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

by Matt Thomas

  “We can’t risk waiting long,” Altaer warned again. His challenging tone was surprising. It had undertones of authority, and a touch of ominousness. “Where is he?”

  “Here.”

  Luc shifted. At once the worry and fatigue suddenly seemed to wash away.

  Vandil.

  The bulky, bearded man stepped forward, emerging out of the darkness down the tunnel. Three shadows walked some distance behind him. The general wasted no time reaching a knee. “My King,” he whispered. From a man almost as feared and revered as the Lord Viamar himself, the movement was startling. Luc was about to step forward when Urian and Lars moved to block him. It was Altaer who spoke, though.

  “You look like Vandil,” Urian growled. “You smell like him. But we’d be fools to be so trusting after what those bastards did to us.”

  General Armenis Vandil did not blink. If it was not him, the imitation was spot on. He was still about as burly as a bear, beard thicker. Still on one knee, he cocked his head at the bowman. “Your eyes are crossed, Angar, if you can’t see what’s right before them. You and I stared into the eye of the enemy and chose death over victory and salvation for one forgotten village, for a king not yet crowned. You and the Companions are not above the law or my authority. I understand Imrail commands the nation.

  “I command the war.”

  Urian grinned suddenly. “I guess that settles it,” he said. “Had to be sure.” Reaching a hand out to the man, he pulled the general up, clasping arms. After pausing to look them over, Vandil settled his eyes on Luc. Seeing them did not seem to hearten the man. If anything his piercing gaze was even bleaker.

  “Come,” Vandil said. “We are at the beginning. Or the ending. I would prefer to speak in private. Landon,” he snapped with a sharp gesture of the hand, “it’s good to see you. I need you to get acquainted with my colleagues. They can be trusted. They will provide you with maps and our troop positions.”

  “Do we send word to our forces and position the men to take the city?” Lars asked.

  “Yes,” Vandil said, still with his eyes on Luc. “It’s past time. Get moving. The Lord Siren and I will return in one hour.”

  * * * * *

  Garbed in his customary light armor, Vandil led them through the musty caverns, descending now. Feeling his way along, Luc traced a hand across the seamless stonework, reminded sharply of the Shoulder in Peyennar. He wondered if this too had been the work of the Builders, the mythic people who predated the rise of the Nations. Whatever the case, the tunnels were no doubt of a construction long since forgotten. Movement and bits of conversation in the lower parts suggested Vandil had assembled a sizeable force. From what he could see, those not asleep were engaged in vital tasks. Occasionally they passed men in numbers, heavily armed, moving in the opposite direction. Seeing the three of them, they inclined their heads and paused to exchange words with Vandil. The hard-faced general was curt. It seemed he had ordered teams to sweep through the Lower City under the cover of nightfall. Grim work from what he had seen thus far.

  Continuing on, other than the stale air, breathable, he found the lower reaches tolerable. Torches at even intervals revealed the excellent stonework, walkways and adjoining halls virtually impenetrable. No doubt now who had coordinated the city’s resistance. Walking beside Trian, Luc inhaled and exhaled, steps growing more and more tiring. Taking a sharp turn, eventually Vandil led them to a side-chamber, likely his own. A series of maps hung on the far wall. Vandil entered and struck two lamps. A stone slab sat low, requiring them to sit cross-legged on a few throw rugs directly on the floor. Unbuckling his sword-belt, he set it beside him. Remarkably Vandil appeared unchanged, still the dominating presence he remembered, authoritative, forceful.

  Making no move to sit, Vandil looked them over. His dark beard had not been trimmed in some time, and his frame was perhaps even more powerfully muscled. One thing had not changed, though. Those eyes of his were no less probing. Crossing his arms, he seemed to hesitate. “You’ve changed,” he said after a moment.

  “Maybe,” Luc said offhandedly. “How did you get news so quickly?”

  Vandil barked a laugh. “I did not, other than word from the Hundredfold gate. Let’s just say I had access to other . . . insights. The Lord Viamar has been waiting for your star to rise for almost two decades. I would dare say the day has come.” Vandil shot a momentary glance towards Trian. “For both of you, it seems. Your strides are different, boy. Your eyes, cold like a winter’s breath. It’s happened.” He did not sound displeased. “What of Imrail?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Luc stiffened. Vandil continued to watch them, then suddenly turned, letting out an explosive breath, gripping the far wall with one hand.

  “No . . .”

  It took the man some time to recover. He appeared to be muttering under his breath, face visibly ashen in the lamplight. Passing a hand across his face, the burly man looked at a loss, shaking. “How . . . ?” In some ways the sight of the man just then was almost as gut-wrenching as Imrail’s final moments. Feeling the guilt rise up his throat, Luc clenched his hands into fists. Trian touched his arm, but remained silent. All of their hopes seemed at an end. They were like moles in hiding waiting to be picked off one by one. Still feeling the chords of the First Plane searing through him, his thoughts turned to destruction. Final and complete. He had Elloyn beside him, but they were alone in a world neither of them fully comprehended. Finally turning a bleak eye on them, the general looked at them with fury in his eyes. “How?” he demanded.

  Not sure how he was ever going to begin, he sank forward, elbows digging into the stone slab. Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he sighed, willing himself to speak. He had to wet his lips and swallow several times prior to beginning. In the end an hour hardly proved sufficient. Luc glossed over the latter events in Peyennar and their arrival in Alingdor. Imrail’s death still stung. With Trian filling in much of the gaps, Luc mulled over his plans even as he spoke. The rushed crowning hardly seemed worth mentioning, but he thought he detected a hint of approval in the man’s eyes. If confirmation the Furies were at work concerned the man, Aurin Endar’s defection alarmed him. It appeared the Guardian was well known throughout the south. Outside of confirmation that the Lord Viamar was well and his mother firmly commanded the nation, it was their march south and the skirmishes with the Earthbound that primarily concerned him. Vandil forced them to detail each of their engagements with the Earthbound, bringing them full circle back to the beginning.

  News of the Whitewood and Triaga finally saw the man seated. No doubt he was waiting for word of Imrail. The general made mental notes of their push into Ancaida and the troops closing in on the Ancaidan capital, but did not ask questions. That left Caldor last. Fitting, that. Leaving Trian to conclude the tale, Luc felt himself growing anxious. He stood, wishing for a bit of air. Perhaps a warm bath. Before he knew it, though, Vandil was exiting the chamber.

  Puzzled, he glanced at Trian. “This is bad, Luc,” Trian whispered. “I think he means to retaliate. Tonight perhaps.”

  “Yes,” Luc agreed. Retaliate with vengeance.

  She looked at him evenly. “Will you at least tell me what you are planning?” she asked.

  He hitched himself uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

  She tapped her chin, onyx eyes narrowed. “I know you. I feel you. You have been planning something for some time.”

  Trying to keep his head from swimming, he took to pacing. No use hiding anything from her, not that he wanted to. A film of perspiration made him wish he could shed the armor. He needed to think straight. They had spent weeks frantic to just make it here in time. All of the effort, the grinding, and still the city had been lost. That it was more or less still intact was something, but at what cost?

  He was about to respond when Vandil returned, several men following on his heels. Some entered with assorted refreshments. Others dragged in additional blanket rolls and pallets. The general himself wore an
expression that was frightfully bereft of emotion. “You may spend the night here, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said. “Under the circumstances I think it best you remain in hiding until we position our forces.”

  Luc was about to object, but the man gave him a look that stayed him. No doubt the loss of Imrail cut deep. Vandil continued coldly. “The Heights are lost. That, I think, is where we will find the renegade Diem and the Sword.” His look became pointed. “You wounded him, no doubt, but your enemy is no fool. He had plans laid out and set in motion long before his arrival. Besides the Ancaidans he has subverted—a sizeable number—he has amassed a Legion force likely well beyond the one he threw at you at Caldor.

  “Despite all of our efforts the enemy is entrenched, boy. This will be far worse than Peyennar or Caldor. I’ve made certain arrangements. It took a few days, but after making contact with the Privy Council and secreting them out of the Councilor’s Court, they gave me full command of the remaining the loyal Whitefists—Ancaidan loyalists. The Ancaidan army, Lancers, on the other hand, those that have not been subverted at least, have for the most part either joined us or assisted in the resettlement of the populace. That leaves us thin for the moment until our forces arrive. Between now and then we need to find out what is going on in the Heights and at the docks. By night there are sentries posted. Earthbound sentries. The Fallen may be pondering a move into the Lower City. Without confirmation, I would be negligent to permit your departure. So I say again, stay here.

  “One last piece of advice. You gambled at Caldor. In the end it may have paid off, but this is not over yet. Reports are the Fallen had help re-entering to the city by way of the Merchants’ Quays. There was a frightful display along the Heights. You can be sure he will be waiting for you.”

  “We will remain here, General,” Trian said quickly. “There are some matters he and I can discuss.”

  Vandil studied them a moment before nodding. “Make certain you do. These men will see to your needs. I will be back when I can.”

  * * * * *

  Neither of them saw Vandil again that night. Not surprising. The man had left tersely, the cold light of fury in his eyes. Luc understood the feeling. Something in him told him the time had come, but he had to be ready. He could hardly afford a misstep now. One of the Ancaidans entered and inquired if he and Trian wanted to wash up before eating. Odd having outlanders seeing to the safety of Ariel Viamar’s son. Exchanging a glance with Trian, they both nodded, his absent, hers definitive. Best to avail themselves of the opportunity to erase the stain, if not the memory, of the long road to Rolinia. Fortunate the lower levels had such amenities. After an hour or so dozing in a tub in an alcove with three others sitting in the cramped confines, he scrubbed the dust and dirt out of his hair with a cake of soap and lathered himself fully before rinsing and drying off. Taking his time dressing, he paused. On the surface the dim sound of the Harbingers began to toll, but there were other forces at work that made his skin tingle. Even beyond the point of exhaustion he knew he could not afford to wait. The World-Axle was bent, if not broken. Memory itself was at stake.

  And if he was not mistaken, one of the Furies was here.

  Whatever action he took, it had to be immediate and decisive. His time. His choosing. Bending, he retrieved the light armor. He was about to tug it on when Eduin Lars appeared, Urian a step behind. “Vandil went topside,” Lars told him. “He suggested quite firmly we would be best served staying here. I do not think he will relent. Altaer told him we—I should say you—are shielded in some way here. I told him I was doubtful you would stay on long. He has arranged a meeting between the loyalists and the First Minister. He worries when we are done there will be no one left with any authority to hold the nation together. In exchange for his support, Ancaida formally opposes the Furies.”

  Luc caught something else in the man’s eyes. “What else?” he demanded.

  “I suspect Vandil means to make a surprise assault.”

  Luc exhaled. He tried not to glare. He was tired. A tired man on the brink often grew impatient. Reckless. He had to be cautious. They had what was left of the night to rest up and remain in hiding. Some sudden memory brought up a spark of indignation, though. Sirien was not one to hide. Well, the city was all but deserted. A day, maybe two, and then he would spring the trap. The Furies thought he was prepared to give up the Ancaidan capital to retrieve the Sword of Ardil.

  They could not know he was prepared to give up the Sword to save it.

  Buckling on the straps to the armor with one hand, he glanced at the two Companions. “We need a few hours at least,” he conceded. Time enough for Rew to do whatever it was he intended. Blast him the Acriels were going to hang him if anything happened to their son. “I need to get closer to the surface, though. Set a watch on Trian and . . .” He fought off a grimace. “Tell Lenora to stay close to her and that other girl. We’ll sleep in the upper barracks. This will be over soon.”

  Over and done with.

  Lars nodded, face unreadable. “As you say, Lord Siren.”

  CHAPTER 25 — DEFEATED

  A day and night passed. If the World-Axle still turned, the earth no longer beat to the rhythm of its heartbeat. A steady stream of runners going to and from their camps soon became a deluge. The word they brought was not entirely unwelcome. Convincing him there was nothing he could do but wait, Lars and Graves coaxed him into returning to the caverns. He had done so only to find Trian, Lenora, and the Tolmaran with the honey shade of hair asleep in Vandil’s quarters. The sight brought him to a sudden standstill. A full contingent of their best men stood on duty and at attention. Deciding it best not to linger, he took to wandering until he pushed himself beyond exhaustion. Feeling the need to be close to the air on the surface, he returned to the makeshift barracks and tried not to get in the way. A full day fingering the Rod and the shard at his neck followed, making him feel as though he was going stir-crazy.

  Meanwhile, the Sword of Ardil continued to drum in his ears. The low murmur soon became hypnotic, resonant at times, but at others insistent, demanding. It was a relic from another age, and at the moment cried out in agony, in loathing, hating the hand that wielded it. Weeks prior its pulses had led them to the far north. Now it was within reach, though firmly in the hands of a creature beyond redemption.

  Just after midmorning into their second full day, Luc paused before entering the anteroom where Lars and two of their lieutenants were waiting. Having spent much of the night battling spells of uncontrollable sweats and convulsions, waking more times than he could count, uncertain if he was in Ancaida, Peyennar, or some other Plane of existence, he found himself wondering what was worse, the waking or the waiting, latent memories encroaching on what he knew he must do. His attempts to leave had been rebuffed by the Companions, at least until they could find and notify Vandil. A good thing the man had finally been located.

  Eduin Lars and Landon Graves had taken alternating shifts at his door, often peering inside as though worried he might disappear. When they did they revealed a handful of newly arrived Redshirts and Silverbands standing watch. Vandil had given the two men a few additional tasks, but for the most part the pair took charge over their arriving forces. With Urian and Altaer out combing the city and Trian still below, he felt numb. He thought he’d dozed off sometime just short of dawn, not long after the sound of the Harbingers had finally dwindled. Prior to exiting he moved to a porcelain basin someone had dragged into the quarters and dipped his palms into the crystalline water. Drenching his face, he closed his eyes and let the feel of the water momentarily consume him. Word was some of the men had found a sizeable number of Ancaidans dead in the city. He was not sure about the circumstances, but the description of corpses huddled together, ripped to shreds in some places, in the hovels and back alleyways of the Lower City, left a cutting, lasting impression.

  At least a half hour passed while he summoned up the will to shake off the depiction. In the end his thoughts invariably shifted back to Imra
il and Caldor. He suspected had Amreal been here his uncle would have told him it was not his task to order the world or mourn every soul the Unmaker devoured. Unari did not have it in his makeup to mourn, but Luc did.

  Exiting, he tried not to let the worry or fatigue show when he reached the others.

  Seeing the majority of their aides already present, he swung his eyes around the room. “What word?” he asked no one in particular.

  Several men exchanged guarded glances. Most had taken to wearing their coats open, leaving steel bared. The humidity had grown worse in the ethereal cloud cover. After a moment Lars stepped forward. The oftentimes brash man assumed a look untouched by his former air of arrogance. He had always had something of Imrail’s height and presence. Now he had something of the man’s stern, sometimes grim demeanor.

  “Vandil made an attempt on the Heights,” Lars began. “Preliminary reports indicate he successfully made the crossing.” Luc found himself involuntarily taking a step forward. If Vandil had done so, he must have found a ship. “It’s unclear what he uncovered,” Lars went on. “Prior to the attempt he arranged a meeting between General Grivas, Minister Thresh, and the Privy Council. He’s worried about the continued stability of the region. We have no accurate death count, but thousands have fled to the camps at the base of the Peaks, others north along the coast. Still more are likely moving east to the Free City. The Lower City is all but abandoned, the People’s Plaza only somewhat better off. That is about how things stand at the moment. By nightfall the bulk of our forces will be in place and in position. We are almost ready.”