The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (57 page)

Luc nodded. The latter seemed likely enough. Carefully studying the square, he caught sight of men battling fatigue, men determined to aid those yet to come ashore. Some were spellbound by the awesome forces still at conflict above the Ancaidan waters. The inlet itself was alive with activity. Two ships were docked, one that seemed to have taken a pummeling. Almaran, by the rigging. Everywhere he looked on the ornate shoreline with a tiered loading zone and raised levees, men were scrambling to secure the landing and prepare for a frontal assault. A team of capable Redshirts seemed to have the charge at the moment. One met eyes with him—Gantling, by the thick build—offering a solemn salute.

Turning, Luc bit back a grimace. He had to swallow twice to fight back the taste of bile on his lips. Lenora had foretold a grim end for the man in the near future. He only hoped today would not prove to be the day. Letting his eyes slide to the south, and slightly further, the gateway into what appeared to be the center of Ancaidan power was a hive of activity. Shaded by the not-so-insignificant garrison jutting up against the Raging Sea, the square stood firmly in Pentharan hands. Torches had been erected, revealing architecture with a definitive noble air. Men made their way through adjoining structures, still securing them, boots crossing the intricate cobblestone clearing, the standard at the heart thrown down and shredded. With the island all but abandoned, there was a palpable sense of turbulence. And a menacing presence.

Lars cleared his throat, catching Luc’s attention. “There is more, I am afraid. Someone is demanding a parley. She has . . . She is not one of us, my Lord.”

Luc froze.
This was it.
“Maien?” he demanded.

Lars shook his head. “Not so evil, if no less cold. She claims you will know her. She is waiting inside and has commanded we assemble every man within earshot.”

Luc gripped the Ruling Rod. He was drained and did not think he could face one of the Powers here. It had to be
her.
First Elloyn, then Reya. Someone else was out there, too. Despite the changes he had undergone, he felt compelled to answer. That alone made him all but certain who it was. Only one force under the ethereal winds could compel him. But that had been then. Now there were some moments when he wished he was nothing more than his mother’s son.

“My Lord?”

Luc pulled himself upright. It was not easy. “Gather the men,” he said. “As many as the place will hold. I will not hide any exchange that takes place here.”

Lars bowed, issuing sharp commands. Calls rung out, but Luc dismissed them. He had a battle to finish. The twilight hour was less than ideal, but no less so than a prolonged stalemate. “How do things stand currently?” he asked. Difficult to moderate his tone. The pull from the fallen Diem was so strong it was grating. Their song had cadences and rhythms that transcended time and memory. They were waiting for him. All of Ardil was waiting.

“No word from Urian and Altaer yet,” Lars responded. “Some of the Guardians arrived on the Almaran ship.” He made a backhanded gesture towards one of the sizable crafts docked. “Acriel was among them. We were lucky he had the wits to leave us when he did. This Ansifer had all but secured the docks in the city and had an ambush waiting here. Young Acriel appears to have led the rout himself and was one of the first to set foot on the Heights. Seems there was no one to lead the Guardians after Endar’s defection. After we joined forces, we gained the lower pass. The men are tired, but Graves has our best men in position.”

Lars leaned forward, looking at him seriously. “I’ve acknowledged I am not Imrail. I have no wish to be. Perhaps serving at the Lord Viamar’s door and losing him was meant to shame me. I don’t know. Now I can only serve as best I can. A word of advice if I may?”

Luc raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“A frontal assault seems the only option, but I would caution you against it,” Lars began seriously. “We have men in position to warn us if they move first. I understand you want to finish this, but I suggest you remain here. That is the counsel Imrail would have given. It is what the White Rose would have commanded. More, it is what the nation needs. Will you consider it? Have you decided?”

That was the question. Could he afford to make the first move? He felt cold inside, detached. But the pulsing heartbeats and the ever-present whispers stabbing at whatever soul he had left were no longer possible to ignore. Perhaps the subterranean tunnels and bitter crossing had masked it, but now no longer.

“The Sword of Ardil is here,” he whispered.

Lars mouthed something under his breath before tugging off one of his gloves. The sheen of sweat on his brow made it apparent he was still struggling to come to terms with his new role. A more than handsome man, the strain of duty had made him a touch more reflective. Luc, unsure which Lars he needed more now, drew in a breath, making a motion for them to answer the summons. Events would unfold as they were meant to.

Hard to say how much time passed before they were ready. Lars and the others would not allow him to enter until the entire first floor was filled. Redshirts and Silverbacks interspersed throughout, Ancaidans flanking them. When he finally made his way in there was no dismissing the presence that stood at the far end of the hall. Shimmering beads of white light surrounded her, a sublime form of unsurpassed beauty. And dread.

Luc held on, moving through the ranks of hastily summoned men, men bemused, Ancaidan and Pentharan alike. He touched the Rod looped through his belt to ensure it was still there, not pausing, not breathing. His anger mounted. His wrath. The core of his being came to life. He had felt this way before. Once on the lonely plains out of the faraway north. Again during the assault on the Shoulder. Unfettered, he felt his fatigue slide away, his fear. Outside the winds gathered. The storm shifted. And far away, in the heart of the Vale of Tears and at the crest of the Mountains of Memory, his ancient adversary became aware of him.

“Sirien.” The word was said gravely, in formal tones.

He came to a halt a handful of paces short of her. “Altris.” He did not fear her, not entirely. Her perfection was not lost on the assembled men, men witnessing the first meeting of the Powers. Her gown shimmered as she shimmered. Her hair, caught back by what appeared to be a band of light, was colorless. She looked like them in form, could have passed for one of them. But she was nothing like them. She was of the First Plane and like the others could sow chaos and destruction at a whim. Her true form at times appeared to superimpose over the daunting image she projected, but he was not sure if the others were aware of it. They knew only that she held a power worthy of their awe.

And their fear.

She looked around. “Where is Elloyn?” The creature seemed to speak from all sides and angles. A whisper. A feather on the wind.

Luc crossed his arms. “I do not know.”

She did not appear convinced. “The others are here. You have set events in motion that will forever change the First Plane, the Mirror Planes as well. They are decaying. That is my missive, my warning. Defend the First Plane or risk Naeleis claiming the Dread City for his own. I have summoned him but he has become reckless and rebellious. Thus I can only warn you. This war will lead to naught but destruction. You must choose who you would side with, who you would defend.”

He looked at her calmly. “I have chosen.”

“You cannot safely defend both Planes, Unari.” Altris said it in tenors of sudden intensity, urgency.

Luc—Sirien—considered showing her his power. Here she might doubt it. Here he doubted it himself, had doubted it on many occasions. Instead he replied obstinately. “You do not command me. I will do what I must.”

She stood straight, indignity rippling across her otherworldly features. “You defy my counsel?” No indication of emotion in that neutral tone, but the air became thick and the hall silent but for the occasional clink of metal.

He looked at her and could not help feeling torn. She was not his enemy and had not come here to issue challenge, but he could not walk away without taking it as such—for the Warden, who had nearly given all for this Plane, for Amreal and Imrail, among the first to give their lives for it. Staring into her inhuman eyes, he knew there was no choice. “You have said what you came to say.” His voice, cool and clear, shattered the silence. There was no mistaking the exhales of relief. Clearly there were several who still did not trust his intentions. “Leave,” he added. Not a request. “I will not abandon my people or the Dread City. That is what you are asking, no?”

“
We
are your people,” she snapped, almost a hiss. A whisper, true, but the hint of fear and disbelief in her inhuman voice was evident and would have made nations tremble. “You must remember that. We are scattered. If you do this there will be defections. If you do this, there will be losses that will cripple us. Do you not understand?”

He was almost certain he did. “Is that a prophecy, or the truth as you see it?”

“Both.”

He glanced at Landon Graves and Lars, at the assembled men of Penthar and Ancaida. “There are some who consider both worth saving, Altris,” he said softly, so only she could hear. “If I must, I will die trying. We are one. A unified Dread City will mean nothing if the Mirror Plane is lost. Don’t you see? We will all lose. And Ashar will have his victory. I say again, if I must die to prevent this, I will die.”

Die, and in dying find redemption.

Altris smoothed her features. The being of indefinable power and authority searched his face, his eyes mostly, then sighed audibly. Abruptly she lowered her gaze and knelt. “I will yield. The infidels must be punished for all time. I will read the signs and serve as I may. Go now. The Earthbound have unleashed the last of their strength. There will be much pain and sorrow, but there will be far more if you tarry this night.”

“A test?” he snapped.

She spread her hands. “I had to know your mind. I will tell the others. It will be for them to decide, as they did before.”

He stepped forward. “No quarter for the betrayers. You tell them that. Tell them
this time
they will not even know the mercy of the Third Plane.”

Turning on his heels, he propelled himself to the garrison exit. The ranks of men quickly parted before him, their murmurs awestruck. As he reached the door, a tide gathered, not the Tides of Infinity, but the first to pledge themselves wholly in the war against the Furies. He did not know it, but it gave the being behind him pause, grave pause, and, for the first time in the history of her kind, a feeling of uncertainty.

* * * * *

All was bedlam amidst the Heights. Explosions rocked the skies. They moved, angling upwards, tiered slabs of smooth stone dividing the island’s northern and southern reaches. As they made their assent, they came to branching cobblestone paths leading to even larger manor houses, but screaming men gave no quarter, gave no pause, Lars and Graves issuing orders that no section of the Heights be left uncontested. Once the beauty of the Ancaidan stonework would have dazzled the eye by moonlight, but this night the moon was hidden, and the stench of corruption made one reluctant to grapple for air let alone ponder the architecture.

On that final climb Luc felt is if he had finally awoken. Straining even as he ran with his sword unsheathed, he reached deep within himself, willed by his unconscious, and commanded the winds to gather, the clouds to part, the Mirror Planes to bend and warp. The touch of resistance he felt told him he was matched up against more than just one of the Unseated. Still, white light met darkness. The active elements, already charged with power, sizzled, swells and undercurrents making it clear someone was actively aiding him.

He had no doubt now. The Diem were here.

Ivon Ellandor was here.

With a full contingent of his private guard surrounding him, their combined host crashed into the Earthbound—Angrats, hounds of the dark; Deathshades, immortal spirits released from the Mirror Plane; Ardan, bred from the blood of the Ancients. Men from all four forces moved with a savageness that was stunning. He moved, no longer caught in fear, unleashing the wrath of the ages, allowing his two heritages to merge, perfectly balanced. He
had
chosen. Ardan were his prime focus; whenever a Deathshade appeared in the sky, a bolt of charged Tides or a plume of fire exploded, announcing where the efforts of the Diem were concentrated. When a shift in the Tides came, he struck, as he had once struck. The upsurge was becoming a torrent.

Wading into the forefront, a ring of dark-faced Almarans and Guardians engaged with Angrats moved to surround him. The stench of their blood made men freeze where they stood, but wherever he looked two Sons of Thunder stepped in to bolster a line that wavered. There were losses. There would always be losses. But understanding dawned in the minds of his forces. They fought, not for the Pentharan King or even the Lord Siren. They fought because the Legion was unnatural and the world would no longer stand idle against the tyranny of the Earthbound.

Abruptly they reached relatively level ground. The high ground, he realized. The air itself seemed to sweat and bleed. His sword glistened with Angrat blood, but no human—that would be as bad as the breaking the Ban. But Ansifer had a host of men fighting for him, which meant Ancaidans were fighting other Ancaidans. Shouting Whitefists, born among the Ancaidan lowborn to seize a place of power alongside the Ancaidan elite, wrestled alongside their Lancer kin. It made no matter now who was highborn, not here. Redshirts stood side-by-side with the Sons of Thunder, Almarans intermingled with the Guardians.