The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (38 page)

The woman must have caught him staring because she flushed. “I’m . . . fine,” she said, voice catching. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on her face. He detected hints of fatigue, but also a touch of that tough Val Moran grit that would not allow her to yield. Ever. “Luc,” she said so softly he thought it might be the wind, “do you think I can face her? I’m going to have to eventually.” Dazed, he realized whom she was referring to. “Maybe you shouldn’t answer. I’d like to think we have more than just a few months before this is over.”

“You and I are going to have longer than that,” he promised. “I will see to it.” Something more than just existing and sleeping on a mound of dirt or a grassy knoll.

Her sudden smile made him swallow. “I know you will.”

With dawn fast approaching, Imrail ordered Altaer to pick up the pace. Relying on some gut instinct, the huntsman did not steer them wrong. Eventually they reached a clearing. Urian and Altaer approached first, torches held aloft. “Some kind of camp?” Rew whispered.

No one answered.

Judging by the places where the earth was depressed or smoothed over, this had been a camp of some size. Whoever had been using it had left the remains of several carcasses spread out on a series of spits. “There were tents here, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” Altaer said. “And see here.” He picked up a wool cap. “Ancaidan stitching.”

“Men,” Urian snapped. “Filthy dogs. How long?”

“This is a half day old at least,” Altaer said in low tones. Glancing at Imrail, he shook his head. “I think I miscalculated, my Lord. I should have never sent our scouts out so far ahead of the main company.”

Imrail shook his head. “That’s why we have scouts, Jisel. There was no way to know. Now we do. How do you read this?”

The man slowly stood from where he had been inspecting the remains of a fire. “Almarans and Ancaidans working together. In good supply, too. I’d judge at least thirty men were here. And . . . something else.”

“Certainly not one of the Furies,” Avela whispered, making a sign of protection.

“One of her handmaidens,” Trian guessed. Luc could have sat and covered his face with both hands if not for the tainted feel around them.

“Seems clear they’re avoiding the towns and villages in this part of the nation,” Avela said. “My guess is they’re making for the border. We have some hope patrols on both sides will stop them. For now, I suggest we get clear of this place.”

“Not yet,” Imrail said, looking steely eyed.

“Imrail—” The woman caught herself.

Moving to the center of the hastily discarded camp, the general waved Altaer off. Planting one knee on the ground, he closed his eyes. In seconds his face became blank. Avela made a hissing sound and tried to cross the distance towards him, but Urian folded his arms and stood in her way. The woman looked fully capable—and willing—of pulling out her belt knife on him, or beating at his chest with her bare hands. “Don’t,” the brute-faced bowman warned her. Luc stepped up to the woman, taking her arm. He had some idea of the risk Imrail was taking. He had seen him to do this before.

“We hardly need him to do this to know what went on here,” she whispered, face pleading.

Sagging, Luc nodded. “I know. I don’t think it’d be a good idea to stop him once he’s started, though, Avela. His mind’s made up.”

Rew elbowed him curiously. “What’s he—?”

“Watch.”

Imrail did not move for the next several minutes. The men exchanged worried glances. Trian, working a hand into Luc’s, waited. He could feel her anxiousness. He shared it. Sometimes impatient, Imrail had never been one prone to recklessness. He took what risks he felt were necessary, nothing more. At the moment Luc admitted this was more than necessary.

It was difficult to say how much time passed. The wood was still, unnervingly so as if whatever presence had passed through had terrified creatures native to the forest. Willing his mind to a hidden place where there was some sense of order and calmness, and a hidden strength, he tried to put the memory of the dead scout out of mind, mouthing a silent word to Elloyn.

Realizing what he just done, he froze. The thought left him feeling slightly faint. He wondered if he would ever get used to this. The days in the Shoulder—before that, too—those had been simpler times. Nothing more to worry about than his people. Now she was here. Not that he would ever trade it or take it lightly, but had it been Trian in Eva’s place, he knew he never would have left. Well, that wasn’t entirely true either, was it? He had to—they both had to.

Shaking himself, he took to pacing, Imrail still showing no signs of breaking out of his trance. “This is crazy,” Rew whispered. “What’s he doing? What are we doing? We need to find somewhere to set camp.”

“I don’t think it’s crazy, Rew,” he disagreed. “It’s no different than what you do.”

Rew just looked at him. “Care to explain that?”

Luc just shook his head, waiting. No telling what depths the man had plunged himself into. This was going to take time.

Ordering everyone to see to their mounts, Altaer and Urian made a quick, second survey of the site before passing out rations and skins. Luc drank a little water and chewed a few hard strips of meat. He worried Imrail might not find his way back to them again.

Abruptly Imrail’s eyes snapped open. Taking in a series of short breaths, he had to steady himself with both hands. He was sweating and looked so wan he might have collapsed under the strain of whatever it was he had attempted. Avela was the first to reach him. Kneeling in front of him, she took his face in both hands, tilting his head, checking his eyes. Imrail endured the examination silently. Slowly, somewhat deliberately, the general lifted his head and cupped one of her cheeks. Avela was shocked at the open display of affection. Luc thought the man’s eyes were red-rimmed. Still unable to move, he allowed her to shift him into a seated position with his legs crossed. He thought the man whispered something. Too low for him to make out, but it had an immediate impact on the woman who all but clung to him.

Giving the pair some space without their gawking eyes, Altaer ordered the others to make ready to depart. After a few minutes Imrail started to stand. Needing the woman and Urian’s help to do so, he did not fend off their attempts to force him to eat and drink a little. When a little of the color finally returned to his face, he squared his shoulders and faced them.

“Get moving,” he told them directly. “We need to put some distance between us and this wood as soon as possible.”

No one argued.

They pushed the horses hard, harder than they might have otherwise. Lightfoot dragged a little but bore his way through the wood. No one asked what the man had seen. He would tell them when and if he thought it necessary. They rode on into the morning, then alternated between stretches of walking and riding. Urian cut a walking stick with his sword and looked as though he wanted, maybe needed, an enemy to face, not invisible specters and foes who had no intention of facing them.

In the end it took them roughly three hours to reach the highway, the Whitewood long and narrow, though thankfully nowhere near as wide in these parts. They all breathed a little easier when they cleared the wood and were standing out on the open road again.

Breaking south, they rode on. With Innisfield several hours behind them and the troops likely more than a day away, they were beyond immediate help or aid. Not much to show for their attempt to locate the missing men. One was dead and two more were missing. Luc thought he knew who was responsible now. He did not mind waiting to find out for certain. Just more time to plan. Time to set in motion events that would alter the makeup and structure of the Nations beyond the lines on any map, whether old or outdated. Punish and pursue.

 The time was long overdue.

They waited the day out in a roadside inn south of Innisfield. This was a nameless village, not that it could rightly be called such. A stretch of highway, one unpaved road, a few houses, two farms, section of fenced in green, a blacksmith with an adjoining stable yard, and a minor outpost, a station for runners and messengers to report in. Still the inn was clean and in good repair. Luc stretched out on a firm mattress that just fit him. The room was below grounds next to the cellar, but he did not mind. No rats that he could detect, and he would not have to share. Shirtless after a quick bath, he stretched out. He suspected the others had long since turned in, other than Imrail and a few of Altaer’s scouts. Imrail could be called many things, but one thing no one would ever accuse him of was being negligent.

The innkeeper had a son and two daughters who ran the establishment with him and kept it serviceable. The two girls were noticeably shapely and had not failed to notice the attention he’d garnered from the others. Neither had the innkeeper, who looked a little pale when he greeted Luc and Imrail. The others he seemed to gloss over. Later one of his daughters whispered in Luc’s ear that she had scented oils. He was not sure what to make of that, but the hanging offer and the honeysuckle tone left his face scarlet. Pleading exhaustion, he asked to be shown where he could bathe, kept a good distance between them, and firmly closed the door behind him. Not too much later Avela brought him a meal and a little brandy to wash it down with. He wondered if her presence had been intentional. She watched him eat every bite and did not leave until his breathing became even. He slept, but only in short stretches. He was anxious to get underway.

Waiting out the remainder of the day, for the most part undisturbed, eventually he went off in search of Rew. He had been told a rider had arrived the day before with some kind of message for Rew out of Alingdor. Making his way across the common room floor, exchanging nods with the innkeeper’s son, a pleasant looking fellow, Luc saw three patrons, one a merchant, likely Tolmaran from his lighter hair and rich coat, one of his drivers, and a thin-faced man with a white scar across his left cheek. The latter wore a serviceable coat and had a sword belted on. He did not look up from his tankard. Two of Altaer’s scouts kept watch, meaning by now Imrail, Urian, and Altaer were on the road awaiting word from their outfits. Luc found Rew in a room he was sharing with the general of all people.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Rew asked. He’d been staring at a velvet sleeve with a folded note inside. Luc thought he detected the lamplight reflecting off the sharpened edges of several daggers. The sight of Rew staring at them with a grim look on his face made Luc pause at the door. He wondered what under the One Rew meant to do with them.

“Didn’t want to get my days and nights turned around, I guess,” Luc said after a few seconds. “What are you doing, Rew?” he added curiously.

Rew tucked the sleeve under his blanket roll. “Just thinking. After last night . . .” He left the thought unfinished, face taking on a roguish light. “You see those girls? Thought that younger one was going to spill out of her dress. Not sure that innkeeper’s quite right in the head to let his girls walk around exposing all that skin. Seems a bit dangerous being the only inn for miles.”

“Maybe.” Luc felt himself flush and tried to ignore the memory of the innkeeper’s daughter. “I imagine it can’t be all that bad for business,” he said after a moment. “How about a bit of air?” he suggested.

Rew broke out into a burst of sudden laughter. “I suppose not,” he agreed with a grin. “I’ll be right out. Just one second.”

Turning so Rew could finish up whatever he’d been doing, the two of them returned to the common room and made their way out front. Not much to do but wait. Lars and Graves had orders to put down just to the south, so if all went well they would be fully manned and equipped for the final leg to Triaga within a few days. Luc was curious to see how they were getting on with the Ancaidans.

After puttering around the front of the inn for an hour or so, the two of them reminiscing some, Luc surreptitiously trying to whittle out information he felt his friend was deliberately withholding, a few of the locals appeared, two men who ran the yard. The pair looked them over, then bowed deeply. Luc held in a sigh. They exchanged polite words, asking where he and Rew were bound, where they hailed from, and even offering a round on them. A respectable folk, they seemed. He and Rew answered what questions they could. The two men seemed starved for news and had witnessed the first squad passing south. No one had offered any hints on what was going on at the time. Rew kept his answers short and intentionally vague. He had that much sense at least. Just prior to dusk they exchanged handshakes. He had a feeling the two men suspected more than they let on, but that was typical of Pentharans. A Pentharan probed, but rarely did so without tact and courtesy.

A bit later Altaer and Urian returned, bringing word of the arrival of their forward scouts. Imrail would likely be busy conferring with them and sending messages to the lieutenants. Returning to the inn for the evening meal, the ladies joining them in the common room, Lenora and Rew exchanging the occasional quip, but Luc had to struggle to keep his emotions in check. Sometimes they just took over. At times they were charged with memory and a laced with power. This waiting was proving to be more than he could endure. He had asked Rew about his claims he could find the Sword of Ardil. Rew just muttered something noncommittal.

Imrail did not join them that night, but a runner brought word a small detachment would be arriving soon and on duty throughout the night keeping a close eye on the inn. The innkeeper, a shrewd man who kept a blade on display just outside the kitchen doors, eyed them openly now. Solidly built and still in his early mid years, he engaged in a brief discussion with Altaer that seemed to leave him startled. The man met Luc’s eyes for a fraction of a second before disappearing, calling for his son.

Luc did not ask what was going on. Intent on getting in a full night’s rest, he turned in, squeezing Trian’s arm before shuffling off. No one followed.

The next morning Imrail had them hold their position until well into midday. That was when the first indication of their troops became visible to the north. They only then set off, Lightfoot capering beneath him. Now with their full contingent trailing behind them, they knifed south at speeds that were alarming. Imrail had that set look on his face again. Well, they were both anxious. The general rode with a handful of his advisors and aides, a focused, mounting sense of purpose rippling throughout them. These men were not afraid. On the contrary. They intended, expected, to win.

Sometime later, after a short halt, the general slowed slightly to ride alongside him.

“A word, Anaris,” he said quietly. Luc glanced at the man expectantly, straightening. “About the Whitewood.” Little doubt the memory was one the general was reluctant to relive. “We miscalculated. There are pieces moving now none of us dared consider. I was able to see
her.
A creature under the Furies direct control. One of the Fallen. But worse. Much worse. Maybe more dangerous than any living thing. She was aware of me, spoke to me. Such a thing . . .” He shuddered, running a free hand along the base of his jaw. “. . . it shouldn’t be possible. But who knows what will and won’t be possible in the days to come. You’ve changed the rules, it seems. Be wary. She possesses the power of the Handmaidens.”

Luc jerked Lightfoot to a halt.
Maien.
The thought ripped through him.

Imrail nodded grimly. “The men with her, women too, were broken. Almarans, Ancaidans, even Pentharans. They appeared willing servants. The Sypher was there. Perhaps both. She called herself one of the
Controllers
. She warned me, as Naeleis warned me, to stand aside. For whatever reason, it seems I’ve caught their attention. It may be a ruse to provoke you, to dissuade you from confronting them directly, but I thought you should know.” The man paused a moment, forcing him to meet his eye. “I trust if you ever encounter her, you will steer clear. Her voice is formidable, but her kiss . . . I suspect her kiss would burn your soul.”

Luc exhaled. The news was bleak, perhaps the bleakest yet. Maybe not entirely unexpected given what they were facing. This was just the latest turn, one of many with worse yet to come. What was next? He’d been lucky Amreal had been there to guide him the last time. Could he hope for as much in Ancaida? One thing was clear, though. He had far more than Ansifer to consider.

Aware the two of them were garnering extra attention, he clicked Lightfoot forward. Neither of them brought the matter up again. Some memory made him instinctively aware of the name. The Fallen, Forerunners, or Controllers. The name did not much matter, but it chaffed him that he tasted fear. Once he had been immune to its clutching grip. Now his enemies were marshaling their full might to meet them. If such beings were going to be pitted against them, the entire effort might prove senseless. That being the case, he knew there was only one thing for it.

An end. One to make the Giver stretch out his hand and remember the Mirror Planes were not beyond redemption.

* * * * *

For two days Imrail continued to push them hard. That meant long stretches in the saddle again and even briefer halts, the man studying maps, making marks and notations at even intervals, and regularly conferring with aides. The general reassigned the Companions to each of their squads, which meant Luc did not see much of Rew or the others. Weighing Imrail’s warning, he watched the armies of Alingdor with an increasing sense of apprehension. He was well aware these men were for the most part ignorant about the true nature of what they were facing. He would have to change that. Those with firsthand knowledge were never far from him. No doubt intentional on Imrail’s part. The Lord-Viamar Ellandor’s honor guard, they called themselves the Sons of Thunder, aptly named. A token force that would pale in comparison to the size of the armies Imrail meant to field.

By the close of the second day they rejoined Lars and Landon Graves. That brought their full complement to just a shade over five thousand. While the sight of so many men in one place no longer overwhelmed him, he did admit they made for an impressive display. Imrail immediately ordered a pavilion erected and had Luc join him to make the rounds. Having shaken the experience in the Whitewood, he was back to his old self, tall, intrepid, and in full command.

First checking in with Lars and Graves, pleased to see the pair getting on well enough, with the Lord Thresh apparently privy to their plans, Imrail drew rein just shy of them. The Ancaidan nobleman stood and bowed low. “About time,” Lars said with a grin, standing. The three had been debriefing a couple of runners, but Graves made a motion for them to grab a bite and check in later. Landon had the face of an intellectual, sharp-featured, strident. No doubt he was still a little uncomfortable Imrail had given him such an important role. Now he was about to be fully elevated and numbered among the Companions. He was also about to find out why.

“We had a few delays,” Imrail responded, scanning the compound as he dismounted. Nodding respectfully towards Ronan Thresh, he crossed his arms. “Report.”

“Everything went as planned, my Lord Imrail,” Lars said. “We’ve scouted the area for signs of Ardan. No traces, and no rumors or hints of anything outside of the ordinary. That worries me.”

“I expect you were thorough.” Imrail said it simply. He was just skeptical of anything they could consider good news, but dismissed the matter for the moment. “And you, my Lord Thresh? How are your people faring?”

Ronan Thresh, still in his white and gold, smiled weakly. “You Pentharans are a bit stiff, but I’ll admit you’re growing on me. My people are well, thanks to the Lord Viamar-Ellandor and yourself and your men here. You have our thanks.”

“We’re about three days from the border,” Graves said quietly. “The Lord Kryten has been advised to expect us. Still no word of Vandil, I’m afraid. We had news of the coronation. It’s spread to Anneth now and beyond. I suspect Tolmar itself will hear of the news soon.”

Imrail chose not to comment. “I’ve assigned Urian to Gellart, Altaer to Harden, and Acriel to Ildar. Lars, you’ll be with Tanis and the Fifth Company. Get moving. Master Graves, you lead the Sons of Thunder. I expect you will do so capably.”

Landon looked a little faint. “My word I will do my best, General,” he said.

“It had better be more than that,” Imrail warned. “Time for an inspection. I believe the Lord Viamar-Ellandor would like a word with you.”  

Hanging back a bit, aware Landon was uncomfortable in his new role, Luc left Lightfoot with waiting grooms and followed a few paces behind Imrail and Ronan Thresh. Landon had been in Peyennar when the Legion had openly declared their intentions to decimate Peyennar. Tall and solidly built with the dark coloring common to Pentharans, he was of an age with Lars and the others. Luc suspected after a few weeks he would prove more than capable. He was going to have to be for what Luc intended.

Glancing at the man, he began bluntly. “I spoke to my father about you.”

Landon’s face went white. “To the Warden, my Lord Siren? Why?”

“Seems you were born with the Trace.” The soldier looked at him blankly. “Some consider it a talent,” Luc told him. “Others a gift. One that requires discipline. It’s an ability my father fears will be culled from the Children if steps are not taken.”

Landon stopped, gasping. “You’re talking about the Diem?”