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

by Matt Thomas

  Her eyes betrayed no hint of surprise. “I know. What do you intend to do?” was all she said.

  He did not hesitate. “Hit them first. Hit them hard.”

  Silence. He knew that look. Disturbed. Unsettled.

  Risking a quick meal, he sank back and waited, impatient to begin. Ten to fifteen minutes might have elapsed, Urian finishing his plate and sending for another. Finally feeling a shiver run through him and a tremor somewhere unseen ahead, Luc reached for his gauntlets, suppressing a growl.

  “Ansifer,” he hissed.

  Seizing the Rod, he nearly flinched when he touched it, momentarily seeing double. Maybe Trian was right. Maybe not. Perhaps he would uncover the answer here. Perhaps not. In the end it might not matter. Seeing the look in his eye, Trian darted for her own tent, Urian saying nothing. The bowman did not look afraid, just expectant. Quickly exiting the tent, he found the air a bit on the cool side. Well, it was autumn after all. Grivas told him snow in these parts was rare and that even the winter months were relatively temperate. Right then the night air suited his mood. Urian, in his silver and black, drew his sword. Something in his cold eyes made the Redshirts exchange looks.

  Luc knew why. He had seen that look once before. It was the look of a man expecting to die. Weeks had passed with Luc fearing the bowman dead. Dare he risk it again?

  No.

  “You are not to engage them,” he whispered finally.

  Urian paused. “Why?”

  “I need you to get a look at that city,” Luc told him, “but I don’t need you to fight in it.”

  The bowman eyed him somewhat hesitantly, but nodded crisply. “As you say. But if you will permit an observation or two, you’ve been pushing these men hard. They’ll be useless until morning. Maybe not much better even then. Fighting in any town or city is hazardous. That one will be worse than a mill or sausage grinder.” He spread his hands when Luc glanced at him. “I would not counsel waiting; our enemy would only strike first at an hour of his choosing. But if we can lure them, force them out, there is more than one defensible position between us and that city. I suspect they’ve been watching your movements, reason enough why the bloody countryside has been still.” He stepped closer. “Imrail’s a long way off, my Lord. But I’m sure he’d tell you what I am now. This is a trap or I’m a Whitefist. Wait. Draw them out. That is my advice.”

  Sensible advice at that. “I will try,” he agreed reluctantly. He wanted to sweep through the small city and show his foes he had no fear. “I don’t think they will give me much choice, though,” he added darkly.

  Urian snarled. “I know you now. You are capable of giving them another.”

  Luc smiled bleakly. Turning, he motioned Mearl to summon their advisors. A flurry of movement was still underway, tents being pulled down in haste, campfires and torches extinguished, horse handlers turning north to lead the packhorses out of harm’s way. No one dallied. Everywhere he looked men in silver and black appeared intermingled with the Ancaidans and Redshirts. That was something, at least. Exhaling, his mood softened. One existence shattered and broken, the other locked in stasis. In the air above the currents were shifting. He had walked the land having been humbled, defeated, memory clouded. He would not, could not, allow the same to occur here.

  Drawing himself up, he slowly looked over at the collection of men he had drawn under his banner. Some would no doubt fall this night. That worried him equally as much as the fear he would fail them. “Mearl,” he said softly. “I have been advised to avoid a dogfight in the city, but there are signs the enemy is rousing. Have Captain Gantling assemble the Redshirts there.” A motion with the Ruling Rod a half mile south. “They will be our shield. Nasser, you and Grivas be ready to sweep through Caldor for the Earthbound. They will have Deathshades and Angrats. You will need archers, torches, and good steel. Lances will work best. Mearl, you and the Sons of Thunder are with me.” He glanced at them. “The Giver defend you,” he added. “Now go.”

  Trian stepped towards him, her Val Moran sword sheathed at her side, trim coat buttoned up revealing just a hint of pale skin, boots high, expression severe. “He would be a fool to face you here as you are now,” she said.

  “A fool,” Luc agreed. A blind one.

  He glanced at Urian. “Take a fresh horse. Once you find out what we’re up against, get back here.”

  Before the man could respond, Luc called for Lightfoot. Straightening the light armor, he continued forward, joining the Redshirts moving south. Gripping the hilt of his sword, he pushed on into the darkness, fighting an equal measure of fatigue and restlessness. If this is where it was truly going to begin, so be it.

  He had waited long enough.

  CHAPTER 22 — CALDOR

  Cradling his sword, Luc waited, Lightfoot noticeably restive. Urian had long since melted into the darkness. Prior to leaving the bowman had reiterated his belief that they should wait and draw the enemy out. Luc held firm. He told the man he would consider it, but knew waiting would not serve them, not when the night itself was begging for forgiveness and creatures twisted and bent from the fall of the First Plane were making for them. They were out there, no doubt. He could feel them. Some sense that made his stomach knot up, bile rising. The air screamed in repugnance; the land writhed beneath them. No, everything in him told him they had to move now.

  “Ronan Thresh is insisting on joining us,” Gantling said, striding up to his left stirrup.

  Luc shook his head. “Tell the First Minister his people need him alive,” he said.

  Gantling hesitated. “It seems some of the Redshirts feel the same way about you,” he said quietly. “I will tell him.” This time with no hint of sarcasm or derision in his voice, the man bowed and retreated. It seemed the Redshirt had a few surprises in him after all.

  From their vantage point just to the north, Caldor appeared dim for a sizeable town home to some thousands. It hardly took a trained eye to discern something was off. Usually a town the size of this one almost always had some type of traffic—locals making for their homes, travelers, workhands, or merchants moving wares. Vagrants even. Something. Anything. Here there was nothing, though, only an alarming sense of disquiet. Towns also emanated a considerable amount of smoke. He thought he detected thick plumes, only not the smoke of home and hearth. Distinctive odors should have been on the wind. Streets should have given off a steady, welcoming light. Again nothing. Difficult to say how much time had elapsed since the Earthbound had taken possession of the place, but in mere hours he imaged there would be little left of it that would be recognizable.

  Waiting with sweat creeping down his spine, Lightfoot gave a snort and pawed at the air. The men were anxious for him to give the signal. All they needed now was confirmation. Some doubted even one of the Companions would be capable of riding in close enough for a look see and still escape detection.

  They did not know Urian.

  In the end, all said, they waited roughly a full hour. He tapped the Tides twice, reading the swells, the pulses, in the distance. He detected the iron-willed bowman, but did not stop there. The pulses he felt within the town itself were rank and set his teeth on edge. No, they could not afford to wait. Waiting would just force the enemy’s hand, likely leading to an engagement here when they were at their weakest. That would not gain them Caldor or safe passage south. Reaching for a skin, he wet his lips. Trian’s presence settled him some. It never occurred to him to ask her to remain behind.

  Most of the soldiers had taken to walking their horses. Some chewed on nut and oat rations they had picked up in the southern nation.

  A runner suddenly galloped towards them. “Sir! General Imrail sends word. He will be here shortly. Your armies are close. What are your orders?”

  Some far off sound tolled in the distance. Perhaps it was his imagination, as no one else stirred. That was it. The signal he had awaited. “Tell him to push for Rolinia and surround the city as planned. I may need the Guardians dealt with as well. We’re moving.�
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  “Now?” Grivas and Mearl whispered at the same time. “If General Imrail’s—”

  “Over here, damn it.” That was Urian’s voice, to the west. Luc shifted in the saddle, turning the bay. Men exchanged whispers. If they had doubted the man’s skill before, they did not now. “Found some friends, my Lord,” Urian said blandly. “They were lost.”

  Three figures on horseback rode up behind him. Luc recognized them. “Not lost,” Rew objected, “we just missed your camp by a mile or two.”

  “And almost ended up being fodder for the Earthbound,” Urian snapped. “Young colts thinking they’re ready—”

  “Peace, Angar,” Lenora Yasrin said. As she rode up her pale hair appeared incandescent in the darkness. “We h-had to come.” He detected the slight shiver in her tone. “It’s time. You need us. And . . .”

  Luc had been studying the third newcomer. Abruptly he felt a jolt of recognition within. The girl with the honey hair hanging in intricate braids. She was young. Younger than Lenora. Feeling the air sucked out of him, a single word escaped his lips.

  “Reya.”

  The girl looked almost as startled as he did. He did not have time for this.

  Fighting down a shudder, he approached Urian. “What word?” he demanded.

  “No doubt about it, the town’s been taken,” the bowman said. “It’s dead. The enemy has sentries. Not men, my Lord, though I suspect deeper in a full regiment of Ancaidan troops may be waiting. This Ansifer is ready. I didn’t see him with all that smoke. Didn’t think it wise to stay overlong or chance a closer look. If they have prisoners, it’s anyone’s guess where they’re being held.” He paused, wiping the sweat off his face. “That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid. Caldor won’t be easy to take. The Legion’s dug in. Ardan. Angrats. Worse perhaps. He’s ready for you, my Lord. I suggest you wait for Imrail.”

  “There’s no time,” Lenora whispered faintly. “Go. We are with you.”

  Luc just stared, feeling faint. What was going on? And why did Rew look as though he was about to sick up? Standing in the stirrups, he raised Viamar’s sword. His sword now. “We ride.” The most pressing question was obvious. What was she doing here? “Forward for the Giver! We are the Storm! We will not wait! Death to the Betrayers! Death to the Legion! Forward the Storm!”

  Launching forward, he wasted no time moving to a full gallop, the thunder of their passage heavy in his ears, the wind slamming against him. Instinctively he barked a command. He almost lost the reins. The air swirled, shifted. Untamed and unfettered. His to command. All those years wondering, his parents wondering. Ages ago he had done something similar, the memory buried deep. Another existence. No way he could mourn it now and still fight to save this one.

  Time appeared suspended. Aware of the men he was risking, he put himself in the lead. The glances he risked around him told him Urian and Rew had taken up positions beside him; the bowman’s evil eyes appeared alight, defiant. No way to prohibit the man from accompanying them now except by force. He let it go. Mearl and the Sons of Thunder formed up around them, Redshirts in the lead, weapons raised. The remainder of the outfit formed ranks. Expansive fields stood between them and Caldor, but with every breath, every stride, they closed the distance at an increasing pace. His plan was almost as brash as the one they had followed to retrieve the Lord Viamar. He refused to consider that here. This time he wanted the enemy to see them coming.

  Caldor had no walls. As far as he knew, no town or city in Ancaida did. He recognized the complications that would present. No way to contain the Earthbound if they fled, or guard against unseen or sudden attacks. If the town had been emptied, vacant buildings posed an equal threat. Almost desperate, he sought the Tides. He could not afford any mistakes here. He had to use every advantage he had against them. Their enemies certainly would not hold back. In his mind he became a fount. In some ways a vessel. Born with some innate aptitude to detect the Tides, he had abilities that stretched beyond. One could direct the Tides, alter them, but few could actively harness the substance at the heart of the Making and the patchwork meant to repair the tears made during the first War of the Furies. Perhaps the difference between the Diem and the Ardan was the desire to use it to mend as was originally intended. The Furies had found a way to corrupt even that purpose. Feeling himself begin to drift in the wake of the celestial power, he directed swells—guided was more appropriate—ahead, preparing to alter them. He had given some thought to fire. Bursts of powerful winds might prove just as effective. Losing himself in the undulations, he simultaneously reached into the core of his being where the creature he had been struggled for release. Not yet, he told himself, growing bleak. He could not risk everything just yet, not without purpose.

  Willing Lightfoot on, the bay slowed, shuddered, and sped forward. Ahead destruction awaited. Or annihilation.

  Did it matter?

  Yes, a voice, his voice, affirmed. It does matter.

  Movement ahead made him stiffen—someone manipulating the Tides. He did not see it so much as he felt it, a rushing sound like an unstable wind. In his mind an image formed unsummoned—one of the most famed Diem wielding the Sword. The earsplitting cries of the forsaken Diem locked within hammered him. Feeling the currents shift and form into a line of charged power that could have pummeled a city, he reacted on instinct. Slivers of fire shot towards them, thin, blade-like, soaring in from Caldor. Ten. Twenty. Alterative in nature; Disintegrative in power. He countered with a Second Circle Manipulation, strands of the Tides charged and pulsing to bring balance. Fifty feet above them the air sizzled and came alive, solidifying. Lances of fire hammered it, collided with it, the shock of the impact nearly costing him the saddle. Ansifer followed up with another barrage, then another in quick succession. This time Luc did not react nearly as quickly.

  “Torches!” he called.

  Gasping, sweat dripping into his eyes, he was almost too late. Needing something more, he formed a shield around them, the active Tides surging into a smooth surface like polished glass. Commanding the ethereal substance was not easy. But this—this was a thing of wonder. Another time he would have been awed by the display. Now, he knew what was at stake. He imagined the Stand had begun similarly. But Ansifer was strong. Had the Legion’s lieutenant been there, he wondered if even Ivon Ellandor would have been able to withstand him. Certainly not with the Sword of Ardil in their enemy’s hands.

  Closing the distance, men screaming, he attempted to pinpoint the Fallen’s location. There had to be some way to trace the source. Recalling the bowman’s advice, needing to take to the offensive, he marshaled the Tides, yielding to them, becoming them, beckoning them. There were no words or incantations. He was beginning to understand why some talents were Second and Third Circle Manipulations. The four Disciplines did not matter. There were lesser and greater Manipulations within each School. The physical and mental energy expended for those of a higher circle were more demanding. He was compelling the Tides to change. He had the ability, but it was hardly effortless. Feeling the charged power shift as it freely circled the globe, he consciously let it wash over him, through him, into him, ice pouring into his bloodstream, raw power unlike any other jetting through him. Was this what was forbidden?

  He did not know; he did not care.

  Rising up in the saddle, he sent out a scanning swell. The symmetry and balance he had achieved made him distinctly aware of the hidden enemy forces. Summoning all of his strength, he altered the current. Instantly Caldor lit up in the night. The rushing Tides were not meant to injure, only locate and isolate the Earthbound. What he found twisted his stomach worse than bile. Earthbound. Ardan. And something more. Caldor was dead, devoid of life.

  Only their enemies lingered. His enemies.

  There was some advantage in that, but the loss of a town the size of this one was crushing. No doubt his fault, but he could not afford to lament it here.

  Realizing Lightfoot’s strides had long outpaced the others, he slowe
d. He did not stop his mental foray, though. There were too many. It seemed someone had ensured the Ardan had come in numbers. He was not fool enough to think he could offset them on his own. He had done something once. . . . Remembering his father’s instruction, he considered it. The Diem’s warning not to attempt anything without achieving a near perfect harmony or attunement with the Oneness had not fallen on deaf ears, but he had no choice now. Besides, he was beginning to understand. There were always limits, constraints or other confinements. Amreal had little to no skill tracing the interconnected tapestry, but he could alter them with an expert hand. The Warden had privately admitted he had similar limitations—they all did.

  Tonight Luc was not certain what his were. Tonight he was not certain he had any.

  Feeling the air turn slightly brisk, he forced Lightfoot into a trot. Rew and Urian were the first to reach him.

  “What did you do?” Rew yelled, face pale in the darkness. He was scanning the city. A city now ignited as if under the blaze of midday sun.

  “What did you and Lenora see?” Luc countered.

  Rew passed a hand across his face. “The Ancaidan capital overrun and us too late to stop it. Then the Tolmaran—the girl. . . . She must have snuck off from Triaga. Followed you all the way here by herself. Would have ended up as mincemeat for the Legion if not for Lenora. She’s tied to you in some way. I can’t explain it.”

  Luc crushed a sense of rising panic. Why?

  Trian’s sudden approach made heads turn. “There are Deathshades, Luc,” she whispered. “Haunts. They’ve come in force.”

  “I know,” Luc said.

  “Do you think she is here?”

  “I think Ansifer needs to die now.” A warning tingle came just in time. The air around them began to throb. So that’s his game. A probing strike from one who appeared to have mastered Disintegrative currents, elemental forces that would rip them to shreds. His arm was long to reach them here. Luc had to be careful. Their enemy was the Fallen who had initiated the rebellion that had split Ardil and almost led to their defeat during the Stand. Now Ardil was little more than a memory. He would not allow the man the same satisfaction here. Luc countered with mending Tides. He did not stop there, tracing the manipulation back to the source. He found it almost seconds later. Not so far off then. Sensing his ancient enemy, he struck with a shard of his will, a blow he had been waiting to deal the former Diem since Vandil’s disappearance. A pity he was not there to see the Controller’s reaction. A faint snap told him Ansifer was on his knees. They had faced each other once before. Back then Luc had been overbold, even reckless, harried and baited at every turn. Now the man commanded forces that warranted caution. Still he could feel his rage becoming unbounded. It had happened like this before. A tempest rising. His will. Unari coming, the unyielding storm. He realized he had started forward, then stopped, a warning look in Trian’s eyes.