The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (58 page)

And somewhere out there, the Firstborn had come to surrender to the will of Sirien.

The clearing ahead was still considerable and gave way to rolling grounds, the wind crying out around them. He did not have to stop to consider which structure to go to. There was only one the Lord Ansifer would have chosen, the tallest, visible from the People’s Plaza. That and the ever-present pulses sounding in his ear paved the way, Ardil’s faithful bursting into song.

No, not song. Cries for vengeance.

Realizing he had grown cold once more, he forced himself to a heightened alertness. Turning in a semi-circle, he surveyed the surrounding area. Suddenly it was quiet. Someone called for orders. Searching the plateau, one would have a difficult time imagining Elegran’s Heights as the Ancaidan seat of luxury and power. He scanned the smashed walkways with flowery vines intertwined, trimmed hedges leading to carved busts and onetime peaceful gardens.
There.
He passed through a swarm of milling men, men still actively engaged.

Lars came up beside him. He looked like death, blood-soaked. “Do we make the final push in?” he asked grimly.

Luc shook his head. “No. Assemble the Companions. Order the troops to hold here. They are not to follow, clear?”

Lars bowed stiffly. “Clear. It may take some time to locate Jisel and Angar. One moment.”

If the man took issue to the orders, he did not voice it. Luc cut west following a branching footpath between the walls of two still-standing structures. The lane appeared to run clear to the rock face and the cold waters below. Attempting to mute out the stinging voices, he continued forward. With a little luck they might be able to skirt around and reach Ansifer undetected. His eye had to be pinned on their forces.
Just hold,
he sent the thought out.
You have to hold.
 Graves, catching the hint of determination in his strides, fell in a step behind him, just off his right shoulder. Someone had wrapped a bandage around the man’s right forearm. “Thinking of finding another way in, my Lord?” he asked when Luc finally halted, turning.

“Yes.” Their men had fought with purpose and given him the opening he needed. He would ask no more of them now.

He waited, hand on his sword, the skies above alive with churning forces.

He surrendered, and let his intuition guide him.

He breathed, and rode the currents forward.

His eyes popped open then. No regrets or thoughts of redemption. No thoughts of vengeance or retaliation.

Just forward.

Taking the path, he started into a brisk walk. Openly strolling in from the front grounds was the only other option.
He probably thinks I’m that arrogant
. Boots quietly brushing against the stonework, he felt suddenly liberated. He could not begrudge Altris for begging him to save the First Plane and the Powers. That was her role, to speak for the others. To warn him. But he had no need for such warnings now. Others had betrayed him before and would in the future. Hardly reason for a missive. So be it. He had come to liberate the Ancaidan people from the iron chains of the Betrayers. He would see it done.

Coming to a crag of nearly impassible rock, he followed the path around the considerable walls of the silent estate. Some of the Ancaidan holdings were no doubt firmly in enemy hands, but he was going to have to chance some were also silent. Behind him Altaer and Urian appeared, bows in hand. Neither was bloodied. Judging by their appearance, though, they’d had a time of it crossing the channel. Lars hurried up behind them, casting a glance over his shoulder.

“There is a feeling of dread still,” the soldier reported, face haggard. “A stench and shifting wind. I think the Diem are inside some of these and have engaged creatures under this Ansifer’s command, creatures we have not come up against before.”

Luc nodded. His enemies were not going to give ground easily. Glancing at the two bowmen, he waited expectantly. “Any trouble?”

Urian swore. “Damn near soiled myself twice crossing the water. Those straights could send a man clear to the open sea.” He muttered something under his breath, then peeled off his coat. “Thought that was bad, but the climb was worse. Like staring into a chasm.”

Altaer rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said. He glanced at Luc. “We were successful, my Lord. The Council escaped. Ancaida will be reborn. Has a chance to be reborn, that is.”

 Luc exhaled. Finally a victory—a small victory at that, but a first step nonetheless.

“Someone will have to take command back there,” Urian pointed out.

“Find Mearl. He’s steady. Remind him not to commit our men until we have no other option.”

Lars nodded, still uneasy. “I’ve seen to it.” He shot Graves a glare. “Damn it, will you stop stepping on my feet, Landon? You scared or something?”

Graves looked mildly sheepish. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s darker than midnight. Thought I heard something.”

The four men exchanged nervous glances.

It was difficult to ascertain the hour. He had some sense that the Axle was closing in on dawn, in these parts at least. The day seemed longer in the south at this time of year. Hard to say with the skies masked and the southernmost point of Valince still mired in conflict. This was the end. The final end. There might be no hope for the isle home to the Ancaidan ruling class. That meant the three Ruling Houses, other families of import, and perhaps even a few members of the Privy Council would have to relocate if they were found. Well, the Privy Council was safe now and some of the others were as well. Safe and, if all went according to plan, in position to rebuild what was left of the scattered nation.

Taking paths that saw them scaling the sheer places of the Heights, he kept his eye on the Thresh estate. They had Urian’s eyes to guide them and Lars’ keen senses to warn them if the Earthbound became aware of their design. Altaer took the lead and Graves brought up the rear. Each of them moved with a singular purpose. The plan was simple. Avoid a direct confrontation with the enemy and resist the temptation to loose the combined armies gathered—and likely still gathering. He had other reasons for keeping them out of harm’s way. The others chose not to acknowledge it. There had been some talk the Furies would see it as weakness. But from the start he had been wary of risking his people in a fight that predated the dawn of time. He’d expected the outcome would hinge on him.

He had not expected the others to stand and openly support him.

“Wait,” Urian hissed. “What’s that?”

Luc narrowed his eyes, trying to keep low on the uneven terrain. From their vantage point they would have had a clear view of the city. Now they were circling a manor and its vast grounds, halls of the Rolinian elite. The structure dwarfed anything he had seen in the Lower City. So close now.
He must be worried. Ivon Ellandor and half the muster of Penthar.
Why not flee? he wondered. No, that was not their way. The Lieutenant of the Furies had already been humbled once. He had fled across the entire continent. Yes, he was going to hold his ground here. A trap everyone expected. Imrail and Viamar had cautioned him about it from the start.

Now the final pieces were in motion. Time to see if the Fallen were as wily as they were malign.

He did not see it precisely; the light was too dim. But he did not need to see, not now. “Guards,” Urian told them, pointing down at a rear-facing garden.

“The stench . . .” Lars muttered. “. . . can’t . . . place . . . it,” he finished stiffly.

Urian took a few strides down the uneven decent, bow in hand. “I mark them,” he said around a snarl. “They’re dead to the world. Don’t even bloody blink. The clothes are mismatched—like the, like the—”

“The Whitewood,” Altaer finished. “Stay back. Imrail warned me she would turn up. If he was right, these sentries have been twisted by someone more seditious than the Fallen. There were signs of her passage along on the coast. Our best guess is she can see what they see. Some link.” He inhaled, pausing before turning to glance at Luc. “I’m afraid it’s likely they know we’re here. It may not be wise to continue.”

Lars pushed past him before he could respond. “And saunter in through the front door? That would be no better. This isn’t a midnight stroll through the Merchant Quarters. Damn it, bring them down already.”

No one argued. In seconds Urian had an arrow streaking through the air. But the men—if they could be called such—were fast. One tucked his shoulder and rolled to the side. The other bounded back. For a moment Luc thought he detected a grin on that one’s face. Impossible to be sure. No one missed the hissing shriek that pulverized the highlands, though. It was deafening, and heart-chilling.

Well aware they had been discovered, but still refusing to risk using the Tides, he waited, locked in indecisiveness. While Urian’s first arrow missed its target, his second took it in the throat even as the creature launched forward. Altaer’s aim proved just as true, but the being never shifted, never appeared to stop grinning, not even when the arrow ripped into its flesh.

“We need to move,” Lars ordered, holding a gloved hand close to the nose and mouth as if the odor was something material, perceptible. For some reason he was glancing at the skies above.

“No argument,” Altaer replied, if still somewhat hesitant. “Are we sure the Sword is in the Thresh holdings?”

“Yes,” Luc replied. There was no denying it—the Sword was here. Once he had vowed to retrieve it. Whether or not he would walk away after was far less certain. “I’m sure,” he added finally, trying not to snap. The feel, the pull, was that strong. He held out a hand. “That way.”

Altaer nodded and hitched forward.

Stepping up their pace, the huntsman moved with as much speed as could be risked, keeping low along the high ground. The terrain was nothing like the Mournful Peaks to the north; these hills were dagger-like and uneven. The hissing wind did not help matters. Difficult enough to scale the rocky ridge without it, reckless in fact. That, coupled with the darkness and the sound of crashing waves below, warned him a misstep would send any one of them to the Giver. Risking a glance to the north, his heart nearly stopped when he caught sight of the Lower City. Flames cut through the night. It appeared engulfed. Vandil and Trian were out there somewhere. Bands of people unable to flee the city. And the bulk of their forces.

Pausing, he hesitated.
Trian.

“Nothing you can do for them now,” a low voice murmured. “Not yet at least. Stay focused.”

Luc glanced over his shoulder, but saw only the faint outline of Graves coming up behind him. Before he could speak his awareness shifted back to the raging elements.
The voice.
It pierced his heart, penetrated the soul.

Amreal’s voice.

Choking back a sudden surge of agony, he knifed on, something in him beginning to kindle once more. He had almost no warning when a line of sizzling energy flared up at his feet. Not thinking, he reacted on instinct. The awakening beast within him smothered it with a thought. Sounds in the deep were non-existent as he arced forward, sword in hand. “Ardan!” someone snapped.

Abruptly a swell erupted from the originating point of the blow. The fury was instant, precise. The Tides launched with such precision could only be—   

“Watch out!”

A shard of lightning hammered at their feet. Lightning without thunder. Luc countered a second, a third. The storm in use against him. Knowing beyond doubt they had been detected, he caught Altaer and motioned to the man to make for the cover of a wall jutting up against the western buttress of the estate. “This is useless.” Luc almost cursed. “They know we’re here. No use hiding now. Come on.”

Altaer nodded, face moist with perspiration. “How far?”

“Close.” Muttering, Luc scampered down first, skinning a knee. When he touched it, his hand came away wet with blood.

They regrouped at the base of the rise. He had not realized how high they had been. Now there seemed no choice but a direct assault. The five of them against the forces of night. Well, that depended on how many troops Ansifer had committed to the assault on the Lower City and the gathering force at the estate’s entrance. Not waiting, he motioned for the others to follow, keeping to the cover of a stone wall. With the guiding pulses growing stronger, he held to the hope that he was ready. He had no choice but to be ready.

Landon Graves touched his arm, a worried trace to his expression. “I’m afraid you were right. I can sense
it
.” He did not sound pleased at the prospect and Luc was not certain what to say. “Difficult to fathom the enormity. There are strands that . . . touch  . . . everything.” A look of disillusionment flashed across his eyes. “Nothing will be the same, will it?”

Luc felt a stab of pity for the man. “Not for us, I’m afraid. Come on.”

They continued a handful of minutes. Cries in the distance made it clear the forces he had ordered to hold had engaged the Earthbound. Twisting eddies above, violent shifts in the imperceptible fibers of the Making, announced the Diem were still actively involved. Hurrying, steps thundering in his ears, he felt Lars and Graves brush by him suddenly, the two Companions dispatching four more men in mismatched apparel who spoke in a guttural tongue that raised hackles.

Luc raised a hand to his head, panting. “I’m sorry.” Fool thing, rushing in so headstrong. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, clutching his sword. He had to stop this now. End it.