The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (11 page)

“Do it,” Imrail commanded. “I will handle things here and ensure we have adequate eyes and ears to keep a sharp lookout throughout the night.”

“Thank you, General,” Hireland said. “If you will both excuse me then. I will see you tomorrow night.”

Luc breathed in deep. No mistaking the man’s unease. When it was clear there was nothing else to do for the moment, he checked in on Rew and Trian before moving off to his tent. Both were already asleep.

Tonight they served him in his tent. He peeled off his shirt and toweled himself dry. He would need a bath, but there was nothing to do about it in the wild other than rinse himself off with a little soap and water from a stone basin. The evening meal was resplendent with greens and roasted foul. He drank a half tankard of ale and was asleep within minutes of clearing his plate.

* * * * *

What seemed moments later, Luc woke with a start, a feeling of dread hanging over him. Dreams. He exhaled sharply. Would he never be free of them? A foul feel and a vile hand. Not the distant dreams of an earlier time. These were more immediate.  

Unable to shake himself of the feel of filth, he raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples furiously. “
Elloyn
.” He said it under his breath. In Penthar and among the free peoples of the west, a name to shake the darkness. He had never been one to intone the will of the Powers, but Amreal had. That he had done so now shocked him.  

“I’m here, Luc.” He flinched. He hadn’t realized it, but she was. Wrapped in his discarded cloak and seated within arm’s reach of a lamp she had choked off to reveal only a sliver of light, she appeared a dream.  

“What is it?” Even to himself his voice sounded tight and on edge.

“I was . . . worried,” she finished.

He rubbed his eyes. It was difficult not to stare; that she was here with him now still seemed perplexing. Her porcelain skin and pristine features would have given any man reason to stare, but only he could ever truly understand her. At least he hoped he would come to understand her. They still had leagues to cross and eons to mull over. Now was not the time to find out, though. Something was troubling her. “Trian, will you please just tell me?”

She did not blink. With a look, she pierced the soul; with a flicker of the eyelashes and a breath, made him inch towards her. “Your men are starting to talk.” She said it frankly. “Even the stoutest Val Moran Defender has been known to gossip as much as a chambermaid, but this is different. These here are . . . expectant. Most are in awe of you now. You command them. Even Imrail has been won over. Oh, he tries not to show it around you, but after you slept he assembled his aides. He has made his expectations, the Lord Viamar and your mother’s expectations, clear. You command the nation outright.” She paused, pursing her lips. “You commanded greater forces before and did not acknowledge me. Now you ask for my sword.” She closed her eyes, unable to keep her hands from shaking. “Why now?

“Trian—” he began.

“I am sorry,” she added quickly, “but you trouble me so. Why is this different? How is it supposed to be different? I cannot imagine life . . .” She ran both hands through her dark ringlets, breathing hard. “What I would not give for us to exist in a time of peace. But my people have never known it, and it seems yours have not either. Have you given any thought to what we are going to do?”

Peeling off the blankets, he tried to force his mind to work. It was difficult with the scent of the woman assailing him. He shied away from the memories. Truth was, he knew at the core he had been born to punish; more, to purge the stain of ruin. Would this time be any different? Could he afford not to make it different?

“We are different,” he said finally. “I
have
to be different.” He could not rightly penetrate the blocks, and did not think it wise to attempt to do so now, but if the private shock that she had followed him was gone now, it had been replaced by a continuing sense of bewilderment. She was everything about the night to love and not fear. Before the end the Nations would undoubtedly acknowledge it—that is, if they could bring themselves to forgive him.

“And the other?” she said. “What are we going to do?”

Luc sighed. “Imrail asked me the same thing. It’s a long way to Rolinia, but I have a score to settle with Ansifer.” No need to tell her he worried over Naeleis and Maien interfering.
Would they dare risk it?
He thought the moment he saw the physical embodiment of War he would become unglued. Naeleis had to know it now too. He was capable of passing through the Mirror Planes, and more. What else was he capable of? That was the question the Furies were likely pondering now.

“Just so long as you are careful,” Trian told him. “You and I both know this is a trap.” She was gripping the cloak she had wrapped around her with both hands now. “Something’s out there, Luc,” she added tightly. “Hovering over us.”

He was moving before he knew it. She started to stand, but he gave her a look that made her sink back. A look that made it clear that whatever existed in the remote past, in the present she was his unequivocal reality. He belted on his sword and pulled on his boots. “Stay. And be careful. The Rod is in my blanket roll. If you can think of some place safer, let me know.”

Outside he was caught off guard by the frigid air. Eight men had the night watch. He caught sight of Imrail dozing by the fireside. Gauging their surroundings, he suddenly wished Urian was with them. He would have had no trouble penetrating the darkness. Well, there was another way. Taking a water skin, he drank deeply, then moved to the fire where he sat and crossed his legs, hands folded.

As he had earlier, he sought the primal essence. He did not force it. He became it. Perhaps that was the key. Becoming and believing. For several minutes he breathed. He existed. What he was and who he was were no longer important. A child of the winds; a creature of chaos. He put aside those aspects of an increasingly complex persona as he pursued the symmetry with the Tides. Perception he had natively. Control and direction would come later. He no longer worried about that.

Instantly the awareness unfolded in his mind. The currents were robust and powerful. He did not attempt to consciously control them. He let them control him.

Feeling of the fibers of the Making filling the emptiness of the world, he thought the enormity of it would have dwarfed him. But beside his other innate abilities, budding powers he understood even less than the Tides, it filled him with a sense of limitless power. Still he did nothing except follow the tapestry and trace it. The encampment first; further, a sweeping move south. He felt a ripple in the area surrounding them, normal and sedate. Further off to the southeast there was a swell. Not Edgewood. Abruptly a vile taste made him swallow. It was like some rank stain or blemish. He thought he had felt it before.

His eyes popped opened. “Earthbound,” he snapped.

He found Imrail and Trian on their feet. Both came forward quickly. “How far?” the general snapped.

“A day, maybe more,” Luc growled.

Imrail muttered an oath. “Our advance scouts,” he said roughly.

“Hireland.” Luc groaned.

“Do we go back for your father?” Trian asked. Her face was caught in lines of worry.

Luc shook his head, scrambling to his feet. The faint light to the west told him dawn was approaching. “How long?” he demanded.

“It’s been at least an hour, Luc,” Trian said.

“No time to wait. We have to go.”

Imrail immediately barked orders for them to break camp. Luc quickly returned to his tent. He had some difficulty worming into his armor and had to call for assistance. Avela did not hesitate. As she helped him with the buckles and straps at the side and rear, he noticed her face covered in a sheen of sweat. Her hands shook a little, too. Seizing his gear, he hesitated over the blanket roll.
Not yet
, he reminded himself.

Imrail entered. “We have a little over a hundred men,” he said. “Five hundred will be waiting west of the Landing. The rest will be escorting your mother and father. We will not reach either force in time. I can have scouts warn Hireland if you wish. It would be safer. He would understand.”

“No,” Luc snapped. The man might be dead long before then. “We have to move.”

Not entirely pleased, Imrail nodded. The three of them filed out. As soon as he was standing out in the open, men moved to break down his tent. Several tense minutes followed. Rew caught his arm. He appeared a touch disturbed. Stepping a little unsteadily, he shuffled over, his face white but determined.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Trouble,” Luc answered. “To the south.”

Rew did not react to the news. “What are we waiting for then?”

Trian regarded him blankly. “We were waiting on you, Master Acriel,” she said evenly. His eyes narrowed. Something about the woman put him off balance. Muttering under his breath, he returned to his tent to fetch his things. A runner appeared with Lightfoot and Imrail’s stallion. The bay came forward eagerly. Tying his blanket roll behind the saddle, he put the image of the Rod out of his mind. He still maintained a perfect unity with the Tides, as perfect as he had ever achieved at least. There was no sense of him losing the perception.

They were underway within a half hour. Too long a time in his mind. Imrail set a tasking pace, exceeding what was wise. Luc was not sure if he meant to hold it throughout the day. A few hours in the general recalled most of their scouts. Neither could shake the feeling of imminent doom. The level terrain made speed possible, but two not-so narrow creeks had to be crossed carefully, the water rising almost to their horse’s knees. After the winter snows these would become significant bodies of water. He was just grateful they did not lose more time.

Around mid-morning Imrail called their first halt. Luc dismounted on a grassy mound with a view of the surrounding terrain. A cluster of trees to the west caught his eye, as did a distant pool to the southwest. This was about the third or fourth time he had ventured so far south out of Peyennar. His forays with the Masters Ingram and Varel were for the most part limited to the north and west. The silver, sometimes green and gold topography, were framed by pristine skies above. Picturesque. Almost perfect. Almost.

The sound of a man clearing his throat made him turn. Luc murmured his thanks when a familiar looking man of solid height and build handed him a bundle of bread and cured meat and cheese. The soldier appeared to be in his mid-twenties, as blank-faced as Mearl but more imposing with a sharpened exterior, defined features, and a four or five day growth of beard. Something about the man seemed to suddenly hold his attention. “Thanks,” he said, taking the bundle. He waved off the man’s bow. Just as he started to turn, Luc spoke. “You from Alingdor?”

“No, my Lord Siren. Three Hills—Triaga, now. My name is Graves. Landon Graves.”

The man saw his noticeable interest at the mention of the southern city. Imrail had been somewhat vague on the subject of Triaga. That likely meant trouble. “The site of the Lord Viamar’s most ambitious construction project, I have heard.” He wondered what it was.

“Aye, my Lord,” Graves said. “I am eager to see it. Some claim it may rival Alingdor herself when complete. Well, perhaps that’s a stretch. We will see. Is there anything else I can do?”

Luc glanced at him again. A solid man. Earnest enough, but these were Alingdor’s most elite, and this one carried a dangerous secret he likely had no knowledge of. “Yes. I will speak to Imrail. For now, see to your own needs.”

 The man bowed again and asked for permission to depart, leaving Luc feeling a touch bemused. He ate quickly and was one of the first to reach the saddle. This time Rew was already waiting. Something about his look seemed unusually concentrated.

That afternoon Imrail stepped up their pace. The bay held to it effortlessly, but Luc worried about the packhorses. A little later they met up with a team of scouts Hireland had left behind to await them, men who had not expected them for several hours. None had word of anything out of the ordinary. They continued south immediately.

As the day continued to mount he held the reins so hard they scored his hands, hands that sometimes moved to the hilt of his sword. He itched to take up the Rod, but wondered if the cost would be worth the price it would exact from him. Back in the Shoulder it had served to break the fragments in his subconscious. The torrent of images had nearly consumed him. Now there was a growing sense that something more was awakening within him. Galloping under a bright sun, he could feel elemental forces at work. That sense of separation was there, stoked by an escalating anger. He had accepted the role history had prepared for him, on some level at least. But one announcement in Peyennar was hardly an audience before the Nations. That would come later.

Sometime earlier he had reluctantly cut at the chord linking him to the Tides. Hewed at it was more like it. The continuing effort was exhausting. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his consciousness again. And like a charged bolt the awareness sparked in him, become him. It was faster this time. He was dimly aware of Imrail and Trian flanking him, the Val Moran exchanging a worried glance with the man. He probed southward. Nothing had changed. If anything the knowledge made him press even more. What were they waiting for?

He began to take mental note of Lightfoot’s paces. Altaer would have been able to gauge the time far more precisely. No such luxury here. Luc was, however, able to take stock of the collective mood of Imrail’s company. His company. He felt a hint of tension, certainly expected; the anticipation was not. He made a motion towards Avela, slowing slightly. The woman must have thought him insane to rein in slightly just to ask her about them. He was surprised when she looked at him approvingly.