by Matt Thomas
Luc nodded, trying not to pace. “What about the Earthbound?” he demanded.
Lars looked a bit sick at the mention of the name. “Just a handful of sightings in the Lower City, most at night, but the fighting was something fierce for weeks ongoing, bedlam in the streets. Houses torn open, Ancaidan engaging Ancaidan. Shades and wights crippling the populace. Fortunate Vandil arrived when he did. Now the enemy appears to be waiting. There have been signs of a stirring at the docks, though. One man claims he saw Almarans landing during the night moving in secret. Others indicate the armies of Emry have been sighted. I am not sure what to make of it, my Lord. I wonder if Acriel and this Nasser had something to do with it. Other than that, everything is silent. Too silent.”
Eduin Lars paused. He still looked a bit gray-faced. “Last night I risked a firsthand look at the crossing, my Lord. There is no doubt now,” he added seriously. “The Legion is rising. I sense it. I feel it. I know it. This will be worse the Caldor. Far worse.”
He finished it in tones of granite. No one bothered to question how he knew. It was one of his innate talents. “They’ll raze the city if we wait too long,” Landon Graves said.
Luc wrung his hands. They were almost out of time.
Anxious, even agitated, he found himself preoccupied while their scouts and aides continued to report. Unaware, he subconsciously strained to reach the Tides, tracing the fluxes above the city. No sign of any direct manipulation, but the currents were puzzling, somehow unstable. He wondered what his father would have made of it.
It might have been three, maybe four hours later when a slight stirring outside caused them all to shift their attention. The waiting had been draining. He was conscious of Trian and Vandil arriving at virtually the same instant. The general looked wind-worn and noticeably rigid; nearly two dozen men trailed him, most almost as hard-faced and a few sporting bandages and other cuts or bruises. Several paused or nodded deferentially as they continued through the anteroom. Most were Ancaidans, Whitefists and Golden Lancers. That was surprising. The Whitefists mistrusted the Lancers almost as much as they did the First Ministers. More perhaps. Vandil must have been persuasive to win their trust. Luc locked eyes with Trian then. Lenora and the Tolmaran with the intricately braided hair moved in alongside a handful of retainers.
Keeping his gaze on the Val Moran was far from easy. He loved her. There had never been any doubt. Now he had to leave her. Perhaps for good. Something in her eyes told him she knew the time had come. Two nights had passed uneventfully, either Altris at work or Ansifer planning his next move. Luc himself had been afforded the opportunity to grieve and shake off the memory of Caldor, not that one could ever hope to achieve such a feat. Now he could only do what he had planned from the outset and hope it would be enough. Meeting her eye firmly, he gave her a tight nod.
“General,” he said over an account from Gantling, “I am moving into the city.”
Vandil gave him a level look. Direct. Probing. Finally, he moved forward. A single glance set men in motion; a raised finger brought their advisors crowding forward. “The Lord Viamar-Ellandor has spoken,” Vandil barked. “I trust you know enough of his and General Imrail’s plans to implement them. If not, let me reiterate. I want the Plaza restored and the Merchants’ Quays in our hands by nightfall. Take two thousand at least. The Harbor Gate may be contested by Almarans or Guardians. Or both. Find out if they are here to aid us. If Endar makes an appearance, finish him.” He stabbed a meaty finger at Ildar. “I need another thousand at the Plaza from your ranks. The last of the Ancaidan people are in hiding with the Privy Council. We must speed their escape. Ronan Thresh has orders to hold that point, but his Ancaidans are . . . ill-equipped to deal with the Legion. Send the rest of your outfit to hold the Lower City. Gellart, Harden, and Tanis will join you. And mark me. You must hold that point. The Lower City is our only means of escape.”
Vandil paused, eying everyone in the room. “I want the Sons of Thunder and the Redshirts in position to make the crossing. I will ensure every available Ancaidan joins us. We have one ship, but that will not be available. We will need every barge or craft ready. Make skimmers if you must. Use what you must. Everyone else takes up positions in the Lower City. I will have the bulk of the Lancers there. Any questions?”
No one spoke. The silence was cutting. The plan was suicide and they all knew it.
They did not know there was still another option.
Glancing around the overcrowded chamber, Vandil made a motion towards Lars and Graves. There was only a brief shuffling of feet before the two men made sharp motions for their aides to proceed. Before he himself could take two steps, though, Trian caught his arm.
“Best you remember we have a few matters to discuss.” She made the words sound slightly ominous, but her eyes, seemingly liquid pools capable of snatching a man’s soul, shone fiercely. Stepping close, she reached a hand up to his cheek, then his neck, pulling his face down to meet hers. Feeling his chest knot up, he inhaled her scent, eyes closed, remembering. He was trembling when she finally pulled away sometime later.
He was grateful no one commented.
“We are ready,” Vandil said crisply. “Remember our fallen!”
Luc drew himself up. By the look on the general’s face, the man had no intention of letting Ariel Viamar’s son out of his sight. He was not sure if that was going to complicate matters or not.
Once out of doors, the sky dark and foreboding and the street crammed with waiting men, the remaining Companions hastily formed up an escort. Vandil walked with him and motioned him to one side.
“I must warn you,” the visceral man said. “This creature—your enemy—is not mortal. Do not underestimate him. I risked the Straights. The tide was low, but the passage was still hazardous even at midday. The currents are not natural. We could not use the moorings where the nobles and supply masters access the Heights and Elegran’s Square; too obvious. I chose to skirt the island instead. The stench of the dead was at its worst with the wind in our face. I lost two men moments after landing. Some creature deadlier than any Deathshade is patrolling the shoreline. Hundreds of Rolinian Golden Lancers are keeping watch, too—Ronan Thresh’s own men. There were others, mostly mindless. Some may be Pentharan, perhaps the ones you and Imrail detected in the Whitewood. Worse still, black creatures are on the prowl. If you choose to proceed with your plan and risk the crossing, we may lose hundreds. More, if we make it at all.”
The general paused, face momentarily breaking. “I almost lost my head,” he whispered, turning, hands clenched behind his back, features obscured. The admission sounded ripped from him, sudden and unexpected. Vandil displayed all of the emotion of a stone. Usually anyway. “Imrail and I were young men during the Stand. He had his pick of any posting.” The thick-bodied man paused, breathing noticeably uneven. “I suppose the shadow of foresight was on him. He knew he would serve two Viamars—Ingram was getting on in years, and he had . . .”
“Vandil . . .” Luc began, then sighed.
Vandil exhaled. “I suppose that can wait for later,” the man said, brushing the matter aside, voice still thick nonetheless. He turned hard on his feet. “I said I almost lost my head. We needed intelligence. Well, we have it. They are dug in. This Ansifer will not surrender the Sword without a fight. I suspect he has other intentions, however.”
Luc took a hold of the man’s forearm, forcing him to turn. Something in the general’s tone troubled him. “What do you mean?” he whispered.
Vandil stepped forward. “With you, we are poised to win here. But I do not know you. The world does not know you.” He passed a hand across his eyes, fatigued, angry.
Luc waited, hardly breathing.
“I would not presume to know the mind of our enemy,” Vandil began. “That I leave for you. But I understand the current political situation here. I trust you do as well.” Luc nodded. He understood it well enough, but he knew Vandil. The man was going to explain it to him, in great detail. “The Nati
ons are watching. If we lose Ancaida, we not only lose the south, but all credibility and any hope of a unified Valince. After I arrived, I took steps and made contact with the Privy Council. I convinced them we were not dealing with Minister Thresh or an upstart. It did not take much on my part. The Legion saw to that. I convinced the Council it was imperative they make plans to abandon the city. I did not mince words. I told them the Ancaidan people needed them alive to choose the Ministers’ successors. I promised them safe passage to Penthar. I gave them my word. You must hold to it.”
Vandil continued to look at him pointedly. “You understand yet? You must understand. This is your moment, your opportunity, to make them trust you—to make the Nations trust you. But this . . . plan of yours. It has serious flaws. If you do not succeed, even Emry will abandon you.”
Luc stared at him. Was it truth or just some intuition? No, Vandil had a head for these matters. That was what made him invaluable. Turning, he risked a glance at the blighted skies. “I cannot lose.” He said it with some bitterness. He could not afford to lose. But there was another way. Glancing at the man, he tried not to appear defeated. “There is one more option.” He drew himself up. “I can sink that island.”
Vandil eyed him flatly.
“Not unaided,” Luc added, feeling flushed at what the man must have thought was either the world’s greatest jest or a blustering show of bravado. “It’s either that or risk the channel. If we regain the Heights and hold the Lower City, we win. We will do more than win.” This time Ancaida would ride on his heels and make the final push clear to the Mountains of Memory. The taint of the Furies and their master would be purged. He would see it done.
“One thing at a time,” Vandil told him. “You sink the Heights and you lose the Sword. No, I’d risk Shaiar again before I considered that course. We—”
He cut off at a sudden detonation to the north, the earth groaning in dismay, wincing in anticipation of the next blow. Luc gripped the man’s arm hard to keep his footing. Too soon. It was still the height of day. Another explosion followed, rocking the core of the city.
“Too late,” Vandil muttered, attempting to shield them from falling dust and debris.
“It’s begun,” Luc whispered, ice forming in his veins.
This time Vandil took his arm. “I will aid you, but you must give me something in return.”
Luc did not like the sound of that. “What?”
Vandil’s answering look was penetrating. “Your word you will not die. Penthar needs you, now more than ever.”
“No promises.” But he had a surprise or two in him yet. He could feel it now. Clearly. The storm he had contained for weeks on end coming now, coming to end the ancient wrongs and grievances against the Children and the Lords of the First Plane. “I’m ready,” he whispered. “Form the men up. It seems we have no choice now.”
Vandil nodded, face iron once more. “Graves! Gantling!” he bellowed. “We’re moving! For House Viamar and the Lord of the Winds!”
Luc, not hearing, was already moving. He had thought it before, but this time he would make certain it happened.
By day’s end Ansifer would pay.
* * * * *
Ushering the last of the departing Ancaidans up the gangplank, Angar Urian backhanded a Whitefist who sneered at him as he passed. The man’s mouth dropped, features incredulous. Well, the expression lasted heartbeats only until he came dangerously close to keeling over and plummeting face first into the water. Urian caught him and shoved him onto the deck with an extra bit of force. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor could hardly blame him. Not even the loss of their city was enough to mitigate their pride. If they reached Penthar, they would have to restrain themselves or they might find the locals less discreet than him.
“You didn’t need to do that, Lord Urian,” a woman chided him.
“No?” he sneered. “Let the rotgut take him. You won’t see better treatment in Penthar unless you lot remember the Lord Vandil and Siren made your escape possible. The last ship. The very last. Take your people and go. There are Ardan on the prowl. I should be with my king, not with you sorry—”
“I like your nose, Master Urian,” she said abruptly, tone serious. He eyed her flatly. She was a full-figured lass, he had to admit. “A strong nose,” she continued. “Strong arms, too. You have the Privy Council’s thanks,” the woman added, curtsying. That she meant it made little difference. “House Viamar has ever been known for her wisdom. And her generosity. I will see our people are suitably . . . grateful.”
He grunted and would have nodded but for a blast of fire that exploded dangerously close to the mast. Ardan. “That’s it! Cast off, you slobs!”
Turning, he leapt down the gangplank, narrowly holding his balance. Bow in hand, he landed solidly on the balls of his feet and did not pause to glance behind him. Another blast. Cursing, he bolted to a pile of rubble. He did not stop until reaching the cover of a smoldering column within sight of the Merchants’ Quays, what was left of it at least. The city’s opulence gone, the remaining foundation still spoke volumes of the Ancaidans’ pride. It rubbed more than one Pentharan raw that they were here defending foreign soil, but a minor nation spurning Valince in her hour of need. . . . He caught himself growling, locking his jaw to keep from cursing. Despite his loathing for the nation, it was now the sight of their first defeat. Better to vacate it with all speed. No. The Lord Siren would not suffer it. Rubbing the stubble on his face, he spat, reaching for a skin. The lad had changed—in just weeks no less. He had no doubt the change would be enough to send the degenerates responsible for the boiling sky back to the pits that had spawned them.
At a sharp signal from Altaer he sped on.
In the distance, a mile or more to the south, the Heights were just visible. His eyesight, still keen under the black skies, detected a fog or mist rolling inland. This was perhaps the closest vantage point next to the People’s Plaza.
As he understood it, the Council was a check to the power of the ranking ministers, a necessary one at that. An anonymous body of men and women, they were the last hope for peace and stability—if the Lord Siren was successful, that was. Vandil, in a rage at the news of Imrail’s passing, at least had kept his wits about him long enough to see to their safety. They were that important.
That anyone could escape at this juncture seemed improbable. The Earthbound had been cold and calculated, deliberate. Angar Urian, the intrepid Companion, known for his bluntness and brutality, skidded to a halt suddenly, sweat leaking into his eyes. Cursing, he cast a wild look around, over the shoulder and to the southwest. He had almost tripped over the corpse of a . . . Shivering, he bent at the knee. He thought he would have made eyes pop out of their sockets in Alingdor had the Protectors seen him pause over the corpse of a boy in his early teens. The boy had a bundle held tight at the midsection and his green eyes were still open. Open but vacant. Feeling cold, he bowed his head. A sign to Elloyn and the Giver made Altaer chew his lips worriedly up ahead. I’ve a right to bloody feel. He had hopes to return to his father’s holdings one day, perhaps with a wife on the arm—no fool highborn girl, of course. Brats of their own even. Standing, he growled and let the lad be. He knew he was nearing the brink. Such pursuits had never been possible, and now there seemed little left to hope for except thoughts of vengeance and an arrow into the heart of the Unmaker.
“Here!” Jisel hissed. Nodding, he put the image of the boy behind him and peered around at all angles. The Ancaidan ship was slowly setting out, men at the oars. Seconds later, he launched himself forward. The way was clear, unless the enemy could cloak themselves. Damn me but they likely can and are. Ducking behind another smoldering pillar, he tucked his shoulder in and rolled behind the next column with a grunt. Searching the quays for signs of the Ardan, he paused. Some of the smaller crafts in the shallow waters still gave off smoke. Seemed the Ancaidans used undersized floaters that resembled cutters back at the Watch to send messages or make errands. Those larger were likely what th
e nobles used to ferry themselves back and forth to the Heights. There was only one landing point, and though considerable, easily held and fortified. No ship, even had one been available, would have been able to navigate the waters between the People’s Plaza and Heights and hope to escape the destruction the Earthbound had caused here. Anyone hoping to flee north would have been similarly out of luck. After Caldor someone had gone to great length to smash the Quays. A bloody tangle indeed. One that made him curse and spit to no end.
“Pass me something to drink,” he muttered. “No water.”
Jisel chuckled. “You’re already sweating like a packhorse. Forget it. What do you see?”
Angar clenched his teeth to keep from lashing back with a biting retort. “I see shadows. Darkness and shadow. I tell you it’s not natur—”
To the west some sound shattered the silence. Not the piercing cry of the Harbingers. That could make a man soil himself. But in some ways far worse.
“It’s started,” Altaer muttered, wiping a film of moisture off his face, looking savage in the darkness, unshaven for days uncounted. “Master Tarvis!” he yelled towards the ship. “More speed! The city will be in chaos by dark. Worse than what you’ve seen. Make for Anneth. If the wind is with you, you will live to see Triaga. You have the First’s orders in your hands and the word of the Lord of Penthar. Go!”
Taking no chances with the future of Ancaida—what little of it there might be after all sides had collected their due—the Ancaidan Privy Council had been persuaded to leave, expecting the jewel of their nation to perish. He had to admit it took courage to do what they were attempting. A government in exile under the direct protection of the Pentharan Crown. Her people scattered to the north and east, they would spend years attempting to recover.
That in itself was bloody cruel. Vandil knew the city was doomed from the start. Whether some foresight or insight sent from Ellandor or the White Rose—he had received a missive even the Lord Siren was not privy too—there were years of exile ahead for the Lancers and Whitefists. It also meant Ancaida and Penthar were going to be joined at the hip. Most Pentharans would choke at the news. Well, it was up to the Lord Siren now to settle matters and save what he could. General Grivas and Ronan Thresh would have to hide behind his banner to convince those that had elected to remain behind. Word was it was Ellandor’s son, some being out of the Annals. A foreign lord and king. Most were afraid. Most were right to be afraid. Now Thresh had little time to make things right. The Council had rebuked him, almost stripping him of his rank and lands, not that he had access. He had Grivas, Vandil, and Viamar’s grandson to thank for the thread of authority he still held that gave him some say over what would become of his homeland.
