The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (23 page)

“That will be fine, General,” Luc agreed.

“Care for a bit of air?” Rew asked. “I think I saw a tavern.”

Imrail glanced at him. “Not tonight, Acriel. I want the two of you where I can keep my eyes on you. I suggest a bite and a bath. Then as much rest as you can manage. It will be a long night. Lieutenant Reardon, a word while the others get settled in.”

“Or course,” Reardon said.

Exiting a moment, moving sluggishly, the man bellowed for his retainers. Not long after a pair of women were leading them through the considerable garrison to rooms and waiting baths. They issued Luc and Rew a room with twin beds. After they departed he first went through his saddlebags and gear. Satisfied the Rod was safe where he had left it, he set out clothes to be laundered and selected a fresh set. One of the young women, a girl really with light freckles and a button nose, poked her head in, keeping her eyes downcast, and indicated the baths were ready. Exiting the chambers behind Rew, he took a fresh towel and bar of soap the girl handed him. Urian and Altaer were already in the bath hall when they entered. The hook-nosed man had stripped and had a pipe hanging from his lips. Looking pleased with a mug of ale in hand, he let out a contented grunt.

“Nothing like a bath and a pipe and a mug to end a long march,” he said, closing his eyes.

“You could have sent for another,” Altaer said sourly. Shaking his head, the lean man glanced at Rew. “How are you holding up, Master Acriel? You’ve seemed a little distant of late.”

Rew muttered something noncommittal, dousing his head and lathering it with soap. “Oh, I’m just fine,” he said. “Couldn’t be better. And you, my Lord Companion? Get to shoot any ’grats today? Our friend here conjures fire and lightning for fun and you folk think it a wasted day if you haven’t engaged the Earthbound before breakfast.” He sighed, then half snickered. “What could be better?” Luc flashed him a dark look. Urian and Altaer shared a laugh. “Some days I wake up and still think I’m in Peyennar,” Rew added, a little more seriously. He dunked his head a second time. “Other than that, I wonder about my folks. Is it true my dad has kin in the south? He never mentioned them.”

Altaer nodded. “Your father was at the Stand. Aren’t many who can say that. I’m told the Acriels had—still have—considerable holdings in the south. He was a high ranking Red Shirt, but you no doubt knew that.” Altaer was already out of the tub with a towel wrapped around the waist. His lean frame was all muscle. With his hair hanging loosely, he still appeared ready to spring to his bow and belt knife at the first sign of trouble. “Living in Peyennar I did not think it was a secret,” he added carefully. “You really did not know? By the end even the Warden held him in high esteem. Why do you think he was selected to help found Peyennar?”

Rew’s jaw had dropped. “My dad?”

Altaer nodded. “That was a long time ago now. I thought you knew, or at least had figured it out. They say you have a way of ferreting out secrets. You have estates in Anneth, Acriel. As far as I know, you’re ridiculously wealthy, too.”

Rew said nothing.

“Not much use for wealth as a Guardian.” Altaer shrugged. “The Lord Denail is known throughout the Nations. I suspect he means you to succeed him. They have extensive training rites, I’m told. Secret ones. You’ll be busy. Best you enjoy the time you have now. You won’t have much after we reach Triaga.”   

Now that he thought about it, Luc recalled Imrail saying something similar about Rew. Seemed most of Peyennar was made up of men and woman with some tie to either his father or the Lord Viamar. It was a wonder neither of them had seen through the sham.

Sighing, he decided not linger in the bathwater, electing to wash and dry himself off thoroughly. Despite the days of riding he was anxious to put an end to it. The First City and then the impossibly long road south. He could almost feel the breath of Altris steering him southward.  

They ate in his room. Trian sat at the head of the bed, eating sparingly. She watched Rew with some amusement as he nervously picked over his plate. Lenora, seated beside the Acriels’ son, clearly made the young man uncomfortable. The pale-haired girl seemed a little restless. The four of them spoke little, but Luc was well aware the two were up to something. He had a difficult time keeping focus himself with the Val Moran in the room. Her hair slightly damp, she had brushed it straight and pulled it back at the neck. A dark strand curled around the ear. Her pristine features made his chest tight. He wondered if it would always be this way with her.

“You’ll have a hard time leaving Alingdor once you’ve settled in,” Yasrin said, glancing at him suddenly. “Most agree the city has no rival. Perhaps Tolmar. With your new rank, you’ll no doubt be the object of significant interest. I suggest you make no secret of your . . . affections. That will spare you some of the young—and not so young—women at court sending you notes expressing their interest.”

Avela entered halfway through the forewarning. “I would listen to her were I you, my Lord. It’ll shatter the hearts of most of the eligible, but it’s sound advice.” She looked them over with a smile. Her fondness for Trian was evident when she chided the young woman for not eating more. Prior to leaving she sent for another plate and a glass of wine. When it arrived, still steaming, Trian left it untouched and departed with Lenora. He wondered at her silence. Imrail came by not long after with a firm suggestion they put out the lamps. Despite the hour he intended them to be on the road soon.

“That man is starting to get on my nerves,” Rew muttered. “He always so focused? Four hours! He treats the horses better, if you ask me.”

Luc blew out the lamp on the stand beside the bed. “He means well,” he said. “Go to bed, Rew. I’m not going to ride into Alingdor half asleep.”

“I swear, you used to be more fun.”

He yawned. “Good night, Rew.”

Something soft struck him in the midsection. Rew’s pillow. One of them anyway. Wrapping his arms around it, he turned over. Remarkably he was able to stretch out and find a comfortable position. Closing his eyes, he feared sleep would be another matter entirely.

* * * * *

True to his word, Imrail entered roughly four hours later to wake them. Covered in a film of sweat, Luc sat up immediately. Rubbing his eyes, he exhaled and pulled back the covers. Black dreams again, always at the edge of his awareness. The memory of Trian in his arms was just as haunting. So many changes. . . . He still remembered his mother chiding him for climbing Langer’s Point up in the hills above the Shoulder. The level plateau offered a near perfect view of Peyennar. The dreams reminded him that life was rapidly slipping away, though. The merging he appeared to be undergoing felt conflicting, confusing. Luckily they still had some time. At least he hoped they did. He did not know if or when he would be ready to face the Furies.

Dressing, a sense of anxiousness took him. Imrail helped him into the light armor. The routine had become commonplace now. General Imrail obviously refused to allow the Lord Viamar-Ellandor’s entrance into Alingdor to go unnoticed. Rew was ready well before him. He was muttering under his breath—well, he did until Imrail silenced him with a cool look. Stamping his boots into place, Rew was looking less and less like the wiry boy out of Peyennar. He fit his dark coat now, cut into a V-shape just below the belt at the front and rear. His muscled frame, while slight, seemed the perfect size and shape for the pair of daggers strapped to his back. At the moment the look on his face was not so different than the one Urian commonly assumed. Unafraid and impassive. After sitting to tug on his boots, Luc pulled out his gauntlets and buckled on his sword belt, bending to seize his saddlebags and other gear before following Imrail out into the hall. By now the others were no doubt already waiting.

Reardon met them in the stable yard. “Report,” Imrail said, looking him over.

“I lost a man, General,” he whispered. Everyone stopped what they were doing. “A scout from one of the eastern posts. A farmer found his corpse in his fields. They brought it here. It was ashen and . . . cold. Veins stood out all blue. I’ve heard of such things before. You don’t think . . .” He left it hanging.

“Sypher,” Imrail said, stiffening.

“I’ll need more men if I’m to deal with this,” Reardon said, grim-faced. “You think it’ll pass after . . . after you leave?”

Imrail was looking directly at Luc. Hair recently trimmed, he appeared to weigh the matter. Tall and robust, his features, usually firm and decisive, were no less commanding than when they had first met. In the night he appeared even more so. A dangerous man. “It likely will,” he said finally. “Send our condolences to his family, if he has one, and the necessary compensation. I’ll see you get your men. Some will be raw. You’ll have to take a direct hand in their training, I’m afraid.” He looked at the man pointedly. “Time to shed some of that weight you’ve put on, Lieutenant.”

Reardon winced. “That was unkind, Imrail,” he said.

“But true,” Avela murmured. “You have responsibilities.” She glanced at Imrail. She knew as well as any among them what the Sypher was capable of. “This may not be the best time to leave, Elhador. Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

“We’ll have to chance it.” He appeared to hesitate, adding, “We’re running out of time.”  

Time
was
the issue. If the creature pursued him all the way to Ancaida, how many of his friends would he lose along the way?
I had no friends before.
An unfamiliar concept, back then. But now?
No.
He shook himself. They meant too much to him to risk it. Perhaps he could convince some of them to remain in Alingdor. He realized Imrail was shaking his head. “You aren’t responsible for this,” the man said quietly, meeting Luc’s eye. “If you’re thinking about running off to Ancaida unescorted, I’ll call off the entire affair. No one will have it. It will take thousands to deal with this. Considerable resources, too. And even then we are likely going to need help.” He drew himself up. “We need to get going.” The general stepped forward and exchanged a firm handshake with the stout lieutenant. “Good luck,” he said. “Send word when you can.”

“Watch your back,” Reardon warned. Turning to Luc, he bowed. “Go with the Giver, my Lord. You have our hopes in your hands, it seems.”

Luc had no idea how to respond to that. Mouthing a word in farewell, he turned and moved off to his bay. Seeing to his saddlebags and other gear, he was eager to get underway. He drank a little from a skin and was the first to mount. In just under five minutes they were moving across the main highway once more.

Again choosing to forgo a formal escort, Urian and Altaer had their bows in hand. Electing to ride through the night without torches, there was more than enough light in the town to guide them, but once they cleared Marthon and reached the plains south of the First City they rode through the brisk night air under the cloak of darkness, a fog blanketing the land. Not the best hour to travel after having walked under the heinous skies of Shaiar, but Imrail pushed them hard and did not give them an opportunity to wonder what might be waiting in the darkness.

Urian, whose eyes easily penetrated the sea of black ahead, took the lead. Often he would veer east or west, sometimes pausing to glance behind them. His nod placated Imrail. An hour outside of Marthon Luc sought the Tides, feeling his senses begin to become freed almost instantly. That was the symmetry his father taught him. It came quickly now. The eternal substance required nothing, just an acknowledgement of its existence. Feeling the currents come alive around him, he perceived the plains on a separate level. His mind shied away from the sheer distances he could cover. Little to the east or west. One ripple, a series of pulses. Likely a patrol of some size some miles to the east. Ahead another subtle pull. Then another, both at even intervals. Outposts, he suspected.

Just under an hour later they came on the first relief station. This one had a yard, barracks, inn, and blacksmith attached. A handful of men on duty maintained the night watch. Imrail called their first halt with orders to eat a standing meal while he met with the garrison lead. The Highway was in remarkably good repair. Stealing a moment to work the kinks out of his legs, Luc tried not to think too long on the feel of the wind moving openly, willfully, across the flatlands.

“You’re pacing,” Trian said quietly, putting an arm through his, forcing him to a standstill. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” he admitted, turning to face her.

“I imagine it feels a little like coming home, a home you were forced to abandon.” Unconsciously she smoothed his hair. “I am glad we get to see it together. The real thing is beyond any report.” She glanced at the others. “I don’t suppose . . .”

She left the thought hanging. The hint of red in her cheeks made him flush. He risked a brief kiss, feeling her melt into his side. That was all she would allow, though. When they remounted he chose to bring up the rear where he could keep her in his sights.

Sometime later they came on the second post. Hints of dawn in the east made it somewhat easier to fight off the fatigue. Imrail chose to halt after passing the sizable cluster of buildings strafing the highway, as large as the main street in Peyennar. Lightfoot waited restlessly, pawing at the air, while Urian and Altaer checked the horses. In less than a quarter hour they were underway again.

With two halts behind them and dawn knifing through the eastern horizon, Imrail felt comfortable quickening their pace. Luc kept his eyes ahead, not wanting to waste his first full view of the city. They still had a great deal of ground to cover, but soon there would be no mistaking the towering columns some said reached the sky. Steeling himself, he felt his breath grow short and his palms become sweaty. He had resisted the moment, rejected and refused it, but now that he was here there was no denying it.