The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (53 page)

“Come,” Vandil said. “We are at the beginning. Or the ending. I would prefer to speak in private. Landon,” he snapped with a sharp gesture of the hand, “it’s good to see you.  I need you to get acquainted with my colleagues. They can be trusted. They will provide you with maps and our troop positions.”

“Do we send word to our forces and position the men to take the city?” Lars asked.

“Yes,” Vandil said, still with his eyes on Luc. “It’s past time. Get moving. The Lord Siren and I will return in one hour.”

* * * * *

Garbed in his customary light armor, Vandil led them through the musty caverns, descending now. Feeling his way along, Luc traced a hand across the seamless stonework, reminded sharply of the Shoulder in Peyennar. He wondered if this too had been the work of the Builders, the mythic people who predated the rise of the Nations. Whatever the case, the tunnels were no doubt of a construction long since forgotten. Movement and bits of conversation in the lower parts suggested Vandil had assembled a sizeable force. From what he could see, those not asleep were engaged in vital tasks. Occasionally they passed men in numbers, heavily armed, moving in the opposite direction. Seeing the three of them, they inclined their heads and paused to exchange words with Vandil. The hard-faced general was curt. It seemed he had ordered teams to sweep through the Lower City under the cover of nightfall. Grim work from what he had seen thus far.

Continuing on, other than the stale air, breathable, he found the lower reaches tolerable. Torches at even intervals revealed the excellent stonework, walkways and adjoining halls virtually impenetrable. No doubt now who had coordinated the city’s resistance. Walking beside Trian, Luc inhaled and exhaled, steps growing more and more tiring. Taking a sharp turn, eventually Vandil led them to a side-chamber, likely his own. A series of maps hung on the far wall. Vandil entered and struck two lamps. A stone slab sat low, requiring them to sit cross-legged on a few throw rugs directly on the floor. Unbuckling his sword-belt, he set it beside him. Remarkably Vandil appeared unchanged, still the dominating presence he remembered, authoritative, forceful.

Making no move to sit, Vandil looked them over. His dark beard had not been trimmed in some time, and his frame was perhaps even more powerfully muscled. One thing had not changed, though. Those eyes of his were no less probing. Crossing his arms, he seemed to hesitate. “You’ve changed,” he said after a moment.

“Maybe,” Luc said offhandedly. “How did you get news so quickly?”

Vandil barked a laugh. “I did not, other than word from the Hundredfold gate. Let’s just say I had access to other . . . insights. The Lord Viamar has been waiting for your star to rise for almost two decades. I would dare say the day has come.” Vandil shot a momentary glance towards Trian. “For both of you, it seems. Your strides are different, boy. Your eyes, cold like a winter’s breath. It’s happened.” He did not sound displeased. “What of Imrail?” he asked, changing the subject.

Luc stiffened. Vandil continued to watch them, then suddenly turned, letting out an explosive breath, gripping the far wall with one hand.

“No . . .”

It took the man some time to recover. He appeared to be muttering under his breath, face visibly ashen in the lamplight. Passing a hand across his face, the burly man looked at a loss, shaking. “How . . . ?” In some ways the sight of the man just then was almost as gut-wrenching as Imrail’s final moments. Feeling the guilt rise up his throat, Luc clenched his hands into fists. Trian touched his arm, but remained silent. All of their hopes seemed at an end. They were like moles in hiding waiting to be picked off one by one. Still feeling the chords of the First Plane searing through him, his thoughts turned to destruction. Final and complete. He had Elloyn beside him, but they were alone in a world neither of them fully comprehended. Finally turning a bleak eye on them, the general looked at them with fury in his eyes. “How?” he demanded.

Not sure how he was ever going to begin, he sank forward, elbows digging into the stone slab. Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he sighed, willing himself to speak. He had to wet his lips and swallow several times prior to beginning. In the end an hour hardly proved sufficient. Luc glossed over the latter events in Peyennar and their arrival in Alingdor. Imrail’s death still stung. With Trian filling in much of the gaps, Luc mulled over his plans even as he spoke. The rushed crowning hardly seemed worth mentioning, but he thought he detected a hint of approval in the man’s eyes. If confirmation the Furies were at work concerned the man, Aurin Endar’s defection alarmed him. It appeared the Guardian was well known throughout the south. Outside of confirmation that the Lord Viamar was well and his mother firmly commanded the nation, it was their march south and the skirmishes with the Earthbound that primarily concerned him. Vandil forced them to detail each of their engagements with the Earthbound, bringing them full circle back to the beginning.

News of the Whitewood and Triaga finally saw the man seated. No doubt he was waiting for word of Imrail. The general made mental notes of their push into Ancaida and the troops closing in on the Ancaidan capital, but did not ask questions. That left Caldor last. Fitting, that. Leaving Trian to conclude the tale, Luc felt himself growing anxious. He stood, wishing for a bit of air. Perhaps a warm bath. Before he knew it, though, Vandil was exiting the chamber.

Puzzled, he glanced at Trian. “This is bad, Luc,” Trian whispered. “I think he means to retaliate. Tonight perhaps.”

“Yes,” Luc agreed.
Retaliate with vengeance.

She looked at him evenly. “Will you at least tell me what you are planning?” she asked.

He hitched himself uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

She tapped her chin, onyx eyes narrowed. “I know you. I feel you. You have been planning something for some time.”

Trying to keep his head from swimming, he took to pacing. No use hiding anything from her, not that he wanted to. A film of perspiration made him wish he could shed the armor. He needed to think straight. They had spent weeks frantic to just make it here in time. All of the effort, the grinding, and still the city had been lost. That it was more or less still intact was something, but at what cost?

He was about to respond when Vandil returned, several men following on his heels. Some entered with assorted refreshments. Others dragged in additional blanket rolls and pallets. The general himself wore an expression that was frightfully bereft of emotion. “You may spend the night here, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said. “Under the circumstances I think it best you remain in hiding until we position our forces.”

Luc was about to object, but the man gave him a look that stayed him. No doubt the loss of Imrail cut deep. Vandil continued coldly. “The Heights are lost. That, I think, is where we will find the renegade Diem and the Sword.” His look became pointed. “You wounded him, no doubt, but your enemy is no fool. He had plans laid out and set in motion long before his arrival. Besides the Ancaidans he has subverted—a sizeable number—he has amassed a Legion force likely well beyond the one he threw at you at Caldor.

“Despite all of our efforts the enemy is entrenched, boy. This will be far worse than Peyennar or Caldor. I’ve made certain arrangements. It took a few days, but after making contact with the Privy Council and secreting them out of the Councilor’s Court, they gave me full command of the remaining the loyal Whitefists—Ancaidan loyalists. The Ancaidan army, Lancers, on the other hand, those that have not been subverted at least, have for the most part either joined us or assisted in the resettlement of the populace. That leaves us thin for the moment until our forces arrive. Between now and then we need to find out what is going on in the Heights and at the docks. By night there are sentries posted. Earthbound sentries. The Fallen may be pondering a move into the Lower City. Without confirmation, I would be negligent to permit your departure. So I say again, stay here.

 “One last piece of advice. You gambled at Caldor. In the end it may have paid off, but this is not over yet. Reports are the Fallen had help re-entering to the city by way of the Merchants’ Quays. There was a frightful display along the Heights. You can be sure he will be waiting for you.”

“We will remain here, General,” Trian said quickly. “There are some matters he and I can discuss.”

Vandil studied them a moment before nodding. “Make certain you do. These men will see to your needs. I will be back when I can.”

* * * * *

Neither of them saw Vandil again that night. Not surprising. The man had left tersely, the cold light of fury in his eyes. Luc understood the feeling. Something in him told him the time had come, but he had to be ready. He could hardly afford a misstep now. One of the Ancaidans entered and inquired if he and Trian wanted to wash up before eating. Odd having outlanders seeing to the safety of Ariel Viamar’s son. Exchanging a glance with Trian, they both nodded, his absent, hers definitive. Best to avail themselves of the opportunity to erase the stain, if not the memory, of the long road to Rolinia. Fortunate the lower levels had such amenities. After an hour or so dozing in a tub in an alcove with three others sitting in the cramped confines, he scrubbed the dust and dirt out of his hair with a cake of soap and lathered himself fully before rinsing and drying off. Taking his time dressing, he paused. On the surface the dim sound of the Harbingers began to toll, but there were other forces at work that made his skin tingle. Even beyond the point of exhaustion he knew he could not afford to wait. The World-Axle was bent, if not broken. Memory itself was at stake.

And if he was not mistaken, one of the Furies was here.

Whatever action he took, it had to be immediate and decisive. His time. His choosing. Bending, he retrieved the light armor. He was about to tug it on when Eduin Lars appeared, Urian a step behind. “Vandil went topside,” Lars told him. “He suggested quite firmly we would be best served staying here. I do not think he will relent. Altaer told him we—I should say
you
—are shielded in some way here. I told him I was doubtful you would stay on long. He has arranged a meeting between the loyalists and the First Minister. He worries when we are done there will be no one left with any authority to hold the nation together. In exchange for his support, Ancaida formally opposes the Furies.”

Luc caught something else in the man’s eyes. “What else?” he demanded.

“I suspect Vandil means to make a surprise assault.”

Luc exhaled. He tried not to glare. He was tired. A tired man on the brink often grew impatient. Reckless. He had to be cautious. They had what was left of the night to rest up and remain in hiding. Some sudden memory brought up a spark of indignation, though. Sirien was not one to hide. Well, the city was all but deserted. A day, maybe two, and then he would spring the trap. The Furies thought he was prepared to give up the Ancaidan capital to retrieve the Sword of Ardil.

They could not know he was prepared to give up the Sword to save it.

Buckling on the straps to the armor with one hand, he glanced at the two Companions. “We need a few hours at least,” he conceded. Time enough for Rew to do whatever it was he intended. Blast him the Acriels were going to hang him if anything happened to their son. “I need to get closer to the surface, though. Set a watch on Trian and . . .” He fought off a grimace. “Tell Lenora to stay close to her and that other girl. We’ll sleep in the upper barracks. This will be over soon.”

Over and done with.

Lars nodded, face unreadable. “As you say, Lord Siren.”

A day and night passed. If the World-Axle still turned, the earth no longer beat to the rhythm of its heartbeat. A steady stream of runners going to and from their camps soon became a deluge. The word they brought was not entirely unwelcome. Convincing him there was nothing he could do but wait, Lars and Graves coaxed him into returning to the caverns. He had done so only to find Trian, Lenora, and the Tolmaran with the honey shade of hair asleep in Vandil’s quarters. The sight brought him to a sudden standstill. A full contingent of their best men stood on duty and at attention. Deciding it best not to linger, he took to wandering until he pushed himself beyond exhaustion. Feeling the need to be close to the air on the surface, he returned to the makeshift barracks and tried not to get in the way. A full day fingering the Rod and the shard at his neck followed, making him feel as though he was going stir-crazy.

Meanwhile, the Sword of Ardil continued to drum in his ears. The low murmur soon became hypnotic, resonant at times, but at others insistent, demanding. It was a relic from another age, and at the moment cried out in agony, in loathing, hating the hand that wielded it. Weeks prior its pulses had led them to the far north. Now it was within reach, though firmly in the hands of a creature beyond redemption.

Just after midmorning into their second full day, Luc paused before entering the anteroom where Lars and two of their lieutenants were waiting. Having spent much of the night battling spells of uncontrollable sweats and convulsions, waking more times than he could count, uncertain if he was in Ancaida, Peyennar, or some other Plane of existence, he found himself wondering what was worse, the waking or the waiting, latent memories encroaching on what he knew he must do. His attempts to leave had been rebuffed by the Companions, at least until they could find and notify Vandil. A good thing the man had finally been located.

Eduin Lars and Landon Graves had taken alternating shifts at his door, often peering inside as though worried he might disappear. When they did they revealed a handful of newly arrived Redshirts and Silverbands standing watch. Vandil had given the two men a few additional tasks, but for the most part the pair took charge over their arriving forces. With Urian and Altaer out combing the city and Trian still below, he felt numb. He thought he’d dozed off sometime just short of dawn, not long after the sound of the Harbingers had finally dwindled. Prior to exiting he moved to a porcelain basin someone had dragged into the quarters and dipped his palms into the crystalline water. Drenching his face, he closed his eyes and let the feel of the water momentarily consume him. Word was some of the men had found a sizeable number of Ancaidans dead in the city. He was not sure about the circumstances, but the description of corpses huddled together, ripped to shreds in some places, in the hovels and back alleyways of the Lower City, left a cutting, lasting impression.

At least a half hour passed while he summoned up the will to shake off the depiction. In the end his thoughts invariably shifted back to Imrail and Caldor. He suspected had Amreal been here his uncle would have told him it was not his task to order the world or mourn every soul the Unmaker devoured. Unari did not have it in his makeup to mourn, but Luc did.

Exiting, he tried not to let the worry or fatigue show when he reached the others.

Seeing the majority of their aides already present, he swung his eyes around the room. “What word?” he asked no one in particular.

Several men exchanged guarded glances. Most had taken to wearing their coats open, leaving steel bared. The humidity had grown worse in the ethereal cloud cover. After a moment Lars stepped forward. The oftentimes brash man assumed a look untouched by his former air of arrogance. He had always had something of Imrail’s height and presence. Now he had something of the man’s stern, sometimes grim demeanor.

“Vandil made an attempt on the Heights,” Lars began. “Preliminary reports indicate he successfully made the crossing.” Luc found himself involuntarily taking a step forward. If Vandil had done so, he must have found a ship. “It’s unclear what he uncovered,” Lars went on. “Prior to the attempt he arranged a meeting between General Grivas, Minister Thresh, and the Privy Council. He’s worried about the continued stability of the region. We have no accurate death count, but thousands have fled to the camps at the base of the Peaks, others north along the coast. Still more are likely moving east to the Free City. The Lower City is all but abandoned, the People’s Plaza only somewhat better off. That is about how things stand at the moment. By nightfall the bulk of our forces will be in place and in position. We are almost ready.”

Luc nodded, trying not to pace. “What about the Earthbound?” he demanded.

Lars looked a bit sick at the mention of the name. “Just a handful of sightings in the Lower City, most at night, but the fighting was something fierce for weeks ongoing, bedlam in the streets. Houses torn open, Ancaidan engaging Ancaidan. Shades and wights crippling the populace. Fortunate Vandil arrived when he did. Now the enemy appears to be waiting. There have been signs of a stirring at the docks, though. One man claims he saw Almarans landing during the night moving in secret. Others indicate the armies of Emry have been sighted. I am not sure what to make of it, my Lord. I wonder if Acriel and this Nasser had something to do with it. Other than that, everything is silent. Too silent.”

Eduin Lars paused. He still looked a bit gray-faced. “Last night I risked a firsthand look at the crossing, my Lord. There is no doubt now,” he added seriously. “The Legion is rising. I sense it. I feel it. I know it. This will be worse the Caldor. Far worse.”

He finished it in tones of granite. No one bothered to question how he knew. It was one of his innate talents. “They’ll raze the city if we wait too long,” Landon Graves said.

Luc wrung his hands. They were almost out of time.

Anxious, even agitated, he found himself preoccupied while their scouts and aides continued to report. Unaware, he subconsciously strained to reach the Tides, tracing the fluxes above the city. No sign of any direct manipulation, but the currents were puzzling, somehow unstable. He wondered what his father would have made of it.

It might have been three, maybe four hours later when a slight stirring outside caused them all to shift their attention. The waiting had been draining. He was conscious of Trian and Vandil arriving at virtually the same instant. The general looked wind-worn and noticeably rigid; nearly two dozen men trailed him, most almost as hard-faced and a few sporting bandages and other cuts or bruises. Several paused or nodded deferentially as they continued through the anteroom. Most were Ancaidans, Whitefists and Golden Lancers. That was surprising. The Whitefists mistrusted the Lancers almost as much as they did the First Ministers. More perhaps. Vandil must have been persuasive to win their trust. Luc locked eyes with Trian then. Lenora and the Tolmaran with the intricately braided hair moved in alongside a handful of retainers.

Keeping his gaze on the Val Moran was far from easy. He loved her. There had never been any doubt. Now he had to leave her. Perhaps for good. Something in her eyes told him she knew the time had come. Two nights had passed uneventfully, either Altris at work or Ansifer planning his next move. Luc himself had been afforded the opportunity to grieve and shake off the memory of Caldor, not that one could ever hope to achieve such a feat. Now he could only do what he had planned from the outset and hope it would be enough. Meeting her eye firmly, he gave her a tight nod.

“General,” he said over an account from Gantling, “I am moving into the city.”

Vandil gave him a level look. Direct. Probing. Finally, he moved forward. A single glance set men in motion; a raised finger brought their advisors crowding forward. “The Lord Viamar-Ellandor has spoken,” Vandil barked. “I trust you know enough of his and General Imrail’s plans to implement them. If not, let me reiterate. I want the Plaza restored and the Merchants’ Quays in our hands by nightfall. Take two thousand at least. The Harbor Gate may be contested by Almarans or Guardians. Or both. Find out if they are here to aid us. If Endar makes an appearance, finish him.” He stabbed a meaty finger at Ildar. “I need another thousand at the Plaza from your ranks. The last of the Ancaidan people are in hiding with the Privy Council. We must speed their escape. Ronan Thresh has orders to hold that point, but his Ancaidans are . . . ill-equipped to deal with the Legion. Send the rest of your outfit to hold the Lower City. Gellart, Harden, and Tanis will join you. And mark me. You must hold that point. The Lower City is our only means of escape.”

Vandil paused, eying everyone in the room. “I want the Sons of Thunder and the Redshirts in position to make the crossing. I will ensure every available Ancaidan joins us. We have one ship, but that will not be available. We will need every barge or craft ready. Make skimmers if you must. Use what you must. Everyone else takes up positions in the Lower City. I will have the bulk of the Lancers there. Any questions?”

No one spoke. The silence was cutting. The plan was suicide and they all knew it.

They did not know there was still another option.

Glancing around the overcrowded chamber, Vandil made a motion towards Lars and Graves. There was only a brief shuffling of feet before the two men made sharp motions for their aides to proceed. Before he himself could take two steps, though, Trian caught his arm.

“Best you remember we have a few
matters
to discuss.” She made the words sound slightly ominous, but her eyes, seemingly liquid pools capable of snatching a man’s soul, shone fiercely. Stepping close, she reached a hand up to his cheek, then his neck, pulling his face down to meet hers. Feeling his chest knot up, he inhaled her scent, eyes closed, remembering. He was trembling when she finally pulled away sometime later.

He was grateful no one commented.

“We are ready,” Vandil said crisply. “Remember our fallen!”

Luc drew himself up. By the look on the general’s face, the man had no intention of letting Ariel Viamar’s son out of his sight. He was not sure if that was going to complicate matters or not.

Once out of doors, the sky dark and foreboding and the street crammed with waiting men, the remaining Companions hastily formed up an escort. Vandil walked with him and motioned him to one side.

“I must warn you,” the visceral man said. “This creature—your enemy—is not mortal. Do not underestimate him. I risked the Straights. The tide was low, but the passage was still hazardous even at midday. The currents are not natural. We could not use the moorings where the nobles and supply masters access the Heights and Elegran’s Square; too obvious. I chose to skirt the island instead. The stench of the dead was at its worst with the wind in our face. I lost two men moments after landing. Some creature deadlier than any Deathshade is patrolling the shoreline. Hundreds of Rolinian Golden Lancers are keeping watch, too—Ronan Thresh’s own men. There were others, mostly mindless. Some may be Pentharan, perhaps the ones you and Imrail detected in the Whitewood. Worse still, black creatures are on the prowl. If you choose to proceed with your plan and risk the crossing, we may lose hundreds. More, if we make it at all.”

The general paused, face momentarily breaking. “I almost lost my head,” he whispered, turning, hands clenched behind his back, features obscured. The admission sounded ripped from him, sudden and unexpected. Vandil displayed all of the emotion of a stone. Usually anyway. “Imrail and I were young men during the Stand. He had his pick of any posting.” The thick-bodied man paused, breathing noticeably uneven. “I suppose the shadow of foresight was on him. He knew he would serve two Viamars—Ingram was getting on in years, and he had . . .”

“Vandil . . .” Luc began, then sighed.

Vandil exhaled. “I suppose that can wait for later,” the man said, brushing the matter aside, voice still thick nonetheless. He turned hard on his feet. “I said I
almost
lost my head. We needed intelligence. Well, we have it. They are dug in. This Ansifer will not surrender the Sword without a fight. I suspect he has other intentions, however.”

Luc took a hold of the man’s forearm, forcing him to turn. Something in the general’s tone troubled him. “What do you mean?” he whispered.

Vandil stepped forward. “With you, we are poised to win here. But I do not know you. The world does not know you.” He passed a hand across his eyes, fatigued, angry.

Luc waited, hardly breathing.

“I would not presume to know the mind of our enemy,” Vandil began. “That I leave for you. But I understand the current political situation here. I trust you do as well.” Luc nodded. He understood it well enough, but he
knew
Vandil. The man was going to explain it to him, in great detail. “The Nations are watching. If we lose Ancaida, we not only lose the south, but all credibility and any hope of a unified Valince. After I arrived, I took steps and made contact with the Privy Council. I convinced them we were not dealing with Minister Thresh or an upstart. It did not take much on my part. The Legion saw to that. I convinced the Council it was imperative they make plans to abandon the city. I did not mince words. I told them the Ancaidan people needed them alive to choose the Ministers’ successors. I promised them safe passage to Penthar. I gave them my word. You must hold to it.”

Vandil continued to look at him pointedly. “You understand yet? You must understand. This is your moment, your opportunity, to make them trust you—to make the Nations trust you. But this . . .
plan
of yours. It has serious flaws. If you do not succeed, even Emry will abandon you.”