The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (33 page)

Seeing him unable to answer, she stretched out her arms and beckoned him to come forward. “You have the right,” Trian murmured.

Looking up, the woman smiled. “Will the two of you see us out? We wish a word in private.”

Glancing between them, he nodded reluctantly. His throat was raw and he could find no words. He knew immediately he was not prepared for this.

In the end no one saw them say their farewells. The moment had come and he could only face it on his own. Endure it on his own. Maybe it was better that way. Something to hold onto and spur him southward. When the streets were finally empty he tore himself away. He did not truly expect see either of them again.

* * * * *

It rained the next morning. Not a damp, drizzling rain. This one came out of nowhere, clouds rolling inland sometime during the night, thunder pealing in the distance. Judging it just less than two hours prior to dawn, they grouped under the looming shadow of the city wall and western gate, horses saddled and gear already stowed on four packhorses. Setting out almost immediately, they left without escort. After moving through the Third Plane he did not think there was much Imrail and the other Companions were not equipped to deal with.

First moving west at a uniform pace, Altaer, taking the lead with Urian, broke south just after clearing the last of the clustered homes and establishments extending out of Alingdor along Seafarer’s Way. It was a considerable distance. Scouts occasionally appeared out of the mist, reporting in at various intervals. Urian pinpointed their locations nonchalantly. The gale did not appear to trouble Lightfoot either, who cut through the wind effortlessly. This appeared among the most secure part of the realm, farms dotting the landscape for miles. Most of the fields had already been harvested. As dawn neared they skirted around a few minor villages. It was hard to take notice. Even wearing gloves and a hooded cloak, he was soaked through to his skin and undergarments. Near impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. Still Imrail showed no sign of relenting.

“This rain is going to make it slow going for our troops,” Riven told them. The man said nothing about a night spent weighing the offered posting in the port city, an eminent one from what the others had said. More than one of was surprised he had decided against it.

“They’ll manage,” Imrail said. “As will we.”

Avela tugged her hood down, some sound from deep in her throat broadcasting her displeasure. Luc had no idea what had passed between the two during the night. Imrail had remained awake for some time, looking over maps, making notes—generally just brooding. No one knew what time the man had finally turned in. Trian’s slight shake of the head told him she was not sure either.

“Can’t you do something about this?” Rew said irritably.

Luc glanced at him. “About what?”

“This.” Rew made a cryptic motion of the hand. “You know . . . What you do.”

He let that pass.

The day plodded on, the downpour continuing. One thing he had not missed about the road during their brief stay in Alingdor was the endless marches, Imrail gauging precisely how far he could push them. Well, the man had every reason to push. It was too bad really, as this part of Penthar appeared lush, rolling hills and fields that in the late summer seemed shimmering seas of green and gold. Today no one could really enjoy it. By midmorning they were all miserable. Not the way he envisioned setting out. Not for the first time he thought about his parents. Reaching a gloved hand to grip a silver chain hanging around his neck, he fingered a colorless bit of crystal clasped to it. The Warden had given Trian a replica. He had actually inclined his head when presenting it.

Recent events had certainly held no shortage of curiosities, that being one of the more surprising.

He had given up the hope of ever getting dry when even Imrail was forced to concede the weather was not going to let up anytime soon. Cursing under his breath, he ordered Altaer to strike east. Luc caught Avela looking at the man with a glint in the eye. Plainly whatever exchange had taken place between them had not gone as smoothly as either had predicted.

Sometime around noon they reached one of the sentry posts they had passed on their way to Alingdor. Reluctant to take the same course, Imrail had planned to steer clear of the highway for as long as possible. During their private deliberations both he and Draiden insisted enemy spies had been placed among the populace. As of yet they had only rumor and supposition to go on. Now with no choice but to risk losing their anonymity, they returned to the highway and continued south. There was a surprising amount of traffic headed north. Upon reaching the outpost, the general barked at a pair of men on duty. They came to attention immediately. Sliding out of the saddle, Luc adjusted his belt, now with the weight of his sword offset slightly by the Ruling Rod. His father had cautioned him against letting it out of his sight. This was the only way. He was careful not to touch it and his companions slid their eyes over it.

Five or six men appeared out of the highway post to take their mounts. Imrail ducked inside, the rest of them following. He had the commons cleared and the fire stoked. Most of them quickly laid out their coats and cloaks on the empty tables, but without anything dry to change into would be forced to wait until their gear dried on its own. Imrail spent the time checking on the progress of the companies that had left the First City the day prior. Riven and the others pulled up chairs and waited.

“Maybe this would be a good time to bring everyone up to speed on your plans,” Riven suggested. He had chosen not to shave in recent weeks other than to keep his beard carefully trimmed. It gave him an indefinable quality Luc could not quite put his finger on.

“That would be considerate,” Lenora suggested a little too sweetly.

“The best plans are the ones no one knows of,” Urian said bluntly. He was digging a finger into his ear. His slanted features, always on the rough side, looked especially brutish and wind-worn now.

“An extended campaign against the Ancaidans would not serve us,” Altaer said. The bowman had retied the chord holding back his long hair. Still on the lean side, he was quite capable of instant brutality. “Are we talking war, my Lord?”

Luc shook his head. “We are not planning one, no. Not against them.”

“Then how do you intend to retake the Sword?”

“There is a way,” Luc said, a touch flustered. He hadn’t expected them to question him about their plans or put them under scrutiny. Not yet at least. He could hardly blame them, though. They deserved to know what they were walking into. “We did it once before.” Faces blanched instantly. No one would be eager to walk under the pall of Shaiar again. “We discounted it. My father believes the Mirror Planes are collapsing. That may be why I’m here.” He paused when a pair of men entered with steaming bowls. A soup of some kind, he thought. Thanking the man who served him, he held his hands over it to warm them some. “We decided it best to send in an advance team first and attempt to locate the Fallen. They call themselves the Undying. The Immortals. The Forerunners.”

“I doubt the Lord Ellandor would think it prudent to just walk in and find them,” Avela said, leaning forward.

“I’ve been thinking,” Altaer began. “Are we certain there aren’t others? Those just in possession of the Diem who fled to Almara? Over the years there have been rumors of recluses with similar talents across the Nations. Some claimed Andus had some link to them.”

“It occurred to us there are others,” Trian said. “That is the danger. Some of the Aeris perhaps. Perhaps one of us here.” Everyone shifted. “There is no way to know until they reveal themselves.”

“I have to try,” Luc whispered, looking at them. He had never felt quite so helpless.

“We have no choice,” Imrail said, reentering. “We have one goal. Reestablishing a legitimate government and some semblance of stability. Earn the Ancaidans trust and turn our thoughts to Val Mora and the Mountains of Memory.” The silence in the air was foreboding now.

“There are still the others to deal with,” Luc reminded him.    

“In time, perhaps,” the man said, leaving his bowl untouched. Shaking his cloak out, he draped it across the back of a chair. “Anyone who wishes to remain behind may do so once we reach Triaga. We have until then to decide.”

Riven folded his arms. “If it were a matter of just a border skirmish . . . Imrail—General—we can’t be cowed now. A full company engaged us north of the city. They are not coming to test our mettle. They are coming to finish us. This time the Lords of the Scales will not be there to save us. We have to send emissaries to the nations. Now. Move to reinforce Val Mora. Why are we waiting?”

Imrail stroked his chin. “We’re not,” he said flatly.

“What if the Ancaidans choose not to side with us?” Lenora asked. “They stood apart during the Stand. They’re southerners. I know southerners. You’d have a hard time convincing them snow was real if they didn’t see the Southern Peaks capped with it.”

Quite intentionally Imrail did not answer. On this one point the Lords Viamar and Ellandor were in agreement. Imrail remained undecided. Slowly, deliberately, the collective eyes of the remaining Companions turned to Luc. “We talked about it,” he admitted reluctantly. His hand itched to take hold of the Rod. He knew the Sword to the south would complete the change and turn something loose on the world it had yet to witness. He had given some serious thought to going off alone. But Imrail was right. He was not ready. “If they choose not to side with us we seize the capital and install an interim government under the joint control of Penthar and Emry.” 

“You’re not serious!” Avela hissed. Looking around the room he saw even Urian looking gut-punched.

Rew’s eyes suddenly became flat. “Denail told you this—agreed to this?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell. . .”

Imrail looked about to slam a fist down on the table. “Enough,” he snapped. “We have leagues to go yet. There will be time enough to consider it. You have an hour or two at most. I suggest you make the most of it.”  

Reluctantly turning their attention to the meal, there were some mutters. No, not at all how Luc had anticipated setting out. Tonight would prove critical. Imrail would be attaching each of them to one of the squads setting out for Ancaida. Luc would have the Sons of Thunder under Landon Graves when they met up with the man. Half of the outfit was already some distance south; the other half had set out the previous day. Urian and Altaer would each take another. The final companies would likely fall to Lars and Riven. Timing was critical. All of this was occurring with a rain that would likely prove ruinous to their plans.

After eating in virtual silence and taking turns drying their garments near the fire, Imrail stood, giving them the signal it was time to move on. Retrieving his coat, still wet, Luc buttoned it up and tugged his cloak on after. Rew caught him just as they were exiting. “If I didn’t know better I’d say they’re afraid.”

Luc was not so sure they were the only ones. “Aren’t you?”

“Me?” Rew frowned. “When we left the Shoulder—that night you disappeared—I thought we were done for. It was the first time I worried my folks wouldn’t see the sunrise.” Grimacing, he shivered. “I’m beginning to sound like Master Renfather. I think it was also the first time I ever did something for someone else. Hard to sit still knowing what’s coming, you know?” He started to turn. “Well, might as well get this—”

Luc snatched his friend’s arm. “That’s not why you’re really here, is it?” Alingdor would have suited him better. Or the Watch. “What else?”

Rew shook off his arm, or tried to. Making a face, he jerked a little harder. “I’ve no choice,” he muttered. Truthfully this time, bitterness tinging the tone.

“Why?” Luc pressed.

“I’m dead if I don’t. He told me so.”

“Denail?” Luc said doubtfully. “I’d have thought he’d be here himself. If you’re to apprentice with him . . .”

“I don’t think it works that way. Seems there’s some training required, proofs too. Does it matter why I’m here? I’m here. You could at least be grateful. At least you’ll have someone to talk to other than
Lord Imrail.
Or that . . . girl. Besides, you need someone to look out for you. Someone who doesn’t care about weaseling some title or estate out of you. Anyway, I promised Amreal as much.”

Luc blinked. “You what?”

Rew chuckled. “He told me you’d need me. The way I see it, it’s a good thing too. You see things, but you don’t see others. I think I can find that blasted sword. I’ve made some arrangements. All I need from you is to keep me clear of the others. I don’t think they’re too fond of me tagging along.”

Luc grinned suddenly. “Can’t say I blame them. Come on. You can tell me about your night with Lenora on the way. Everyone’s wondering about it.”

Rew’s face instantly became ashen. “Some other time. Besides, there’s not much to say.”

“Humor me then.”

Rew shoved him. “I think I liked you better before they gave you a title. Seriously, let’s get going already. I’d like to get to wherever we’re going before dark.”

* * * * *

It was slow going the remainder of the day. Keeping to the highway, they might not have made up the lost time but did not lose any precious more. Imrail fumed each time they came on travelers headed for the capital. Despite the weather there seemed droves. With the rain still beating down on them, they did not bother to halt other than to check on the horses. Disturbed by the concerns the Companions had voiced, Luc felt a seed of doubt begin to settle into the pit of his stomach. Whatever happened, good or ill, the fault would lie with him. He had to find a way to convince the Ancaidans to join them. The task would by no means be simple. Over the years the mutual distrust between the nations had been fueled by border disputes—at times even skirmishes—both sides refusing to accept responsibility for.