The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (40 page)

There were nods and rumbles of understanding and agreement.

“No need for a large escort, Lars,” Imrail commanded. “You and the others. No more. See to what we will need.”

“Do we send runners to Triaga so they can anticipate our arrival?” Landon asked.

“No. They already know we’re here. There’s ample evidence Kryten has eyes and ears in and out of Anneth and throughout the south. He is not without influence. The south may not support a war just yet, but we likely cannot win this one without them. I’m afraid it may fall on you, my Lord.”

Luc just looked at the man. For some reason he had a feeling the general was going to say that.

* * * * *

A little after nightfall they were riding east along a flattened section of unpaved road. With just the ten of them, Imrail chose not to risk any torchlight. That left them with only a hint of light in the sky to guide them. From what he could see, trees were sparse, sections of grass and wildflowers covering the landscape. He had no reason to doubt by day the meadow, like the green covered hills around Anneth, was pleasant enough. By night it seemed something else entirely. Perhaps that was why something of Imrail’s mood was rubbing off on him now, the gnawing doubt for one. There were other reasons as well. He tried not to think about the memory of the Third Plane.

Despite the rumors some in the south wanted to secede, he suspected the iron will of the Lord Viamar and the renown he had earned during the Stand likely would have kept the north and south united for some years yet. Now a new day had dawned, forced on them by the waking Furies and the creatures of the night they had willed into existence. He could have denied his folks’ desire for him to take a direct hand in these events. A part of him still did. But he had taken his responsibility towards Peyennar and extended it to the nation, even to the distant corners of the known world. That was his path, however short it might be. He could deny it, run from it, but there was no one else with the knowledge or understanding of what was waiting who could assume the weight of this burden, terrible as it was.

 Riding just ahead of him, Avela and Imrail were speaking intently, Urian and Altaer lost somewhere ahead in the darkness. No signs of anything amiss or out of the ordinary. With the highway still somewhat to the east, they would likely be at this for some time. The night felt unusually warm, the air sweet with subtle fragrances on the wind. Sweat on his palms made the reins feel slick. Once or twice he caught himself reaching for the Rod, perhaps his anxiousness getting the best of him. He felt spent. Rew was chewing his lips beside him. Trian looked a touch restless. They were here, finally, about to begin something that would change the course of history. Tonight it would all hinge on one man, or a few men in his inner council. If Triaga did not accept him, all of this was for nothing. Lars and Graves brought up the rear. A glance behind showed both men had drawn their swords.

“There it is again,” Graves said.

“What?” Lenora demanded.

“A hawk. It’s been hovering for days.” Luc went cold.
Still out there. What—who—are you?
he demanded. “I don’t think it’s an ill omen,” the soldier went on. “Just a curiosity.”

“You’re worried about a bird?” Rew said. “I’m not sure who’s crazier—all of you or me for agreeing to be saddled with you. Something’s going to happen tonight. Mark me.” He made a face when Imrail halted and stared at him. “Just a feeling, Imrail. Sorry.”

“Less talking, Acriel,” Imrail chided. “More paying attention.”

Imrail was right. Like the Whitewood, he was beginning to have a bad feeling about this. They rode on, Luc exchanging a troubled glance with Trian.

 They were at it for some time when something dark and almost monstrous seemed to rise out of the darkness. By nightfall it seemed an unassailable mound of rock surrounded by level plains. If not of the same size or scale as Alingdor, it was still impressive in its own right, even if still not completed, a city made for war, for the defense of the nation. Viamar’s foresight. The walls were intact and seemed manned, judging by the faint glow ahead. Hard to say from this vantage point, but he suspected that had been one of the first tasks Viamar had ordered attended to.

It won’t be long now
, Luc thought. He swallowed hard, feeling the wind pick up slightly. He had tossed a gray cloak around the bulk of his armor. For some reason it made him feel slightly constricted. He tried to put his mind at ease by asking Rew about Anneth. So far his friend had been tight-lipped about it. The question made his friend smile weakly. “You wouldn’t believe it. Seems the Acriel name is known in the south. My da has a sister. She has two girls. Seems she knew I was coming. Doesn’t know much about Peyennar, mind you, but she knew my father was in the service of your grandfather.” He exhaled. “I’m going to have to go back, you know.” He made it sound slightly bittersweet, like a man with two homes, one he knew he had already abandoned, and the other only newly found. “The south is wild with the news of your . . . crowning.” Rew grimaced as if the subject still made him uncomfortable. “I think all this worry will be for nothing, if you ask me.” Luc looked at him silently, gripping the reins hard. He waited. “It’s your name . . . your other one. It has a definite . . . impact. I think you should have risked a day or two in town. It’s about as serene a place as you’d find. They would have welcomed you.”

A strange thing to see his friend seem wistful. Perhaps he was growing up after all.

Just as they reached the highway Urian brought them to an unexpected halt. “The road’s being watched, Imrail,” he said. “No reason unless the sons of swine mean to make trouble. We can try going around them.”

Imrail shook his head. “It might not have anything to do with us,” he disagreed. “Besides, I doubt we’d find any way in unguarded. Might as well see if they intend to escort us forward.”

Altaer retied the leather band binding his dark hair at the neck. “You think they might not recognize our rank?” he asked mildly, blinking. “That borders on sedition, my Lord.”

“I doubt they’d see it that way,” Lars said doubtfully. “This Kryten has no orders to admit us, let alone move on Ancaida. I met him once. He’s a Redshirt to the core. Viamar gave him charge of the south for good reason. No one outside of Vandil and Imrail outrank him. But here, perhaps not even them if he chooses to ignore his oaths. Now with the news . . . who knows which way the sword will fall?”

“He’d deny the king?” Lenora said incredulously.

“I doubt that,” Imrail said. “He’s always been a staunch Viamar supporter. No, he’s being cautious. I worry more about his men. We need those men.” Hard to say for sure, but Luc thought he detected a hint of worry in the man’s tone. “Still, a pity your mother or father weren’t here. Now, there’s nothing for it.” He glanced at Avela, whose narrowed eyes suggested some spark of insight had come on her. The two looked at each other a moment before Imrail nodded slightly.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said crisply. He glanced at Luc. “Had we come under heavy escort it would’ve made little difference. If someone’s suppressed the news the Lord Viamar and your mother stepped down in your favor, we’ll know it’s not just the Furies we have to contend with.” He exhaled, almost bitterly. “Damn Vandil for leaving this mess for me to clean up. Come on. Now would be a good time for you to tap into that luck of yours, Anaris. We’re going to need it.”

Flanked by Lars and Urian, Imrail proceeded south. He had that set look on his face again, a touch grim now. He’d pulled back his cloak, revealing the finely cut silver and black uniform and insignias of his office. No disputing he was someone of select rank and importance, not that he needed the added display. On his black stallion he made for an imposing figure all by himself, the lines of his square jaw and short-cropped hair matched by a noticeably muscled frame, emphasizing a robustness Luc had witnessed firsthand on more than one occasion. Alongside Lars and Urian, both men holding torches aloft, he doubted any Redshirt would be fool enough to cross them. To their rear, Altaer had his bow in hand. They still had a great deal of ground to cover. Urian’s hawk-like eyes were that good, able to make out movement on the horizon no matter if it was dark or high noon. A shame they had to enter the southern bastion of the realm in uncertainty. No one’s fault really. Just the current political climate. But while they sorted matters out here, their enemies were free to pursue their own ends. He had to convince Imrail they could not afford a prolonged delay. The time was coming when there would be no hiding, no quarter for either side.

At least another half hour passed, the night ominously still, quiet. With only the sound of horse hooves clip-clopping across the paved highway, they continued at a trot. Despite the hour, Luc managed to summon the alertness to keep a sharp eye out. He expected some resistance, but hoped it fell short of open opposition. Not the best way to begin. If Triaga did not rival the fame of Alingdor, she soon would—that was, if her masters permitted it. His grandfather had counseled him some. Now it was just a matter of finding out if these southerners’ oaths and loyalties would extend to Imrail and the son of the Warden and the White Rose.

It was likely sometime just short of midnight when they reached sentries standing watch over this section of the highway. Imrail approached them openly. From the rear, Luc eyed them carefully. Redshirts. A handful stood watch over the road itself, while others moved in and out of the surrounding darkness. One was seated on the back of a lone wagon. From what he saw, to a man they looked fully alert. Not just common sentries then. Not these men, he judged, arrayed in red coats, white crests patterned after a crescent moon, and armed with axes and short bows that made for easy draws. No, hardly ordinary. These men were something more.

Imrail came to a halt just short of them, the surrounding terrain still with a hint of air shifting in from the east. Somewhat casually, the man seated on the back of a wagon barked a command, bringing the others to attention; he waited for them to form up in short ranks before springing down. Pulling a sheathed sword from the rear of the wagon, he turned to face them. Seeing a dangerous glint in the man’s eyes, the general dismounted, though no one else made another move. One word and there would be bloodshed.

“General Imrail, I presume?” the man said, tone neutral. Perfunctory. Standing a little taller than a man of average height, the Redshirt appeared of an age with Imrail, bold-featured with a dominating nose, slick-backed chestnut hair, and a no-nonsense look that reminded him somewhat of Vandil. His greeting was hardly welcoming. No wonder Imrail looked so cold. Perhaps a larger detachment would have wiped that challenging look off the man’s face, but they wanted to appease these men, not provoke them. Not getting a response, the man went on, crossing his arms, sword still sheathed in his left hand. Left so he could draw with the right.

“We weren’t sure if you would come yourself. Not unescorted, or at this hour. On the off chance, Commander Kryten advised me to secure the roads. He sends his regards.” The last came out grudgingly.

Imrail acknowledged the statement with the slightest inclination of the head. “Your name?”

“Kain Gantling.”

“Orders?”

The soldier sized Imrail up and down. By now he’d had ample time to look over their small party. A glance at Lars and Urian made him wipe that surly look off his face. One look at Trian and Avela and he frowned. Luc remained well behind as Imrail had advised. Insisted really. “We’ve been instructed to extend you every courtesy, General. Commander Kryten asked to be advised the moment you or your subordinates arrived. Is General Vandil here? I am afraid I do not know—”

“These are the Companions.”

Gantling nodded as if he had already deduced it. “I am to accompany you into the city, General.”

Imrail narrowed his eyes. “I think we can find the way, Captain Gantling.” Well, there it was. Imrail knew the man, if not by face then by reputation. “I presume you have taken steps to ensure the roads remain secure.”

“My orders are to see you to Commander Kryten,” the soldier said somewhat coolly. “Anything beyond that and you will have to speak to him.”

Imrail maintained a controlled expression. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Making a signal to the others, Captain Gantling turned stiffly. No mistaking the indignant look on his face. The strange thing was not all of his men appeared to share the sentiment. In fact, by the look several did not know what to make of their arrival. If he was able to decipher one thing about them it was the worried looks they exchanged. Close up their uniforms were disheveled and on the discolored side. Some had dust and dirt stains. Something about this did not quite fit or sit well.

“I think we have a problem,” Avela whispered at his shoulder.

“What?” Luc asked somewhat warily.

“I . . .” The woman’s soft features took on a concentrated look. With the Redshirts forming up around them, she appeared to study each intently. Her glances went beyond probing. He remembered what it had been like—some ability she had to see straight into a man’s soul. Nothing more disconcerting than having your most intimate thoughts plucked out. She was unable to do so with Luc or Trian now. Continuing to regard the men, she sat up, face immediately going pale.

“Imrail,” she hissed urgently. “Wait.”

The general glanced at her. That grim look had turned to stone. “What?” he demanded in a whisper.

She stole a glance around her, twin braids flying. “These men have engaged the Ardan,” she whispered. “Recently.”

That settled it. Keeping his sword within reach, Luc gave Rew a warning look and hitched Lightfoot forward. He did not care that he rode astride a man who likely wanted them gone and forgotten by daybreak. So much for planning. The enemy appeared to have their plans already laid out and in place.

Touching the Ruling Rod, he felt a distant sensation of strain. A searing within him. His vision clouded. He ignored both sensations and urged the bay on.

Before long the city of Triaga rose up before them. It did not have the feel of a city, having little to no evidence of a general populace. It was a dark, dreary place, stonework uninviting with none of the signs of a thriving community to boast of. No, this was a military post, if on a larger scale. When not making some sign to one of his men or fingering a scar on his left cheek, he caught Gantling glancing at him sideways. Luc had a hard time shaking the grating sensation the man sparked in him. He looked competent enough. His men certainly appeared capable, if nowhere near the size of an escort deserving of Imrail’s station. No, something was not right.

 Just within sight of the northern entry point a detachment of men held watch huddled together around a make-shift fire set within a cluster of stones. Gantling exchanged a few words with one, gesturing towards Imrail and their company. The lead soldier made a motion to his men who quickly scrambled to their feet, saluting sharply. Something in their collective stances and expressions gave off an immediate impression of relief. Imrail acknowledged their looks with a grave nod and a promise to check in on them early the next day. Plainly he was shocked at what they had found. The men on duty were even more haggard than those they had met on the highway. Most looked as though they had not seen a bath in days, weeks. Plainly something had humbled the famed Redshirts. Imrail took another look at them before motioning their party forward.

This section of the city held several one and two story buildings, most apparently in use; here Triaga had the look, if not the feel, of a city. Further on, though, several other structures of some import appeared to have been completed but stood vacant. Those no doubt were meant for official administrative use. As they picked their way forward, he had the distinct impression the feeling of completion was somewhat deceptive. Just a few streets over it became evident many more had been started without any additional attention in months. Sometimes it was the simple outline of a foundation or stone slab, sometimes a wood framing. Several columns and supports stood in isolated areas. He saw a fountain here and there, a section of green grass choked by weeds. Other than that and the distinct walls, little about it resembled any city he had ever seen, not that he had seen many. There were no homes, for one. Sections just stood empty. In only a few minutes his skin began to tingle. Under the cover of nightfall the city had an eerie feel. A mist seemed to wind through the air, particularly along the eastern and southern sections. More and more the place reminded him of the Third Plane. Not at all what any of them had expected. Not in the least.

“I think it time you explain this, Captain Gantling,” Imrail said softly. “We’ve neither the time nor the patience to read this riddle. We were under the impression the city was in reasonable repair and defense, already settled in some parts.”

The man avoided looking at the general directly. “Your information is outdated.” He kept his voice even. “Things have changed. This,” he gestured at the gloomy city, “this is all there is now. We labored for years—our sweat, our sacrifice. I had wages set aside for my own holding. Then the Ardan came. This mist is their doing. It masks their movements by nightfall. Best to keep your eyes open and your weapons close at hand. We lost some of our best men that first night.”

After exchanging a long look with Altaer, Imrail motioned for the man to continue. “I’ve argued—and been censured—for demanding we quit the place,” Gantling admitted, bitterness showing on his face. “At least we were able to get most of the people out. We have camps set up at the base of Pinewood. There are still losses some days. We won’t be able to hold out long.

“Promises—guarantees—were made by the Crown. Triaga was to be the crescent moon beside Alingdor’s sun. Well, you asked. This is no city, General. It’s a tomb. In a few minutes you will see. Several weeks ago Kryten received orders to secure the borders. Well, they are secure, at the price of making the city uninhabitable. We’ve lost the eastern and southern gates. Now our men will have nothing to come home to. Kryten and his daughter are loyalists and will not abandon their posts. They sent me to watch the roads more to keep me from spreading
discontent
as they call it. But tell me this, Imrail.” Perhaps he deliberately excluded the man’s title. “Who looked to our lands, our needs, while this
new lord
we hear of was raised? Where were the famed Companions when we needed them?”

“You were given a task of vital importance,” Altaer cut in, the long-haired bowman riding up between them. “I was there when the Lord Viamar detailed his plans. A haven for the peoples of western Valince. A thriving center of commerce. If the results missed the mark of his intent, you cannot blame him for the vision he had.”

Gantling shook his head. “As I said, you will see for yourself what has become of his vision. I will say no more.”    

* * * * *

Reaching the edge of the rising mist was one thing; riding into it proved another. No one hesitated to enter, but doing so stretched the nerves. “Not again,” Lars muttered, the strident man glancing around them guardedly. Imrail said nothing, face a blank mask, continuing to scan the barren city. No missing the point of reference. Not that this compared to the pall of the Third Plane, though by nightfall there were similarities. This had a cloying feel. He did not think it was meant to just be off-putting. It had disturbing ebbs and flows, like currents, that beleaguered the mind and wooed the soul. Shapes sometimes came into focus, dread creatures he had once questioned could even be real. He had to tap into some inner sanctum to keep the disconcerting sensations at arm’s length. He wondered how the others managed it. A film of perspiration overlaid Trian’s glass-like features. He kept his bay close. Imrail did the same for Avela, though it was hard to say if she noticed. At this hour there was relatively little to no movement in the city. A few patrols was all.
A crescent moon.
Viamar’s vision turned against them. Now they had little if any time to repair it. In the end such a task might require calling in two or three squads of border patrols or one of the outfits out of Alingdor. Flushing out a handful of Ardan was not something he imagined any armed company would find easy. Whatever they did, it would likely result in several days of waiting, waiting they could ill afford. He tried to curb a flash of frustration. There were undertones of rage. The others let him be.

At the heart of the dead city, they came on a sprawling compound gated and surrounded by extensive grounds. This area was well lit if still not entirely free of the rank, creeping vapor. At the center of a series of flanking buildings, a hold rose up in the night. Likely one of the first constructions completed, it was impressive to say the least—a compound not meant to serve as a military post, such as it was now, but as the seat of their southern base of power. The architecture was distinctly “southern”—tiled and garden rooftops, glass windows three or four times the span of any he had ever seen, and overhanging balconies. By day the grounds were no doubt serene. By night with the rolling mists it had a strangled feel. A full complement of men held the night watch. An inner courtyard was well lit, too, as if to hold off the Ardan vapor. Captain Gantling had them admitted immediately, horses ushered off by grooms. Men greeted the Redshirt with salutes but had eyes only for Imrail and the Companions. After a few glances, it was evident more than one held to the disaffected views the man had made no secret of.