The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (42 page)

“You begin to see the urgency of our errand, Mistress Kryten,” Avela said. “You must instruct the Redshirts—convince them—that there are forces at play here that go beyond our understanding. This is Elloyn, returned from the long night to face the Furies and the Earthbound one final time. The general and I would appreciate it if this wing was accessed only by your most trusted servants.”

The woman nodded mutely.

After settling Trian in rooms near his own, Avela intent on staying with her, they were rejoined by Lars and Urian. Still unsettled, Elaine Kryten took him to rooms almost as fine as those in Alingdor. She directed two men to light lamps and see to heating water in a private bathing chamber. Lars and Urian posted themselves outside, even though both intended to be up and on the move early. Luc peeled off his coat and searched through his rucksack. Finding a robe, he bathed and went to bed immediately. He knew it would be difficult to sleep. Next to impossible really.

Sometime later Imrail entered. Luc sat up. “Sorry to wake you,” the general murmured, shutting the door behind him. He set a lamp on one of the end tables. “I think we may be able to salvage something out of this situation yet. The Viamar name still carries too much weight to dismiss. You may be something more. Word is already spreading, I hear.”

“That’s something,” Luc said.

“Yes. Let’s be clear on tomorrow morning,” Imrail went on. “I don’t want you taking part in locating the Ardan. You no doubt remember what took place outside of the Landing. You were almost a full day recovering; even then we weren’t sure if there’d be any lasting effects. The time will come for you to reveal yourself, but not here.”

Luc shuddered at the memory. In his mind the memories were overlaid by the torrent of brilliant white light. He had almost lost himself confronting the Syphers. He could not afford the same to occur here. He had come too far, tasted love and loss. He did not want to be a force of wrath and vengeance only. Besides, now was not the time. He agreed on that much. He could not risk losing himself to the seething rages. He had to focus on reaching Rolinia. That was his task. Nodding, he sank back. “Just make sure Rew joins them,” he told the man. “I think he may surprise them.”

Imrail exhaled softly. Plainly he’d expected Luc to dispute the point. “I planned as much. He may surprise us all. Well, I’ll let you turn in. Get some rest, my Lord,” the general added. Luc did not look up to see him leave.

The next morning he was up a little after first light. He chose not to rise immediately and instead waited out the majority of the day in his quarters. Imrail entered sometime after midmorning indicating he had sent Trian, Avela, and a few dozen Redshirts north to retrieve the displaced people meant to found the sprawling city, draftsmen, masons, carpenters, and foremen among the most important. He sent for the plans of the city, penned in a precise hand. Luc had to dress when Imrail asked Commander Kryten to join them. After an hour or two of lengthy discussion, they had added so many notes and annotations he was afraid the document was going to be next to impossible to decipher. He was hoping Master Jebb might be able to make some sense of it. The man had a head for such things. Imrail promised to send for him. Both men left him in good spirits.

By early evening Luc emerged from the keep to find the mists still working through the streets. He was surprised to find a detachment of men from Landon’s outfit patrolling the grounds. These were the men who knew him best—the only permitted to wear the silver and black. Seeing the familiar faces grimly keeping a watch over the sprawling compound put him a bit more at ease. The Redshirts still in the area looked a touch bemused. Not as unwelcoming as he had first feared. What the rest of the troops would think of Imrail and Luc remained to be seen.

“You were quick to display your emblems.”

Luc turned and glanced at Gantling. He had not heard the man approach. The rising mists were beginning to rile him equally as much as the man did himself. Staring at the silent streets, he attempted to penetrate the miasma. Still concentrated, he thought, with no signs of lessening. It was rank and fetid, too. He had not realized he’d unconsciously sought the Oneness. The effort was becoming instinctive. He existed. He flowed in the currents. “It wasn’t my doing, Captain,” he told the man finally. It took some restraint not to clench his teeth.

“What does it mean?”

Glancing at him, Luc had a hard time deciding if that squat nose fit with his slicked back hair. “It’s the Mark of Chaos.” A sign of domination and destruction. Now a warning that he was here. A reminder to the Furies their betrayal would lead to their annihilation.
Complete and utter annihilation.
I should have finished them the first time. Maien chained to the World-Spire. Eridian burnt to a cinder in the Great Chasm. Naeleis erased from Annals for all time.

Hard to say if Gantling believed any of it. His face was so rigid he almost looked in pain. “Sounds like you mean to make Triaga a prime target for
your
enemies,” the southerner muttered.

Luc ignored the man for a moment. Night was falling and still no news. Not that he’d expected the Ardan would be easy to pinpoint.

“This city and all cities were targets long before we got here, Captain,” Luc told the man. He gestured at the mists. “This was not my doing. With us here, I doubt they will risk doing more than they have already. Not yet. They remember what happened before. After the first War of the Furies an edict was placed against open conflict. For now, this nation at least is under some protection. The others are not. When the Ban is lifted, it will be chaos.
That
war will make the Stand seem a scuffle. If we survive it, rest assured after this is over—if there is anything left to rule or govern, you will be free to voice your displeasure. For now . . .”

Stepping forward, he forced a long, focused breath. He did not have any formal training, true, but he had the memory of Amreal guiding him. Here Luc was an instrument of the Tides, an agent of the winds. He refused to allow his people to exist this way, in fear and uncertainty. Mistrusting him, his intentions. Tracing the currents of the enemy’s construct, he detected swells that gave off a rancid feel ripe with evil. Slowly, deliberately, he consciously directed the Tides. As he did a wind stirred. Not a soft breeze; this was a gusting wind like a blast off the slopes of the Mournful Peaks. Sensing a bit of strain on the other end, a hint of resistance and panic, he forced the Tides into an eddy. Suddenly awakened, he almost threw his hands up. The mist flared, like catching fire—not the white light of the First Plane but a brilliant crystalline blue. The essence of the Tides in its pure form. And like a raging maelstrom, the vapor twisted and coalesced above the Second City of Penthar. Not into the Mark of Chaos. He suspected something else would be more appropriate.

A Crescent Moon.

Whether mere moments or minutes later, the deed was done and the night air stood still again, clear and unsullied. It had begun. Now they knew he was here.

So be it
, he thought grimly. He was just getting started.

Wiping the perspiration off his face, Luc straightened. Realizing his left hand was clutching the Rod, he froze. Images flashed across his eyes. Impressions—no, emotions—he had once contained, emotions that flooded forth like a deluge. Feeling the little left of himself begin to slip away, he pried his hand free. The effort, the strain, nearly brought him to his knees. So much rage. The infinite Tides could not contain it, or thoughts suddenly unbounded.
This is what it will be like at the end,
he thought. One form. One focus. But now was not the time.

Swinging his eyes to the sky high above Triaga, he suppressed a surge of disbelief.
I did it
. Likely a Second Circle manipulation, he thought. Alterative. Not something he should have attempted. But aside from his father and Amreal, he had no one to guide him. Once he had not needed such knowledge or guidance. Now the changes were occurring so fast he did not know who or what he was. Not Siren. Not Luc. Something in between. But there it was. He had felt a hint of resistance on the Ardans’ end. Panic when the anathema had been broken. They were twisted creatures not entirely of the First or Second Plane, like him. Should he pity them? he wondered. He was not sure.

Slowly, he realized Gantling was gaping. The man had taken several steps back. Those in the Silver and Black appeared interwoven with Triaga’s Redshirts now. Well, if the Redshirts had not known before, they did now. Not just the son of the Warden and the White Rose. Something to fear, to loath. Unclenching his hands, he decided to make for his chambers. He did not pause to see the looks they exchanged behind him.

A short time later Imrail appeared and stood at the door, face unreadable. Apparently he had been in conference with a pair of Ancaidan and Tolmaran diplomats who had been dispatched to Triaga several weeks prior. Both were disturbed by the troops mobilizing within sight of their borders. The discussions had kept Imrail busy much of the day. Now they were impatient for news. Advising Luc to stay indoors, he left promising to check in later. He did not comment on what Luc had done.

Not knowing what else to do, Luc penned a letter to his folks. It turned out to be far more difficult than he had first figured. When finished, he sealed it and left it on a mantle above the hearth. Eubantis and Mearl took up familiar positions outside his door, the two bulky men a little more open and expressive than they had been when he had first met them. Well, not Mearl. The stiff man just seemed more at ease. Luc was glad to see the two again. He had not realized how much Vandil’s company had grown on him. That was one of the things he would lose if the balance shifted and he lost the consuming battle to maintain control, to remember who and what he was here. Sighing, he deliberately unbuckled his sword. As an afterthought he left the Ruling Rod behind as well.

The waiting continued.

The next day he woke before sunup. He bathed, changed, and ordered Lightfoot saddled. “Imrail won’t like it, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” Eubantis told him as they left his apartments.

Luc glanced at the soldier. The man stood as tall as Urian, and almost matched the bowman’s bulk. Unlike his comrade Mearl, he had an easy manner. Luc had heard the two commenting on some of the Ancaidan women. Seemed Eubantis had taken a liking to one of them. “Won’t like what?” Luc asked after a moment.

“General Imrail thought you would try to leave,” the soldier said. “He gave orders not to permit it. He told me to tell you the time will come soon enough once we cross the border.”

Luc folded his arms. “He went after them, didn’t he?”

Eubantis nodded. “He did, my Lord,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed. A touch guilty as well. “I’m sorry. Generally Imrail insisted I not reveal it.”

Luc made a face. He did not like it—loafing around waiting while his friends were out contending with the Ardan. These empty halls were one thing, cold and listless. It was the waiting that annoyed him. He did not think he could stomach another day of it. Even Elloyn had been given a task of some importance, no doubt intentional. The thought of her name made him stumble. He caught himself with one hand against the wall and froze. Thinking about her summoned up images of the others. Who was to say they would not make an appearance here? Eridian was certainly bold enough, Maien outright defiant in her power.

Returning to his rooms, he tried not to pace. After an hour or two, his mind never ceasing to work through the series of endless scenarios they were likely to face in the Ancaidan capital, he gave into his impatience and left for the front grounds.

Unarmed, he folded his hands behind his back. He exchanged tight greetings with a few of the men he knew, Eubantis shadowing him. He ignored the quiet words a few exchanged when he passed. Walking the grounds, Triaga appeared almost welcoming under the light of the morning sun. He was not sure how many times he circled the grounds. He had held watch countless nights on the Overlook just outside of Peyennar. That was nothing compared to this. This was maddening.

It was sometime just shy of noon when a commotion near the grounds’ entrance caught his eye. He arrived just in time to see Lars and the others come to a halt. The strident man had a grin on his face. Imrail was with them. “No problem,” he reported in, drawing rein just short of Luc. “Seems Acriel has become something of a footpad. I don’t know how he did it, but they never saw him coming. Whatever you did here, it had some sort of concussive backlash, too. They were hardly in any condition to pose much of a test.”

Urian smiled. Not a friendly smile. Satisfied perhaps. “Almost too easy, my Lord. Appears the masons didn’t bother to complete the fortifications on the east end. They’ll have to seal them first thing or my guess is more of the bastards will pry their way in. We made sure the Ardan rued the day they came here, though. The Lady Elaine Kryten knows her city well, my Lord,” he added, giving the tall woman an approving nod. Luc blinked. He had not known she had set out with them.

Gantling looked doubtful, eyes narrowed. “This has been going on for weeks. You’re saying the few of you managed to put a stop to it? Alone?” He shot a glance at Eleina Kryten. “Why were the Ardan here in the first place? There haven’t been signs of the Earthbound south of Innisfield in years, not since before the Siege.”

“If you doubt my word, maybe you’d like to have a look see for yourself,” Lars responded flatly. He continued to eye the Redshirt coldly, waiting until Gantling looked away. Luc doubted anything would convince the man short of seeing the Ardans’ dead corpses. No one seemed to care much about convincing him, though.

From there the day got busier. Ronan Thresh’s Ancaidans arrived first. They looked a little better off than they had just south of the First City, though not much. Finding Triaga virtually empty did not raise their spirits. Commander Kryten met with them and personally vouched for their safety, including seeing to all of their needs. They would have to take a hand in seeing the city on her feet and established, but when done would found the Ancaidan Quarter of Triaga. The Lord Viamar had plans to raise up similar Tolmaran and Val Moran Quarters in the event the Furies proved too much for their nations to contend with.

Not giving his men much time to recover from their long search, Imrail ordered the Companions to make ready to return to their Outfits. Luc fell in beside Rew and got a firsthand account. Even the lesser details were chilling. Rew said it matter-of-factly, though.

“That woman—Kryten’s daughter—was almost as set on finding the Ardan as Lars. Odd, that one. A little brash, but he seems to have taken to me. A little protective, you might say. Not that I mind having one of the Companions looking out for me. Once he had the trail, he had us moving most of the night. We holed up in a back alley for a few hours and kept moving before sunrise. That . . . haze . . . It was almost enough to make a man wish he’d never heard of the Ardan or was a babe still clinging to his wet nurse.”

Rew paused, glancing at him. “Don’t think I’ve met a group of more tenacious men. They like to banter. Almost felt as if . . .” Luc waited, crossing arms and studying his friend. At the moment his features, normally indolent, held a vicious light. It almost made him seem another man. Rew finished the statement with a shrug. “They’re used to one another, I guess. Know what they can and can’t do. Don’t think Angar slept a wink. He saw the Ardan first. I got in behind them and Altaer already had two arrows in flight before I . . . before I . . . Well, you know.” He was moving back and forth from the bed to a narrow basin at the far end of the chamber. He did not complain about having little to no time to get ready. He splashed a little water on his hands and face, scrubbed with a bar of soap, put his arms through a rustic coat from out of Peyennar, and slung a sack over his shoulder. It was under a quarter hour before the two of them were back in the courtyard with Altaer, Lars, Urian, and Graves. Imrail spoke to them firmly.

“Once you get back to your outfits, I want you across the border by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Don’t engage any troops you come across. Bully them if you must. Convince them we are responding to a formal request from the Privy Council for assistance. Use Thresh if you have to tie him to a saddle. Absorb any patrols you come across into our forces. We don’t know if they’ve been cut off the capital. For now, assume they have been but take precautions. I want you in position in a week. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor and I will be setting out with the Redshirts, but I suspect we will lead a smaller team into the capital. Send messages as we discussed.” He looked each one over. “No questions?” He waited. “Good. The Giver willing, we’ll meet again.”

The others nodded and made for their saddles straightway. Luc wrung his hands behind his back as he watched them go. All but Rew bowed. His friend gave him a crisp nod, face tight.
He’s hardly the same,
he thought. Some part of him was sorry about that. He had promised the Acriels he would look out for their son. For his friend. For Peyennar. Now it seemed Rew was going to have to look out for himself. If anything happened to him, it was on Luc. Rew, who knew him well enough to read his expression, just grinned.

“Think you can manage without me?” he said wryly.

Luc shook his head mutely. His dry mouth made it next to impossible to speak.
The Giver defend you,
he thought silently.
All of you.

Watching them go, he exchanged a glance with Imrail. “We’re out of time,” he said.

Imrail nodded. “I know.”

He hesitated. “Are we making a mistake?”

Imrail stroked his chin. “Don’t think so, lad. The worst mistake is often the one you never know you’re making. Win or die. Those are the options as we all saw it. Rally the Nations. I think you may be surprised by the response from some of the others. Ancaida is one thing. Tolmar another. Val Mora will not fail you.”

As the day continued bands of Redshirts Imrail had ordered pulled off the border began to file in. Most came in groups of ten to fifteen. They trickled in at first, but soon the grounds became jammed full. “It’ll be days yet before they’re all recalled,” Kryten told Imrail.

“Do what you can.” Luc caught the man’s gaze narrow suddenly. Following the direction of his eyes, he saw—much to his chagrin—Gantling debriefing the arriving men. Imrail seemed to have the same thoughts and came about as close to snarling as Luc had ever seen the man, jaw locked, austere eyes harsh. “Just get them ready,” the general snapped. “We’re leaving in the morning with whatever you can muster. Have the men assembled and ready to march by sunrise. Assign anyone who arrives after here and hold this point even if the Unmaker himself makes an appearance.” He muttered something, then added, “Damn Vandil for leaving this mess for me to clean up. Something tells me this will be over in a matter of days. Now we have this fool meddling in matters his hair-brained wits can’t comprehend. I’m done with him. He steps out of line again, he hangs.”

Kryten started to protest.

“Enough,” Imrail cut in. “This is Pentharan soil. He’s convinced himself he can show the world he’s another Manx Andus and win enough support to split the realm. Well, he won’t do it on my watch. Get him out of here now. I need a scouting team at the border by nightfall and runners back here with news as soon as possible. Send him. His time in this city is over.”

Kryten sighed. “He was well intentioned at the start. He succumbed to certain . . . ideals. We in the south have lived well enough, but we hear more of the news out of the east than you know. Things do not go well for Val Mora.”

“The tide is about to turn,” Imrail said. He pointed, gloved hand steady in the air. “Get him moving. Now.”

Kryten nodded, still gray-faced. “About my daughter . . .”

Imrail held up a hand. “Later.”

The old veteran turned Lord of Triaga sighed.

Unwilling to leave Gantling alone with the arriving Redshirts, Imrail muttered something under his breath and moved off to join them. Luc folded his arms behind his back, waiting. The general stepped deliberately, tall, imposing. Hard to say if one in the silver and black would ever be able to win the trust of the arriving Redshirts, but it was evident Imrail meant to try. Weaving his way through the men, hand on his sword, he snapped a few words here and there. After several minutes of this he saw someone he recognized. Making a sharp motion, he spoke firmly. Luc was too far away to hear what the man said. It had an immediate impact, though. Instantly whispers began to ignite and the Redshirts began to roll into the compound, Imrail motionless. Kryten had pulled Gantling aside. The outspoken soldier looked black-faced, clearly displeased. In under a quarter hour grooms were leading horses to the stabling grounds and Imrail was back inside. Luc entered to find more and more men spilling into the main hall where the supplies were being kept. It did not take long for the hall to fill. Luc, not wanting to be noticed, hung at the rear, heart pounding. The lines of waiting men looked on expectantly. Still Imrail waited. Another few minutes went by, men continuing to hurry in. Slowly the general held up a hand. Silence hung over the hall of the Crescent Moon. A silence not just of expectancy. It was the silence of a hanging doom.