The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (39 page)

Luc nodded. “The very same,” he replied. “The Lords of the Scales.”

“But they’re—”

“In hiding, Master Graves,” Luc told him. “Some are positioned in Alingdor in the event the Furies make a move on the First City. Others are spread out throughout the Nations. I wouldn’t be surprised if my father managed to attach a few of them to our retinue. He tells me since the Stand a handful have been newly raised. I really don’t know what’s involved, but you have the ability. We mean you to join them. I’m afraid I can’t help you, but I wanted you to be ready.”

It took the man a moment to collect himself. “Why?” he whispered.

Luc held in an extended breath. Nothing for it. He had to trust someone, even with something as dangerous as this. “We are going to restore Ardil.” A bold claim even for the son of the last lord of Ardil. But this was something he had to do. For Amreal. For the Warden.

Landon made a heaving motion, both hands coming up sharply to his mouth.

Luc grimaced. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m trusting you with this. Not even Imrail knows.” That did not seem to make much of an impact, not with the man doubled over. Sighing, he muttered under his breath. “We’ll talk later. Here, let me help you up.”

Graves heaved again. Sighing, Luc let the man be.

Hoping to close out the day with a meal and a bit of quiet, he understood Imrail’s insistence that Luc accompany him on a full inspection. He shared some of the man’s urgency. Obligations, Imrail had said. No guarantees or assurances he or Vandil would be there to nursemaid him forever. Luc had to do for himself. He shuddered to think what he would do without either of them, both of them. There were too many intricacies involved keeping a company the size of this one moving. Imrail did not intend to waste the opportunity. Besides, Luc had put it off long enough. At least for once the night air seemed to hold a hint of warmth. He preferred the cooler northern air, but this was different. The air off the Peaks was alive. Here it seemed somewhat subdued. Maybe there was just something about Peyennar that would always hold him. He wondered if he would live long enough to see it again.

They spent the first quarter hour looking over the squad of men that had been assigned to him the longest. Most of them had been through the Mirror Plane. Returning to the saddle, Imrail gave them a thorough inspection. Several called out in greeting or saluted where they sat or stood. As they made their way through the sizable encampment, Luc found himself wondering how much of this was about conducting a routine inspection as opposed to having the men get accustomed to seeing him. Days now since he had stood in the First City when the collective nobles of the realm had sworn oath to him. A hasty ceremony he did not think he would soon forget. Imrail certainly was not about to allow them to.

Riding alongside the man, they looked in on each of the other companies. Under the cover of night the combined outfits stretched out as far as the eye could see and beyond, torches and campfires shining like tiny fireflies, a flurry of movement still underway with no sign of lessening. The upkeep of an army of this size never ended. Imrail impressed the fact upon him. Checking in with his aides, they inspected the trenches, horse grounds, men overseeing their supplies and provisions, and the locations of their scouts and sentries. Imrail made a point to personally speak to several men, inquiring how they fared. He made several suggestions and once or twice chided a man who kept his arms out of reach. Luc was surprised to see some areas where women were hard at work assisting with laundering soiled sheets and garments. Some looked him over pointedly, others continuing to work scrubbing pots and spooning out meals for waiting men. These must have been the women who refused to part with their husbands knowing there was some chance they would not be returning to Penthar. Some were even armed and served alongside the men. He admired their courage and sense of duty, but worried about the additional responsibility he had to them.

Satisfied everything was going according to plan, Imrail led him back to the pavilion. Some hours had passed. Feeling a little tense, he was surprised when the general followed him into his tent; he suspected the others had long since taken to their blankets. Resisting the urge to pace, he exhaled. It was going to take some time to shake the image of the armies of Penthar stretched out across the nation’s central reaches. Even with them he felt exposed.

Unbuckling his sword belt and leaving it propped up against his saddlebags, he undid the straps to the light armor. He hardly noticed it these days. Men entered with covered trays and tea. He did not see them. Washing from a stone basin, he scrubbed a little before sinking onto a rug, rubbing his forehead.

“What’s the problem?” the general asked him.

“Worried, I guess,” he admitted. “Worried this was a mistake.” He looked at the man. “There are so many of them, Imrail. All marching towards something that was my making.”

“We discussed this,” Imrail told him pointedly. “It was either this or wait for this Furies to make the first move. They have had ages to plan their vengeance. Which would you prefer?”

“Neither.”

The man chuckled wryly. “You’re tired. Have something to eat and turn in. I’ll see you get an extra hour in. It won’t be long now.” Waiting until Luc picked up one of the trays, he lingered a moment longer, looking of all things pleased. “You are well on your way, Anaris,” he said. “You have more of Eldin Viamar in you than you know. Good night. I will see you first thing.”

“Good night, Elhador,” he said after the tent flap stirred.
And thank you,
he added silently.

Over the next few days he fell back into the now familiar routine, waking to the meditations, putting in a full day in the saddle, sometimes spending short stretches with Altaer and one or two of his scouts to give Lightfoot the opportunity to stretch his legs, or other times riding amidst the Sons of Thunder. After he would finish out the day either closeted with Imrail, practicing the sword, or mired in his own private worries. He was sorry he did not see much of Trian.

Imrail also had him spend stints with each of the lieutenants under his command. Ildar was perhaps the most engaging, a touch wry and sardonic. He had a way of putting men at ease. Well, that was unless Rew was around. The lieutenant refused to coddle the young man and kept him busy at all hours. Seemed he had some of his best sparring against Rew, too, who, by all accounts, was quicker than any man in the entire outfit, but still no soldier. Rew looked only mildly miserable, but appeared to be picking up some additional muscle.

If the others were not entirely as affable, they were still a solid, venerable group of men who seemed to take to him. Gellart and Urian made for an odd pair. The bowman stood a hand taller and was likely ten years his junior. A little stiff, the lieutenant was obviously having a hard time adjusting to Urian’s foul-mouthed, ill-tempered ways. Still, he was a decent sort, if a touch predictable. Their detachment was made up of men trained in ranged combat, most of the men outfitted with short bows they could easily handle while on horse.

Jisel Altaer had been assigned to the horse regiment alongside Lieutenant Harden. The two oversaw the deployment of their best scouts. They would be the last unit to take the field, if it came to that. Lars, assigned to the infantry, strode alongside Tanis, a beefy man with stout legs. His unit carried spears, long swords, and shields that blazed in the morning sun. If it proved necessary, Tanis and his men would occupy Rolinia along with a detachment the Lord Denail promised Emry would send to aid them until their reserves arrived.

In the end, the combined outfits would serve as their preliminary instrument in the war against the Furies, the first such muster since the war against Manx Andus, these men hand selected, trained, and outfitted to see combat for months, even years if necessary. To a man they appeared willing, likely among the most dedicated to House Viamar. Luc knew he was still going to have to prove himself to them. His name alone would not be sufficient.

Halfway into their fifth day out of Innisfield, they came on the River Highwater, passable only by way of what was the longest bridge he had ever seen, not that he had seen many. The river, a natural hedge bordering Anneth, the jewel of southern Penthar, ran clear and cool. Not walled in the traditional sense, the region was a collection of towns and settlements surrounded by farmhouses and plantations in all directions. A green and golden landscape, it was lush and thriving even in the heart of autumn. The town itself stood just to the west. Ildar and his detachment made for it with orders to see to her defense before moving further south. Luc was sorry he would miss the opportunity to see some of the town with Rew. That was where his folks hailed from, it seemed, and he still had kin there. He hoped it went well. Luc had an engagement to the south that could not wait.

By design, Imrail intended to augment their forces with the famed unit known as the Redshirts. Their integration into the armies of Alingdor likely kept the man up nights. Making up the bulk of their southern forces, they had gained fame during the Stand. Since then, with nearly fifteen years to cogitate on old grievances and perceived slights, the division between northern and southern Penthar had deepened. Some felt the construction of Triaga, begun several years prior, had brought some legitimacy to the claim, the rift only widening. Some secretly called for a legitimate rule separate from Alingdor. Under the Lord Viamar such thoughts were held treasonous and were for the most part dismissed. But some still clung to the notion even if only in the silence of their thoughts. With a new lord over the realm, who knew what would come? Imrail claimed two key attendants in Peyennar, lords out of Anneth, witnessing the Lord Viamar stepping down in person, were critical to the transfer of power. A formal visit might have cemented ties for another generation. That being out of the question for the time being, they would have to rely on Ildar and his troops to make assurances. Most of their advisors felt word from Triaga would spread in any case. The southern hold had suddenly become singularly important to their plans, plans that would take months to set in motion. He hoped they had the time to see them through.

Continuing south across the fertile lowlands, approximately two and a half days later they came within reach of the Ancaidan border. Halting east of Triaga, with the men still setting up camp for the night, Imrail called for his aides and advisors. The general initially informed them of his intent to have the companies cross the border jointly, splitting up further into Ancaida where he meant to eventually surround the capital. Ronan Thresh instantly became livid, his face the shade of a beetroot, but Imrail shut the man down mercilessly.

“Your nation is on the verge of collapse, Lord Thresh,” the general snapped. “Every indication we have is that the Furies have it securely in their grasp. That means they have your troops as well. Every day we delay is another they have to entrench themselves further. The king and I must rally the Redshirts. We will be moving south as soon as we are able. We had some hope you would be able to gain the men a safe border crossing free of bloodshed. Is that no longer an option?” He raised a hand in warning. “Consider how you answer. I’ll not trade Ancaidan border guards for Pentharans.”

“You had this planned from the start, didn’t you?” the Ancaidan accused. Searching the assembled faces, he did not find much sympathy, if any. “How am I to accomplish getting five thousand heavily armed men across the border without raising objection?” Thresh demanded. “I have limited authority. For all we know, my people believe me dead.” The Ancaidan nobleman glanced at Luc. “You are asking me to bring legitimacy to your cause. How can I do so while leading a foreign army onto our soil?”

Luc leaned forward. “If our armies seem more ‘foreign’ than the forces the Legion sent against your house, I pity you. You may choose what you feel is best. I will not force you to decide now, but I will occupy your lands if need be.”

Thresh’s face darkened immediately.  

“We’ll first need to ascertain what type of border patrols they’ve set up,” Altaer said.

“You can count on a strong one,” Grivas murmured, standing.   

“Enough,” Imrail said. “If neither of you are able to manage it, we do it the other way.”

Ronan paled. “I need time.” He looked decidedly panicked. “You’ll ruin any chance we have to gain the support of the other lords, some of significant standing. The people will hardly trust your intentions. In their minds this will be worse. They won’t believe stories of mythic creatures returning to make war on men.” Luc glanced at Imrail. That part was no doubt true. No one could force them to believe in something they had never witnessed. Finally pleased he had gotten their attention, Ronan drew himself up. He paused, face concentrated. “I may have it. Give me time to think on it.”

“You have a day, maybe two,” Imrail told him firmly.

“And will the members of my house be housed in this new city?” Thresh asked. “The reports we have indicate it is unfinished.”

Imrail nodded. “In the city. That is her primary purpose. Viamar had the foresight to build it within reach of three nations. A bastion. A refuge. That city will sustain your people. You have my word.” Imrail turned his eyes to the others. The Companions and their assigned officers waited expectantly. “The Lord Viamar-Ellandor and I are making for Triaga tonight. The Companions will be joining us. Keep your men under a tight leash. I’ll not have us engaging in border skirmishes needlessly. Tell the Lord Siren’s men they can expect to be fully disciplined if they fail to comply. Clear?”