The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (19 page)

The woman finished it by folding her arms, face expressionless. Locking eyes with her, he exhaled softly. He was not sure how he felt about these spontaneous insights. She was still the same Val Moran he had met in his father’s house; the difference now was that she likely had access to memories that predated his own. The change was occurring remarkably fast. In one moment she had cut through to the heart of the matter and left him with little to no ground to stand on.

“I trust you will make the right choice, my Lord,” Imrail said finally. He did not say it wryly. Not quite. He would not in front of the others. “Some of the men are asking to send for their wives,” he went on. “The Lord Viamar permitted it during the Stand at Imdre. Some were even shared tents. Officers mostly. No children were allowed, but more than a handful shared in the fighting. If we have a long campaign ahead of us, it stands to reason the men will serve you better knowing their wives are near. I say that because I do not know when or if we will be returning. You have not indicated what you intend, but the choice is yours.”

Luc found himself feeling on the defensive. He gestured at the man irritably. “Do as you see fit, Imrail. I can hardly say where we’ll be moving.” He was not sure if the lie registered on his face.

“Very well,” Imrail indicated, nodding. “Scouts will be moving out to the Ancaidan camp at dawn. Do you wish me to accompany them?”

“I’ll be there.” He thought he managed not to sound jaded.

“And after?” Imrail pressed.

He moved to a mossy mound that appeared free of excessive moisture. The nights were getting colder. Sitting so his sword did not dig into his side, he glanced at the others. Urian had a thumb in his ear. His savage expression held a hint of expectancy. “Afterwards I mean to move against Eridian and Naeleis,” Luc whispered. The words just left him and seemed to only slowly settle over them. Silence. A drumming silence. Searching their faces, he realized something he had said had shocked them. “I mean to hang them by their heels and make them remember their oaths. I’ll see their names erased from existence and the Annals if I must. If either moves against us, I’ll know it. If they come, you ensure our people know there’s no shame in running. There is no place they can’t reach, no form they can’t assume. If you suspect anything, tell me. I’ll know the truth.   

“One more thing,” Luc added. “I won’t abandon Penthar or any of the people who serve under the sign of the Giver. My oath on it.” He waited. The intensity of his words appeared to startle them. For him there was only the bitterness of a broken city and flashes of fear the same would occur here. That was what made the Warden’s presence in Alingdor so vital. If only there was some way to be in two places at the same time or move from point to point at will. He thought Eridian had the ability. And Maien. His loathing for the creatures almost eclipsed the bile he tasted whenever he thought of Naeleis. “I need someone to watch over Trian,” he told them, searching their faces. His eyes settled on Avela. Her curt nod was grave.

“We will see it done,” Imrail said. The general’s eyes were narrowed, but he did not add anything else. “That’s it for now,” Imrail said. “Dismissed.”

Not seeing the closed fists the Companions directed his way, Luc realized his hands were gripping his knees and peeled back his fingers one by one. He would have to don the armor in the morning. No one had any real idea of what they would find, but it was safe to say it likely would not be good. Before he knew it most of the others had departed. Imrail did not count. Rew glanced at the General hesitantly, then spoke for the first time.

“How about a drink?” he said, running a hand through his tan hair. “You look like you could use it.”

“He needs his wits about him, Acriel,” Imrail said, almost at the same time as Trian added, “You’re starting again, Rew. I think he’s still recovering from your . . . last expedition . . . if one could call it that.”

“Another time,” Luc said, shoulders feeling tight. Standing, he started for his tent. He felt a fount of coiled anger. His thoughts were filled with memories of the Furies, brief images, most departing too fast for any one thought to settle long enough for him to focus on it. Naeleis, he decided. He had a score to settle with that one.

* * * * *

The next morning he was up and ready to move out early. Imrail had him inspect the men just as dawn was jutting out over the skyline. The general had given a select group leave to depart for the First City. Riven had the charge. In addition to preparing for their arrival in Alingdor, he had orders for Draiden. The First City stood a few days north at a normal day’s pace, so there was some chance they could make it sooner with some speed. The night watch had nothing to report.

Everything seemed in good order when they met up with Trian and the others. A hundred men for escort would show the Ancaidans they considered the move on their land a violation and hostile action. A negligible force, Imrail said, but large enough to warrant caution. The main body of men would be setting out south later that morning. Lars and Graves had the task of overseeing their departure. It was the beginning, he realized, feeling somewhat distant. They were marching towards the Furies under his authority, his sanction. He could put it off on the Lord Viamar and his mother, but doubted anyone would be daft enough to buy that at the market. They had to finish this business quickly and rejoin the men. Then it was the road south, weeks on horse at the very least. A month might have been a better estimate. He did not think they had that kind of time.

Prior to starting out he had returned to his tent with his saddlebags in hand, transferring the Rod for safekeeping. He froze the instant his hand touched it, some veil lifted, some sense of perception uncovered. He had no idea what the object represented, but the sense of separation—or perhaps of merging—was sharpest whenever he held it. Far-off images and sensations abounded. Feeling his flesh ripped and torn internally, he stumbled. He did not know if anyone noticed.

Riding once more between Trian and Rew, he had to squeeze his knees to keep Lightfoot from crowding Imrail. This morning Trian was back in her traditional apparel, dark coat, satiny blouse, and trim breeches. When they met eyes his chest seized up. Under the blaze of daylight streaking through an opening in the dense cloud cover, an image appeared to superimpose over the woman. This morning her smile was radiant. Approving. More. It gave him pause to wonder. He had done nothing to earn the woman’s favor. If the business with the Ancaidans and the Furies led to her sorrow, he would have only himself to blame. It was maddening not to have even a few spare moments alone with the woman, but at least Rew kept his head and seemed intent on lightening the mood whenever dark thoughts threatened to consume him. He was grateful the Acriels had consented to his coming. The road ahead would likely be difficult, but there were already strong hints Rew would be critical to whatever was coming.

Striking east, they crossed the highway an hour or two after setting off. He found it in remarkably good repair. A wagon train they passed paused to consider the heavily armed company of men in silver and black, likely a merchant out of Alingdor. There was no mistaking the look of speculation directed their way. Imrail rode on.

Sometime later Altaer and Urian made out signs of recent passage. Here the terrain was lush with wildflowers and tall grasses. Trees along the distant horizon likely stretched out until reaching the boundary of the Raging Sea. Reports indicated the Ancaidans had sent missives to Alingdor; no one to treat with now that the city was in mourning over the king’s abduction and the marshaled forces of Alingdor were sweeping the unsettled parts of the nation in search of Viamar and the Sword, building a shield wall around the First City. It seemed the Ancaidans had moved south, either unable to contact the Legion or obtain a satisfactory answers out of Alingdor or the Watch. Luc found himself attempting to make sense of perplexing riddle. This was his mother’s land. Riven was right about the deep ties he had to the nation and the loyalty the Oathbound had instilled in him. Once a similar bond had tied him completely to the forces of the Giver. That he still had, but little to nothing of the existence was known to him, only distant impressions that would rise up when he slept. He wondered if he would always be pursued by the agony or if one day he would come to terms with it and see the misery end.

After a few more hours on the move the grim company saw the outline of a sizable compound in the distance. Urian, who could mark a hawk at great distances, rode back at a gallop. Drawing rein, he let out a breath. “Found ’em. That’s no militarized camp. They’re a shambles. No signs of them settling permanently. Far from it. I think they’re making for the wood. Maybe they’ve run out of food.” He scratched his face. “I don’t think they pose any serious threat.”

“Maybe,” Imrail said. He did not sound doubtful. Not quite. “It appears we’ll have to find out for ourselves.”

Eager for the answer, the general picked up the pace. “You’ll need to take the lead and speak on our behalf, my Lord,” he said quietly. “This is the moment you make your intentions known to the world. A wrong move could be disastrous. You’re the focal point of this conflict and the only hope of unity for the Nations. Remember that. Some may mistrust your intentions no matter what you do. Be careful not to make claims or demands other than to find out what they’re doing here. That’s the best advice I can give you besides being careful not to show any indecisiveness or weakness.”

Luc glanced at the man. “You’re not going to give over, are you?” he said bluntly.

“No. It’s time for you face the world on your own two feet. Not as the boy out of Peyennar. Perhaps not as Siren either, not yet. We’ll have to settle for the Lord Viamar-Ellandor. That’d be enough for most men.”

Sighing, Luc hitched Lightfoot forward.
More than enough.
The powerful bay pushed ahead of Imrail’s stallion eagerly. A sunburst of light and energy ignited around him. He felt himself suspended in the fibers of the Making, smooth currents of elemental energy that ebbed and flowed over the contours of the rolling lowland. So much power, enough to debase a man. Ahead the pulses he felt were no different than their own. Hundreds at least. As they closed the distance Luc felt the stratums of creation calling to him. He did not feel small in the wake of the celestial forces. They were his to order. His to direct. Imrail might have been right. He was not Siren in the strictest sense, but today he did not have to be.

After several minutes it became apparent their approach had been observed. The discovery had an immediate impact. Luc saw scatters of frantic movement. Armed men in gold and white tabards smeared with dirt drew swords. They had wild, wary looks. A closer inspection revealed the desperate state of these men. It took only moments for them to ascertain the danger. Clearly these were not men pledged to the Furies. If they were, they hid it completely.

With Altaer and Urian moving forward, Imrail paces behind, the company came to a halt just short of the line of steel. A handful of the defenders held bows. None had as of yet drawn arrow. Not taking any chances, he felt the memory of another guide him. Under other circumstances the thought would have made him bury his head in his hands. Still a residue, an echo, weighing in from a remote time. Feeling the Tides catch fire within him, the world took on an azure hue. Perhaps it was a result of the conscious manipulation.

Glancing at Rew, he shied away from the image of women—some young, some old—and adolescents backing away. They appeared thin, emaciated things. He had no idea what turn had taken them to such a condition. “Is this part of what you saw?” he asked Rew. “The people. Dispossessed, you said.” No sign of a formal campsite—no fire, few horses, wagons, or even a temporary encampment.

Slowly Rew shook his head. “No. I think I would have known if it was somewhere here in Penthar.” His took in the Ancaidans again. “You’d better do something about this. They don’t have much left to lose by the look of them.”

At a cue from Imrail, Altaer stepped forward. The bowman uncharacteristically kept a hand off his sword and strode forward, Urian a step behind. Decked out in silver and black and displaying arms out of the First City, the Ancaidans appeared to hesitate. Altaer was a good choice to speak on their behalf. He certainly would not elicit as much suspicion as Landon Graves or Eduin Lars. Urian was quite another matter, however.

“We are the Companions, agents of the Crown,” Altaer said. “My name is Jisel Altaer. Do you require assistance?”

A man in his mid-years stepped forward. Face unshaven, he too was garbed in gold and white, white for the most part with gold at the breast and shoulders. Despite a few rips and tears, the formal attire made it apparent he was someone of import and authority. “If the offer is genuine, I would be remiss in my duties to turn it away,” the man said, hand on the hilt of his sword, tone guarded. Something of a burning intensity seemed to break through his gaunt features. “Penthar has long been known to offer assistance to those in need—to those she deems in need, I should say. Val Mora would be no more without it, but when a nation of equal strength requires it you turn a blind eye. It’s no secret you’ve hoped to see us destabilized, looking to your own borders. I’m well aware of the city you are constructing in the south, so no need to deny it. Perhaps you wish us to beg. Beg as Bevronail begged at the end. Now the nation is no more, as you no doubt wished. Well, we will not be the next. I will hear your terms and decide for myself if the price of your assistance is worth what it is likely to cost us.”

“As if Ancaidans were ever known to forget their pride long enough to welcome the aid and guidance of their betters,” Urian said around a scoff and a snarl. He spat. “You’re in no position to make demands on our soil. You’ll accept what we offer or will be asked to leave.”