The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (50 page)

Luc hesitated. He had never seen the man in such a fury. What was he planning? Taking in the Companions, he swallowed. “Imrail, Caldor. . . .”

Imrail nodded curtly. “So long as you understand me. We’re ready. Lars, form up the escort. You have the charge.”

The man started to speak, then thought better of it. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Let’s go then,” Imrail commanded quietly. “Forward into the Annals. Forward into eternity.” There was a momentary hesitation, then, “And memory.”

* * * * *

Taking up positions behind the bulk of their forces, Imrail set a savage pace. Surveying the carnage, he sent the Companions off with new orders, making minute adjustments. He pressed the assault on the retreating Angrats, ordering Altaer back to the field. Arrows continued to whistle through the air, horsemen harrying the Earthbound retreat. At each juncture the general showed he was in full command of the battlefield and the fight to regain Caldor. Luc was so tired he had a hard time staying in the saddle. They had to hold their breath through the first phase, Angrat blood and flesh reeking, hovering over the field. He had done something to scatter the fumes, but a remnant lingered. He was too fatigued to recall what he had done and had long since lost his ability to consciously seek the Tides.
Cold.
Now he was no longer certain what strength he could muster, but Imrail was intent on reaching the town immediately. Then the capital. Only then.

Off in the distance eerie cries shot through the air. Ardan and Deathshades fully engaged with spectral forces from another Plane. The sight was chilling and transfixing. In his mind the display took him back to an earlier age.

Having little to no memory of their final passage, fixated on far-off, remote recollections—waking nightmares he could no longer escape—he all but clung to Lightfoot. It felt that way at least. The bay understood him now. His movements were innate and instinctive. Perhaps there was some bond between them he had not previously comprehended. Beyond that he was dimly aware of Pentharan and Ancaidan forces making the final press into the city. Some signal made the Guardians disengage and rejoin them. He could not quite recall Mearl’s Silverbands taking up similar protective ranks around them. Imrail did not comment. The landscape and movement around them appeared a painted blur.

It troubled him the enemy had come so far south so effortlessly, undetected, in force. Ancaidans knew next to nothing about the Furies or the Earthbound. That much was clear. Now the nation stood at the razor’s edge of a hanging doom. For a moment the Tides had linked him to his father’s enemy, one of the Lord of the Scales in near equal strength and potency. From him, if nothing else, Luc had felt one thing—perhaps two, impressions so intense he knew the Fallen was as blinded by a lust for vengeance, total and complete, as he himself felt at times.
Hatred
. Burning and pulsating with each breath.
Fear
. Luc had never known fear of that kind. In Peyennar he had been sheltered, shaped. Ansifer feared Ivon Ellandor. He feared the son of the Warden as well.

He feared Naeleis and the Unmaker more.

What he thought of Sirien remained to be seen.

An hour or two may have passed, but eventually they took their first steps into Caldor. The stench of the place was overpowering.
Like death.
Men swarmed through the streets. Explosions rocked the place, impeding their search.
He won’t face me here
. It was some distant thought. Those structures not destroyed in this section of the town were smoldering. Skirmishes persisted. Shades moved in the night. Hard for the naked eye to detect them, but no doubt they were out there, sweeping through Caldor without mercy. With the enemy seemingly contained, only twice did the Companions engage the Earthbound directly. They were just as merciless. Lars moved on horse as though possessed, able to identify the Earthbound with some sixth sense. Urian picked off targets in the dark, Ardan hidden in alleyways or at the occasional window. Altaer moved like lightening, scanning, commanding. The Guardians were just as purposeful. They closed in around Luc and Trian and did not waver.

Seeking out the highest ground, Imrail swung through the streets as though he had some hint about their destination. They rode at a near gallop. Among the debris the sound of the rushing wind sped over them. Ardan? He had nothing left to neutralize them. It was bedlam all over.

Slowing so Lars could take the lead, Imrail fell back, peering around them. Lars appeared to be sniffing the air, an expression of distaste on the man’s face. “There,” he said, making a grim motion ahead. It took Luc a moment to comprehend. Everyone had come to a halt. The sudden stop nearly saw Luc leave the saddle. He was out of sorts. He had to seize the horn and almost lost his sword.
Viamar’s sword.
He found himself missing his grandfather, knots forming in his stomach. He had two Planes of Existence to somehow reconcile now. In one, all that he cared for seemed a distant dream, in the other a walking nightmare. Trying to get his bearings, he realized they had reached a town square, the remains of one. It could have passed for a Pentharan town, he realized. The Earthbound had leveled it—all of it, stone charred and smoldering, smoke so thick men were hacking and coughing. But one structure remained untouched, other than the outer grounds. It stood high above the others. The architecture reminded him of some of the larger estates in the Watch. Some standard had been burned to ash. Cobblestones were upturned, smashed. There were rents in the earth. Scattered cries still cracked through the air, but there was no life. Not the sort that mattered.

Imrail made a sharp gesture, dismounting. “This is it. I want the place searched. Acriel, you and the Guardians will move in first. Lars, go with them. And don’t get killed, either of you, you hear me?” Rew blanched. Even the gallant Eduin Lars hesitated, scrubbing a hand through his hair. A glance at Luc and Trian made his expression firm up somewhat. “Go!” Men instantly leapt from the saddle and rushed forward. The general had them move out of the line of sight from third and fourth floor windows and balconies. He did not need Lars’s unique ability to sense the tainted impression in the earth and air. It rubbed the skin raw.   

“Be careful,” Trian warned, riding up to him. “I—”

She never finished the thought. A clamor hit their ears from within the close quarters of the estate. With a grudging nod from Imrail, Urian and Altaer moved into the estate, men darting in behind them. That left only a handful of retainers, most tasked with watching the horses. Luc turned and glanced back into Caldor. The night sky lit up suddenly, a flash of lightning in the distance.
Rain?
he wondered. Turning to Imrail, he dismounted and handed a waiting man the reins. Inhaling, he summoned some reserve will and moved forward. Imrail mouthed a word Luc missed and stepped up beside him.

“You are so stupid I could have dressed in sheep-skin and this sorry lot would have passed me over, General.” Luc and Imrail both froze. “I warned you before. The
Ban
holds me and shields Sirien, but if not him, my hand will strike at everyone he prizes—at everyone he foolishly holds dear. I am afraid that makes you my first target, General Imrail.”

Staring, Luc nearly took a step back.

He recognized the tone. The grinning face.

Aurin Endar.

Before either of them could respond, the man sprang at Imrail; he wore the garb of a Redshirt, a voice that resonated with power. The voice woke him at the innermost core. His ancient adversary. Naeleis. Sudden shadows sprung up behind him, deeper and more sinister than the night.

Sypher.

It happened with a suddenness that could only have been pre-planned. Endar and Imrail were entangled, Luc thrust back out of reach by the general. Conscious of Trian, Lenora, and Avela, he made some strangled sound and motion at the remaining men to encircle them. He hoped they understood. No time. One of the shadows made straight for Imrail. Darting forward, Luc met one of the diaphanous shadows, sword extended. The creature turned the blade back, deflecting it easily. A gauntleted fist seized his sword arm. Struggling, he jerked hard with all his strength. He managed to pull free but staggered back, tripping over a loose stone. The air left him when he slammed to the ground, dirt and debris digging into scrapes in the skin where his trousers tore open. Frantic, he rolled into a crouch and looked up, intending to pounce forward.  

“Luc!”

Not thinking, not seeing, Luc bellowed and charged forward. The Sypher, moving with an inhuman grace and speed, was already a step ahead of him, black-banded sword knifing down on him. Twisting, he side-stepped the stroke and tried to reach Imrail. The heavily armored creature from the Third Plane barred the way. Some sudden flash of insight, of fear, made him glance beyond. They were moving so fast he had failed to mark a third figure emerging from the shadows. Beyond the point of panic, the world went white.
A second Sypher
. Before he knew it the creature was on Imrail, Endar and the general already fully engaged. Time stopped. He could do nothing. One second. Then two.  

Imrail
.

The second Sypher’s blade pierced the general, just under the ribs. Imrail staggered and looked down at the blood pouring out of the open wound with a snarl. “The Lord of the Winds and the Giver take you!” Spinning, he lashed out in a circle, making three smooth strikes. One at the Sypher’s head; the follow-up at the knee; the last reaching the mark at the midsection. The second Sypher stumbled at the furious onslaught, but Aurin Endar’s sword took the general through the stomach.

Gasping, Imrail fell to his knees. Blood gushed from his open mouth.

“NO!”

The wail that left him was savage and feral, the untamed wind in full mourning. Caldor exploded. Either that or he did. Elemental forces native to the First Plane ripped through him, searing the open pores of his flesh. Naked rage consumed him. Hidden barriers tore within. What he was, who he was, changed immeasurably. Endar paused above Imrail, then stepped back, shielding his eyes. The Sypher Luc had been engaged with was on its knees; some innate sense allowed him to see it in its true form. A being of twisted power and beauty. It did not matter. Hands gripping the sword and Rod, he dominated the creatures with his unleashed will. The light of existence burned in him, through him. A thought and the creatures became still. A whisper and twin pillars of light and force erupted from the earth, touching the sky. Both Syphers were instantly consumed, ancient armor disintegrating. There was no emotion. No feeling.

They did this to me

Turning on Endar, he felt a slight stir. The shard of the man that was Naeleis took protective measures, a sphere forming around him; the part that was all man turned tail and ran. He could have ended it. Ended all of the remaining Ardan and Earthbound. But some nearby consciousness touched him, light and gentle in contrast, love-filled.
Love
. A peculiar emotion. Turning, he glanced behind him slightly. Someone was holding him, pressed so close he had to turn within the circle of her arms to see.

What he saw held him. He remembered
her.
Elloyn as she existed in the First Plane. Here she was a slender thing, but the night could not hide her undying splendor. She was weeping.

In the end it was her tears that made him remember. Gasping, he shut his eyes and started to breathe. The air. The wind. Soon the sunrise. Starting forward, he stumbled, finishing the remaining distance at a crawl, sword and Rod escaping his grasp. In moments he had Imrail in his arms, kneeling opposite Avela.

Caldor was theirs. At a price that had cost them everything.

Luc wept.

Coughing, Imrail struggled to bring himself to a seated position. His hair was matted and his features were layered with congealed blood, dirt, and sweat. Despite that he still managed to retain a robust dignity. Seeing them, men streaking in from the estate and streets of Caldor paused. Realizing it was the general and their king, they closed in, silent. Shaken.

“Time for it, boy,” Imrail said softly. “We knew it was coming.”

Throat tight, Luc nodded. “I know,” he whispered.

“You’ve come far . . .” The former king’s captain hacked, blood spurting. Tears leaked out of his eyes as he gazed up at the young man he had forsaken kings and nations for. “. . . far from the slopes of Peyennar where the winds yielded to you. You are ready. Take care of Lanspree and the others.”

Luc tried to speak.

Some sound must have escaped him. “Good,” Imrail said. His penetrating gaze took Luc in. A brief look. Composed and contented. “Be well. I did what I was tasked, willingly. This is your time now. The world is open before you. Defend it.” He struggled to turn slightly. Luc helped him shift. Elhador felt almost weightless in his arms. Feeling his eyes well up again, he settled the man’s head on a rolled up cloak Lars brought him. Searching the general’s face, he stored the memory beside Amreal’s. Looking up, he avoided Avela’s eyes, her tremors. With a final squeeze of the general’s arm, he stood, giving the Companions a final moment with the man. Imrail’s wounds were well beyond healing. His own, however, would remain concealed, hidden. He did not know if he would ever recover.

He knew who was responsible, though.

“Mearl,” he whispered. The soldier came forward. “Is there . . . ?” The stolid man shook his head. Even his eyes were red-rimmed. “I need an escort one hundred strong, an honor guard for the—for Elhador.” Difficult to see. “Tell them . . . have them . . .”
Tired. So tired.
“. . . have them bring the Steward of Alingdor home with all honors. I’m going on.”

“Luc—” Rew began.

“Later,” he snapped. A savage sound in his own ears. He had to go, if only to get out of sight so he could mourn. “Order the men to rest and bury the dead. Lars has the charge until Vandil can be located. Get them in place around the capital as we planned.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Mearl whispered, the normally reserved man beginning to lose his composure. Tears openly streamed down his leathery cheeks. Luc exhaled again.

“Rew, can you help me find our horses?” he said hoarsely. For some reason he did not want to be alone, not entirely anyway.

Risking a final look, he saw Urian on one knee. The man had bowed his head but shook uncontrollably. Lars and Altaer appeared locked in disbelief. Avela had gripped Imrail’s face with both hands. Lowering her head, she kissed the general’s forehead, then his lips. Landon Graves made room for Trian to move forward. Everyone else remained silent. Imrail, still moving, was conscious enough to raise a hand in farewell. For a moment their eyes touched. It took everything he had in him not to howl. Gripping a fist to the heart, he turned.

Go with the Giver, Elhador Imrail. May you find your way to Elloyn’s halls with all speed.

Taking the reins from a waiting soldier, he mounted quickly. He had to make certain no one saw him leave.

* * * * *

They managed to cover a handful of miles, perhaps more, before Luc abruptly came to a halt and flung himself out of the saddle. The wind must have picked up. It howled in his ears. Lightfoot had given him more than he should have ever asked or rightly risked. On his knees in an open stretch of terrain between the highway and nearby vineyards, he had no conscious thought. Just a wild savageness. His skin tingled. His mind screamed.

Caught in a blackness, he did not hear the peeling thunder. Voices on the airstream hit him. It made no sense. In his dreams he found the core of his inner being a virtual stranger. Now the dreams were jarring, displacing. No longer dreams.

Losing himself, his vision began to blur. Fields of white suddenly blazed up around them. It should have worried him. It should have alarmed him.

“Lads,” a voice seemingly from memory whispered. Firm. Commanding. “It’s time. Time to turn the page. During the Stand we saw the end of existence. The world seemed shattered and broken. But we held. And when all that was green and growing had turned brown and ashen, we nurtured the seeds that would bring renewal. Our hopes have not proven vain. Come. See, the fire is tended. The storm has come to set us free. Have something to eat and sit with me. We must remember.”

A long pause, then, “A man is made no less a man by weeping. But the time for hiding and hurting is over. The Giver is forging his tools to lead the way forward. Your pain will aid you and move you, not only to anger or rage. Those are at times necessary, but they must not rule you. There can be no falling. No failing. You have walked long to reach this far. Now you must learn to fly.”

Somehow Luc had clawed himself to his knees. The glow and warmth of a well-tended fire amidst the storm made no sense. But this . . . Suddenly he stumbled forward. He caught a glimpse of Rew, a stunned Rew, stunned but grinning from ear to ear. That grin of his always made things seem somewhat more bearable.

That fast the veil shattered and he wept and shook again. Hands took him. Hands that
felt
real
.
Hands that could not be real.

He held on. He
had
to hold on. 

* * * * *

 Later—much later—Luc turned his attention to Lightfoot. After walking the bay, he untacked and rubbed the horse down, Rew similarly engaged. He had hoped, perhaps irrationally, the movement and free-flowing air around them would ease him some. Now the grief was no less cutting. Pain shot through him. He could feel strands from the First Plane coursing through him. He was beyond exhaustion. Tonight he needed release, but they would find none here. He did not look for evidence of Ansifer’s passage. No need to. As long as the creature held the Sword, there would be no hiding.

Neither he nor Rew discussed the strange encounter. It hardly seemed real. The fire had died down, but that had been real. Besides, the others were on the way. The two of them had a half hour now, if that. He felt some guilt over not being there during Imrail’s final moments. Well, Avela deserved to reserve that privilege for herself, he told himself. He hoped she would choose to ride back to Alingdor with the general’s retinue.

Rew did not try to break the moment by attempting to bring any levity into it. Instead he attentively saw to their needs. He pulled the stopper off a flask, tossed it to Luc, and rummaged through their gear for blankets. In next to no time he had the fire rekindled. He checked and rechecked the horses. He fished out a pair of torches and rigged them on stakes he cut himself. Ildar had toughened the young man up considerably during the march south, it seemed. Now Luc saw little that resembled the callow boy he remembered. The night had stripped Rew of that. He was not sure how he should feel about it moving forward.   

Neither spoke for some time. Letting his thoughts drift, invariably they brought him back to Caldor. After the first storm of grief passed, he considered gripping the crystalline shard around his neck. That was not its intended purpose, though. Besides, he refused to risk it here, now more than ever. The Unseated was his to finish.

Wetting his lips with what had to be a bit of Allard Acriel’s private store, Luc closed his eyes. Not for the last time he wondered how Peyennar fared. Right then he would have given anything to gaze at the peaks at sunset or see the first hint of dawn greet the hills at sunrise. For now the ripe fields of Ancaida would have to do.

The next morning he found himself in his old tent. He woke once and sat up in a panic. He had no idea how much time had passed. Realizing the nightmare had been no dream, he sank back. Spasms wracked him and he felt deathly cold. He did not attempt to move for some time.

Lenora’s vision had proven true. No use denying it or attempting to dismiss it.

Through the day and night that followed someone urged him to eat. Broth and bits of bread soaked in the juices. Fresh bread. Even that was difficult to stomach. After he fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Eventually he came to. He half expected Imrail to be standing over him, ready to rouse him. The thought rekindled the anger. He refused to stay holed up, hidden. He needed to wash and ready himself. The honor of House Viamar demanded it. Whatever else he was, whatever else he had become, Imrail deserved the swift and immediate response of the entire nation. There would be no recompense for this.

Fumbling for his sword, he managed to retrieve it and sit up on his own. The movement made him almost cry out.

“Luc, wait.” He paused, attempting to bring his eyes to focus. He heard a rustle of movement, then felt Trian’s hand take one of his. “There is news,” she told him seriously. “No one has located General Vandil, but a scouting team from Rolinia sent to find us brought word someone is rousing the city. The people have fled in mass. Weeks of open fighting on the streets. Rioting. After nightfall the Harbingers toll. Deathshades scout for the Earthbound. Ardan have gathered. You were right about what we would find waiting for us.” She waited a moment before adding, “Vandil will be crushed by the news about Imrail. If we find him, I think it should come from you.”

Luc gripped the folds of his blankets. “Were you there when Imrail . . . When he . . .”

She shook her head. “No.” Her voice was a pained whisper. “I bought him a bit of time. Enough to ease him and give him a moment or two extra. The effort . . .”

He reached out and pulled her to him. He knew this was no less painful for her. “I’m sorry,” he said in her ear. “I should have waited for you.”

She squeezed tight against him. “We all mourn in our own way. You needed to. I came as I could. Imrail is well on his way now. Avela and the escort you ordered should be far north of Caldor. Lars ordered them not to stop until they cleared the city. The men here need time to recover. You need time to recover. There were casualties, I am afraid. It may be another day or two before they can move on Rolinia as you and Imrail intended.”

He nodded. He should have expected it. Well, that did not mean he had to sit here and wait the day out. Judging by the scent in the air she had steeped herbs. Someone had also sponged him clean. He suspected she had done so herself. Moving carefully, he tried not to wince with her dark eyes, softer in hue now, following him. Her hand traced his upper arm. He traced the curves her trim outfit revealed with some regret. She was still with him at least. Remarkably. Completely.

“What time is it?” he asked, throat hoarse.

“Near evening.”

“How far to Rolinia?”

“Two days at least.” Trian said.

That far. Well, the hunt was almost at an end. He had to finish it. He imagined Rolinia was in chaos. What he found would dictate whether or not he could risk what he had been planning. Caldor had proven he was capable of extremes. The problem was it had likely siphoned off some of his strength. Strength he would need in the days, in the months, ahead.

“I need to look in on the outfits,” Luc said.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I will go with you.”

“No.” Judging by the tight lines under the eyes, she had spent most of her time fussing over him. Turning so he could kneel, cringing at the shooting pains that lanced through him, he gripped her forearms with both hands. It took everything he had in him not to weep again, her eyes were that piercing. He had lost one friend already, and with him, a part of his youth. With her, it would be the end of time and existence. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. Soon she was the one mourning. He let the grief take her, speaking softly. Some time passed. The feel of her warmth against him steeled him some. They had come a long way together, but had even further to go. Indulging in a single kiss, he set her in his blankets, waiting until she closed her eyes and her breathing slowed.

He began to brood immediately.

He took only what he would need. His sword and a few belt pouches that jingled when he handled them. The Ruling Rod. The Light Armor hanging on one shoulder. Exiting, he paused at the tent flap.

I love you,
he sent the thought out, then ducked under the tent flap.

A light touch like an infusion of warmth filled him. He wondered if she heard him.

There were instant bows and greetings when he appeared under a sky laced in red and gold. Dressed in his customary silver and black, recently pressed, each booted footfall made his head throb. He tried to ignore it. Lars immediately came to attention. The Companion at times had been Imrail’s polar opposite. Brash, ignorant and headstrong, but in recent weeks he had tempered his willfulness with an unpretentiousness Luc suspected would make him far more reliable, capable of leading men. Perhaps even the Ancaidans. For now he was the most obvious choice, Urian and Graves close seconds. He supposed it did not matter. Each would have a role before the end.

Surveying the open terrain, he studied the armies they had assembled. They were stretched out across the terrain beyond the boundaries the naked eye could see. The time was coming when they would either liberate the people of Ancaida or seize it in opposition of the Furies.  

Luc moved to the fireside where the Companion had been speaking to some of their aides and lieutenants. “My Lord,” Lars said with a bow. “I am pleased to see you well.”