The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (41 page)

Moving towards the entrance, two men pulled back a pair of ornate doors with brass handles and intricate carvings incised into the stained wood. Four more men stood guard in a carpeted entryway. A series of cushioned chairs lined both walls. Gantling continued and paused just short of a set of even larger doors.

“Is the Lord Kryten available?” he asked.

“I believe so, my Lord,” one responded.

“Good. Tell him General Imrail and his Companions are here.”

The four men shuffled their feet uncomfortably. One’s eyes noticeably widened. Two exchanged whispers while the fourth darted off at a run. Not waiting, Gantling made a curt motion for Imrail to follow. The next hall boasted a high ceiling and was as long as it was wide; he judged it could have comfortably held hundreds at a pinch. Likely a room for audiences and petitioners then. Lanterns on mounted wall brackets had been set to low, but the lack of light did not detract from the intended opulence. A crescent moon had been inlaid into the center of the hall’s glossy floor. The surface had a honed finish. Branching corridors led to a series of side-rooms and spiraling stairwells. At the far side a third and fourth set of stairs stood at mirror ends. The narrow door standing between them was guarded. No throne or high seat to speak of. The only thing that spoiled the display were the stockpiles spread out throughout, row after row of blankets, bedrolls, weapons, armor, and other supplies. At least they were generously provisioned, he thought.

After a slight pause Gantling started forward. His gaze turned to frost whenever he glanced at Imrail. That did not sit well with some of the Companions. Urian muttered something dark and Lars had his familiar sneer on his face. Luc did not think things would end well for the man if he kept this up.

Led to the far end of the hall, Gantling made a motion for the guards to permit their entry. Beside the grandeur of the previous hall, the next set of chambers looked noticeably stark. A desk with a pen and inkwell, two chairs, bookshelves, and not much else to speak of. The quarters were cramped with all of them filing in.

“We will wait here,” Gantling said. The blunt-spoken man’s eyes were hard. “A word of warning, Imrail. There are rumors you’re moving into Ancaida. If you intend to use our men for fodder, it will not be forgotten. Or forgiven. There are some among us who have little love for the
First City
.” He made the title sound an expletive. “Or her lords,” he added.

Imrail just looked at him. “Anything else?” the general asked softly.

“Just this. Krytan may yield to your authority, but not all of the Redshirts follow his lead. Best you remember it.”

Imrail folded his arms, one hand resting beneath the chin. He never blinked. Lars and Urian were not about to let that pass, both stepping forward, but the general gave them a glance that stopped them in their tracks. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped up to the brash man. His face was a veil of thinly contained fury. “I think we’re done here,” he whispered. “Perhaps in the morning after you’ve sobered up, the light of day will return you to your senses. We did not brave a stand against the Legion and endure the leagues south to be insulted by you. Unless you mean to side with the Furies, hold your tongue. You do not yet know why we are here.”

Lenora stepped forward. The pale-haired, winsome girl surprised the obstinate man with a hand on his arm. “I’d listen, Lord Gantling.” She had a way about her that made the man go still. “I know your end now. You will die for the Sparrow. Some might even remember your name.”

The man paled. “Witches.” He snatched his arm away. “What manner of folk—”

“Enough.” Imrail glanced at Luc. “We may want to rethink a few things.”

“Probably so,” Luc said somewhat crossly. This had dragged on long enough. The arrogance was one thing, but the Redshirt did not know whom he was addressing. The general had stood on the battlements of the Shoulder of Peyennar singlehandedly overseeing their defenses. No one had really expected to see the sun rise the next day. Before that, with Alingdor humbled, Imrail had taken them through the seaport city known as Aldoren’s Watch all the way to the far north where they had learned beyond doubt the ancient forces were rising in power. Imrail’s doing. His sheer will holding them together through the long night and the changing seasons. Now they had this thick-headed southerner trading insults with the man who was to have full charge of the nation. Imrail was of a fiber of an earlier age. Luc was not about to let another insult pass.

“What is it?” the general asked quietly, reading something in his face.

“Nothing.” Luc took a calming breath, smoothing his expression. He had some difficulty keeping his tone even. “I think I’d like to have this settled and the people returned as soon as possible,” he added. “We need to look over the plans for the rest of the city; the Lord Viamar had some recommendations. If Ronan Thresh can find a way across the border, tell him to use it and direct his people here. That gives us two days before everyone will need to be back with their outfits. It might be best if you and I stay on a bit.”

“My thinking too,” Imrail said. Something in his expression seemed to shift—no longer a stone veneer, unyielding and impassive, but marked by approval. Not only that. Warmth. Affection even.

It was at that moment, with Gantling now unquestionably white-faced as for the first time he openly studied Luc, some look of dread seizing him, that the door at the opposite end of the chambers opened.

A hardened, stalky man entered with a striking woman at his elbow. It looked as though they had come with all speed. Luc deliberately folded his arms in front of him, hands inching to seize either his sword or the Rod. The brash soldier Gantling nervously stepped aside. His wild eyes flashed between Trian and Avela. Neither paid the man any mind. For several seconds he continued to stare at Luc, mouth sometimes flashing open only to close abruptly. Not taking any satisfaction in the sudden change, Luc waited.

Commander Kryten had arrived in full gear. He wore a silver breastplate and brown leather breeches. A man in his late midyears, he had harsh features, face weathered. For some reason he reminded Luc vaguely of Draiden. At the moment his face was split in two by a wide grin. “General Imrail,” he said respectfully, bowing. There were undertones of relief. He did not stop at that, though, greeting the man with a crushing grip. “You knave, you should have sent word. Another day and I would have had runners hauling you here by the ears.”

Imrail smiled. “Rumors made us unsure if we’d be welcome here,” he said. “Seems we were right.”

Kryten’s rugged face darkened. He did not look at Gantling. “The sun sets and the sun rises. Some choose to fear the sunrise, some choose to deny it. Some claim we’d be better off free of dictates from the First City. The world is full of fools. Live well for ten, fifteen years, milk and honey plentiful and the fields golden with wheat and barley, and the next generation forgets the planning and sacrifice it took to win the day. The White Rose herself wandering in the wild. A king sitting in cold halls brooding over the stability of the realm. Not just one nation, mind you. All nations.

“Well, we will see they know the truth before the end. To other matters.” Kryten grinned again. “They’ve finally done it to you. A full promotion. Word is they’ve raised you to the rank of Steward, too. Viamar had fits trying to get you to take on a new title. I heard he almost had you throttled once. How did he finally manage it?”

Imrail grimaced uncomfortably. “He didn’t.” Clearing his throat, he turned. “This is the Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, waving a hand towards Luc. “He has also demonstrated quite definitively he is the physical embodiment of Siren—Sirien in the Annals. He rules the nation now. The end you speak of has come.”

“The Giver Defend us,” the woman at Kryten’s shoulder whispered. Both immediately started to kneel. Imrail forestalled them.

“Not now,” Imrail interjected. “I’ve seen enough of the city to know how dire things fare here. My apologies. We had the Furies to contend with. They sacked Alingdor and abducted the Lord Viamar. We had little hope of finding him, but I will tell you in brief what has gone on over the last few months. It will take some time. If you will see the Companions are settled for the night, I would appreciate it. They will ensure the Ardan pose no more threat first thing.”

The woman bowed again and stepped forward. “My daughter,” Kryten introduced. “Eleina.” The woman was in full gear. Two swords sheathed on either side, laced boots long, jacket trim, her long hair uncommonly light. Luc noticed a few of the others eying her with open interest.

“You are welcome in Triaga, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” she said. Her voice had a rich, throaty resonance. “We have apartments meant for the master of the nation. They have not been used, I assure you. Will you be speaking to the men?”

“That’s not a bad idea, Imrail,” Avela said, fingering her lips.

The general nodded. “I could live with one in four pulled off the border. Any chance you can have them assembled in a day or two?”

“I will see it done,” Kryten said gravely.

“We should be able to deal with matters here tomorrow,” Imrail said. He glanced at Lars. “Any indication of where to get started?”

The tall man, still keeping Gantling in full view, nodded firmly. “I’d say they’re holed up in the eastern part of the city. Perhaps in the waterways or an abandoned outpost. If you’ll permit it, we can take steps at first light. They won’t expect it.”

“Do it,” Imrail said.

“Luc . . .” Rew began.

Luc tensed, glancing at Rew. His friend’s face had taken on an ashen hue. “What?”

“Nothing bad,” Rew whispered. It was obvious he had not intended anyone else to overhear, but at the moment he undoubtedly had everyone’s undivided attention. “I see
it
. I don’t know how or when. I just . . . know. Banners. Towers. People from all over the west. Something is definitely going to change here.”

Eleina exchanged a long look with her father, relief evident, then glanced at Gantling. “Well, if that doesn’t bode well, I’m not sure what else will.” She said that last bit tartly, her distaste for the man apparent. Glancing at the Companions, she smiled. “If you will all follow me. It’s late, and I know you pressed hard to reach us. If anyone’s inclined to have a meal, I’m afraid the larder is a little light, but I can rouse one of the cooks and see what he can put together.”

“I think a few of us would welcome that,” Imrail said. “You have our thanks.”

She nodded respectfully. “Yes, General. This way,” she said, motioning for them to follow.

* * * * *

Electing to be shown to his rooms with the others, Luc felt a numbness take him. It was really going to happen. Viamar’s vision of a new Penthar. And here they were at the beginning. The others did not know it, but Imrail had something in his possession that might make it possible for him to be in Alingdor in moments. He suspected there was another way. Just then he would have given almost anything to see his folks, but doing so would have made it that much more difficult to leave. No, he had to proceed as planned. Something in him told him he had only a few days left, if that. Choosing to turn in—needing to—he knew the next few weeks would pass in a blur and afford them little opportunity to rest. Too many things to do, a people to rally in another Plane. He did not know whose side they would choose, but he was going to have to try. The day was coming. First he had to deal with Ansifer. Then Naeleis. Or both.

After the Companions were settled, each given rooms in a wing near his chambers—Avela had saved him the embarrassment of ensuring Trian’s rooms were near his own—he paused in the cold, unused hall. If not for Alingdor he would have blushed at the finery; now, he hardly noticed. Meeting Trian’s eye, he forced himself to ask. He did not want to frighten her, but she was the only one who had any insight to offer.

“How many do you think will to side with us?” he asked softly. “Any chance some could be . . . convinced to change sides?”

The Val Moran’s face, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question, was still far and away the most arresting under the shifting tides and winds of the world. It did not matter that the question made her ivory skin grow even paler. She ran a hand through her lustrous hair, then moved towards him. “Luc, I just don’t know,” she told him seriously. “I think it terrifying to try, to trust any of them. I remember . . . The war had taken so many.”
The First War of the Furies
. Bedlam. Chaos. “The world was beyond help or hope. That was when the skies broke and Unari came. The Faithful knew
he
would have no mercy. Had we known the Unmaker was simultaneously taking shape and planting the seeds of discord. . . . It might have been different. Now they know only corruption and vileness. Having eons to gnaw on their rebellion, knowing they nearly succeeded in supplanting the faithful, they will be more likely to stand against us. No,” she said finally with a shake of the head, “I do not believe many will be able to shake their lust for war and vengeance. They want you dead, all memory of you blotted from existence.”

He nodded. Difficult to keep the bitterness from his voice. “And if I did not try?”

She hesitated, taking his meaning. “You would be no better than the masters they currently serve.”

Luc squeezed his eyes shut. The very same conclusion he had reached just days prior. A terrible risk. A gamble with the lives of the very people he claimed he had come to shelter. Drawing in a steadying breath, he opened his eyes. When he did he saw Elaine Kryten staring at Trian. Not the first time he had seen someone look at her with open awe. Or dread.