The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (52 page)

“She’s right,” Landon Graves said. “We need to find out who will welcome us—if anyone will. Perhaps if we wait until after dusk.”

Luc tried to mute out their voices. A hundred details were still going to have to fall into place no matter what they decided. But one thing he would not do. Hide. They had a city to retake and a people to rally. They could not do so skulking in the shadows. No, they had made their plans. Position their forces and rally the Ancaidans against the Legion. That meant making no secret of their arrival.

Starting forward, he considered it throughout the day. Pulses from the Sword sang in his ears. He was close now. The time was coming when their enemies would be called to account for the destruction they had loosed. He could not afford to be cowed or indecisive.

In the end he decided on the direct course, his team making straight for the Hundredfold Gate while the bulk of their outfit took up defensive positions just to the north. Close enough to aid them and still coordinate with their arriving armies. After waiting and watching for a quarter hour while Urian and Altaer disengaged, he took in a quick breath, heeled Lightfoot, and stepped up their approach. The Ancaidan capital ahead was fast becoming a city of woe. In a day or two it would be beyond saving.

They continued the remainder of the way at a deliberate pace. His companions increasingly glanced at the dead skies, skies that more and more reminded him of Perdition.

It might have been late evening when they finally arrived within sight of the Ancaidan capital. Difficult to say with any certainty under the black skies. Rivaling Alingdor in size, Rolinia was not walled, but waterways, inlets, and the rear face of linked structures provided a natural defense. Prior to reaching the northern entrance, the Hundredfold Gate, they paused. The barrier appeared a series of interconnected steel rods virtually impassible when closed, as it was now. Linked to two dominating square posts connected by a curved rampart, it did not appear quite as dominating as Alingdor’s entry points, but undoubtedly was no less effective. The question now was who controlled it. Making no attempt to conceal their approach, Graves unfurled the standard. Its metallic threads glinted even in the dim overcast light.

Having clearly observed their approach, expecting them, a full contingent of men in white and gold came forward. Even suspecting a trap Luc bore down on them. He was tired of the waiting. They had marched leagues to save this city from the Legion. The time had come. With a hand on his sword, he rode forward until he sat roughly fifteen to twenty paces from the towering gate. He counted more than twenty men armed with Ancaidan lances scrambling into positions. Tired men. Haggard and worn. Hardly significant. One looked them over warily. Seeing Luc, another shivered.

“This city has been sealed by order of the First,” someone said. “You cannot enter.”

“I am the
First
,” Luc snapped. “And you are in my way. Open the gates.” Behind him someone groaned.

Grivas and Ronan Thresh immediately pressed forward. “Who issued these orders?” Thresh demanded.

Murmurs and whispers ignited when the man appeared. It was obvious they knew him.

“We . . . I mean, well . . .” the city guard stumbled. “We have orders,” he said finally.

“What sort of madman would seal the city from people meant to save it?” Thresh countered.

“It has been sealed to protect the people fleeing it,” another man responded in low, hissing tones. “And from those who might enter under similar claims.” The Ancaidan stared hard at the two men. “I’m afraid you have lost the favor of the people, Minister. The Elegran Heights are lost. The People’s Plaza has been abandoned. Even the Merchants’ Quays are silent. The Covenant is broken. Shadows move in the dark. The Councilor’s Court is still guarded and in our hands, but if you are here, then your own estates are in the hands of an imposter. We have been getting messages from you for days. Messages that outrage loyal Lancers and Whitefists alike and are generally ignored.

“I warn you,” he went on. “Make no mistake, there has been fighting in the streets, looting, hints of open rebellion. Calls for . . . stronger governance. Well, that we leave to the Privy Council. We have held longer than most believed possible. By night there are only the screams and echoes out of the abyss. Shadows to crush a man’s will and spirit walk the streets. Worse. Diem. Blasted Diem hurling fire from the skies. The First has taken sensible precautions. If he is not one of the Ministers in disguise, we follow because he has proven he has the legitimate interest of the people at heart. Guards patrol the Lower City again and the Commons. Food is being distributed. Most able and willing have been given passage north. We will not abandon those remaining. We have been told to await a sign.”

The soldier was quite obviously ignoring the standard Graves held.

Searching the area beyond the soldier, Luc saw more and more men coming to the arched platform overlooking the highway. Now a solid company barred the way. He had no doubt the soldiers would remain intent on holding their ground.

“If you deny us entry you will have been duped by an evil that will see us all in chains,” Luc snapped. Tentatively extending his awareness out to the Tides, he immediately perceived the substance at the heart of the Making. Strands seemed somehow more potent here. He sent a ripple forward, just a sliver.
Have to be cautious. He could be behind this
. “What were your orders?”

Someone else came forward. This one was tall, head shaved, brows thick. He had a face that was on the gray side and eyes that were clearly battling fatigue. Still he forced his way through, earning more than one menacing look. “Enough of this,” the newcomer announced. “The city is sealed by order of the First. Your forces will not be admitted. You, however,” he added, looking Luc over deliberately, “are known to us. You will yield yourself in a gesture of good will. There are rumors of the size of your armies. We cannot stop you. But if you choose to gain entrance by the sword, know this. We will rouse the city against you.”

“This is madness!” Ronan Thresh lashed out. “We are here to save—”

“They have our sons and daughters, Minister Thresh,” someone else snapped. “Our wives. You saved yours without giving thought ours. We have our orders now and a task we will not fail.”

The soldier with the grim eyes held up his hand, silencing the others. “This one comes with us,” he maintained. “A small escort is permitted. We are to bind you but allow you to retain your arms. No other terms will satisfy the First. I am to warn you again. He knows who and what you seek. Then and only then will he consider whether to admit your forces.”

Luc heard several swords leave sheathes behind him. He did not try to stop them. “This ‘First,’ ” he said carefully, “he asked for me by name?”

“Yes. You are Anaris. He said I would know you by your size and bearing. Also by the sword you carry. I am told he gave it to you himself.”

Suddenly he felt the anger and worry rush out of him. Clearly things were more tenuous than he had first feared for a message of this sort to be so cryptic. “I will come,” he said softly. “Lars, order the men to disengage. Send for Urian and Altaer. Anyone else you think appropriate. Leave someone in charge with orders to wait for the signal, hopefully by nightfall.”

Lars saluted crisply and rode off at a gallop. Ahead the waiting soldier smiled a narrow smile. Luc felt his blood warm then. Clearly he was looking into the eyes of a Pentharan. Slowly, grudgingly, the gates opened. Ancaidans came forward, but it was the Pentharan who reached him first. Allowing the man to bind his arms behind his back, he twisted Lightfoot with his knees to ensure the others were suitably proper when they put hands on Trian. The waiting Tides called to him. Pulsating with power, he guided his horse to her mare. The Pentharan who bound his wrists understood his meaning and ensured his touch was light. Letting strands in the air take shape high above the city, Luc gave them their sign, clouds breaking, the light of the setting sun forming into an image twin to the one on the retreating banner.

Somewhere deep in the city cries rung out. Deeper still, the Sword of Ardil awoke. Feeling a sudden rush of wind, his thoughts turned to Imrail.

Thank you for seeing us this far. I will ensure you find peace and a world reborn when you awaken.

It took some time for Lars to return with the others. Seeing them, brushing his eyes hesitantly over the Tolmaran girl, Luc took in a steadying breath and turned expectantly.

“Are you ready?” the Pentharan asked him. Most of the others were staring at the sky. “We are ready,” Luc answered.

“Come then. The First is anxious to greet you.”

Riding in pairs, captors and captives alike, Luc took in the heart of the Ancaidan realm, numb, battling fatigue and worry. Weeks of planning, weeks spent marching through the wild, lives uprooted—
so many lives
—all in anticipation of this moment. The section of rope binding his wrists had only loosely been tied off. A glance at Trian told him she was free of any discomfort. The Giver help him but she was beautiful, constant, unyielding, back straight and hair flowing freely. He had to force himself to focus. A number of guards appeared to be having similar difficulties.

Rolinian streets were nothing short of opulent, smooth, reflective, white-washed and tiered. They appeared seamlessly interconnected, linked to bridges and suspended walkways. Some were reinforced on the underside by forged beams and rods, swaying ever so slightly as they passed. At this hour the waterways shimmered and glistened in the dim light. Picturesque other than the black skies above. Moving cautiously, they made their way into the Lower City.

Men in gold and white openly patrolled the streets. Some had tied off green rags across the upper arms. Abruptly he realized their captors were similarly attired. That was when he saw the bodies, some covered with canvas. Some not. The salty, sultry air had lulled his senses. Some of the corpses were days old. Taking it in, other signs of a significant skirmish or series of skirmishes became apparent. A nod from Lars told him the Earthbound had been through these parts. Recently, he suspected. How the Ancaidans had held was beyond him.

“As you can see, Minister Thresh,” one of their captors said, a thin man with a smart mouth and a seedy look, “we have had a hard time of it. Food is scarce. The First holds the Lower City by a fingernail. The south is lost. The Whitefists and remaining loyal Lancers control the People’s Plaza, but the Merchants’ Quays are deserted. All of our ships have left port. The docks are silent. Earlier today explosions were visible along the Elegran Heights. Some creature of power and wrath holds it. It appears some of our own—some of your own—are backing it.”

Ronan Thresh said nothing. His rank either dismissed or disregarded, the First Minister’s wrists were also bound. As they worked their way through the city the gauntness returned to man’s face, eyes sunken. It was perhaps the first time he appeared defeated.

Like Alingdor, the Ancaidan capital appeared to have distinct districts; unlike Alingdor the city was still and ominously silent. A shroud hung over it. Once the hub of daily life, the Lower City appeared abandoned, few lights evident in any of the homes they passed in the outer ring. Signs of forced flight were apparent, tools of considerable value left negligently under awnings or in open work sheds. Larger structures were just as still. Some stood vacant, while others had been boarded up. Still others had been put to the torch after being looted. He immediately perceived the difficulty—the virtual impossibility—of attempting to breach the city from all sides, two and three story buildings crammed up tight, streets narrow, alleys dark. If the city ever came to be occupied by enemy forces, it was going to take weeks to secure it. More. He hoped they would not have to find out.

With the hour steadily passing, the skies closed, the visible image of the Mark somehow persisting, etched in flame. A polarizing sight even for him. But it perplexed him. He had forced the clouds to retreat, a trivial thing really, a conscious thought. He had not given it the permanency it seemed to have now.

Continuing through the Lower City, the man who moved beside him made a slight gesture to the west. Dim cries echoed a few streets over. “Ignore it.” A few murmurs from some of the others followed. He caught one or two of words distinctly, “Viamar” and “Ellandor.” “Siren” at times as well. So much for remaining anonymous. Taking a passageway between an inn and a tanner’s shop, their party steered to the west. At this hour the city distantly reminded him of Triaga.
So empty.
Luc tried to quell a flash of anxiety, a pang of regret he had not come sooner. How many had made it out? How could they ensure so many were housed and fed?

Well, first thing first
, he thought coldly. He had unfinished business with the Earthbound.

“I am surprised this ‘First’ has been able to maintain this,” Grivas remarked behind them. “I’d be curious to know his name.”

“Names can be a hindrance,” someone remarked. Luc did not turn, but he suspected it was the Pentharan. “They can be misleading, and this is no time to mislead the people. We are taking the city back, General Grivas. Inch by inch. You at least will be welcome as your reputation remains in good standing.”

Grivas chose not to respond, but Luc could almost feel the man’s burning curiosity.

In all, an hour or more may have passed. By then his arms burned and his legs trembled. He was about to put the annoyance of having his wrists bound to an end when they came to a halt in a narrow backstreet. One of the guards dismounted and quickly reached up to unbind his wrists. Several men glanced nervously at the main street, at the skies. One or two tilted their heads, listening. Glancing between a pair of slant-roofed buildings, still intact, he rubbed his wrists. Inhaling, he reached for his sword.

“My apologies, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” the man with the shaved head whispered. “We are here. If you will follow me.”

Nodding, Luc turned to Trian. After she made a gesture to proceed, he started forward, hand on his sword. Three men exchanged signals in the dark, waiting watchmen with bows in hand. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the torchlight, but he thought one wore the silver and black. Two others saluted smartly. Inclining his head, he followed them through the narrow confines until they reached a pair of doors, open in the night. This appeared to be some type of a loading station, crates and hand carts stacked and lined up against the walls. Eager to put any remaining doubt behind him, he entered.

Stealing a quick cursory glance, he found himself in what appeared to be a storeroom. A lamp at the far end had been choked to give off only a dim light. Uniforms and equipment had been painstakingly stacked and separated from provisions. His boots did not bring up much dust as he passed into the next room, slightly larger. This one held recently oiled weapons in barrels and crates. Workbenches fixed with files and other tools made him second guess his original supposition that this was an ordinary warehouse. Here a detachment of Ancaidans held watch, uniforms smeared, faces unshaven. No one moved to impede their forward advance, but the palpable sense of relief in the glances they shot each other told him their arrival had not only been anticipated but was welcomed.

Luc felt one of the Ancaidans brush by him into the next room, this one larger, lined with oak tables that could have seated eight to ten at a pinch, settings, while not elaborate, hospitable, even the benches polished to a luster, the floor smooth and swept, walls with hanging weapons and tapestries on display. Torches and a stone hearth gave it something of a reassuring feel with the city locked in stasis. A host of the men sat or stood while they ate, most looking haggard. Women moved among them, some serving alongside men, others seated, garb noticeably functional. Their glances seemed weighing. Luc chewed his lower lip, continuing forward. Accommodations stood on either side of the next corridor, not so narrow here. The main chamber beyond was spacious. Bedrolls and bunks had been dragged within. Several men were asleep. They passed a set of stairs to the left—also guarded—continuing until they came to another corridor with several workstations, likely for workmen whose sole function was to sift through and respond to reports. A few were still hard at it even at this hour. More and more the place reminded him of a military station even if it had the look and feel of an inn.

Eventually they came to a heavily guarded wing, men in pristine white and gold uniforms standing at attention. At a curt nod from the Pentharan, they moved aside. Two sprang forward, though, moving to raise a section of the floorboards made to appear flush with other panels. One of the men hoisted it up, revealing a set of stairs descending into the darkness. Taking a torch, he paused, looking their party over.

“Forgive me for skipping the pleasantries, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, face pale. “There have been spies and other less friendly ears. The First awaits you down here. If you will follow. My word you will find no enemies here.”

Shifting his sword so he could pass through the narrow confines and grip the reverse, ladder-like stairwell, he nodded and followed after the man, descending carefully, rung after rung, pausing midway to hold back a wave of nausea.
Aravi, why?
Something seized up in his chest. He thought he heard a throat clear up above meaningfully. Aware he was being sized up by the Ancaidans—Whitefists likely—he forced himself to continue, battling sensations of loss, incalculable rage, unsure which outweighed the other. Managing not to stagger when his feet finally hit firm ground, he struggled not to seize the Ruling Rod. How could he go forward with the man gone? With Amreal gone? Naeleis and his uncle had both appeared to the man. Was it something of select importance about Imrail? he wondered. If so, why him? Well, it did fit on more than one level. After Vandil’s departure Imrail had almost singlehandedly coordinated the defense of Peyennar and most of their plans for the nation; he was the mettle that kept the Pentharan forces moving. His father trusted the man. His mother seemed to hold him in a singular esteem. Somehow he had won the respect of the Redshirts—Gantling included. Who was going to take control in the man’s place?

Abruptly he understood. The warnings, the forced education. Amreal and the Oathbound may have begun it, but Imrail had concluded the lesson with a finality only his death could bring.

Folding his arms, he caught the attention of the Pentharan who had managed to work himself into the Ancaidan resistance. “We’re out of time,” he told the man. “I need to send word to our armies. By morning we will have roughly eight thousand waiting to march on the city and aid in getting the people to safety. With luck we can have them in position and with appropriate orders by midafternoon day after tomorrow. We need to know what is happening.”

“The First is coming, my Lord,” the Pentharan with the clean-shaven head said, inclining his head. “There are certain . . . complications he will want to discuss in private.”

“The
First
fell,” Luc whispered in response.

“I remember you,” Altaer said abruptly, cutting in, moving forward as the others descended. Making a motion towards Lars, the spry man signaled the remaining Companions to form up around Luc and Trian. “This is getting tiresome,” the huntsman almost snapped. “The Lower City will be gone if we don’t move fast.” He glanced around them. They stood in what appeared to be a subterranean vault. “What is this place? We’ve had no word of it.”

“Forgotten tunnels, my Lord Companion. My understanding is the Ancaidan underground—lawless we would call them—used to make a home of it. With most of them out looting they were among the first to be butchered by the Earthbound.”

Luc stiffened. Even the Lawless deserved better. They had similar problems back home. Beside him he felt Trian grow markedly still. He could feel her pain. And her anger.

Deciding he did not like cramped spaces, even if this one had clearance enough for him to walk upright with room to spare, he studied the cold chamber. Bits of conversation caught his ears, muffled voices in adjacent corridors. The underground construction had a decidedly distinctive feel, the air pungent, cool, but stifling. Somewhere outside a bell seemed to toll. The piercing sound was distant but made him shiver nonetheless. Pulling his cloak closer, he took a tentative step forward to stand beside Altaer. They were in what appeared to be a tunnel, all hard stone, reinforced. No way to tell how far it extended. Attendants or guards stood in the immediate vicinity.

“We can’t risk waiting long,” Altaer warned again. His challenging tone was surprising. It had undertones of authority, and a touch of ominousness. “Where is he?”

“Here.”

Luc shifted. At once the worry and fatigue suddenly seemed to wash away.

Vandil.

The bulky, bearded man stepped forward, emerging out of the darkness down the tunnel. Three shadows walked some distance behind him. The general wasted no time reaching a knee. “My King,” he whispered. From a man almost as feared and revered as the Lord Viamar himself, the movement was startling. Luc was about to step forward when Urian and Lars moved to block him. It was Altaer who spoke, though.

“You look like Vandil,” Urian growled. “You
smell
like him. But we’d be fools to be so trusting after what those bastards did to us.”

General Armenis Vandil did not blink. If it was not him, the imitation was spot on. He was still about as burly as a bear, beard thicker. Still on one knee, he cocked his head at the bowman. “Your eyes are crossed, Angar, if you can’t see what’s right before them. You and I stared into the eye of the enemy and chose death over victory and salvation for one forgotten village, for a king not yet crowned. You and the Companions are not above the law or
my
authority. I understand Imrail commands the nation.

“
I
command the war.”

Urian grinned suddenly. “I guess that settles it,” he said. “Had to be sure.” Reaching a hand out to the man, he pulled the general up, clasping arms. After pausing to look them over, Vandil settled his eyes on Luc. Seeing them did not seem to hearten the man. If anything his piercing gaze was even bleaker.