The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (12 page)

“Most were there when you left the safety of the Shoulder and stood with your people,” she said. She had been there too. “They watched you humble the Earthbound. Punish the Ardan. Break the Fallen. They are hardly afraid with you to lead them.”

He shook his head. He knew next to nothing about the open world. If anything, Trian had more knowledge about what the enemy was capable of. “It was blind luck, Avela,” he muttered. “I’m sorry my father isn’t here.”

Avela laughed. “At this point I’d side with your luck over the Furies’, my Lord. You have all of Penthar behind you now, or soon will, and a reputation to match the Warden’s already. What you need now is the knowledge and belief that these men have. Then it will truly begin.”

He chewed his lower lip. The woman had been lulled by events in the Shoulder and word of what had taken place when they had recovered the Lord Viamar. It was hardly that simplistic. She was right about one thing, though. He had to take the limited knowledge he had and formulate a plan.

Picking up the pace again, he caught Imrail. “There are Ardan out there,” he said. “Something else, something . . . familiar. Haunts of Maien perhaps, Deathshades. Maybe Angrats.”

Imrail studied him. “That helps,” he said a little too softly. “What do you think we should do?”

Luc thought about it. Bowmen to take down the lines of Angrats; the horse would have to stay clear of them. One foot soldier for each archer, carrying a torch if the attack came after nightfall. Deathshades would be a problem—his problem in the end, he thought. So would the Ardan. He did not think one of the Unseated would risk facing them directly. Not with Trian so intent beside him. Something about the woman and what she had done at the doors of the Shoulder would make them wary to confront the two of them together.

He sketched out the details, mind working feverishly. “We’re going to have to make a stand somewhere. We’ll have to pin them down with arrows and stay clear of the wood, force the Ardan to show themselves and then have every archer target them. Order an equal company of foot in the event the Angrats reach our lines. Save the horses for a final push. I will find out who or what is controlling them. It may be a close thing. If we have to withdraw, you need to give the signal. We pushed too hard today, so I doubt we will get far. But some may escape.” 

Imrail narrowed his eyes. The wind caught the man’s hair; he wore no cloak, just the buttoned overcoat. Just then he had a speculative look. “Amreal instruct you on tactics, Anaris?” Luc flushed. He realized then he had revealed knowledge he was not supposed to have, but he had been paying attention. And he had access to other . . . insights. Imrail continued to look him over. Finally, he said, “As good a plan as any Vandil or I could have come up with on short notice. I would add one thing. You staying clear of the fight. This is clearly a ploy meant to pull you into the heart of it.”

He did not need to think about it long before dismissing the notion. “Would you stand aside?” Luc asked the man pointedly. Not waiting, he added, “I didn’t think so. I’ll not watch while our men are routed, Imrail.”

Imrail shook his head. He took on a lecturing tone. “You have a sharp mind, Anaris,” he said. “Keen and bordering on brilliant, but at times remarkably shortsighted. I have no doubt you have the means—or will find the means—to hold your own, but what if something you do not consider occurs? What if they manage to maim or kill you? What if that is their end goal? What then? Do you expect me to face the Far and Isar without their equal, their opposite, to oppose them? They have other names you seem to know. You mutter them under your breath. I suppose one of us could strive to contest with them. It would end matters quickly at least.”

Luc gave the man a level look. He was still straining to hold onto the awareness of the Tides. The constant struggle and weight of duty was wearing on him like a grindstone, though. “Give over, Imrail,” he said with a finality he hoped would end the discussion. “I won’t hide or break oath. If they are expecting me, I might as well not disappoint.”

Imrail eyed him coldly, clearly displeased. He did not press the issue, though. Not yet at least. “I’ll pass the word,” he said stiffly.

By early evening the horses were covered in a lather and the air was noticeably cooler. Rather than risk a halt, Imrail had them slow to a walk. They had come a considerable distance already. Glancing behind him, he could not help but wonder at the line of determined men formed up behind him. He did not think it would be long now. Fighting hard not to appear too anxious, he let his mind drift. That proved no more advantageous against the flow of images that raced across the boundaries of his subconscious.

Rew was the first to make out the slight ripple on the horizon. They were still moving at a slow saunter, though Imrail made a motion and he and Luc picked up the pace for the final leg. A scout scanning the north marked them and met them with a look of surprise. Bowing hastily, he hurried off. With a few hours of daylight still left, Hireland looked dumbfounded when he saw them.

“Report,” Imrail said bluntly as they reached the soldier, the two of them dismounting.

“My Lord—?” Hireland wiped the stunned look off his face and restarted. “All is well, General. I hadn’t expected you for some hours yet.”

“Trouble,” the rugged-faced man responded. “A Legion company,” he added shortly. “We’ll have to risk a few hours’ rest. I need you to reposition your scouts. Come with me.” He glanced at Luc. “You should sit tight, my Lord. If they move against us it won’t be during daylight. I’ll see the men are positioned and get in a few hours before dusk.” Nodding, the general quickly moved off with Hireland and a few of his aides. He was making sharp motions and speaking brusquely. Luc left the man to it.

Returning to Lightfoot, he reached for a water skin hanging from the saddle. Waiting for the others to reach them, he clasped his hands behind his back where he held them clenched tightly. Safe and still free. That was something. He no longer strove to trace the Tides; the continued effort made his head feel light. Amreal would have been able to explain it, or his father. The last residue he recalled put the enemy perilously close to the southeast. He was not sure if Imrail would weigh the risk of staying against attempting to reach the Landing. Regardless, he was beginning to feel it in his blood. The sense of anxiousness, unrest. He reeled his mind in sharply.

Once the main column arrived, Imrail moved off to oversee their deployment. Luc scanned them momentarily, then caught sight of Rew who had yet to dismount. That sick look was back on his face. Feeling a touch nauseated himself, he peeled off his gauntlets and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Trying to shake off whatever it was that might be troubling his friend, he strode towards Trian and extended a hand up towards her. Likely saddle sore, she gave him a grateful look and dismounted with both arms around his shoulders. Unwilling to stand there too long in full sight of the men or displace the feeling of imminent danger, he tucked his gauntlets into his belt and waited for nightfall, electing to sit at the opening of his tent. After a few minutes he gave in to the temptation of closing his eyes, searching his censured soul for answers to a host of questions he had put off considering. Imrail knew what he was about and did not need him inserting himself into the business of their defense. Luc made no outward sign of movement for some time.

* * * * *

Nightfall came and went. He suspected he had dozed off just as the last suggestion of daylight faded and the world became shrouded in darkness. The company camped cold. Rew sat a few paces off to his left. No sign of Trian or Imrail. He wondered if the enemy was aware of their preparations. More than likely, he thought.

Feeling something strike him in the midsection, he glanced at Rew. It was an apple. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem.” Rew stretched. “Couldn’t sleep. Think I should still try?”

Luc bit into the apple. “Maybe,” he said a little dubiously. “You feeling any better?”

Rew shrugged. “A little,” he said. “Takes some getting used to—the flashes, I mean. Denail makes it sound some high thing. Makes me want to soil myself if you ask me. You have all these men hanging on you, tongues scraping their boot flaps—and that girl who . . .” He shuddered. “What am I doing here, Luc?”

Luc shook his head. He had no answer.

The World-Axle continued to turn. In some distant place dawn was no doubt rising, but here each moment seemed to hang and only slowly, grudgingly, inch forward. He did not need the Tides to feel the hint of oppressiveness in the air. Coming now. Tossing the apple core aside, he continued to wait. It was almost as difficult as waiting for the Earthbound to show themselves in Peyennar.

At an hour sometime after midnight with a mist rising out of the earth, a sudden tumult to the east made him spring to his feet. Casting aside the fatigue he felt deep in his bones, he rushed to Trian’s tent. Just as he reached it the two women appeared, Avela holding a spear and Trian the sword of the Blade Orphans. Glancing at Rew, he gave his friend a level look and gesture meant for him to stay put. Instants later six men reached them and drew steel.

Luc left them there in what he hoped would prove a hub of relative safety. He was dimly aware of two black-coated men moving up beside him. Not pausing to spare them a glance, he continued eastwards. In the darkness it was difficult to make out the Peaks and the thick wood bordering the interminable plains. Luc kept on until some sense forewarned him. Sliding his sword out of the sheath, it made a hissing sound. The ground seemed to heave; it groaned. Growing cold, he hesitated. Why would they so carelessly confront him here when it was obvious they had dug in?

He did not have the time to consider it. Abruptly a horn sounded. Or maybe it was a cry of command. Imrail, at his side now, bellowed out orders. “Torches!” he snapped, his voice ringing out sharp and clear in the cold nighttime air. “Archers ready! Foot, draw swords! Hold until I give the word!”

Instantly the coverlet of darkness became alive with a band of igniting light. The sudden intensity was blinding. The tolling thunder did not waver, though. Slivers of charged power arced through the air in answer. Coiling eddies of voidless light sliced downwards, cutting through the night. The swift salvo was shocking. “Deathshades.” His whisper was lost in the sudden offensive. Pulling Imrail back sharply, he rolled to one side, feeling something whip by his ear. Coming to one knee, he gaped at the intensity of the onslaught. He had never conceived they would come so fiercely. Smoke rose from the earth where he had been standing. Creatures under the command of Maien. He would see
her
pay.

Struggling to regain his senses, the drumming in the earth grew deafening.
Angrats.
Luc surged to his feet, knowing they would be overwhelmed in minutes. He realized it was always when he was most desperate that the unseen barriers in his mind broke. Dangerous, his father would have said. Yet he had no choice. “Archers!” he cried. Racing forward, he threw himself at the front line and felt all of the dread and intensity that had built up in him on the ride to reach Hireland unleash.
Unari.
They had broken the peace and had been a pestilence to the Children. He would see them erased from existence and the arteries of the skies alive again and filled with the echoing voices of Eternity and Memory, the Spire repaired and renamed anew. Altris free to foretell a new day.   

Distantly he thought he heard Imrail mutter a curse. Leveling his grandfather’s sword, he felt the world take on a white hue. His rage stoked the heat of his wrath. Hardly aware of himself, he strode forward. The Angrats, previously closing the distance at an alarming pace, seemed to hesitate. That was when the first rain of arrows hit them. The tactic was hardly inventive or one to make the beasts of the night know fear, but with his sword poised and the world a bleeding white, arrows that hit the mark scorched and burned. Those that missed were worse and made the ground teem with scorching matter from another plane of existence.

“Second strike!” Imrail commanded. Immediately another hail of arrows struck, then another.

Luc continued forward.
I am Sirien.
Something in the thought puzzled him. Realizing he had left the Rod behind, he snarled. One of the Angrats had managed to work its way through the field of beading white light, pockets of the First Plane the Earthbound could not suffer. His sword was encased in it. He was alive with it. This was what he was, he realized. Despite moving on all fours, this Angrat sometimes appeared to stand on its hind legs. It was the size of two men, powerfully muscled and totally enraged. It pounced and as it came on him, a streaking shadow sped downwards. Shifting, he twisted his wrists, feeling a hair of resistance as his blade tore through the shadow. Ignoring the repercussion as it was torn apart, like a small tremor, he leapt back, just in time as the Angrat lunged at him. Sword held between them, he bared his teeth. Crazed, the beast could do nothing but charge him. He was slightly disappointed when it folded over, a half dozen arrows ripping through its hide and armor.  

Mind numbingly blank, he took another step forward. The gallop of horse hooves sent tremors across the fields. Riders stayed clear of the pools of pulsating white flame. Still he pushed forward. Some instinct told him he was not finished here yet. An awareness had opened up in him and he was awash with the presence and power of the winds. With the Tides beckoning to him, he turned his thoughts to the Ardan, ready to break the twisted creatures whose veins ran red with the tainted blood of men and the Forerunners.