The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (46 page)

“State your intentions,” an Ancaidan in white and gold demanded, looking them over. Luc thought the man shuddered when they locked eyes.

Taking in a breath, he straightened in the saddle. Nothing for it now. “My name is Luc Viamar-Ellandor,” he said coolly. “Your nation is under siege. We are here to help.”

The lead man blinked, then turned and spoke in a whisper to his companion. When he returned his gaze to Luc, his features looked a little less certain. “Those names are known to us, but mean little here. I ask again, what are your intentions?”

“I have answered.” Luc kept his voice even, controlled. “You may have heard rumors of the Earthbound and whispers of the names Maien, Eridian, and Naeleis. These are my enemies. Pentharan troops are moving across the border at various points. We are doing so openly so you are not taken unaware. We are not your enemies. Will you permit our crossing?”

There.
The man swallowed and his face became conflicted. It seemed rumor of the Furies had preceded them. Most thought them tales to be told by fireside. In some of the larger cities Tellers earned good coin recounting the little that was known about them, most by the common names they had assumed—Isar and Far. Odd appellations for the Furies to adopt, but plainly throughout history they had walked among the west working their will in secret. Now with an ancient power rising in the east, they had shed their masks and staked their claim on the world.

Before the border guard could answer others began to spill out of the post. One man came forward with a handful of soldiers looking ready to draw swords. He was tall and garbed for combat. A soldier then, perhaps of rank enough to treat with. Luc could only hope so. Few men of influence would have accepted a distant border posting. Ancaida was a proud nation after all.

 After exchanging a few words with his men, the soldier approached. He too wore the white and gold, but he was armed and outfitted in light armor and had a helm tucked under his arm. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, experienced, and outwardly self-possessed. He took one look at the men at Luc’s back, expression keen and speculative. His eyes shifted back to Luc. They stayed on him the longest.

“You claim to be a relation of House Viamar?” the man said. “That line is known among our people, but your name is not.”

Before Luc could speak, a horse approached at his shoulder. It was Gantling. “Dremor, before you speak in haste—as some others have—I think you should be aware of a few things. We are here despite my explicit objection.” Luc began to growl, but Gantling raised a hand to forestall him. “But I am in no position to object. We have had tidings, an engagement in the north and news of worse in Rolinia. Minister Thresh quit the capital. I have seen his people.

“You know me.” Gantling paused meaningfully. “Well enough at least to know I have no reason to lie and no quarrel with your people. But I have a duty to the Lord Kryten, and though I am reluctant to admit it, to the Crown.”

Gantling took in a long breath, running a hand through his hair. His grip on his sword became noticeably rigid. A look of determination took him. “Weeks ago the Lord Viamar gave up the crown,” he whispered. “This is not some distant relative. This is the man they raised in his place.
He
rules now. He claims he means to save your people. I . . . I have seen him save mine.” That last came out grudgingly. “In the hopes of preventing further bloodshed, I suggest you listen.”

The Ancaidan looked thoughtful now. Luc seized the moment. He would have eyed the Redshirt, mistrusting the man’s motives, but whatever his reasons it had given him an opening. “There has been an uprising in the capital, which you must be aware of. You should be by now,” he added. “Ronan Thresh barely escaped. The other lords of the Ruling Houses are either in the hands of the Fallen or dead. Thresh landed on shores just south of Aldoren’s Watch. At this very moment I suspect he is crossing to the west. We are coming to reestablish the order and rule of your people. I am bound to face the Furies and the Unseated and retrieve the weapon of my ancestors. Will you permit our crossing?”

“The Lord Siren speaks the truth,” another man said. Glancing behind him, he realized one of the Guardians had come forward. “He has the backing of Emry. If you do not permit his entry, you will have violated the will of the Free City. You must comply.”

Dremor blanched. “I do not have the authority to make this decision,” he said. “I will have to send for instructions.”

“That will take weeks,” Luc snapped. “We have days, if that.”

“I cannot permit a Pentharan force into our nation,” the Ancaidan maintained firmly. He said the words, but his face was clearly troubled.

“And if I yield myself into your custody?” Luc demanded. “Will you order an escort? We need to raise a force strong enough for your people to respond in strength. Will that satisfy you?”

Dremor suddenly appeared thoughtful. “I will consider this after consulting with my aides.”

“Do not take too long. We have a force two thousand strong that will be here by nightfall tomorrow, if not sooner.” There. That made the man flinch and provoked the necessary reaction.

“You are talking war,” Dremor snapped.

“War has come regardless. I will not permit the Furies to strip Ancaida of her rightful place when we march on the Mountains of Memory. Decide.”

“I will need time.” The man looked desperate now.

“One hour,” Luc told him. “I expect an answer by then.”

“One hour,” the Ancaidan agreed. Turning, he made a motion and set a heavy guard. Luc order the Pentharans to withdraw. He did not want this to come to bloodshed. Not here. Not yet. Had he been too insistent? Provoking an armed conflict would end any chance of unifying their peoples. What hope would the Nations have with a weak and beleaguered South? What chance would they have if the Furies gained a foothold in Ancaida and Val Mora?

Stroking Lightfoot’s neck, he gave the signal for the men to dismount. If they had an hour to wait, they might as well rest the horses.

It turned out Dremor did not need even a quarter hour to reach a decision. He returned with a full escort, face resigned. Luc felt himself beginning to tense.

“I have decided that while I do not have the authority to refuse the entry of a neighboring head of state on an urgent missive, an esteemed one at that, nor the right to risk the wrath of the Free City and the Guardians, I cannot permit an armed force more than your current escort onto Ancaidan soil.”

The border guard held up a hand when Luc’s face darkened. “Clearly we cannot stop you,” Dremor whispered, stepping close. “If it means something, I believe you. We have not heard from Rolinia in weeks. Longer. I have sent runners. I have no hope for their return. But some among us have had dreams: A darkness hanging over the capital, and a sign I myself have seen during the long night. The sky opening and a mark of fear and redemption. You wear it on your cloak. I will order your force be permitted entry and will seek out Ronan Thresh immediately. He has the respect and backing of our generals. He will decide if your troops can continue.”

Luc exhaled in relief, but it was Trian who spoke first. “You are well spoken and wise, Master Dremor. I think this day will redefine your existence. The Lord Siren has come not only to shatter, but to shelter.”

It was strange. The Ancaidan took one look at the woman and dropped his eyes. His bow was considerable. Extending a hand out to the man, Luc gripped it hard. He did not realize it, but the sigh on the Ancaidan side was audible. Whispers of king and Siren went hand in hand. Ancaida had no king, but she had earned the respect of one this day.

“Mearl,” he called. “Make the necessary arrangements. Ready messengers and an escort. I want Ronan Thresh brought to me as soon as possible.”

“Your will, my Lord.”

Now for it
, he thought. Turning back to the bay, his steps felt light and reinvigorated. They had done it. And with only a minimal delay.

Now Ansifer would pay.

For six days they powered across the Ancaidan lowlands, the air growing increasingly moist. Stiflingly so. Nothing at all like the feral airstream he was accustomed to in the north. Beyond the border and a river known as the Alveron Straights, the terrain became ripe and fertile, hills green and rolling, but leveling out a day or two in. Occasionally they stumbled across bands of patrols looking lost—to the last man aimless, purposeless. It was obvious the lines of communication between the Ancaidan capital and the northern parts of the nation had been cut off. The stiff-faced Ancaidan border master took Luc’s firm suggestion and enlisted them into their ranks immediately. This was one occasion in which there was no argument. Towns appeared sparse in these parts, though they did ride past several farmsteads and smaller holdings. Ancaida had a strange compact between landowners and tenants. Most did not own the land they worked. Instead they rented it for a fee, sometimes in coin or in a percentage of the yield. The further south they went, wide segments of land appeared almost exclusively devoted to grapes and almond orchards, the oil from the latter extracted for use, prized in Tolmar’s Sunstreet Markets almost as much as Ancaidan wine.

Their fondness for certain delicacies made Luc hesitant to try the food. It seemed Ancaidans considered innards a staple at every meal. Whether steamed in casings, poached, fried, or raw, local stands and serving houses sold them at all hours. Perhaps that was why he detected a distinct odor in the air whenever they passed a village or isolated community.

A day in he consented to a brief excursion to one of the few border towns. With an escort numbering just under a dozen men, they entered an hour or two prior of dusk, streets unpaved with a few homes clustered around a well and propriety establishments standing within sight at the opposite end of town. They immediately drew some surprise—and more than just a hint of suspicion—on entry. A stop at the inn, the Wailing Finch, a dingy place smelling of spilled wine and ale, gave him his first look at the people he had come to liberate. On the whole they seemed an expressive folk. If their nation was known for the prized wines she exported, commoners still preferred ale. Lots of it. Most had hair a lighter shade, eyes gray, green, or blue, and wore clothing that emphasized their bold, brazen nature—tight jerkins that left the upper arms bare. They dueled, brawled, preferred blunt weapons, and joked to no end. Twice Luc had to keep his small party in check to avoid clashes with the locals. In the end he decided it might be better if they avoided them entirely.

He had some difficulty forming a first impression of the southern nation, but after seeing what the Earthbound were capable of, he knew the Ancaidans were in no way prepared to face the horrors the Furies were about to unleash.

Resisting his first impulse to move by nightfall, he realized he could not hide and still rally the Ancaidan people. Early on they could have passed for a company of visiting dignitaries, but as they made their push, the word spread. Elloyn had returned. The Lord Siren had come to confront the Unmaker. No use denying it or attempting to alter fate. Besides, their numbers were swelling by the day, Imrail insistent on sending troops from each of the other outfits to reinforce his detachment. The king’s detachment.
No turning back now
, Luc thought. Not that he would have.

The first few days beyond the border outpost felt the most grinding. He did not have Riven or Imrail to see to the important details. After visiting the border town, he was up well into the night ensuring their horses were appropriately tended, provisions suitable stored and rationed, tents pitched in tight formation, and a select group of solid men on a strict watch rotation throughout the night. As always, Maerl proved invaluable, but the seasoned veteran seemed hesitant to give orders to the Redshirts directly. That made matters dicey and required him to step in more than once. He did not see much of Trian at all.

Ronan Thresh arrived their second night into Ancaida. The First Minister met with Luc and Dremor, Landon Graves hovering near protectively after personally escorting the man. The other outfits were on the move as well. Thresh confirmed Luc’s justification, much to the border guard’s relief. The First Minister himself had taken to wearing steel. He did not look pleased a Pentharan force was moving openly across his lands, but he conceded he had little choice. Although he and Grivas commanded the troops Dremor continued to absorb, neither man attempted to gainsay Luc.

Messages from Imrail and the others were optimistic for the most part until word came that the Guardian Aurin Endar had escaped. Luc, calling for the men from Emry, finally began to understand what was at stake. The Virtuous Assembly ruled the Free City, a handful of select men and women who worked their will in secret. They
were
the Guardians, the Sentinels, but over the years the name had extended to the army they commanded. Like the Diem in Ardil, the Guardians were free of any binding restrictions or oaths between Nations and were recognized as legitimate agents of considerable rank and authority across the west. They had stood steadfast during the Stand at Imdre and again during the war against Manx Andus. If one of her higher ranking members served the Furies, served Naeleis, there was every possibility the force marching from the far south to Rolinia would side with Ansifer. The thought chilled him. The ranking official, a Fayad Nasser, claimed fighting on two fronts was a distinct possibility.

Knowing he was out of his element, he called a halt immediately. He had little to no knowledge about fighting an extended campaign. The little he recalled would not be helpful here. “I need to send word to Imrail now,” he told Mearl.

“Yes, my Lord,” the man said.

“Mearl,” Luc muttered, wiping the perspiration off his face, “do you ever blink? Did you hear what he said?”

The Silverband shifted uncomfortably. He was likely the most reserved man Luc would ever meet. “Yes, my Lord,” Mearl repeated with a nod and a brief grin. “What are your orders, my Lord Sirien?”

Better,
Luc thought.

“We should send scouts,” Gantling cut in, looking irritable.

Luc turned and glanced at the man. That nose of his was definitely bell-shaped. “Pardon me?” he said quietly. It was the quiet cold of an icy wind about to explode into a tempest.

Gantling swallowed. Slowly he exhaled and wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a sleeve. “I did not mean to overstep, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor.”

Luc narrowed his eyes. That last was not quite said grudgingly. No, not at all.
Better and better.
“This is what we’re going to do . . .” Luc began firmly.

Knowing time was running short,
feeling it
, like an irrepressible wrenching sensation, Luc gestured and made it plain what he wanted. It might have taken mere moments. Then he was spurring the detachment on. Gantling galloped off to issue orders to a contingent of Redshirts. Perhaps there was hope for the man after all. Without Imrail his nerves were getting stretched and frayed around the edges. Trian noticed but for some reason had just the faintest suggestion of a smile on her face. That irked him somewhat. There was nothing amusing about the situation. Nothing at all.

The deeper into Ancaida they drove news started to reach them. Nothing overt at first. They found little to no traffic on the Ancaidan highway. Townsmen they passed at two points shied away from them. Keeping the main body of their troops clear of settlements, Thresh and Grivas left with a small escort in an attempt to unravel what had occurred since their flight from the capital. The word they returned with was not good. Seated in his tent, looking over the most accurate maps Imrail had provided him from Triaga, Luc glanced up at the pair. He did not quite glare.

“Most of the men have been recalled to the capital,” Grivas told him. “It appears someone’s been recruiting. Worse, a squad of men came through two weeks back. They did not quite force every able-bodied man to enlist, but that’s just a minor distinction. The town’s been picked clean. There was some show of haggling, but the sense we got was our folk were given no choice. Those left are going to starve if something isn’t done soon. Some are already heading for the coast. We have no idea who’s in charge now.”

“There’s going to be rioting,” Thresh said darkly.

Grivas nodded, looking gray-faced. “No messages are coming out of Rolinia. The city’s sealed. It looks like you’re going to have to fight your way in.”

“Me?” Luc pushed the maps aside. He started to stand, then decided against it. His tent was too warm. Odd that just days in the weather had changed so noticeably. “You worry there are Pentharans moving freely within your borders, but you want me to put them in harm’s way first?”

Thresh narrowed his eyes. “This was your idea. You promised—”

“I promised to face the Furies and the Earthbound,” Luc cut in. “I did not promise to fight
your
war or send
my
people to slaughter. We will aid you, but only if you commit the troops you have assembled. Troops I have helped you assemble.”

“I won’t have Ancaidans butchering Ancaidans,” Thresh snapped, crossing arms. Someone had found him a jerkin and suitable riding gear. Recent events had toughened him up. Recovered from the scuffle against the Earthbound south of the Watch, his gray eyes were kindled. He was determined to retake his nation at any cost.

Luc, well aware everyone in the tent was waiting for his response, answered immediately. “I will warn you once. When the betrayers rose up against the Dread City a number of the Powers fled and did not aid the defenders. I held them accountable. I broke them. They are chained to the Third Plane for their crimes. I regret it now and have paid my penance. But I will not wait for you to decide if you want to join me in my fight against the Furies. I have the backing of the White Rose, the Lord Viamar, and the Warden to seize the capital if need be. If your men will not march with me, they are against me. Your choice is simple. Either side with me or the Furies. If you wish to find them, I suspect you know the way.”

Thresh stepped forward, incredulous. “You’re mad,” he hissed.

“No, I am following the will of the Giver.” He gave a measuring glance towards Gantling. “What do you say? Does the City of the Crescent Moon agree?”

The Redshirt drew in a breath. He was studying Luc so intently it was hard to say what the man was thinking. Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze. “The City of the Crescent Moon is yours,” he said after a moment. “Besides, I hardly understand any of this. But I have seen the Ardan. And we still remember the Stand.” Slowly his expression firmed. “He’s right. If you don’t join us, your people will perceive us as an occupying force, not as liberators.”

Thresh shook his head in frustration. His refined features were a shade on the scarlet side. Slowly, he exhaled. “I’ll consider it,” he said grudgingly.

“You don’t have long,” Luc told him.   

They waited out the remainder of the day and set out at dawn. When he left his tent the next morning, his escort formed up around him. He was getting used to it now. Reaching Lightfoot, he met Trian’s eyes and mounted. His dreams were growing darker. He was beginning to perceive things in sleep he did not notice in the waking world. There were shifts in the Tides, a nameless force or presence beating at the World-Axle. His enemies were moving in ways he could not detect. He had only a vague intuition to go on, nothing more. It did not seem fair he was going to have to counter whatever their designs were with only his wits. No, not fair at all. Not in the least.  

Continuing at a frantic pace, he led their advance party—now numbering almost five hundred or more—until high noon. Messages continued to pass between the other outfits, the Companions combing Ancaida on their long march south. Word from Altaer came the most frequently. Some of his scouts had pushed deeper towards the southern coastal areas. Entire villages had been abandoned, examples made of anyone who resisted. Remembering the Whitewood, he shivered. There was no doubt a blackness hovered over the Ancaidan capital. Three days in, following the highway south, there were noticeable signs of turbulence. Evacuees. Droves of them. A runner brought word they were making for a sizable camp to the southeast in the shadow of the southern stretch of the Mournful Peaks. The undertaking had all the signs of someone making a coordinated effort to provide safety and succor to the Ancaidan people. Apparently they had been massing for weeks.

“At least someone out there knows what he’s doing,” Thresh muttered. “We need to send aid.”

Luc glanced at Dremor. “Assemble a few of your fastest riders.” Turning to Eubantis, he hesitated. He did not want to send the man. They had leagues to go to reach Val Mora. When this was over, he suspected it would be Landon Graves and the Sons of Thunder powering east near the coastal areas that led to Emry; he intended Mearl and Eubantis to accompany the outfit. But this was important, too. “I think we can spare a handful,” he told the Silverband. “Take enough to provide some muscle. Do what you must to assess the situation and get word back to Imrail. I don’t know how long it will be safe to stay in the hills. If need be, get them moving towards Triaga.”

“Your word has a way of shifting to suit your ends,” Thresh said.

“His ends are mine as well, Ronan Thresh,” Trian warned.

That silenced the man. His glance at the Val Moran was brief and hesitant. In the end he nodded curtly, letting the matter drop. Eubantis saluted and rode off.

Taking the lead, feeling the sultry air seep into his pores, he dug a heel into Lightfoot’s flank and angled forward. The further south they rode, the more the lack of trade or traffic gnawed at him. These parts seemed only sparsely settled, especially considering how heavily populated southern Penthar was. Well, he supposed contact between the two nations being what it was made the discovery hardly surprising; maps were one thing, but the real thing conveyed an entirely different perspective. From what he had been told, Pentharans and Ancaidans did not interact often. Official delegations were rare, most of their contact centered around the Harvest Rite, what Pentharans referred to as the Gathering in Aldoren’s Watch. Ronan Thresh could have explained it to him, but he knew the man’s chief aid, Olhm Grivas, was far more impartial. He was also a formidable tactician from what Imrail had told him.