The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (37 page)

“Good,” Imrail said, glancing at him. Luc was surprised to see Avela seated beside the man in a role normally reserved for Riven. She was scanning a document of some length. Hovering over their shoulders stood Altaer and Urian and the company commanders. No sign of Lenora or Trian. “You’ll be interested in this, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” Imrail continued. “This is Haiden Reese, one of our more skilled scouts. He and a number of our best men were responsible for combing the woods to the southwest. In these parts they call it the Whitewood. He claims he got separated from his survey team. He fears they may be dead, or worse.”

“Three scouts,” Urian said blandly. He was sweating and his eagle-eyes had become narrowed to the point he looked almost cross-eyed. Not a good sign for Master Reese. Not at all. Few men were capable of withstanding that gaze. Taking in the wide room, Luc absently noted the poor soldier chewing his fingernails. They were all fools not to have expected something of this sort sooner. This was Legion work, no doubt.

“He’s telling the truth, Imrail,” Avela said. She sounded tired. “He’s terrified at the thought of failing you, failing the Lord Siren. Terrified about losing his comrades.”

Imrail just stroked his chin. He did not quite look convinced.

“Did we ever find out what came of the men Reardon sent to meet the Ancaidans?” Altaer asked suddenly. “This strikes me as similar.”

“Don’t think so,” Urian muttered. “Do we send another team?”

Imrail’s face tightened. With a thumb and forefinger rubbing the bridge of his nose, he considered it. “I’d rather not risk it,” he said finally, adding, “but men don’t just vanish. I’ve been through these parts any number of times. There’s nothing out there of note unless you count a stray wolf pack.” Pausing, he glanced at Luc. “Do you have any insight to offer, my Lord?”

Insight? The man’s tone reminded him of the early days, particularly in the Watch, when neither of them had really known what to make of the other. Well, they had reversed roles now. Not something he would savor. He longed for the Peaks, the wind off the Overlook when the night watch would end and he would close out the day scanning the lowlands. Now he knew the truth. Some of it. Even after the lengthy march the day before he did not need to weigh or consider it. There was no choice. Not for him. But he felt drained after the attempt to breach the Planes.
So tired.

“We can’t just leave them,” he said definitively. “Is there any chance they might have been delayed?”

Haiden Reese nodded. “It’s possible, Sire,” he said. “If they found something . . . I can’t imagine it being good, my Lord.”

Luc had a feeling the assembled company commanders were waiting on him, weighing him. His mother had warned him about this. He had weeks to prove himself, but each moment was an opportunity. Waste one and it would take two more to make redress. Feeling their eyes on him, he summoned up the will to ignore the dread feeling in his stomach.

“We need to find them,” he said finally.

“At this hour?” Imrail did not sound pleased about the outlook. “It will be well after nightfall before we find any sign of them. And even that will take some luck.”

“By nightfall if we must,” he said softly. He was beginning to get that itch along the base of his scalp. Glancing at Altaer, he attempted to sound decisive. It did not take much of an effort. “Bring as many as you need. I’ll join you shortly.”

No one argued.

* * * * *

They reassembled just south of Innisfield. Other than the cutting wind, Urian’s inane mutters were the only sound for miles. No one was particularly looking forward to this. There were widespread disagreements. Luc’s participation, for one, irked Imrail. Altaer and Imrail then went on to argue over the size of their detachment, the huntsman choosing for speed while Imrail pressed for numbers. They settled on an even hundred. What followed was perhaps the first time Luc and Trian openly butted heads in front of the others. He had told her
no
in nine kinds of ways. She told him he was being headstrong and looked as though she was going to run him through with her sword. In the end Imrail’s flat refusal to step in made him give over. They were wasting time.

They started out at a rapid pace, taking paths the locals had carved out. The evening air was icy. Each man held a torch aloft, but the light only served to film the wood in shadow. Lightfoot seemed to sense his mood and hovered near Trian’s mare protectively. For more than an hour Haiden Reese guided Urian and Altaer through the wood and underbrush, trees so tall they dwarfed those back home. The wood was bare at this time of year; sometime back a wildfire had torched much of it, showing how she had earned her name.

“I don’t like this,” Urian said. “Smells foul and feels soiled in here.”

“You afraid?” Altaer asked him pointedly.

Urian’s jaw rippled but he held his tongue.

There was something in the air, something not so much foul but . . . dense. Forced to dismount a few hours into the wood, they crossed the rough terrain on foot, thistles and brambles milled beneath their feet. This was taking too long. Normally he would have relished in an after-hours excursion, anything to spare him meeting dignitaries and prominent locals, something on the agenda first thing the next morning prior to setting out. But he did not need his honed senses to feel the wrongness around them. Taking a breath, he summoned the alertness to focus, to reach within himself where he was his most exposed. This time he felt a subtle click in his mind, a sign of attunement. A rush of wind filled his ears. That was new. The world shifted in hue as the Oneness took him. All of his fear and anxiety melted away before the power of the Tides, beckoning to him, becoming him. Allowing the force native to the foundation of the world to overrun him with a sense that even what he had been before paled in the face of it, he felt himself become liberated. The power was not in him. It was him.

“I swear if it wasn’t for the wind I’d recognize this,” Lenora whispered to Trian.

“You mean . . . that other place?” Rew asked her. He had been silent most of the way. Her nod made him look away and swallow.
Not quite Shaiar
, Luc silently disagreed. Imrail had insisted on bringing the pair along in the event they might have some sense of forewarning. So far nothing. Nothing evident in the currents or vortices either.

 “We’ll be at this all night,” Rew muttered. “I’ve been digging ditches and running errands for that fool Ildar three days. You sure this couldn’t have waited ’till dawn?”

“I doubt you’d say that if you were one of the ones lost out here, Acriel,” Avela said, her soft boots near silent on the woodland floor.

“Anaris,” Imrail said softly, pulling back slightly. Luc paused, though the line of men rolling through the wood continued to push forward. The exertion after what he had attempted was making him feel lightheaded, that or maybe the continued link to the Tides. “We may want to call this off, lad,” Imrail said softly, staring at the sky, hardly visible. The trees towered so high they hid the stars. Luc understood the man’s caution. He could think of few things worse than getting lost out here. But three men under his banner were worth it. One alone would have been worth it.

“Another hour,” he said.

Imrail’s face hardened. “Lad, they’re gone,” the general told him, face intent. His heavy breath came out in a light fog. “I think we both know there are some riddles we won’t be able to unravel. This one might be better that way.”

Luc risked reaching for the Rod. He shuddered the moment his gloved hand touched it. “Send the others back.” It might have been another’s voice. “All of them.”

“Boy,” Imrail growled, “you can’t always be the hero. You needn’t try now.”

“Not the hero,” he disagreed. “The villain. I need to know what’s out here. Do you feel it?” His mind strummed the currents, searching the swells. Haiden Reese looked as though this was hopeless, too. Straining, he ignored the images that flashed around him. There was a sense of tearing, of breaking, inside him.

Imrail looked to have gone pale. “You . . . You all right, lad? Odd, I felt
that
. A soft touch. The whisper of a kiss.”

No wonder.
She had been here then, or some vessel with her will and spirit. He at least had some resistance against it. At least he hoped so.
Maien. Here.
Nothing near at the moment, though, not in a circular perimeter that stretched at least several hours. But there was still a residue. Shifting his perceptions, he looked south. Well, it was similar to looking. Far to the south.
There.
A ripple. A considerable ripple.

Someone shouted. Bringing himself back to the present, he felt suddenly faint. Releasing the Ruling Rod, he caught himself but still nearly doubled over, winded as if he had just sprinted a full mile. He felt cold. So cold. Weak. “Bags!” Urian cursed a few moments later. His voice was far off but clear and distinct. “Imrail, you’ll want to see this yourself! My eye, there’s sorcery at work or I’m a Gintaran.”

Imrail touched his elbow, a look of noticeable concern masking his rugged features. “Take as much time as you need, lad.”

“I’ll be fine.” Seizing the reins, he led Lightfoot forward. “Come on.”

Trian took one look at his face and paled. Forcing himself to nod that he was all right, he stepped around a giant redwood, one of the few not noticeably white. It took them a few minutes to reach Urian. When they did the reason for the man’s curses immediately became clear.

“Almaran,” Imrail mouthed.

“And Ancaidan.”

Three corpses. One in the customary silver and black, one in tanned leathers with skin a shade on the sunblasted side, legs folded limply beneath him, and the other in white and gold. The last had some kind of wound at the throat.
Bite marks?
It seemed the Pentharan had taken his foes out first before succumbing to his own wounds.

“What was his name?” Luc demanded.

“Harve, Sire.” Haiden knelt. “Pel Harve. A good man.” He finished it hoarsely.

“We’ll not leave him out here for the gnats to gorge themselves,” Urian muttered, one hand wrapped around his bow and an arrow in the other.

“We won’t,” Imrail agreed grimly.

Trian and Avela moved to stand over the dead Pentharan. Bending at the knee, the Val Moran touched the man’s throat with two fingers. Rising smoothly moments after, she shook her head.

“Master Reese,” Imrail said, his tone ash, “my apologies for doubting you. You have the Giver’s own luck behind you, considerable skill too not to be taken.” Seeing his mate dead and a corpse in the too warm wood, the thin man did not smile, acknowledging the compliment with a fist pressed to the heart. “I need a favor,” Imrail went on. “Will you escort the ladies back to Innisfield? It will take most of night, but I want them behind the safety of the walls by morning. See that the men know I want them ready to march no later than sunup. I intend to find out what we are up against.”

“Imrail, why is that always your first thought?” Avela asked softly. No anger. Not this time. The auburn-haired woman was too tired to openly express her exasperation. “You’re forever sending us away. Would you shut us in a cage and bring us out on High Days for show? Is that your thought? Well, one day you might just find we aren’t around to answer the call. One day soon, I think.”

By the time she had finished Imrail was gripping the hilt of his sword so hard his hand shook. Lenora Yasrin, pastel skin and colorless hair gleaming in the flickering torchlight, glanced around them. “I don’t think separating is a good idea, Imrail.” The normally flippant girl stood to her full height when the combined stares of the small company turned her way. “Not the foresight, just good sense.”

“There’s an enchantment on these woods,” Altaer warned. “Some being of significant power came through. I think it will dissipate in a few days, but best not to take chances. I’m with Lanspree and Yasrin, my Lord Imrail.”

Imrail shook his head, still with his eyes on Avela’s face. Whatever he read in her expression left him looking almost haunted. Turning to his stallion, he mounted smoothly. “Very well,” he said finally. “Reese! Move out. Jisel, ten men. No more. The rest get out of this place with all speed. My Lord Siren, Acriel, you’re both with me. Move!”

* * * * *

 It did not take Altaer long to find signs of recent passage. He judged it a sizeable force moving south with some speed. The lean-faced, wiry huntsman spent more time out of the saddle studying the trail than he did on horse. Urian, greasy-faced, scanned the wood tirelessly. Beside him Rew kept a hand clasped around one of those daggers of his. The dingy feel in the air seemed to be wearing off some, but Luc still kept his cloak clasped tight. On edge, he privately admitted this might have been a mistake. Now there would be no returning to Innisfield, and this when they were all hovering on the verge of exhaustion.

Picking his way carefully through the Whitewood, he tried not to think of the trees closing in on them. Amreal had never spoken to him of this place. He wondered what other surprises they would find on their way south. If not for the rankness, the open air would have been welcoming. Now even the rain was preferable to this. Slowing Lightfoot deliberately, he filed in beside Trian.

“You all right?” he asked her. A hint of moisture beading on her forehead made her face glisten in the torchlight. Not for the first time he had to crush the memory of their night together in the Ancaidan encampment.