrator of the sack on Alingdor. I believe it was the first time I ever saw the man afraid.”
Gandar paused for a breath. Luc glanced at Trian. He had not realized someone had brought him an armchair. He was gripping the Ruling Rod tight now. “There isn’t much more to say,” Gandar added. “Once it was clear the Fallen meant to bypass Peyennar, General Vandil was content to leave the battle to you. We tracked the man about ten days. Vandil was cautious not to get too close. He suspected this Ansifer was once high in the Warden’s council and had ways to seek out pursuers. We were originally concerned they might sack the Landing. No way to know if they would make for the highway and Innisfield either. Seems they were more concerned about speed. They hit at least two farms and made off with horses. They did not bother with prisoners. From what we could uncover, at least two other Fallen were with him. A terrible darkness went with them, but Vandil refused to risk letting them move at will through Penthar. We followed all the way to the northern base of the Highwater. They were expected. A gang of men with boats. Some were Ancaidans. Others were Tolmarans and men out of Dark End.
“The days in the wild were the hardest. It was not until we made it to Triaga that Vandil gave thought to giving up the chase.”
“What changed his mind?” Luc wondered.
“You,” the soldier went on. “He knew you would be bent on killing him. He was certain of it after seeing the two of you square off. He gave me orders to meet in secret with Commander Kryten and secure our border positions. I have men running messages throughout the south. We are ready. General Vandil, I suspect, is already in Rolinia.”
“Why didn’t Kryten mention it?”
“The enemy has eyes and ears in the city, my Lord. And then there was the talk of succession. I was ordered not to reveal Armenis had been anywhere near the city walls, only to advise the Commander to see to the borders.”
�
�I see.” Not much to go on then. What was Vandil up to?
“You did well,” Trian murmured. “All of you.”
Gandar bowed almost reverently. He was well aware to whom he spoke. “Since Vandil’s departure the Guardians have proven most resourceful. Seems their network surpasses our own. A good thing. The men here”—he gestured at a pair of grim men who hardly blinked—“these men have been sent to convey a message to the Lord Siren. Only to him. They were certain you would be here and have offered their aid—offered more, but that is for them to speak of. This is Aurin Endar,” he added, making a motion towards a tall man with a steady gaze.
“My Lord Siren,” Endar said, bowing low. “If I might have a word in private.”
“We will speak,” Luc told him. “Mearl, we leave an hour after first light. See to rooms, if this place has any.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Everyone else out.”
The majority of the men scrambled to comply. Something about Gandar’s tale rubbed him raw. He had enough trouble picturing Vandil pursuing the enemy so raptly, but the foremost among the Unseated fleeing Pentharan soil? At one time his father’s most trusted ally—now his chief rival—Ansifer had the power and mastery of the Furies at his command. The destruction he could have left behind would have devastated Penthar. So why wait? Shaking his head, he drew in a breath. Maybe the Sword of Ardil was the reason. Luc understood the obsession. Past time to end this. As the room cleared, he exchanged a glance with Trian. She appeared equally at a loss. Seeing most of the men were already out of ear shot, he stood. “Go ahead, Master Endar,” he said.
The man stepped forward. “The Lord of the Free City sends his greetings,” Endar whispered. Luc froze. The man’s voice dripped with honey, but his smile appeared off—forced, more like bared teeth. “I am to bid you welcome to Perdition. I understand you have intimate knowledge of it now.”
The sudden flash of steel stunned him. The moment that followed might have been his last. With no time to think, only one thought stayed coherent in his mind. Idiot, keep him away from her. Pivoting, he avoided a downward strike straight to the skull. Instinctively, he retaliated. Still with no time to draw his sword, he struck with an elbow hard against the back of the man’s head. The blow awoke something in him, a fount, a veiled power. You don’t always need to fight to win, a voice reminded him. Another snapped, I always win. Lashing out with his active will, the creature possessed by the will of the Furies flailed through the air and crashed against the far wall. The uproar brought men running, but he was caught up now. Unsheathing the Lord Viamar’s sword, he raised it and stalked forward, a cold fury enveloping him.
Endar scrambled to his feet, eyes like agates. His ring stood out where he gripped the pommel of his sword. Raising a hand to his ear, his fingertips came away slick with blood. His answering snarl was twisted and alien. Luc continued forward. If Emry had been taken, their ruin was already complete. He was puzzled Amreal had not made a point of discussing the Free City more often. Seeing the rage swimming in Luc’s eyes, the Guardian charged him. Luc deflected the first slash and worked the movements Ayden and Imrail had taught him. Feint then deflect. Counter and side-step. The Guardian tried to follow the movement, striking, sword meeting sword. The man was fast, as fast as Imrail, speed almost inhuman. Luc stepped closer, sweat breaking out on his palms, kicking a chair aside. Someone called his name. Making a sweeping strike, he shied away from the part of his mind that told him to end this, that he could end this with a single thought. But this was not the First Plane and these were not the Powers, Unseated or not. Besides, he had wanted to Fury to reveal himself. Now that he had. . . .
“You are weak,” the Guardian snapped, blade whistling past Luc’s ear. Rather than reply, he ducked under the man’s extended sword arm and stepped back. “I will not stand idle this time. I have come. I will shatter the Dread City and make Elloyn weep to serve me.”
Growling, Luc rushed forward. The exchange of blows filled the hall. This was nothing like practicing the sword with Imrail. The Guardian matched his speed, his footwork. Suddenly he realized men were rushing in. He caught a flash of gray, silver and black. He could not fight them all. If the Guardians had come to kill him, though, he would show them what vying with the Lord of the First Plane truly meant. Slashing out with his sword, a wide, arcing stroke meant to give him space, he screamed.
“Luc, wait—!”
Too late. Crystalline lances pulsed into being. Not of this Plane, the gathering force remained unseen. Its making was born of some sudden insight or hidden recollection. He felt his blade grow hot, every fiber in his being beginning to shift, transform, on the verge of breaking or bursting open. Stop! a tiny voice at the back of his mind commanded. A thin, feeble sound. A grain of sand washed away by a strong current; a blade of grass caught up in a storm. The force was instinctive, but its release would have devastating results. Part of him did not care. Memory awoke within. Naeleis broken. The herald of war and his chief lieutenant orchestrating the defense of the Dread City. Another time and age. Now his most hated foe. At the moment the Guardian’s eyes were the eyes of the Iron Fisted. Too afraid to reveal himself except by proxies. Well, this one was finished.
With the light intensifying to blinding proportions, he did not expect the man to suddenly go limp and fall to his knees, sword leaving his grasp, face stretched and writhing. Luc stepped forward; he had done nothing. A glance behind him did not immediately provide an explanation. The room had filled fast. Mearl and Eubantis stood staring some five paces off. He was surprised to find Gantling at his shoulder and another man in a plain coat. Both had swords drawn. Both looked about as white-faced as a man could.
Glancing at Trian, he saw the concentrated look on her pale features. The air around her appeared to warp. Beads of light, of naked power, shimmered around her. The sight made his breath catch.
It was Elloyn unmasked.
Breathing hard, he ripped his eyes away. It took all his will. Men were thunderstruck.
“Why did you do that?” he whispered. Suddenly enervated, he realized he had nowhere to release the titanic forces.
“You were showing off,” Trian replied, sounding almost heated. “This is no ordinary man, Luc. He could have killed you. More than just you.”
“This is bad,” Eubantis muttered. “If the Guardians have been compromised . . .” Luc looked around warily. This was going to take some time to sort out. Still grasping for air, he squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering. When he reopened them, he looked down at his hand holding his sword.
It was shaking.
“He’s bleeding,” someone said.
So much power. So much fury.
“I’ll see to him. Give him some space.”
“Elloyn . . .”
Hands took him. Caught in the maelstrom, he hardly noticed. Let it go. A distant thought. A far-off consciousness. Somewhere in the darkness a cry sounded. Voices reached him above the din and the thunder.
“A hawk . . .”
“Some kind of omen?”
“Not sure we need another.”
“What . . . what did he do?”
No answer. He was not sure if even he could answer.
* * * * *
Luc slept beyond the break of dawn. For much of the morning he was aware of someone pressed near, but when he sat up, rubbing his eyes, he found himself alone. His belongings were beside him, Rod and sword. Clothes had been pressed and laid out. His billet was clammy and his skin was wet. Nightshivers. He’d lost count of the number of times he had stood on the verge of regaining consciousness. Now a fog clouded his mind. What had he done?
“You need to rest,” a voice murmured. A soft, soothing sound like a light rainfall.
“Trian . . .”
“It was a serious wound,” she whispered. “Some of the men commented they were surprised you bleed like the rest of us. I had to wait until everyone was asleep to mend it.” Trian gripped his forearms. “We almost lost you. Again.
You were drawing on your native . . . Luc, are you listening to me?” She knelt. “Please listen. Your blood may be red, but it is infused with the strands, fibers, of the First Plane. You risk too much too soon. We still have a long way to go yet. Promise me you will remember that.” Swallowing, he nodded, still light-headed. He fingered the bandage on his forearm. “It’s just for show,” she assured him. “Now, let me get you a little broth and then you need to—”
“We have to go. What time is it?”
“You’re not listening,” she huffed.
Taking her hand, he gave it a momentary squeeze. “I know.”
He had to struggle to reach his clothes. Trian took one look at him, eyes appearing to shift in hue, alabaster skin—skin like satin and a new fallen snow—softening. If she had revealed herself the night before, this morning she was even more exposed. He still saw some of the Val Moran girl he had met in Peyennar, but there was a decided difference now. Breathing in her scent, he saw by her expression she was with him whatever he decided. Gathering himself, he pulled back the covers. Trian did not hesitate to help him dress. He tried not to let the feel of her hands engross him.
A short time later, still in a weakened state, they left the border post with a small retinue. Each step felt a hammer pounding against the pressure points of his skull. Perhaps Imrail was right. He was not ready. But at least he was not alone.
Although no one spoke, a line of men came to attention immediately. He did not have Imrail or the others, true, but these men appeared ready to fill the void. Gantling and his Redshirts formed up, making way for the Sons of Thunder.
The morning sky was clear, a wind gusting. He let it consume him. “It’s time,” Luc said quietly. “We’re leaving.”
