The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (59 page)

Altaer was watching him. “You’re planning on going in without us.” It was not a question.

“There’s no way the five of us will be able to walk in. I’ll find—”

Abruptly something shifted out of the shadows not two paces in front of him. Swords blurred into motion instantly. “Hold!” The command came out in a strangled whisper.

“Acriel!” Urian mouthed. “Blast you, give us some warning next time before you’re gutted and unstitched for the crows to gnaw on.”

Rew just gave the man a grin, but it was about the grimmest expression Luc had ever seen on his friend’s face. Judging by his tattered clothing, dried blood at the arms and knees, he had been in the thick of the fighting prior to making the crossing. And after.

“How do you do that?” Graves asked before Rew could decide on a reply.

“Something I picked up.”

Luc stepped towards him. “You were waiting for us?”

His friend exhaled and passed a hand across his eyes. “I suppose so. The way in is ahead. Up there.” He pointed towards a raised balcony. Not so high that with a little help. . . .

“Wait,” Urian said. He was staring hard some paces off. “Ardan corpses. You . . . ?”

Rew shrugged. “I had help. You coming or what?”

The bowman whistled, giving the young man out of Peyennar an appraising look. Luc dismissed it. There was no time. Reaching the Thresh grounds, light spilling out, he waited, Lars squatting while Urian took the lead, hauling himself up onto the balcony with both hands gripping the edge. Pulling himself up with no hint of strain, Altaer went next. Then Rew and Luc. Just as Graves reached a knee, Rew spoke.

“Not you two. This is it. They are going to need you out front.”

“Do it,” Luc cut in when Lars began to protest.

Worry and alarm crept into the Companion’s features, but he was forestalled by Graves, who raised a hand in salute. “Go with the Giver, my Lord. We will defend you.”

Luc nodded, taking the first steps. Seemed the Guardian’s apprentice knew more of what was to come than he had let on. With a last glance at the two Companions, he raised a hand in farewell, still cold,
so cold.
He did not look at the two Ardan corpses but thought he could guess what—no, who—had caused their end.

Stepping into what appeared to be a guestroom or chambers for someone of select importance, he took three strides in before coming to an abrupt halt. Before them a woman stood wearing only sheer robes. The lamplight accentuated a full figure, and more, youthful features without blemish, almost perfect, chestnut hair like spun silk, skin smooth and expression inviting. That was not what made his breath catch. He thought he had seen her before. Twice before. Both times she had been cloaked and hooded. Now he was certain he was staring into the face of one of the Fallen.

“The witch of the Whitewood,” Altaer warned.

“
Witch!”
It was a soft laugh, like a winter snowfall. “Master Hunter, I should stop your heart for trading insults with your betters, but you are not why I have come.”

Luc opened his mouth to speak. That fast a crushing weight had him on his knees. He gasped, eyes watering.
Strong.
Blinking, he realized she was moving forward, silk robes parting sedately, her every move an invitation, and a promise for more. “I have awaited the Warden’s son and heir for more years than you know, my young prince. Did he ever speak of me? The last to join the ranks of the Diem. The last but far from the least. I have saved myself for you, Siren.”

He shuddered. Even her voice was enticing. “My name is . . . Luc.” It came out in a harsh whisper.

She raised an eyebrow. “So informal? On your feet. Let me see the prize Naeleis promised me. What, you cannot stand? Or you choose not to? You should not have come with this riffraff as your only escort. The Lord of the Winds deserves more.”

He looked at the being whose glance could steal a man’s soul. “Stand aside,” he warned her. “My blood for the future. The end of the Viamar and Ellandor lines. The end of the Dread Plane. You demanded it when you first fled these shores. So it is done.”

“A noble sacrifice,” the woman purred, moving forward to kneel beside him. “But that is what you deem necessary, not what Altris decreed.” She paused. “I know
she
spoke to you. What did she have to say?”

The question came out with disdain, but also a more than mild hint of curiosity. Well, he had no desire to answer. Since the Whitewood he had known this moment might come, but instead of anger he felt only pity for the woman she had been.
That
woman was not deserving of his anger.

Something suddenly nicked his left ear. She knelt so close he could feel the heat of her breath. It dulled the senses and awakened others that at one time would have overwhelmed him.

No longer. Shifting, he forced himself to look at her and mute out the sensations. He used the pain, the ever-present reminder of what he had lost, of what he might yet lose, to hold her at bay.
Trian.
He had rushed in like a fool wanting his lust for vengeance to sweep over him like a storm. He
was
the storm.

But he was also a servant of the Giver.

“I have no wish to break you,” he whispered, voice carrying. She leaned back, momentarily stunned. “You have paid the full price of your first betrayal. Now you are called back to the One. You are not yet beyond redemption.”

“Redemption?” She said the word as one who had never considered the notion. “As if you would ever hold to such bargains,” she said after a pause. “You showed no mercy before. Has Elloyn persuaded you to strike such bargains?”

“No. The bargains I make are my own. Think on it.” Striking at the invisible chords that bound him with a will the creature could not match, he stood, gathering up his sword and the Rod. Now it was her turn to sway at the sight of him. “Leave her,” he snapped when Urian snarled. “Our business is with the First of the Fallen.”

Not looking back at the creature writhing and gasping on her knees, knowing this was one choice that might prove disastrous, he collected himself. It was not easy. Rew reached out a steadying hand, but Luc shook him off. Ahead the lavish chambers opened up and gave way to a circular hall with a spiraling stairwell ascending and descending at converging ends. Men in gold and white launched themselves at him, but he was not caught unaware. Using the sword with one hand, he deflected a lance, then rushed within reach of a tall man with blue eyes, striking out with the Rod. The soldier screamed, the first to fall to the Ruling Rod. He would have grieved but for those too dead eyes.

With no other choice, he motioned towards the ascending stairwell, taking the initial steps three at a time. A blast from above nearly took them, but the Rod fortified his will and he deflected it smoothly. Slashing out with a wild thought, he knifed at the Ardan—not at the tainted flesh, but the soul. The creature suddenly became enveloped in a blinding blur of light and motion, a whirlpool or vacuum.

Then it was gone.

Following the trail of pulses in his mind, he sprang up the third and fourth floors, circling the vast hold and its onetime impressive halls. Ansifer had held a reserve force that would have made even the Diem wary. Not so for those fated to accompany him. Rew’s daggers blurred along the way, the Guardian’s apprentice shifting in and out of sight. He took down a hooded form that seemed swathed in shadow. Altaer and Urian shot arrows that burst into white flame, shredding diving Deathshades who shrieked in terror even as they splintered into nothingness, leaving a deadly mist behind. Below the sounds of engagement made him pause. A second and third glance was hardly enough to make sense of the scene. Realizing his orders had been ignored, he cursed. That might have been the end but for Urian, whose sword sheered through a Golden Lancer desperately trying to reach him. Risking another glance, he saw the Warden himself, striding in with both hands upraised, sparks of power, the Tides in their purest essence, bathing the dim halls with its radiant light, leaping from his hands in bursts of focused energy. So much power, destruction. Stunned, he blinked, but the image stayed in place. This was no dream. No mistaking the man had arrived with a contingent of Diem. The memory of his voice was haunting.

I will find you. When you need me, I will. And together we will end the pain.

Luc forced himself to breathe. He had to hurry. Ivon Ellandor would not hesitate to force a confrontation with the man responsible for the split in Ardil. That he could not allow, as he was hardly certain who would live to walk away.

A sudden impulse—more an overpowering, wrenching sensation—ripped him back around, insistent. No, demanding.
Atonement for the ages.
There were calls for the One, from some, but most often it was
Unari.
But some called him by name.
His
name. Both names, names he sometimes cursed. Was he insane? How did they know him? This link worked both ways, it seemed. Now the Sword of Ardil was visible in his mind’s eye, in his waking movements. Their distant voices, long forgotten, now crushing. They sensed his presence, his arrival, had awaited it for decades beyond count, he was sure. Now their ear-shattering cries became thunderous, their collective will seeming to merge with his own, driving him forward. Forward to the bitter end, if the end it was. He
saw
the Fallen. Alone. Alone, and in conflict.

Unbeknownst to the Faithful and the Fallen, the Builders were rising. Rising to seize a place, a voice, in the Eternal Conflict and the War of the Furies.

Taking the remaining steps wildly, he brought his sword into motion until it became a white blur, liquid light sheering through the air towards eruptions of darkness that sprung up in their path—not just the absence of light, but fissures of nothingness that could erase all memory of a man’s existence. He did not know what fount he had tapped, but shuddered to think what the world would think when they realized what he was capable of. He dared not think, but climbed.
Just climb
. No matter he was losing his own soul or that the thundering outside mirrored the arrival of the immortal he had been before. Up and down tremors rocked the Ancaidan hold. Nothing he could do to stop it. The groaning at the base of the foundation told him the entire place might collapse at a moment’s notice.

Just as he reached the topmost floor, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Flinching, he barely evaded the smoldering black blade of an armored creature whose eyes burned with hatred.
Forgive me, Imrail.
Lightning fast, it lashed a backhanded stroke at his face; only a quick step back saved him. Knowing the fates were hanging in the balance, he did not pause. He countered with an intentionally feeble feint. The answering smile almost made him growl, but some distant part of him told him he did not have the time to waste on even something as dangerous as a Sypher.

Diving, he shouldered the Sypher, sending them both sprawling, Luc skidding across the cold stone floor until he hit a standing column. Rolling to the side, he gasped for air. Air that did not immediately come. His heart nearly stopped then. The world appeared suspended. Urian had reached the Sypher, Rew darting in from the other side. Some sixth sense, though, the feel of a gathering presence, a crushing weight, tore his eyes from the ancient evil. A door had been blasted clear of its hinges. Beyond. . . . His subconscious shied away from what awaited beyond on the other side. Not only the Sword. Something vaster, infinite.

“No!”

Clawing himself to his feet, he staggered towards the opening, frantic, sweat streaming down his face, blood chilling. The fatigue from Caldor and the crossing had taken a toll. He was not himself. He had faced down Altris and declared his intentions, but he hardly understood himself—could not fully comprehend—what he was proposing. Not taking a second look, he left the Sypher for the others to finish. They would likely die in the attempt, but what waited beyond sparked a hint of recognition that, for what seemed the first time in weeks, made him certain he would never live to see either Peyennar or the Dread City again.

Stumbling into the dim chamber, some instinct made him raise the Rod. A discharge of naked force shattered against it, sending him hurling backwards.
Save me.
A surge of his innermost will kept him on his feet, sliding backwards. But he held.
The Giver defend me, I will hold!
Darting forward, he kept his sword and Rod aloft. The surfaces of the onetime polished stone floor and walls were scorched, rubble at the far end where a balcony or set of stairs once ascended. He realized suddenly some of those scorches were ciphers, symbols pulsating, alive, winding along the blasted walls, the floors. Shimmering with power. He had witnessed a similar scene before in the Landing, but this time understanding came innately. These were Glyphs of Power only the Firstborn could command, like the Mark. He thought he recognized some, and others who had long since been defeated, ages ago, dead or expelled. What was the purpose of bringing them into focus here? Guiding his eyes forward hesitantly, he recoiled. Shadows wound and looped through the air, the darkness coming alive, twisting and forming into a void-like hole or chasm.

A passageway.

“Where is the Warden?” a voice snapped.

Luc whipped his eyes towards the far end of the hall. He snarled and purposefully re-gripped his sword then. The white and gold breastplate might have been an affectation, but for red lines of blazing energy that snaked down and around the arms and upper body. Armored now, with purpose, and hardly the being he remembered.