by Matt Thomas
“What time is it?” he asked, throat hoarse.
“Near evening.”
“How far to Rolinia?”
“Two days at least.” Trian said.
That far. Well, the hunt was almost at an end. He had to finish it. He imagined Rolinia was in chaos. What he found would dictate whether or not he could risk what he had been planning. Caldor had proven he was capable of extremes. The problem was it had likely siphoned off some of his strength. Strength he would need in the days, in the months, ahead.
“I need to look in on the outfits,” Luc said.
“I know,” she said quickly. “I will go with you.”
“No.” Judging by the tight lines under the eyes, she had spent most of her time fussing over him. Turning so he could kneel, cringing at the shooting pains that lanced through him, he gripped her forearms with both hands. It took everything he had in him not to weep again, her eyes were that piercing. He had lost one friend already, and with him, a part of his youth. With her, it would be the end of time and existence. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. Soon she was the one mourning. He let the grief take her, speaking softly. Some time passed. The feel of her warmth against him steeled him some. They had come a long way together, but had even further to go. Indulging in a single kiss, he set her in his blankets, waiting until she closed her eyes and her breathing slowed.
He began to brood immediately.
He took only what he would need. His sword and a few belt pouches that jingled when he handled them. The Ruling Rod. The Light Armor hanging on one shoulder. Exiting, he paused at the tent flap.
I love you, he sent the thought out, then ducked under the tent flap.
A light touch like an infusion of warmth filled him. He wondered if she heard him.
There were instant bows and greetings when he appeared under a sky laced in red and gold. Dressed in his customary silver and black, recently pressed, each booted footfall made his head throb. He tried to ignore it. Lars immediately came to attention. The Companion at times had been Imrail’s polar opposite. Brash, ignorant and headstrong, but in recent weeks he had tempered his willfulness with an unpretentiousness Luc suspected would make him far more reliable, capable of leading men. Perhaps even the Ancaidans. For now he was the most obvious choice, Urian and Graves close seconds. He supposed it did not matter. Each would have a role before the end.
Surveying the open terrain, he studied the armies they had assembled. They were stretched out across the terrain beyond the boundaries the naked eye could see. The time was coming when they would either liberate the people of Ancaida or seize it in opposition of the Furies.
Luc moved to the fireside where the Companion had been speaking to some of their aides and lieutenants. “My Lord,” Lars said with a bow. “I am pleased to see you well.”
Luc inclined his head. “Is everything in order?” he asked.
“Not as well as I would have liked, not without . . .” Lars paused, eyes clouding over, chest heaving in his silver and black. “I never understood,” he muttered, staring hard off into the distance. Towards Caldor, Luc realized. “Imrail’s intensity. Being so tight-lipped. He tried to warn me about this moment. They all tried to warn me. I was too arrogant. Too thick-headed.” A moment passed, and then the tall man squared his shoulders, turning. “I will do as you command, but I confess I’ve no desire to take Imrail’s place. I’m not even certain I can continue.”
Luc flexed his wrists. He did not know the man well. They had clashed often enough in the past, but that had been in the far north. Now they had leagues behind them and fire and ash waiting before them. “You must,” he said finally. “You lead the Companions now, what’s left of them. When I’m gone someone must remain who will remember what he did, what he intended. If we find Vandil we will reorganize our ranks, but until then we are all there is. For now, send for our aides please.”
Lars swallowed. “Yes, my Lord. They are near. The armies have been worried.”
Sitting, he studied the compound. Lars had erected a serviceable pavilion. Silverbands and Redshirts held watch in the immediate vicinity. Easily hundreds of grim-faced men. Waiting with his hands folded in his lap, he nodded curtly whenever a soldier passed or saluted. The movement was becoming more and more instinctive. Lars was not the only to have changed, he realized.
Lenora was the first to come forward. Her lithe form moved spryly, but evidence of grief was plain on her girlish face. Not so girlish now, he realized. And equally as striking as some others.
“We lost him,” she whispered, green eyes exposed.
He nodded. “We can only continue as he planned and hope he finds his way home,” he said, taking her in. “Will you help me?”
“You know I will.”
“I need you to stay with Trian,” he said seriously. “One of the Furies may make an attempt on her. If not now, then soon. She is not to be left alone.”
Lenora’s face hardened. “I understand,” she said firmly.
Urian and Altaer arrived next. The two men looked about as disheveled as he felt. “I am moving for Rolinia at dawn,” he told them. “Will you be joining me? I will understand if you are hesitant after . . . after what took place.”
“There was never any question,” Altaer replied, rubbing a hand along the line of the leather chord that held his long hair back. His smooth features tightened. He had seen the enemy in the far north. He perhaps more than any other knew what they were up against.
“We’ll send the bastards back to the hole that spawned them,” Urian added, spitting.
“That we will,” Luc agreed.
A few minutes later Landon Graves arrived with Gantling, Grivas, and Ronan Thresh. The latter looked a little pale. Eduin Lars came last with the outfit lieutenants. “I am making for the city at dawn,” Luc told them. “Get the men in position as planned. We are going to retake the capital.”
“You are talking bloodshed,” Thresh snapped. He blanched when Luc glanced at him. “My Lord,” he restarted, “you have proven yourself to my people. What you did, what you lost—”
“A high price—the highest—in the defense of your people,” Luc cut in. “I will risk no more. I am going to move into the city myself.” They just stared at him. “Ildar, as soon as I am able to send word, I want you to move into the city and occupy it. Let it be known the First Minister lives. We can hope that will minimize any conflict.”
“What about Ansifer?” Graves asked carefully.
“I will deal with him,” Luc maintained.
Lars crossed his arms. “That will be dangerous, my Lord. I assume you have some plan.”
He did. A fool’s plan, but one he had to attempt. “We need to find Vandil. That will require the Companions. They will accompany me. The Lady Elloyn will ride with the outfits. Mark her. Are there questions?”
No one said anything, but their looks appeared disheartened. Luc just smiled. He hoped it did not appear forced. “We will not lose,” he told them. “You have my word.”
“I took the liberty of picking through Caldor for some fresh supplies, my Lord,” Lars told him. “You’ll be pleased to know we found ample to provision us for another week or two. The men will eat and drink better in the next few days than they have since leaving Innisfield.”
“Excellent. If there is nothing else, let’s go. I want to look in on the other outfits.”
Lars held up a hand. “A moment, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor.” The Companion scrubbed a hand through his hair. “There are a few more matters that require your attention. I ordered Gantling to send runners to Triaga. Redshirts who know the terrain well. I thought it prudent to seal the border. Strange tidings out of Tolmar. I hope you don’t mind. It appears Captain Gantling added something to the message. Seems he may be coming around. The message he added was for the call to spread. The Redshirts ride with the Lord Siren and the Pentharan King.”
Luc considered it. Perhaps—
“There’s more. Acriel and the Guardians
left unannounced.”
Luc stared at him. “South?” he demanded. “Did they move south?”
“Yes.”
Damn it, what were they thinking? Why now? Shaking his head, he found his hands forming heavy fists. Amreal would have given him a tongue lashing over what he considered now. Amreal. “I want everyone on the move as soon as you are able. Order a heavy night watch. Then double that.” Not that anyone would be able to sleep after the horrors of Caldor. No telling what the enemy was capable of now.
“Yes, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor.”
He inhaled. “Let’s go.”
* * * * *
The next morning with dawn still an hour or two off, Eduin Lars led their advance party along the Ancaidan highway. Under the blue-black sky the man elected to don a silver and black cloak over his customary uniform. His jaw was set and his once brash eyes scanned the roadway continuously. He was alert and attentive. A changed man without doubt. The night had passed uneventfully. The only incident of any consequence had come when Lenora and Trian exited his tent, both with saddlebags in hand and small baggage caches on their shoulders. Luc recalled looking over the pair expressionlessly. He had grit his teeth and tried not to glare. Urian and Altaer both exchanged wry looks, then called for additional mounts. In the end the delay had proven minimal.
For two days they trekked across the highway expecting enemy scouts and ambushes at any instant. Surprisingly none came. In fact, there was no sign of the enemy, only the faint pulses and whispers of the Sword of Ardil on the move to the southwest, well off the highway. Vast holdings were evident to the east, huge estates that dwarfed those they had seen in northern Ancaida, some rivaling the finest in Alingdor. The only other visible signs of turbulence came around midday. The sight made his stomach knot up. From a distance he saw a continuous stream of locals fleeing the city in mass, making for the southern stretch of the Mournful Peaks. Young and old huddled together, some bloodied, others too wounded to continue. Still others had been left for dead, some several days back or more. A lucky few moved on horseback, but the look of terror in their eyes was evident from fifty paces off. Urian bullied a few of them into providing news, but Landon Graves sent word to ensure they were supplied, tended, and sufficiently equipped to reach the camps Eubantis had worked tirelessly to bolster. Luc wondered if this was more evidence of Vandil’s handiwork. Well, no matter. For the moment it was enough to know someone had established order in the Lower City, at least by day. Nightfall, they said, was another story. Shadows took to the streets, men and women ripped to shreds without a moment’s notice. Rioting and looting were as commonplace as creatures visible in the distance scaling the Heights. Most of the nobles not dead were either missing or had gone into hiding. Rolinia was holding by a thread.
Seeing them, Luc did not delay. He ordered Lars to step up their approach, keeping their halts infrequent. With the wind whipping at the man’s coat, Luc was struck by the significant changes the man had undergone. Well, they had all experienced some type of change or another. After Caldor he did not expect any of them to be the same. Luc hardly had time to weigh or consider it with Minister Thresh pressing him for assurances they would keep the bloodshed to a minimum. He did what he could to appease the man, but even after witnessing the forces the Legion was capable of fielding against them it became apparent the First Minister still had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Luc did not try to explain. The decision to fight for what was good and decent was for every man and woman to make for him or herself. Ronan Thresh would have to come to terms with this on his own.
They set camp a few hours prior to dusk. Lars and Graves closed out the day reinforcing their squad with men from each of the other outfits. Imrail and the other lieutenants had hoped to surround the capital in secret. Speed now seemed the better option. Moving coolly on horseback, they had one end goal in mind—making their advance team the most versatile armed force west of Val Mora. After Caldor there was no disputing they were just that. Luc waited a bit while Altaer selected a handful of men to infiltrate the city with him. Grivas supplied them with plain Rolinian attire; as an afterthought, Luc asked the man to accompany Altaer with a few of his Lancers. The First Minister’s aid knew the city better than any of them. He also appeared to understand the tactical and political situation. Still feeling lightheaded after Caldor and seeing everything well in hand, Luc decided to turn in early. The Val Moran’s gaze followed him as he trudged his way to his tent. A dull ache filled him when their eyes locked. Nothing either of them could do about it now.
The next morning he donned his armor and riding gear. Everything appeared ready. They set out early, their pace sparing early on. The air in these parts was distinctly clammy, but the skies above the Ancaidan capital were in no way natural. They bled with corruption. One way or another, they had to end this, even if it meant sacrificing the city to free her people. He had one or two surprises left in him, but looking up at the coiling eddies had no idea if what he had planned would be enough.
Riding deliberately, they conserved the horses and took three halts by noon. The sight of the grim party at times startled him. It wasn’t just the numbers. It was the relentlessness. Almost as though Imrail himself still commanded them.
Perhaps in some ways he still did.
Just after midday Altaer and Grivas returned, looking as though they had ridden through the night and most of the morning. “The way is clear,” Altaer told him, riding up as Luc dismounted and motioned for his aides. “Not surprising considering the losses the enemy took at Caldor.”
“There were losses on both sides,” Urian reminded him sternly.
Altaer glanced at the man sharply, sudden irritation flashing across his smooth features. “I did not mean to suggest otherwise, Angar.”
Luc felt a surge of annoyance of his own. And a bitter pang reminding him he would never entirely be free of Caldor. “Any sign of Ansifer?” he asked the bowman pointedly, changing the subject.
“None,” Altaer said. “I suspect he avoided the highway. We would have had some sign or word by now.” Luc nodded. No doubting the man’s abilities. The huntsman could have picked out a field mouse’s tracks in an open field. “The city is sealed. Rolinian defenses control the Hundredfold Gate, the entrance into the Lower City,” the man went on. “We believe the men on duty are loyal to one of the factions vying for control of the city. I’m afraid we may have to fight our way in, my Lord.”
“That is not an option,” Luc told him. “Find another way.”
“It’s complicated, my Lord,” Altaer objected. “Canals run through large sections of the city. I believe you have been briefed. Some of our maps show considerable landmasses passable only by ferry. If we swing to the southeast, we may gain entry by way of Harbor Gate. But that way will cost us precious time, time you have made clear we no longer have, and we have no intelligence on who may be controlling it. There is still the threat of the Guardians. Under other circumstances I would advise us to sit tight and wait for the rest of our men to get in position. Again, that will take time, two or three days at best.”
It took some effort not to glare. The man had to be joking. Altaer could find six ways into a hornet’s nest if he probed hard enough. He was curious what Grivas had to say.
“The alternative is announcing Minister Thresh is here,” Urian said. “I think that may be one card we may not want to hold in reserve.”
“If I may,” Grivas said, “I would suggest a direct course along those lines. The Lord Altaer is correct. The north and east entrances are preferable. The docks and Merchants’ Quays to the south and west are inaccessible and would not be sufficient given the number of men you have at your disposal. I suggest we do this quickly. Display the Mark of Chaos openly and announce your arrival. With Minister Thresh in your company, you gain some legitimacy. Our other forces can still position themselves as planned.”
“Direct enough,” Lars agreed.
“Imrail would have us eating dog meat and liking
it if we moved so boldly,” Lenora scolded them. “We haven’t a clue what we’re up against.”
“No more delays,” Luc whispered. “He is in the city. He has the Sword.”
“She’s right,” Landon Graves said. “We need to find out who will welcome us—if anyone will. Perhaps if we wait until after dusk.”
Luc tried to mute out their voices. A hundred details were still going to have to fall into place no matter what they decided. But one thing he would not do. Hide. They had a city to retake and a people to rally. They could not do so skulking in the shadows. No, they had made their plans. Position their forces and rally the Ancaidans against the Legion. That meant making no secret of their arrival.
Starting forward, he considered it throughout the day. Pulses from the Sword sang in his ears. He was close now. The time was coming when their enemies would be called to account for the destruction they had loosed. He could not afford to be cowed or indecisive.
In the end he decided on the direct course, his team making straight for the Hundredfold Gate while the bulk of their outfit took up defensive positions just to the north. Close enough to aid them and still coordinate with their arriving armies. After waiting and watching for a quarter hour while Urian and Altaer disengaged, he took in a quick breath, heeled Lightfoot, and stepped up their approach. The Ancaidan capital ahead was fast becoming a city of woe. In a day or two it would be beyond saving.
They continued the remainder of the way at a deliberate pace. His companions increasingly glanced at the dead skies, skies that more and more reminded him of Perdition.
It might have been late evening when they finally arrived within sight of the Ancaidan capital. Difficult to say with any certainty under the black skies. Rivaling Alingdor in size, Rolinia was not walled, but waterways, inlets, and the rear face of linked structures provided a natural defense. Prior to reaching the northern entrance, the Hundredfold Gate, they paused. The barrier appeared a series of interconnected steel rods virtually impassible when closed, as it was now. Linked to two dominating square posts connected by a curved rampart, it did not appear quite as dominating as Alingdor’s entry points, but undoubtedly was no less effective. The question now was who controlled it. Making no attempt to conceal their approach, Graves unfurled the standard. Its metallic threads glinted even in the dim overcast light.
