The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (34 page)

By early evening they reached the outskirts of Marthon. Imrail sent Riven and Urian on ahead to confer with Lieutenant Reardon. The general had no intention of spending another night in the town. The two men returned with word that the squads had passed through earlier that day and by now were camped some hours south. Five thousand men. Alingdor still held thousands more. Draiden’s final task was to purge the north of the Earthbound. That would take time and considerable resources. The Legion city north of the Great Plains was still concerning. With so much to weigh it was no wonder his head was beginning to spin. He grit his teeth and steered close to Trian. The young Val Moran rode with her hood up, her delicate features just discernable. She had donned her sword again. He thought it suited her. Trained to endure long days in the saddle his other companions grinded out the day. Now that they knew some of his plans—they were as much his plans as they were Imrail or his father’s—they at least had some time to let the news sink in. What would be, would be, Amreal always said.

After nightfall evidence of the waiting companies became visible. With the rain letting up some, he thought he caught an indication of torches and fires. Imrail conferred with Urian, who spotted the encampments well in advance of the others. There was some argument about each of their assignments. In addition to Lars, Landon, Urian, and Altaer, Imrail attempted to hold Riven in an adjutant position, which would leave Avela and Trian assigned to the final company. Luc did not need to voice his displeasure as both women objected immediately.

“An infant could see what you’re up to,” Avela said curtly. “Assign another.”

“I’m staying with Luc, Imrail,” Trian maintained firmly.

Glaring, the man moved off, muttering choice words.

“I heard that,” Avela called.

Leaving the man and woman alone to squabble, Luc glanced at Rew, Lenora, and Trian. “Guess it’s just us.”

“We’ll try not to appear disappointed, my Lord,” Lenora said.

Nodding absently, he set Lightfoot in motion for the final stretch. No doubt the night was going to be a long one.

 
Sometime passed before scouts and sentries sent welcoming parties out to greet them. With the wind still gusting at his cloak and his hair plastered to his head, he managed to maintain an outward impression of composure. Inside he felt nothing but. With Imrail and Avela arguing at the rear, he and Riven took the lead. After almost an hour they found themselves wholly surrounded. Trying to get his bearings, he wrapped the reins around his left hand. This was no advance party. These were Alingdor’s most mobile, elite forces, designed with one purpose and one only, to fight, at any cost. Within a week’s time an even more sizable force would be moving south. They would be held in reserve until the enemy dictated when and where they would be needed.

Determined to meet up with the remainder of their forces sent southward, they would need to break camp and be on the move well in advance of dawn. Riven, for the second time, formally introduced him to the officers in command. At this hour an inspection would likely be wasted as their preparations had been forced and hurried under the rough conditions. Issuing orders for them to be ready to depart by early morning, his companions left as assigned by Imrail, leaving just Riven who was staring back north intently while Avela and Imrail continued to argue heatedly.

Trian, moving her mare up between them, turned to Riven. “Harridan,” she said softly.

The man blinked. “Yes, my Lady?” Judging by his suddenly white face, the woman’s affect was piercing.

“You shouldn’t be here, you know,” she said softly. He sat up straight in the saddle. Luc did as well. “These men are riding to war. You’re a fine soldier, but capable of more. That was what the White Rose saw in you. Word was you singlehandedly rallied the Third Company. It’s on more tongues than you know. You faithfully served the Lord Viamar and Imrail for years. Maybe the time has come to serve another.”

Riven let out a breath, suddenly looking haggard. “Imrail thinks he’s going to die,” he whispered. “I need to . . . I have to . . .”

“Let us see to the Lord Imrail,” she said patiently.

He looked at her helplessly. “How exactly can I continue to serve if I stay behind?”

“By taking thought to what follows after,” she told him. “We are moving to face the Furies. We all know this will be worse than the Stand in every imaginable way. Who will ensure there is still a Penthar for us to return to when this is over? Even if we win, the losses will be unheard of. You must not be one of them. You must stand for the Lord Siren in his absence. Your rank will give you great authority to ensure there is continued peace and stability in the realm. His home.”

Troubled, the man glanced at Luc. It seemed so long now since they had first met in Peyennar. He had no idea what insight had come over the Val Moran, but instinctively he knew she was right. The man had some sense of the Ardan, an ability to perceive them. That alone would make him invaluable in the Watch and Alingdor. His other talents would aid his mother in ways few others were capable of. He was intrepidly loyal. His firm commitment to the nation would also ensure the other nobles were firmly kept in check.

“Do you even plan to return, my Lord Siren?” Harridan whispered.

It was his turn to exhale. “I’ve been given the means to know when we’ll be needed,” Luc told him. He silently thanked his father for that. “The Giver willing, I’ll be back. My mother wants the Lawless dealt with and the port city outfitted with new ships ready to send supplies to Val Mora.”

“By sea?” the man said incredulously. “That’s never been attempted.”

“We have to try,” Trian said. “My people—all of our peoples—will not survive without it.”

Riven looked troubled. “You’ve given me a great deal to think over, my Lady,” he said carefully. “You’ll have your answer by morning.”

Turning back to the others, Luc continued to study Trian. Not for the first time he wondered how much she knew. Rew’s insights were somewhat explainable. Hers were not.

“Harridan,” Imrail snapped. “You have the fourth company.”

“Assign another,” Luc told him.

Imrail shot him a dark look. “You too?”

“There are reasons,” he responded carefully.

Still muttering, those present stayed clear of his wrath. Glancing at them each in turn, Imrail’s eyes finally picked out Rew who had been straggling in the back. Something in his look became suddenly concentrated. Rubbing his jaw, he gestured at one of the waiting commanders. “Acriel, this is Ellet Ildar. You’re assigned to him.” Rew made a sudden choking sound. “Ildar, the boy’s a cretin, but the Lord Viamar-Ellandor seems to hold him in some esteem as they grew up together. He needs someone to shake some sense into him. I want him in on your briefing sessions and all of our joint councils. Push him. Make him hurt. See that he spars with your best men. I’m told he’s something of a footpad. Make him more. The Lord Denail intends him to apprentice with the Guardians in Emry, which makes him sacrosanct to all others. You have my authority to ignore that for now. You’ll be making for Anneth, so I may have others join you. He has kin there. If he chooses not to listen, you have his father’s permission to box him soundly. Clear?”

Ildar, who looked about as evil-eyed as Urian, nodded carefully. “As you say, General.”

“We’re done then,” Imrail snapped. “This way, my Lord Siren.” He was careful not to make the title sound impertinent. “I believe you and I have a few matters to discuss.”

“Whatever you say,” Luc replied wearily. Rew looked at him urgently. Lenora was grinning.

It seemed Trian was right. Change was coming. Changes none of them would be able to side-step.

Sometime after midnight he settled into his tent and went through his gear. With next to everything soaked, he had to lay out a set of spare clothes. He did not complain when baggage handlers moved to assist. He had some difficulty putting aside the image of the marshaled armies of Alingdor stretching out across the south. A military force the size of this one moving into Ancaida would no doubt provoke a response.

His arrival appeared to have caused something of a stir. After seeing him to his tent, Imrail left to personally inspect the other outfits, leaving Luc alone with the original squad he had set out of Peyennar with. Well, half of it. These were the men responsible for rescuing the king and saving Peyennar. The greetings he’d received were no less than thunderous. Now his head hurt—this when he needed to be his most clearheaded. He had set events into motion that would change the world in ways the Stand at Imdre had not. Forcing himself to breathe, he checked in on Avela and Trian, waved off Hireland and Mearl, and turned in.

The night passed with elusive impressions brushing against his subconscious. The fetid, sickly, somehow sweet feel to the air brought instant beads of sweat to the skin. The skies shifted. They never slowed. His making. His responsibility. And at the heart of the void and vacuum, a consciousness slowly took form. There had been another. At the time both had been necessary. Now one of them had to go.

Imrail roused him early. Luc came to without any urging. He could hear the wind hissing through parts of the compound. The beating rain seemed less sporadic, though. After dressing, the two went over the day’s itinerary. Other than the memory of the Third Plane and a time far beyond his comprehension, the night had been quiet. Though still early, most of the camp appeared to have been broken down.

“Imrail.” Luc glanced to their right where men were making quick work of pulling down the tents. With his horse saddled, Riven approached. The former Oathbound turned Companion glided forward, pausing a few feet short of them. His face was calm, composed. “I’ve spent the night giving thought to some matters,” Riven said. “It seems I won’t be joining you after all.”

Imrail’s eyes widened. “What changed your mind?” he said softly.

“Someone quite persuasive, I suppose,” he admitted. “Best if one of us remains behind. Seems I’m the one.”

Imrail remained silent a moment. Riven’s sudden decision to return to Alingdor appeared to leave the general conflicted. It was one of the few times Luc had seen him looking genuinely reflective, sober, even a touch subdued. Rubbing his face, he turned and eyed the way back to Alingdor. “Thought I’d get another few months out of you yet, Harridan,” he said finally. “Seems it’s time you step out of our shadow.” He paused, looking as fond as Luc had seen him in some time. “There will be no replacing you, but I can think of no one better to watch over the realm in our absence.” Moving forward, the two clasped arms. “I’ll see you off with a capable escort.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Glancing at him, Riven bowed gravely. Luc felt a sigh escape his lips. Riven had always been there, solid, dependable, with a hint of Peyennar still about him. A great deal had been entrusted to him at a young age. Now all of it had brought the man to this point, this moment. Imrail was right. Time for the man to show the nation who Harridan Riven really was. Moving forward, he felt strangely unsettled. Riven looked at him a few seconds and appeared to hesitate.

“You’ve come a long way in a short time,” the man said slowly. “Too short, some would say, but those of us who knew you when you were young know it was a long time coming. If I can speak for Amreal, and for those who founded the mountain community, it was worth it. The Oathbound may be no more, but we still remember. You’ve crossed the threshold. Trust your instincts and your training. You are ready. There are no limits to what you can—to what you will—achieve.”

Luc did not know what to say, other than he was sorry to see the man go. Their loss, but the gain of every man, woman, and child who hoped for a future free of fear. He did not have the foresight, but he did not need it to know this man would go far. Taking his leave with a bow, Riven departed in silence. 

Once the inner compound was dismantled and teams of runners had been sent on ahead, they took to the saddle. With Imrail seeing Riven off, that left Luc to give the signal. A sliver of light in the east announced the coming of dawn. The rain still complicated matters, but he thought by midmorning they would have endured the worst of it.

With the leagues they had yet to cover it would have been slow going for any army. This one was more mobile and managed roughly thirty miles a day. The one to follow would take several weeks to reach Triaga. He worried the full muster of the nation would take much longer, months perhaps, if not years. Luc did not think they had that long.

Over the next few days they slogged south, edging towns and villages and pausing periodically for fresh supplies. The rule of thumb was to break camp prior to daybreak and settle in for the night by dusk. As he had on departing Peyennar, Imrail continued to send advance teams who had rough camps set up by the time they arrived. There was a great deal of work, most revolving around the upkeep of the horses and the men.

Southern Penthar was defined for the most part by the woods separating the Raging Sea from the Mournful Peaks. Communities seemed to straddle the highway, offering travelers some protection from the wild and the opportunity to restock on necessities, repair wagon trains, and sleep with some sense of comfort and safety. Horse trade was surprisingly one of the more common occupations. The arrival of a general out of the First City and five thousand men stretching out across the horizon was an occasion few had witnessed in this lifetime. With each company displaying replicate banners, one side with the Sparrow and the other the Mark, onlookers looked on with some significant sense of wonderment.

He did not see much of the others during the days south. Imrail met with the Companions daily, Rew noticeably absent. Luc spent the majority of his time either on horse, in his tent, or sparring with Imrail. Had he been just a touch bolder he would have attended to one matter of some urgency. The recurring dreams were somewhat intentional, he felt.
Not just yet,
he told himself. He could not learn to walk a mile and then fly in the same day.

Three days south of Marthon they came on a town of some considerable size. Known as Innisfield, this one reminded him a great deal of the Landing. Walled, it presented Imrail with an opportunity to put down for a few days. While there was no way the men could all be housed in doors, he did permit them to visit the town in rotations.

The extended stay also allowed Imrail the opportunity to send out reconnaissance teams and meet up with scouts reporting in. They took up residence in the town’s barracks. With so much activity and the men freely spreading their coin around, Urian cautioned the lieutenants to keep the troops visiting Innisfield under a tight leash and impose a curfew. Lars and Landon Graves had passed through a few days back, alerting the garrison to their arrival. That was good news. What he found surprising was that word of the transfer of power had preceded them. Altaer claimed it had to do with trade and traffic. With Viamar missing, the news of his abduction had no doubt already reached the far south. That left merchants and traders in doubt about the safety of roads and the security of their goods. Now the masters of Penthar were moving south. That meant war. War sometimes meant profit. Not the most compelling reasons to send runners, but he did admit it made sense. Sort of. He supposed such things were possible, but then there was always his mother to consider. More than likely she had taken a direct hand in matters.

Choosing to stay indoors, Luc spent the first few hours going through his belongings attempting to bring them into some semblance of order. He was having a hard time deciding where to begin. Too many other pressing issues to mull over, he supposed.

He was surprised when Trian entered, long, silky hair damp and hanging straight, overcoat recently pressed and open, revealing a button-up half-coat covering a creamy blouse. Laced boots completed the ensemble. Suppressing a spark of panic, he looked back down at the bed. A light, fresh scent in the air held just the faintest hint of soap. He thought he could also pick out her natural scent, for some reason charged with a distinct floral fragrance.

“You’re preoccupied,” Trian said. From her, with just the two of them, it did not sound accusatory. It was the sound of spring breathing life into a world caught in slumber.

Still not looking at her, he nodded. “You seem to have that effect on people.”

There was a long silence, then, “I am not sure how to take that, Luc.”

He glanced at her. “The way it was meant,” he said. So many other things to say. Months would not be sufficient. Now they only had a few days, if that.

Crossing her arms, she folded a hand beneath her chin, tapping her lower lip with a forefinger. “You are not very expressive, you know,” she said. “Not surprising, I suppose. You rarely were.”

Hard to say how much she remembered. It changed by the day. Standing there looking at him expressionlessly, he sensed her anxiousness. She seemed almost discouraged. Or worse. He was certain what they had between them would never be anything like he observed between Imrail and Avela, or his parents for that matter. What they shared was, in some indefinable way, more intense, personal. Not to discount anything the others felt or shared. It was just different, bridging time and memory. He knew some of Trian’s attention was just a bit of playful ribbing, but it masked other emotions. She had to know it was becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate, to separate, what she was now from what she had been before. She could be many things, all at once, at times distant and enigmatic, at others instinctive, eternal. Most of the men did not know what to make of her. Some knew the truth now, though. What she was. A flower that never lost its bloom. Qualities few could perceive let alone understand. And she had promised herself to him. Not in so many words, but still. . . .

“Just wishing it was only the two of us,” he said finally, a long breath escaping him.

“That’s better,” she whispered. “You need to practice.” She took a glance at the gear and spare clothing he had spread out across the bed in random piles. “You have people who will do that for you now, you know.”

“I sent them away.” 

Moving forward, she stopped just short of the bed. For some reason her skin had taken on a rosy hue. “I was thinking we could go out for a stroll,” she began. “Just the . . . just the two of us, as you said. Maybe for one night imagine our enemies never existed, you and I alone to pursue . . . other interests.” Seeing her take hold of the bedpost, he stood and unbuckled his sword belt. He suddenly wished he had given some thought to a bath.
A night for just the two of them?
That was a dream. The dream of a dream.

“I passed through Innisfield on my way to Alingdor, but did not get much of a chance to see it,” Trian added. “I thought together, before what is coming . . .” She was clutching the bedpost so hard now he thought her hands must have hurt. He had never seen appear her quite so girlish, or impulsive. The sight made his mouth dry and his knees weak.  “One night can’t hurt, can it?” she ended.

He shook his head mutely, momentarily lost in a daze. One night to imagine. And to remember. That could hardly hurt, could it? He could do for himself. Perhaps he had to do for himself. “Why not?” he said with a shrug. “Do we tell Imrail?”

She made a face. “Definitely not.”

He frowned. “How are we going to get free of the guards then?”

Trian smiled. “You’re the king. Command them.”

He grimaced. “You think it’ll work? Maybe we could find an inn—”

“An inn?” Now she was breathless, dark eyes wide, face flushed. “Luc Anaris, I’m not sure what you thought I had in mind, but that was not . . . I mean, we couldn’t possibly . . .”

He never imagined she would actually consider it. He was just grateful she did on some level—he suspected it would have hurt a bit had she said anything otherwise. “Not for
that
. Just . . .” He struggled, face hot. “. . . to pretend.”

“Two travelers then. Bound for the First City.”

His hands were shaking. “Works for me,” he said weakly, heart pounding in his ears.

Her face lit up. “Let me get a few things. You should bring some clothes.”

“I’ll tell Hireland,” Luc said. “He won’t raise any objection.”

“Good,” she said, face firm, decisive. “I won’t be long.”

* * * * *

Within a quarter hour they were exiting by way of a side gate. With Imrail still out, Hireland and Mearl did not protest. Their one condition was allowing the two of them to tag along, if hanging back. Contrary to what Luc had anticipated, both men, even the stiff-faced, reserved Mearl, seemed to think a change of scenery would do the pair some good. Attempting to ignore the murmurs the barracks’ guards exchanged when they left, he slipped a hand into Trian’s. He had tried to find something less conspicuous to wear, but having no control of his wardrobe, gave up. After some hesitation he decided to take along his sword. He did not feel comfortable leaving it behind. The Rod he tucked away in a pack he carried across his shoulder. Trian had a leather satchel strapped to her arms. She had a contented look on her face.

Still road-weary, he ached to put behind the images that pursued him, waiting just at the edge of his unconscious. Imprints he could not outrun. Echoes he could not resist. His folks claimed what he was now was more important. Maybe they were right. But right or wrong, this
felt
right.