The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (44 page)

Imrail eyed him evenly. “That remains to be seen. Just remember you belong to
this
Plane now. If you bleed, you will die. We all may die.” He rubbed his wrists, exhaling. “We do it your way, then. I can’t say I like it, but I suspect the Ancaidans will be more likely to receive you without an army at your back. You have three, maybe four hours before you need to set out. I won’t be far behind. Send word as soon as you cross the border.” He paused. “I assume you have a plan for that as well?”

He finished it with just the faintest hint of interest. Clearly he had no doubt Luc would be able win the crossing. That was something at least. “I have a few ideas,” Luc said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

Imrail nodded. “Get some rest then, boy. I’ll have someone wake you.” 

In the end it was just prior to daybreak when he and Trian were moving with a light company of Redshirts and Silverbands. That was the name they had for Vandil’s company in the city. It sort of resonated. Imrail, Avela, and Lenora watched them depart in silence. Doing his best to curb his impatience, he raised a hand in farewell. They cut south immediately and rode at a steady pace. Sections of the city were already being settled, though these were within sight of Kryten’s sprawling compound. Ironic they had the light of a partial moon to guide them.

It took them at least an hour to reach the city’s southern gates. These would be the most important. Finding it fully manned, the men on duty saluted. Several appeared to know him by sight now. He was sorry he’d had only a few days to get to know them. Raising a hand in farewell, he set his jaw and rewrapped the reins around his fingers. Making a soft sound, Lightfoot darted forward. Moments later they were cutting through the darkness and the vacant fields north of the border.

I’m coming,
he sent the thought out.

He wondered if he should feel foolish for hoping their enemies took notice.

It took Luc some time getting accustomed to traveling by nightfall again. Not quite what he expected. They had done so often enough in recent weeks. Maybe it was the twisting winds beating across the dirt road that made it next to impossible to keep his cloak in place. He had chosen to wear the one Reeva Tanalo had made for him. It rested lightly atop the banded armor Vandil had compelled him to wear when they had finally cleared the Third Plane. There the darkness had been impenetrable. Now he used it to cloak their passage, unwilling to risk detection. They might be forced to continue in secret all the way to the Ancaidan capital, if necessary. Somehow he did not think it would be that simple. Imrail was going to have his hands full keeping the armies of Penthar on the march. He dismissed the notion his discomfort was due in part to this being the first time he was leading a company on his own. Other than Trian most were virtual strangers.

No, that was not it, he realized abruptly.

It was the grim hope Naeleis would attempt to intervene and reveal himself finally.

As they rode Trian appeared to read his thoughts. She did not say anything; she did not need to. Her expression conveyed enough, a hint of warning and mounting worry. He tried to dismiss it.

Imrail had designated Mearl and Eubantis as his chief aides. That suited Luc well enough. Both were solid. Mearl had served as Imrail’s adjutant in Peyennar when the Earthbound had ripped through the remote mountain settlement. The man’s next assignment, should they survive this, would be just as pivotal.

Difficult to weigh the other men assigned to him. Originally Imrail had intended this to be no more than a scouting party to report on activity along the Ancaidan border. Gantling’s lead pathfinder, a Redshirt named Cael Harlin, indicated both sides of the border were unusually quiet. Tensions between the two nations being what they were made that unusual in and of itself. Luc intended to find out for himself and, like Thresh, find a way to persuade the Ancaidans they had no choice but to permit the Pentharans entry. Imrail hoped to have two thousand Redshirts ready to ride in two days at the latest. That many would be difficult to muster. They had to hold Triaga until the relief squad out of Alingdor arrived.

“You cannot be serious about this,” Gantling told him at one point, bringing a muscled chestnut up beside Luc and Trian. A glance at the Val Moran made his face tighten. Plainly he did not know what to make of the Val Moran. “My Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he added grudgingly when throats cleared around them. “My Lord,” he continued smoothly. “I meant no offense, but thirty men giving challenge to the armies of Ancaida. Why would General Imrail consent to this?”

Luc spared the man a passing glance. At least Imrail had succeeded in minimizing any influence he might have over the mobilizing troops, but the Redshirt could still complicate matters. Luc had prepared himself for the worst. “He consented because the Lord Siren commanded it,” Trian said. “And because they know our goal is to unify the Ancaidan people, not give challenge Master Gantling,” she added. Her Val Moran tone, resonant, betrayed no hint of contempt.

“You say that but you have shown little—”

“Captain,” Luc growled, “This is an advance team. I am prepared to submit myself into their custody if it will aid us in reaching the capital uncontested. We have to stop our enemies from seizing the city.”

Gantling chewed his lower lip. He did not speak again.

Continuing south, Luc sought the Tides. Awareness immediately blossomed in his mind, in his inner being. A conduit, he had some innate ability to control it. That was not the way it was supposed to work, though. Remembering his father’s warning, he simply let the awareness wash over him. They had three, maybe four hours to go. Something in him, some latent perception, perhaps, told him it had to be tonight.

He drove on.  

Difficult to say what the men behind him thought of this. Of him. Instinctively he gave them glances when he needed a scout or two to move forward or cut east or west. Twice he sent runners back north to cover their rear. The Masters Ingram and Varel had taught him a great deal about scouting some years prior, so he knew enough to take precautions; Urian and Altaer were even more expert. Judging by the blue-black horizon, they still had some hours until dawn. No, not at all nervous to be leading a mismatched band of men on a perilous errand. Just expectant. He would leave them when it became necessary, leave them with their lives intact and still some chance to return to Penthar. He could hope for that much. That was why he pushed them hard. As hard as Imrail would have. Harder perhaps.

Halting just once to rest the horses, he consulted with Mearl and Harlin as soon as he flung himself out of the saddle. “How long?” he asked the reedy scout who stood several hands short of him. Feeling Lightfoot’s impatience beside him, he stroked the bay. Seemed the horse could sense something of his mood.

“A couple hours, my Lord,” the tracker replied, beady eyes hesitant to stay locked on his. For some reason the man looked a little unsettled.

“Mearl?” Luc said.

The reserved soldier considered it. Prior to setting out he had donned the insignias of the Mark and the Sparrow. Imrail must have thought it important. “A fair estimate, my Lord Siren,” he said. “This wind is something fierce, but at least it isn’t against us. It does not seem entirely natural, but we should make it with time to spare.”

“Good,” Luc told them. “We’ll risk a short stop here. Spread the word and post a watch.”

Mearl nodded, moving off with a salute. Turning, Luc saw the majority of the Redshirts clustered around Gantling. Although the men appeared intent on seeing to their mounts, the Silverbands waiting just to the south presented something of a problem. It seemed breaking the divide between the two factions was going to prove more challenging than he had first given thought to. Well, they were going to have to settle their differences. One way or another, they would.

Sighing, he made his way towards Lightfoot and checked the bay’s hooves and wiped down the bridle. He waved aside Eubantis when the man offered to help, making a motion towards Trian’s mare. None of them had the time to stand on ceremony. Taking a skin, a bit of crusty bread and cheese, he waited until Trian was settled, mystic eyes fatigued from what had already been a long day. This when they had another march to go. Something in her look told him she was still troubled. He was not certain why.

After waiting the prescribed time, Luc gave the signal for the company to start underway. The men sprang into motion immediately. In a matter of minutes they were speeding south. Scanning the distant parts of the nation, knowing in just a few short hours they would be leaving it behind for good, on some level he found himself existing in another time, a forgotten age of the world, the land shivering, preparing itself for the return of the forces native to the Making. Some were innately good, some neutral or indifferent. Others were not so keen on the way in which events in the Mirror Plane were unfolding. He could feel it in his fiber, his perception multiplied beyond anything the boy out of Peyennar had ever imagined or experienced. The changes should have terrified him, not emboldened him. He had seen so many humbled. He suspected his end might be no different.

Losing himself in the rhythm and fury of the bay’s long strides, the terrain became a blur of indistinct land features draped in shadow though laced in a brilliant blue. The night seemed poised to drag on. He felt its cold touch, its distinct caress, aware both sides were waiting to see what word dawn would bring. It had to start here, but who knew what events were unfolding in the other Nations and beyond. So much hinged on Ancaida, but they could not be blind to the Furies cunning and unrelenting hate. Once they had served, if only out of fear. Now they were unfettered with three or four millennia to plan and brood in the hidden places of the world.

 Sometime later, with Lightfoot in a full lather, a shadow sped across his field of view. He thought he detected someone calling him by name. Pulling back on the reins, he came to a halt. He was caught off guard when he heeled the bay and saw both Mearl and Trian riding up in haste to reach him. Gantling followed close behind, a wild light in his eyes. “Is he mad?” the Redshirt snapped. “We’re here. Did you plan on bulling them over? Damn it,” he said, glancing at the others, “he’s so absorbed with his—”

“I wouldn’t,” Trian warned, silencing the man.

 Luc caught himself reaching for the Ruling Rod. His first impulse more often than not now, he realized. Already cold from the autumn air and the relentless pace, he gave the man a look that silenced the Redshirt. He’d had enough. Lars had been bad enough, but at least the man had come around. This one showed no signs of yielding. “Master Gantling,” he began, “I am bound to the path the Giver laid out for me. You are more than welcome to choose another.” Hitching Lightfoot forward, he made for the border outpost. The Pentharan side of the crossing appeared on full alert. He suspected the Ancaidan side was too.

Even at this hour a full contingent of men were on duty. More Redshirts, only intermingled with men in mismatched cloaks and coats.
New recruits?
he wondered. No, their movements were too controlled, their glances too discerning. Something about their presence made the Redshirts appear uncomfortable. Well, Kryten had been advised to take precautions; it appeared the man had made good on the request. A hint of expectation was in the air. Clearly someone had briefed them.

“My King,” a veteran greeted, bowing formally. He was rough-faced and a little on the brawny side. For some reason he seemed vaguely familiar. “Welcome to Eagle’s Crossing.” Seeing Luc’s questioning look, he went on. “Most of the permanent border posts have names. Nothing elaborate. I suppose it makes sending messages a bit easier. This one may not be much to look at, but it will serve. I have taken precautions to ensure the compound is secure. You’ll no doubt want billets for your men and grooms to see to your horses. If you will come with me, there are a few matters we should discuss.”

Trian was the first to read the riddle. “You were in Peyennar,” she said.

The soldier nodded. “Yes, my Lady Emening. My name is Dillan Gandar.”

“You did not send word to Triaga.” It was not a question.

“General Vandil advised I do so only in secret,” Gandar said. “He was here briefly. That was several weeks ago now. This place was a mess. Still is, in truth. The men, on the other hand, are ready. We have seen to that. You now have access to two hundred swords should you need them.”

Luc found himself looking on with some disbelief. Word from Vandil at last.
Thank the Giver.
But there was more going on here than just that. The men in mismatched coats and cloaks. A closer look showed one wearing a black ring with some insignia branded on it. Another man standing somewhat nearer wore a similar crest on the sleeve of his deceptively plain coat. The depiction was a pair of crossed knives.
Emry,
the thought came to him. These men were from Emry.

The Guardians had come.

“Are they aware of the current situation?” Luc asked.

“Yes,” Gandar said. “We are ready to trade blows with the Furies.”

Luc nodded, pleased, even if the man was incapable of fathoming what he was suggesting. “Good,” he said. “Let’s get settled. We leave at first light.”

* * * * *

Making their way through the border outpost, corridors in a sorry state, he winced at the sight of cracked walls and uneven cedar floor planks that groaned at each footfall. Stiff from the ride, he made a mental note to send word to have this and every other border post repaired or replaced. If the neglect was this widespread, he understood in part why some in the south begrudged the First City. Well, he hoped Imrail could put an end to that. They did not have long now. Soon everything would be chaos. Both north and south had to be one.

At the moment so many were crowding in the clamor was deafening. Luc’s original outfit out of Triaga kept close, Trian at his elbow, with Mearl and Eubantis stone-faced just behind them. They kept on until reaching what appeared to be a common area. The cramped confines did not dissuade many from attempting to follow. Luc did not mind. If a man was going to risk his life, he deserved to know why.

Deciding to stand, he peeled off his gauntlets and tucked them into his belt. The Redshirts and Silverbands cleared a small space for Vandil’s aid and a few of the men in mismatched gear.

“Report,” Luc said. He suddenly found himself missing Imrail.

Gandar inclined his head, silver and black uniform standing out in the flickering torchlight. “Yes, my Lord. As you know, I stayed behind with General Vandil when you rescued the Lord Viamar. Two of the Companions were with us. We had some word of what’s passed, but once we were in the wild were on our own.

“After you escaped with the Lord Viamar, Vandil ordered us to cut north,” Gandar went on. “He hoped to split their forces. It seems it worked. We bought you a half day, perhaps more. We pushed our horses to the limit and spent another day pinned down in a canyon while the Earthbound raised a firestorm trying to reach you. There were eight of us. Not much we could do. After they passed, we started south immediately. Almost stumbled straight into a second band led by Ansifer himself. He had the Sword of Ardil. I was so close I caught the thing gleaming in the morning light. He was raving, cursing
Unari
and someone he called Naeleis. General Vandil reckoned he was the orchestrator of the sack on Alingdor. I believe it was the first time I ever saw the man afraid.”