by Matt Thomas
Standing, Urian spat. “We’re done here. Might as well get on with it.”
Altaer nodded. He swallowed once, gripping the length of his long hair, tied at the neck, before taking a step forward, exposing himself. “Forward then. Nothing more we can do here. May the Giver and the Arm of Penthar defend them.”
* * * * *
Eyes watering, Rew hauled himself up, disoriented. All around him men were groaning. The Legion of the Earthbound was pummeling the city, the taste of Caldor still on their lips. This was their answer. The screaming air was new. Unsettling. Had Luc arrived? Rew imagined he had. That would have been the tipping point to unhinge their enemies. No thought of capturing Rolinia now.
Now the Furies were bent on annihilating it.
Not far to the east the docks were aglow, the fires blinding, incandescent; with the port all but smashed, two ships had turned hard about and were headed back for open water. Almaran ships, as if they needed the additional complication.
Something foul in the air made him pull a kerchief out and cover his nose. Angrats, likely. They appeared without warning. Twice ruptures or tears had flashed in his face. He was lucky Nasser and his men were intent on keeping his backside out of the inferno. They knew he carried Denail’s tokens. Odd how much weight they carried. He had scorned the man often enough. Now with Endar’s defection he found himself the lone voice left to lead them.
“Acriel—!” someone hissed.
Abruptly another pocket formed. Bracing himself, he shifted. The effort was grinding. He had done it twice already. No one said anything when he just slid forward, curling around the warped space. In two strides time seemed to stop. Men were leaping out of the void, men with golden tabards and lances that cut deep. Men who fought for the Legion. “Bloody turncoats!” he snapped, blades whipping forward. He still found the sound, the feel, gut wrenching. Ildar had found him someone with enough skill to show him the basics. Rew made up the rest as he went along. He had not wanted this, but in some ways never had any choice. Amreal had seen to that, binding him to Luc—to Sirien—from the beginning. Two Ancaidan Golden Lancers were dead before they stepped through. Nasser and his outfit finished up the others.
Continuing to pick their way through the broken city, the Guardians moved like an advancing swarm. Hundreds of seemingly regal men in polished breastplates and ivory fitted weapons. They were perhaps the most formal force this side of the Mournful Peaks. An army bereft of leadership. Many still doubted the defection of Aurin Endar. It seemed the man was not just one of the Guardians; he sat on the Virtuous Assembly itself. That privilege had been restricted to a handful, the Lord Denail being one of them.
“More Almarans,” someone grunted, pointing ahead.
“Forget them,” Nasser snapped. “Make for the People’s Plaza. Acriel, the docks are lost. I don’t see any way to get you across.”
That was the rub. Almarans swarming the city. Parts of it covered in shadow, others in fire and ash. Would they be reduced to sitting here and watching it burn? Fools, all of them. Aloof men who believed they could pull the strings on the Nations with impunity. He thrust the hilt of his dagger at the man. “You see this here and up there”—he vaguely waved a hand at the sky above them where the imprint of the Mark of Chaos still remained visible, a beacon of power. A warning—“you see that and refuse to believe?” He scarcely believed it himself. “There has to be a way.”
Nasser flinched. “Might be able to get a handful of us across. I saw a few of those floaters still in good shape—they call them skimmers, but I’d not trust them with my skin. Most who use them are fool Ancaidan boys looking for a thrill and hoping to live long enough to tell some lass about it. I’ve heard during the Lunar Harvest some are fool enough to attempt the crossing. Some even make it.”
“Never mind that,” Rew snapped. “I have to be on that island. Now. Can we lash a few together?” He was almost out of time. He had known it would come to this. He recalled Gaelin Denail’s warning that he not attempt to play fate. Yasrin knew, but Imrail’s loss had struck a chord. He had hoped they might win the city some other way. Now there was no choice. Cursing under his breath, he snarled. “We swim if we have to.”
“What—?” Nasser mouthed.
“I said ‘swim.’ ”
“I don’t think—”
Rew gripped the man’s arm urgently. “Then find me another way. If I’m not there . . .” He shuddered to think about what would happen. He had not wanted this, had shied away from the truth of Denail’s foresight. He was used to lolling his father’s fields. Now he knew he had a fate far beyond Penthar, perhaps one that would begin here. He did not have to like it. He could have denied it, fought to distance himself from it, but that would have left Luc alone to face the loafers who would use him to gain some footing, some edge. That was if they survived this. Taking a deep breath, he moved forward, making a motion high above his head with the blade of the Free City. He did not hear the thundering cries that came in answer. No running, he told himself. No more.
* * * * *
Fanning out into the city, bands of men at least a half hundred strong, Luc paused, wary he had moved too soon. The moment reminded him somewhat of Caldor, but on a scale he hoped would make the day a memory even the night would fear. Those forces not set to protecting what was left of the city and her inhabitants were making for the People’s Plaza and Elegran’s Crossing. Vandil had unleashed the last of their forces. The Ancaidan capital was fully in Luc’s hands. He moved and men saluted; he frowned and they looked away. They knew now what he and he intended, what he hoped for: The Sword of Ardil and the head of Ivon Ellandor’s former chief servant. All of their preparations were complete.
Now it was on him.
He had two choices. Gain the crossing or eliminate the Heights outright. The latter might finish him and the full might of Penthar. He was not sure if he cared, not for himself at least. An end. There had to be an end to the infamy. His crimes notwithstanding, he had to make an end. The still veiled memories were clouded in mist, but no knowledge he possessed would stop the black skies from spreading, gaining momentum as they were. Vandil, moving beside him, did not attempt to gainsay him. Something in the rough-faced man’s eyes told him there was more the general had not said. Secrets on both sides, it seemed.
The city was all but forsaken, dust heavy, soot and ash in the air from some detonation that had likely leveled the shielded area he had spent the last day or so in. Reluctant to risk horses, they moved on foot. With the skies continuing to darken, and only the faintest hint of light on the horizon, he felt seeds of doubt take hold and almost rethought the entire affair. Almost. Ansifer had tapped into some fount of power he had reserved for this moment.
Either that or one of the Furies was here.
“A white-tailed hawk,” Vandil murmured, glancing overhead. “Small wonder in these times.”
Ignoring the man, they continued to move cautiously through the streets, tremors occasionally rocking the city. Layers of dust and ash swirling in the air made it difficult to breathe. He did not risk tapping into the Tides. Not yet at least. No need to announce his location, or his intentions.
It took them two, maybe three hours to reach the heart of the Ancaidan capital, marching on foot, the Sons of Thunder moving grimly towards the People’s Plaza. At high noon the square would have reflected the light of the midday sun throughout the city. Now, it held only the barest luster, still impressive. Like crystalline glass but not. Sections of torn canvas and the broken frames from vendor stands littered the columned walkway, but the Golden Lancers made up for the lack of display. There were hundreds, if not more. An ominous sense of expectancy was in the air. Murmurs immediately took flight at their arrival, but he had eyes only for the Heights a few miles to the south. The descent to the Crossing was clear. Gantling’s Red Shirts had not failed him.
At their arrival General Grivas approached them, now in the outfit of his office, a chain-linked suit of armor beneath a whi
te tabard with the insignia of the three Ruling Houses. Bowing slightly, he made a motion towards the south. “We are ready, my Lords. Luck—you have your coalition. We will have to sort out who rules after. If we survive, that is. Are you still committed to moving on the Heights?” He did not wait for Vandil’s answering nod. “When?” was all he asked.
“Now,” Vandil responded.
Grivas nodded expressionlessly, though his face was a touch gray. “Understood. Before you go, there are messages from your aides. If you will, this way.”
Making a motion for their heavy escort to set out immediately for Elegran’s Crossing, the narrow channel standing between the mainland and the Heights, Vandil fell in a step behind Luc. Grivas made a slight nod towards the towering Councilor’s Court, the jewel of the city. Concentric at the heart, it was walled, massive towers to the east and west linked by a covered terrace or parapet walk. The extensive grounds were still ripe with activity. Before they were a third of the way, Eduin Lars and Landon Graves rode up to them, a half hundred Sons of Thunder galloping up behind them. Both men’s mounts were slick. With Imrail gone, the two men had assumed his duties, moving through the city issuing orders.
“They’re in the Lower City,” Lars reported, grim-faced as he lightly swung down. “Angrats. We’ve word from Urian and Altaer that bands of Ardan have infiltrated the Quays. Worse, some of the men at Elegran’s Crossing report there are foul beasts in the air. Foul enough to scare the living wits out of a man. It’s not all bad,” the Companion added under Vandil’s hardened eyes, “Guardians have come in numbers. They hold. There are reports of Diem in the city, too. I think the Warden himself is here.”
Luc froze. Vandil’s eyes never changed. Damn him, he knew. A Whitefist had more feeling. Imrail certainly was more expressive, a touch less cold. Well, maybe cold did not quite describe it. Vandil had always seemed a shade more calculated. If not for the thick build, he could have passed for a politician. He no doubt had been one under Viamar’s reign. Soon he would be making for the Vale of Tears.
Regardless, it made sense. Perhaps that was why the Tides felt in some type of flux. “You knew,” he hissed. Blasted, he had asked—no, told—his father to stay clear of this. What of Alingdor and the White Rose? Feeling faint, he squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly nauseated. Let go, he told himself. He could not afford this distraction. Not any longer. He couldn’t be himself any longer. He had to be more, and by Vandil’s firm expression the general knew it.
By now the Privy Council was fleeing for Pentharan soil. The complexities of Ancaidan politics would take him days to sort out, if not longer. None of them had that kind of time. Turning slightly, a momentary flicker of hesitation took him. Some shadow flashed high above and a screech took to the air that sent chills across the flesh. Still gripping the Rod, he was gazing to the south when the air exploded. No, not the air. Reaching for the Tides, he knew he was too late. Before he knew it he was on his knees, head raw, eyes struggling to see through the debris.
“Boy!”
He ignored the voice. Was it Vandil?
It was too late. The enemy had struck, and all was on the edge of ruin. Reaching his feet, he lurched forward, Rod in hand.
The time had come.
* * * * *
Laughing at the surging darkness, the creature whose life force grew wild at the naked forces he commanded lashed out again. Renewed. Reborn. The roof-top courtyard had a view of the crossing and the swarm of insects fool enough to bring challenge. They did not know. They could not know. They existed only at his whim; they breathed only at his allowance. A thought and the channel would become alive with hatred—his hatred, their doom. No matter about the gnats that had appeared in their defense. Ellandor, likely. Others of his kin. No matter. The day would be his.
“You laugh as though your victory is imminent,” a crushing voice that warped the air cracked. “You risk much hiding here, waiting for him to strike. You have awakened an ancient wrath. Have a care you do not reawaken the Storm.”
“I am the Storm.”
Sudden pain flashed through him.
“You are the Iron Fisted’s instrument. Nothing more. Never forget it. Weaken him. Wound him. Hurt him. Then you will have your reward.”
Through pain inflicted tears he found himself nodding, eager. He did not care he had to bow before the will of one of the Furies. No, it did not matter. He would have this day. He was one of the Immortal Forerunners, heirs of the dawn of a new existence. Yes, he would have his reward.
Come worm, he commanded, now on his knees. I await you.
* * * * *
High above the channel a maelstrom of darkness and shadow twisted and convulsed with force. Fell beasts sometimes emerged from whatever vacuum or void stood on the other side. Men on flat barges could not raise their bows in the defense. They had to rely on those making for the Heights on larger crafts. As worrisome as the smothering darkness was, the channel itself held his eye and made it difficult to move. So many. . . . Their armies were crossing in mass, a flood, an avalanche, rolling on the Heights. Flashes of metal and cries of defiance shot from shore to shore, ten men still standing on the mainland for every man already in the water. Luc, sensing the enemy’s shifting attention, knew this was the moment that would prove the most perilous.
Abruptly something caught and held his eye. Surprising with all the movement.
“Almarans are aiding us in the crossing?” Luc whispered.
Vandil moved to stand beside him. “Perhaps.”
And perhaps not. Ships. A fleet of ships. He had no time to consider it. His father was out there somewhere. Behind, in the Lower City, he knew the Legion had engaged his men. It was all chaos and confusion. A storm above and behind and the Sword of Ardil beckoning him forward. Breathing, he felt himself tense.
“What are you—?”
He caught the general’s arm. “You’ve been a good friend, Vandil.” He said the words softly, biting down the ashen taste on his tongue. “See to our people and be sure you aim any survivors towards the Vale and the Mountains of Memory. I cannot join you.”
“Boy,” Vandil warned, suddenly urgent.
Knowing the moment had come—too soon, and with him caught on the wrong side of the channel—he summoned the memory of a memory, drew on it, strained to feel it, recall it, the intensity of a realm thrown into an upheaval, the images of the Faithful being assailed. There was sorrow, bitter and eternal, but also an elemental wrath born of the fabric of the Making, the same substance that had called him into being. There was the rage and the loss—Amreal and Imrail, Aldain and Alfar, the true sons of thunder. That spark brought to bear all of the agony of their march from Peyennar, the memory of the assault on the Shoulder, the fall of Ardil and the Dread City. Before he could finish the list, Luc was gone. His last thought, his last moment of sanity, was a feel of being swathed in white, sheathed in it. Bathed in it.
Then he was gone.
* * * * *
Trian shot forward, her mind awakened but eyes blinded by the burst of light that flashed upward, brilliant, blinding. The light was from a Plane of existence she hardly remembered. It frightened her almost as much as the thought that she was destined to die—not just to shed her Val Moran skin, but die a final death. She was almost certain now. Why else would she appear? If not here, then soon.
When she dared look again she was certain the display was visible for miles around. More. A sudden hush took hold, all of nature waiting. The hurtling darkness could not contain the sudden release of forces absent from the Making for multiple millennia. This was his answer to the oppressive darkness. That was what he had intended all along.
Reaching the high point of what was left of the People’s Plaza, the screeches in the air made her skin tingle. Men on small barges had reached the midpoint of the channel. She detected multiple ships, too. Shadows flashed downward, sometimes rebuffed by flares of effervescent light.
“They’ll never make it,” she whispered. Luc had shift
ed to the other shore; she was certain of it. Whatever he had planned next, he had to be about it quickly. He would never suffer his people to risk this unless he had—
“You have to do something.”
Freezing in place, she hesitated to turn. That voice—she knew that voice.
“Trian, please.”
Hardly believing her ears, she glanced to one side. Lenora stood at her shoulder with two short spears in hand. On the other. . . .
“Avela?” she mouthed.
The ripe-figured auburn-haired women did not smile. “I swore to serve you.”
“Imrail?”
The Companion momentarily lost her composure. Her skin was gray. Trian knew the loss of the general was one that would last through the end of this lifetime into the next. “At rest,” Avela whispered. “Finally at rest. I do not think he would have wanted me to abandon my oaths. I gave him my word I would be there at the end. Surely this is the end.”
Trian shook her head. “Not the end,” she whispered. “The beginning.” She bared her forearms suddenly and started forward. “The beginning,” she repeated, raising her arms high.
A beginning that might well be her ending.
