by Matt Thomas
Hard to say how much time passed before they were ready. Lars and the others would not allow him to enter until the entire first floor was filled. Redshirts and Silverbacks interspersed throughout, Ancaidans flanking them. When he finally made his way in there was no dismissing the presence that stood at the far end of the hall. Shimmering beads of white light surrounded her, a sublime form of unsurpassed beauty. And dread.
Luc held on, moving through the ranks of hastily summoned men, men bemused, Ancaidan and Pentharan alike. He touched the Rod looped through his belt to ensure it was still there, not pausing, not breathing. His anger mounted. His wrath. The core of his being came to life. He had felt this way before. Once on the lonely plains out of the faraway north. Again during the assault on the Shoulder. Unfettered, he felt his fatigue slide away, his fear. Outside the winds gathered. The storm shifted. And far away, in the heart of the Vale of Tears and at the crest of the Mountains of Memory, his ancient adversary became aware of him.
“Sirien.” The word was said gravely, in formal tones.
He came to a halt a handful of paces short of her. “Altris.” He did not fear her, not entirely. Her perfection was not lost on the assembled men, men witnessing the first meeting of the Powers. Her gown shimmered as she shimmered. Her hair, caught back by what appeared to be a band of light, was colorless. She looked like them in form, could have passed for one of them. But she was nothing like them. She was of the First Plane and like the others could sow chaos and destruction at a whim. Her true form at times appeared to superimpose over the daunting image she projected, but he was not sure if the others were aware of it. They knew only that she held a power worthy of their awe.
And their fear.
She looked around. “Where is Elloyn?” The creature seemed to speak from all sides and angles. A whisper. A feather on the wind.
Luc crossed his arms. “I do not know.”
She did not appear convinced. “The others are here. You have set events in motion that will forever change the First Plane, the Mirror Planes as well. They are decaying. That is my missive, my warning. Defend the First Plane or risk Naeleis claiming the Dread City for his own. I have summoned him but he has become reckless and rebellious. Thus I can only warn you. This war will lead to naught but destruction. You must choose who you would side with, who you would defend.”
He looked at her calmly. “I have chosen.”
“You cannot safely defend both Planes, Unari.” Altris said it in tenors of sudden intensity, urgency.
Luc—Sirien—considered showing her his power. Here she might doubt it. Here he doubted it himself, had doubted it on many occasions. Instead he replied obstinately. “You do not command me. I will do what I must.”
She stood straight, indignity rippling across her otherworldly features. “You defy my counsel?” No indication of emotion in that neutral tone, but the air became thick and the hall silent but for the occasional clink of metal.
He looked at her and could not help feeling torn. She was not his enemy and had not come here to issue challenge, but he could not walk away without taking it as such—for the Warden, who had nearly given all for this Plane, for Amreal and Imrail, among the first to give their lives for it. Staring into her inhuman eyes, he knew there was no choice. “You have said what you came to say.” His voice, cool and clear, shattered the silence. There was no mistaking the exhales of relief. Clearly there were several who still did not trust his intentions. “Leave,” he added. Not a request. “I will not abandon my people or the Dread City. That is what you are asking, no?”
“We are your people,” she snapped, almost a hiss. A whisper, true, but the hint of fear and disbelief in her inhuman voice was evident and would have made nations tremble. “You must remember that. We are scattered. If you do this there will be defections. If you do this, there will be losses that will cripple us. Do you not understand?”
He was almost certain he did. “Is that a prophecy, or the truth as you see it?”
“Both.”
He glanced at Landon Graves and Lars, at the assembled men of Penthar and Ancaida. “There are some who consider both worth saving, Altris,” he said softly, so only she could hear. “If I must, I will die trying. We are one. A unified Dread City will mean nothing if the Mirror Plane is lost. Don’t you see? We will all lose. And Ashar will have his victory. I say again, if I must die to prevent this, I will die.”
Die, and in dying find redemption.
Altris smoothed her features. The being of indefinable power and authority searched his face, his eyes mostly, then sighed audibly. Abruptly she lowered her gaze and knelt. “I will yield. The infidels must be punished for all time. I will read the signs and serve as I may. Go now. The Earthbound have unleashed the last of their strength. There will be much pain and sorrow, but there will be far more if you tarry this night.”
“A test?” he snapped.
She spread her hands. “I had to know your mind. I will tell the others. It will be for them to decide, as they did before.”
He stepped forward. “No quarter for the betrayers. You tell them that. Tell them this time they will not even know the mercy of the Third Plane.”
Turning on his heels, he propelled himself to the garrison exit. The ranks of men quickly parted before him, their murmurs awestruck. As he reached the door, a tide gathered, not the Tides of Infinity, but the first to pledge themselves wholly in the war against the Furies. He did not know it, but it gave the being behind him pause, grave pause, and, for the first time in the history of her kind, a feeling of uncertainty.
* * * * *
All was bedlam amidst the Heights. Explosions rocked the skies. They moved, angling upwards, tiered slabs of smooth stone dividing the island’s northern and southern reaches. As they made their assent, they came to branching cobblestone paths leading to even larger manor houses, but screaming men gave no quarter, gave no pause, Lars and Graves issuing orders that no section of the Heights be left uncontested. Once the beauty of the Ancaidan stonework would have dazzled the eye by moonlight, but this night the moon was hidden, and the stench of corruption made one reluctant to grapple for air let alone ponder the architecture.
On that final climb Luc felt is if he had finally awoken. Straining even as he ran with his sword unsheathed, he reached deep within himself, willed by his unconscious, and commanded the winds to gather, the clouds to part, the Mirror Planes to bend and warp. The touch of resistance he felt told him he was matched up against more than just one of the Unseated. Still, white light met darkness. The active elements, already charged with power, sizzled, swells and undercurrents making it clear someone was actively aiding him.
He had no doubt now. The Diem were here.
Ivon Ellandor was here.
With a full contingent of his private guard surrounding him, their combined host crashed into the Earthbound—Angrats, hounds of the dark; Deathshades, immortal spirits released from the Mirror Plane; Ardan, bred from the blood of the Ancients. Men from all four forces moved with a savageness that was stunning. He moved, no longer caught in fear, unleashing the wrath of the ages, allowing his two heritages to merge, perfectly balanced. He had chosen. Ardan were his prime focus; whenever a Deathshade appeared in the sky, a bolt of charged Tides or a plume of fire exploded, announcing where the efforts of the Diem were concentrated. When a shift in the Tides came, he struck, as he had once struck. The upsurge was becoming a torrent.
Wading into the forefront, a ring of dark-faced Almarans and Guardians engaged with Angrats moved to surround him. The stench of their blood made men freeze where they stood, but wherever he looked two Sons of Thunder stepped in to bolster a line that wavered. There were losses. There would always be losses. But understanding dawned in the minds of his forces. They fought, not for the Pentharan King or even the Lord Siren. They fought because the Legion was unnatural and the world would no longer stand idle against the tyranny of the Earthbound.
Abruptly they reached relatively level gr
ound. The high ground, he realized. The air itself seemed to sweat and bleed. His sword glistened with Angrat blood, but no human—that would be as bad as the breaking the Ban. But Ansifer had a host of men fighting for him, which meant Ancaidans were fighting other Ancaidans. Shouting Whitefists, born among the Ancaidan lowborn to seize a place of power alongside the Ancaidan elite, wrestled alongside their Lancer kin. It made no matter now who was highborn, not here. Redshirts stood side-by-side with the Sons of Thunder, Almarans intermingled with the Guardians.
And somewhere out there, the Firstborn had come to surrender to the will of Sirien.
The clearing ahead was still considerable and gave way to rolling grounds, the wind crying out around them. He did not have to stop to consider which structure to go to. There was only one the Lord Ansifer would have chosen, the tallest, visible from the People’s Plaza. That and the ever-present pulses sounding in his ear paved the way, Ardil’s faithful bursting into song.
No, not song. Cries for vengeance.
Realizing he had grown cold once more, he forced himself to a heightened alertness. Turning in a semi-circle, he surveyed the surrounding area. Suddenly it was quiet. Someone called for orders. Searching the plateau, one would have a difficult time imagining Elegran’s Heights as the Ancaidan seat of luxury and power. He scanned the smashed walkways with flowery vines intertwined, trimmed hedges leading to carved busts and onetime peaceful gardens. There. He passed through a swarm of milling men, men still actively engaged.
Lars came up beside him. He looked like death, blood-soaked. “Do we make the final push in?” he asked grimly.
Luc shook his head. “No. Assemble the Companions. Order the troops to hold here. They are not to follow, clear?”
Lars bowed stiffly. “Clear. It may take some time to locate Jisel and Angar. One moment.”
If the man took issue to the orders, he did not voice it. Luc cut west following a branching footpath between the walls of two still-standing structures. The lane appeared to run clear to the rock face and the cold waters below. Attempting to mute out the stinging voices, he continued forward. With a little luck they might be able to skirt around and reach Ansifer undetected. His eye had to be pinned on their forces. Just hold, he sent the thought out. You have to hold. Graves, catching the hint of determination in his strides, fell in a step behind him, just off his right shoulder. Someone had wrapped a bandage around the man’s right forearm. “Thinking of finding another way in, my Lord?” he asked when Luc finally halted, turning.
“Yes.” Their men had fought with purpose and given him the opening he needed. He would ask no more of them now.
He waited, hand on his sword, the skies above alive with churning forces.
He surrendered, and let his intuition guide him.
He breathed, and rode the currents forward.
His eyes popped open then. No regrets or thoughts of redemption. No thoughts of vengeance or retaliation.
Just forward.
Taking the path, he started into a brisk walk. Openly strolling in from the front grounds was the only other option. He probably thinks I’m that arrogant. Boots quietly brushing against the stonework, he felt suddenly liberated. He could not begrudge Altris for begging him to save the First Plane and the Powers. That was her role, to speak for the others. To warn him. But he had no need for such warnings now. Others had betrayed him before and would in the future. Hardly reason for a missive. So be it. He had come to liberate the Ancaidan people from the iron chains of the Betrayers. He would see it done.
Coming to a crag of nearly impassible rock, he followed the path around the considerable walls of the silent estate. Some of the Ancaidan holdings were no doubt firmly in enemy hands, but he was going to have to chance some were also silent. Behind him Altaer and Urian appeared, bows in hand. Neither was bloodied. Judging by their appearance, though, they’d had a time of it crossing the channel. Lars hurried up behind them, casting a glance over his shoulder.
“There is a feeling of dread still,” the soldier reported, face haggard. “A stench and shifting wind. I think the Diem are inside some of these and have engaged creatures under this Ansifer’s command, creatures we have not come up against before.”
Luc nodded. His enemies were not going to give ground easily. Glancing at the two bowmen, he waited expectantly. “Any trouble?”
Urian swore. “Damn near soiled myself twice crossing the water. Those straights could send a man clear to the open sea.” He muttered something under his breath, then peeled off his coat. “Thought that was bad, but the climb was worse. Like staring into a chasm.”
Altaer rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said. He glanced at Luc. “We were successful, my Lord. The Council escaped. Ancaida will be reborn. Has a chance to be reborn, that is.”
Luc exhaled. Finally a victory—a small victory at that, but a first step nonetheless.
“Someone will have to take command back there,” Urian pointed out.
“Find Mearl. He’s steady. Remind him not to commit our men until we have no other option.”
Lars nodded, still uneasy. “I’ve seen to it.” He shot Graves a glare. “Damn it, will you stop stepping on my feet, Landon? You scared or something?”
Graves looked mildly sheepish. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s darker than midnight. Thought I heard something.”
The four men exchanged nervous glances.
It was difficult to ascertain the hour. He had some sense that the Axle was closing in on dawn, in these parts at least. The day seemed longer in the south at this time of year. Hard to say with the skies masked and the southernmost point of Valince still mired in conflict. This was the end. The final end. There might be no hope for the isle home to the Ancaidan ruling class. That meant the three Ruling Houses, other families of import, and perhaps even a few members of the Privy Council would have to relocate if they were found. Well, the Privy Council was safe now and some of the others were as well. Safe and, if all went according to plan, in position to rebuild what was left of the scattered nation.
Taking paths that saw them scaling the sheer places of the Heights, he kept his eye on the Thresh estate. They had Urian’s eyes to guide them and Lars’ keen senses to warn them if the Earthbound became aware of their design. Altaer took the lead and Graves brought up the rear. Each of them moved with a singular purpose. The plan was simple. Avoid a direct confrontation with the enemy and resist the temptation to loose the combined armies gathered—and likely still gathering. He had other reasons for keeping them out of harm’s way. The others chose not to acknowledge it. There had been some talk the Furies would see it as weakness. But from the start he had been wary of risking his people in a fight that predated the dawn of time. He’d expected the outcome would hinge on him.
He had not expected the others to stand and openly support him.
“Wait,” Urian hissed. “What’s that?”
Luc narrowed his eyes, trying to keep low on the uneven terrain. From their vantage point they would have had a clear view of the city. Now they were circling a manor and its vast grounds, halls of the Rolinian elite. The structure dwarfed anything he had seen in the Lower City. So close now. He must be worried. Ivon Ellandor and half the muster of Penthar. Why not flee? he wondered. No, that was not their way. The Lieutenant of the Furies had already been humbled once. He had fled across the entire continent. Yes, he was going to hold his ground here. A trap everyone expected. Imrail and Viamar had cautioned him about it from the start.
Now the final pieces were in motion. Time to see if the Fallen were as wily as they were malign.
He did not see it precisely; the light was too dim. But he did not need to see, not now. “Guards,” Urian told them, pointing down at a rear-facing garden.
“The stench . . .” Lars muttered. “. . . can’t . . . place . . . it,” he finished stiffly.
Urian took a few strides down the uneven decent, bow in hand. “I mark them,” he said around a snarl. “They’re dead
to the world. Don’t even bloody blink. The clothes are mismatched—like the, like the—”
“The Whitewood,” Altaer finished. “Stay back. Imrail warned me she would turn up. If he was right, these sentries have been twisted by someone more seditious than the Fallen. There were signs of her passage along on the coast. Our best guess is she can see what they see. Some link.” He inhaled, pausing before turning to glance at Luc. “I’m afraid it’s likely they know we’re here. It may not be wise to continue.”
Lars pushed past him before he could respond. “And saunter in through the front door? That would be no better. This isn’t a midnight stroll through the Merchant Quarters. Damn it, bring them down already.”
No one argued. In seconds Urian had an arrow streaking through the air. But the men—if they could be called such—were fast. One tucked his shoulder and rolled to the side. The other bounded back. For a moment Luc thought he detected a grin on that one’s face. Impossible to be sure. No one missed the hissing shriek that pulverized the highlands, though. It was deafening, and heart-chilling.
Well aware they had been discovered, but still refusing to risk using the Tides, he waited, locked in indecisiveness. While Urian’s first arrow missed its target, his second took it in the throat even as the creature launched forward. Altaer’s aim proved just as true, but the being never shifted, never appeared to stop grinning, not even when the arrow ripped into its flesh.
“We need to move,” Lars ordered, holding a gloved hand close to the nose and mouth as if the odor was something material, perceptible. For some reason he was glancing at the skies above.
“No argument,” Altaer replied, if still somewhat hesitant. “Are we sure the Sword is in the Thresh holdings?”
