The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (54 page)

Luc stared at him. Was it truth or just some intuition? No, Vandil had a head for these matters. That was what made him invaluable. Turning, he risked a glance at the blighted skies. “I cannot lose.” He said it with some bitterness. He could not afford to lose. But there
was
another way. Glancing at the man, he tried not to appear defeated. “There is one more option.” He drew himself up. “I can sink that island.”

Vandil eyed him flatly.

“Not unaided,” Luc added, feeling flushed at what the man must have thought was either the world’s greatest jest or a blustering show of bravado. “It’s either that or risk the channel. If we regain the Heights and hold the Lower City, we win. We will do more than win.” This time Ancaida would ride on his heels and make the final push clear to the Mountains of Memory. The taint of the Furies and their master would be purged. He would see it done.

“One thing at a time,” Vandil told him. “You sink the Heights and you lose the Sword. No, I’d risk Shaiar again before I considered that course. We—”

He cut off at a sudden detonation to the north, the earth groaning in dismay, wincing in anticipation of the next blow. Luc gripped the man’s arm hard to keep his footing.
Too soon.
It was still the height of day. Another explosion followed, rocking the core of the city.

“Too late,” Vandil muttered, attempting to shield them from falling dust and debris.

“It’s begun,” Luc whispered, ice forming in his veins.

This time Vandil took his arm. “I will aid you, but you must give me something in return.”

Luc did not like the sound of that. “What?”

Vandil’s answering look was penetrating. “Your word you will not die. Penthar needs you, now more than ever.”

“No promises.” But he had a surprise or two in him yet. He could feel it now. Clearly. The storm he had contained for weeks on end coming now, coming to end the ancient wrongs and grievances against the Children and the Lords of the First Plane. “I’m ready,” he whispered. “Form the men up. It seems we have no choice now.”

Vandil nodded, face iron once more. “Graves! Gantling!” he bellowed. “We’re moving! For House Viamar and the Lord of the Winds!”

Luc, not hearing, was already moving. He had thought it before, but this time he would make certain it happened.

By day’s end Ansifer would pay.

* * * * *

Ushering the last of the departing Ancaidans up the gangplank, Angar Urian backhanded a Whitefist who sneered at him as he passed. The man’s mouth dropped, features incredulous. Well, the expression lasted heartbeats only until he came dangerously close to keeling over and plummeting face first into the water. Urian caught him and shoved him onto the deck with an extra bit of force. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor could hardly blame him. Not even the loss of their city was enough to mitigate their pride. If they reached Penthar, they would have to restrain themselves or they might find the locals less discreet than him.

“You didn’t need to do that, Lord Urian,” a woman chided him.

“No?” he sneered. “Let the rotgut take him. You won’t see better treatment in Penthar unless you lot remember the Lord Vandil and Siren made your escape possible. The last ship. The very last. Take your people and go. There are Ardan on the prowl. I should be with my king, not with you sorry—”

“I like your nose, Master Urian,” she said abruptly, tone serious. He eyed her flatly. She was a full-figured lass, he had to admit. “A strong nose,” she continued. “Strong arms, too. You have the Privy Council’s thanks,” the woman added, curtsying. That she meant it made little difference. “House Viamar has ever been known for her wisdom. And her generosity. I will see our people are suitably . . . grateful.”

He grunted and would have nodded but for a blast of fire that exploded dangerously close to the mast.
Ardan.
“That’s it! Cast off, you slobs!”

Turning, he leapt down the gangplank, narrowly holding his balance. Bow in hand, he landed solidly on the balls of his feet and did not pause to glance behind him. Another blast. Cursing, he bolted to a pile of rubble. He did not stop until reaching the cover of a smoldering column within sight of the Merchants’ Quays, what was left of it at least. The city’s opulence gone, the remaining foundation still spoke volumes of the Ancaidans’ pride. It rubbed more than one Pentharan raw that they were here defending foreign soil, but a minor nation spurning Valince in her hour of need. . . . He caught himself growling, locking his jaw to keep from cursing. Despite his loathing for the nation, it was now the sight of their first defeat. Better to vacate it with all speed.
No.
The Lord Siren would not suffer it. Rubbing the stubble on his face, he spat, reaching for a skin. The lad had changed—in just weeks no less. He had no doubt the change would be enough to send the degenerates responsible for the boiling sky back to the pits that had spawned them.

At a sharp signal from Altaer he sped on.

In the distance, a mile or more to the south, the Heights were just visible. His eyesight, still keen under the black skies, detected a fog or mist rolling inland. This was perhaps the closest vantage point next to the People’s Plaza.

As he understood it, the Council was a check to the power of the ranking ministers, a necessary one at that. An anonymous body of men and women, they were the last hope for peace and stability—if the Lord Siren was successful, that was. Vandil, in a rage at the news of Imrail’s passing, at least had kept his wits about him long enough to see to their safety. They were that important.

That anyone could escape at this juncture seemed improbable. The Earthbound had been cold and calculated, deliberate. Angar Urian, the intrepid Companion, known for his bluntness and brutality, skidded to a halt suddenly, sweat leaking into his eyes. Cursing, he cast a wild look around, over the shoulder and to the southwest. He had almost tripped over the corpse of a . . . Shivering, he bent at the knee. He thought he would have made eyes pop out of their sockets in Alingdor had the Protectors seen him pause over the corpse of a boy in his early teens. The boy had a bundle held tight at the midsection and his green eyes were still open. Open but vacant. Feeling cold, he bowed his head. A sign to Elloyn and the Giver made Altaer chew his lips worriedly up ahead.
I’ve a right to bloody feel.
He had hopes to return to his father’s holdings one day, perhaps with a wife on the arm—no fool highborn girl, of course. Brats of their own even. Standing, he growled and let the lad be. He knew he was nearing the brink. Such pursuits had never been possible, and now there seemed little left to hope for except thoughts of vengeance and an arrow into the heart of the Unmaker.

“Here!” Jisel hissed. Nodding, he put the image of the boy behind him and peered around at all angles. The Ancaidan ship was slowly setting out, men at the oars. Seconds later, he launched himself forward. The way was clear, unless the enemy could cloak themselves.
Damn me but they likely can and are.
Ducking behind another smoldering pillar, he tucked his shoulder in and rolled behind the next column with a grunt. Searching the quays for signs of the Ardan, he paused. Some of the smaller crafts in the shallow waters still gave off smoke. Seemed the Ancaidans used undersized floaters that resembled cutters back at the Watch to send messages or make errands. Those larger were likely what the nobles used to ferry themselves back and forth to the Heights. There was only one landing point, and though considerable, easily held and fortified. No ship, even had one been available, would have been able to navigate the waters between the People’s Plaza and Heights and hope to escape the destruction the Earthbound had caused here. Anyone hoping to flee north would have been similarly out of luck. After Caldor someone had gone to great length to smash the Quays. A bloody tangle indeed. One that made him curse and spit to no end.

“Pass me something to drink,” he muttered. “No water.”

Jisel chuckled. “You’re already sweating like a packhorse. Forget it. What do you see?”

Angar clenched his teeth to keep from lashing back with a biting retort. “I see shadows. Darkness and shadow. I tell you it’s not natur—”

To the west some sound shattered the silence. Not the piercing cry of the Harbingers. That could make a man soil himself. But in some ways far worse.

“It’s started,” Altaer muttered, wiping a film of moisture off his face, looking savage in the darkness, unshaven for days uncounted. “Master Tarvis!” he yelled towards the ship. “More speed! The city will be in chaos by dark. Worse than what you’ve seen. Make for Anneth. If the wind is with you, you will live to see Triaga. You have the First’s orders in your hands and the word of the Lord of Penthar. Go!”

Taking no chances with the future of Ancaida—what little of it there might be after all sides had collected their due—the Ancaidan Privy Council had been persuaded to leave, expecting the jewel of their nation to perish. He had to admit it took courage to do what they were attempting. A government in exile under the direct protection of the Pentharan Crown. Her people scattered to the north and east, they would spend years attempting to recover.

That in itself was bloody cruel. Vandil knew the city was doomed from the start. Whether some foresight or insight sent from Ellandor or the White Rose—he had received a missive even the Lord Siren was not privy too—there were years of exile ahead for the Lancers and Whitefists. It also meant Ancaida and Penthar were going to be joined at the hip. Most Pentharans would choke at the news. Well, it was up to the Lord Siren now to settle matters and save what he could. General Grivas and Ronan Thresh would have to hide behind his banner to convince those that had elected to remain behind. Word was it was Ellandor’s son, some being out of the Annals. A foreign lord and king. Most were afraid. Most were right to be afraid. Now Thresh had little time to make things right. The Council had rebuked him, almost stripping him of his rank and lands, not that he had access. He had Grivas, Vandil, and Viamar’s grandson to thank for the thread of authority he still held that gave him some say over what would become of his homeland.

Standing, Urian spat. “We’re done here. Might as well get on with it.”

Altaer nodded. He swallowed once, gripping the length of his long hair, tied at the neck, before taking a step forward, exposing himself. “Forward then. Nothing more we can do here. May the Giver and the Arm of Penthar defend them.”

* * * * *

Eyes watering, Rew hauled himself up, disoriented. All around him men were groaning. The Legion of the Earthbound was pummeling the city, the taste of Caldor still on their lips. This was their answer. The screaming air was new. Unsettling. Had Luc arrived? Rew imagined he had. That would have been the tipping point to unhinge their enemies. No thought of capturing Rolinia now.

Now the Furies were bent on annihilating it.

Not far to the east the docks were aglow, the fires blinding, incandescent; with the port all but smashed, two ships had turned hard about and were headed back for open water. Almaran ships, as if they needed the additional complication.

Something foul in the air made him pull a kerchief out and cover his nose. Angrats, likely. They appeared without warning. Twice ruptures or tears had flashed in his face. He was lucky Nasser and his men were intent on keeping his backside out of the inferno. They knew he carried Denail’s tokens. Odd how much weight they carried. He had scorned the man often enough. Now with Endar’s defection he found himself the lone voice left to lead them.

“Acriel—!” someone hissed.

Abruptly another pocket formed. Bracing himself, he
shifted.
The effort was grinding. He had done it twice already. No one said anything when he just slid forward, curling around the warped space. In two strides time seemed to stop. Men were leaping out of the void, men with golden tabards and lances that cut deep. Men who fought for the Legion. “Bloody turncoats!” he snapped, blades whipping forward. He still found the sound, the
feel,
gut wrenching. Ildar had found him someone with enough skill to show him the basics. Rew made up the rest as he went along. He had not wanted this, but in some ways never had any choice. Amreal had seen to that, binding him to Luc—to Sirien—from the beginning. Two Ancaidan Golden Lancers were dead before they stepped through. Nasser and his outfit finished up the others.

Continuing to pick their way through the broken city, the Guardians moved like an advancing swarm. Hundreds of seemingly regal men in polished breastplates and ivory fitted weapons. They were perhaps the most formal force this side of the Mournful Peaks. An army bereft of leadership. Many still doubted the defection of Aurin Endar. It seemed the man was not just one of the Guardians; he sat on the Virtuous Assembly itself. That privilege had been restricted to a handful, the Lord Denail being one of them.

“More Almarans,” someone grunted, pointing ahead.

“Forget them,” Nasser snapped. “Make for the People’s Plaza. Acriel, the docks are lost. I don’t see any way to get you across.”

That was the rub. Almarans swarming the city. Parts of it covered in shadow, others in fire and ash. Would they be reduced to sitting here and watching it burn? Fools, all of them. Aloof men who believed they could pull the strings on the Nations with impunity. He thrust the hilt of his dagger at the man. “You see this here and up there”—he vaguely waved a hand at the sky above them where the imprint of the Mark of Chaos still remained visible, a beacon of power. A warning—“you see that and refuse to believe?” He scarcely believed it himself. “There has to be a way.”