The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (60 page)

“You should not have come here,” Ansifer intoned, voice carrying. The throne he had erected was black and of one form, shining with metallic hues. Waves of blackness darker than the midnight hour continued to course through the air around him. “You are already responsible for much death and destruction.”

Luc took a step forward. “
Me!
You nearly led the West to ruin.
You
abandoned all oaths and reason. My father would kill you if he was here. I should let him kill you. But for what you have done here, and for what you did before, I will not just kill you: I will end you.”

Ansifer laughed. “You may have won the day, but at what cost?” His voice was thick with scorn. “A nation in ruin. A high price just for
that
.” He glanced at the throne. Luc saw it then. Their piercing cries were so strong. . . .
Must focus.
Shadows gathering, and a consciousness that dwarfed anything he had ever encountered save in his worst nightmares.

“Indeed, you may win, but this city will soon be lost—lost like the Dread City.” The Fallen smiled, but it was the smile of death. “I trust Caldor did not cost you too much?” he added, his archaic tones seemingly from another time or age of the world spiked with pleasure. Immense pleasure.

Luc bared his teeth. “It will cost you everything,” he snapped. Even as the words were said, he made a slashing motion with the Rod. There was no sound or perceptible indication of what would follow. The Fallen simply flew back, head whipping against the opposite wall. He hung there, eyes blazing, but Luc did not stop. This was
his
moment—no, Imrail’s. His entire being cried out. His will surging, he leapt forward.

Ansifer’s cool eyes—blue, like frost—never blinked. He countered the move with a similar blow. Not the Tides. His active will. Shards of Power only the Immortal Powers possessed.
Stronger now.
Something had buffered the creature’s will. The skin was too fine, features like—like Altris. If the Fallen were changing, somehow regaining the latent might of their peers, it was over. But something still had to be done here.

Staggering, he managed to stay on his feet, but his vision blurred and breath exploded. “What have you done?” he demanded in a rasp.

Abruptly the symbols flared anew, a resurgence that made Luc suddenly wary. “Done?” Ansifer rasped. “Little but assure you of your defeat. As I said, you may win here, but Unari cannot fight the Tides of Darkness. These are your choices. Slay me, and allow the terror of the Mirror Plane to spread like the wind, an eternal wind. Or chance facing
him.
You cannot do both. I am Unrest reborn. I have no fear of you. One by one all will become silent. Penthar will fall, and its fall will be so low the nation will have no mention in the Annals. Naeleis will have his way and re-forge the Dread City.”

Luc stared. He had never imagined such guile, such ruthlessness. But he had witnessed it during the First Fall. Mind and will numb, sounds in the outer hall made him anxious. The others were closing in.
A choice
, she had said
.
So be it. He found it hard to believe this was the moment of the choosing, either to surrender to what he had been, if he could, and in the concession give up who and what he was becoming, or break the darkness. In rage Sirien might have ended the reborn Immortal, now. Assault with the tangible light of the First Plane—he possessed the power and the right—but he would doom the West to the gathering darkness. That he could not do. Perhaps Altris would blame him, but if he succeeded he could still fight for both. He had the Warden’s blood; he had the memory of the First Plane. And at least the Nations would live to see another sunrise.

Gathering himself, he locked eyes with the Fallen. Ahead Ansifer was still smiling, broader now, noble, perfect in his power, a marriage of Ardil and the First Plane. The Fallen did not anticipate Luc’s sudden lunge forward. Not at the Fallen or the Sword.
Now!
Tensing, he formed a shield to encase him. It took only a brief thought. Ansifer was so bold he did not bother with the Tides. That appeared beneath him now. Instead he struck with unseen hammers, the hammer of his will, the blade of his tortured and soul.

Luc screamed. Dazed, he could no longer see. Not with his eyes. He still forced a step, then another. Distantly he was aware of a blast of heat and a simultaneous stroke at the barrier he had erected. Jarring blows. Sudden, intense pain flared up in the strands of his being. The creature shifted form then, capable of shedding the Diem’s mortal self for the Unseated Immortal’s persona. Terrifying to behold. This was Ansifer unchained and unleashed. Attacks were not meant to delay or harry; they were meant to destroy his soul and spirit for all time. Luc’s dash became desperate. He had one chance.

He saw the Sword then and almost came to a standstill. It blazed in his mind’s eye, blade a thousand hues and one, hilt bright and piercing. With a final, desperate lunge, Luc ignored it.

All that he was came into focus.

Instantly the cries of the collective mind and will of Ardil joined him. The outcry they burst into was earsplitting and became unbounded. It seemed he did not need to wield it for the weapon of the Silver City to become his. The memories were so disjointing he almost fell to his knees; there were hundreds—no, more. In one moment he perceived the depth of their rage, and their sorrow. Something brushed against him then, but he ignored it. He understood. The sword was a direct intermediary for the Tides of Infinity and the memories of the Builders; he was a conduit for the light and memory of the First Plane. A conduit for both. Instinctively the twin powers coursed through him and intertwined. The Sword became a blur of twin azure and incandescent light.

Finite flesh had never been meant for such power. Still he harnessed it, became it. Directing the two principal forces of the world into the darkness, he screamed. It was a scream of utter and complete madness.
Elloyn.
The thought was enough to steel him. Feeling his insides twist and writhe, he did not hesitate, did not deviate, even knowing he was being shredded apart.

His last cogent thought was of the storm. Twin storms. The opening began to close, assailed in the fury of the combined forces. The effect was blinding, the buildup overwhelming. He felt the awareness of the Furies beyond, but something else, something worse, a focused presence so vast it did not allow for indecision.

“You die!” Ansifer pronounced in triumph.

Something broke in him. “No,” Luc countered. “I have only just begun.” He continued to siphon all that he was towards the portal, but muttered a word. One word; a lone word of power. Something blazed to life at his feet, an orb encased in undulating lines of chaos.
The Mark
. Abruptly the ciphers lining the hall stilled and the rooftop exploded above them.

Feeling awareness begin to slip away, he redoubled his efforts, on the verge of coming apart, skin beginning to sparkle. Ansifer recoiled, suddenly consumed in fire.
Malden.
With both hands upraised, Luc shot forward. Answering cries from the Sword and hastily summoned Powers made the Fallen scream. A dagger whistled through the air, then another. Somewhere behind him the Tides were being marshaled like a gale.

She was wrong; he knew it now. So wrong.
I will defend both.
It was simple. Unari was a conduit, too. How could he have forgotten? A force of wrath born to shatter. But there was another way, too. Reaching out, he snatched and harnessed the essence of the betrayer, bent his last will and thought in the effort. The idea must have sparked on some subconscious level, but his enemies would never conceive or consider it. Yet
he
knew. With a thought, power unthinkable and unequalled instantly laced through him, through flesh, pain lancing him. Ansifer’s power and essence. His to command. It boiled and burst within. Instantly in the space barred from the Children, light flared. Not to destroy. To shelter. Even realizing his end had come, Luc smiled, vision a blur, form losing substance.

He had made his choice. In the Mirror Plane a consciousness took shape, then arose, a wind gathering where none had been known in the eons after the Marring. And Unari, blessed and cursed, hurled forward, landscape heaving, tears and ruptures suddenly closing.

The perception made him grow suddenly still. His last thought, perhaps his very last memory, ended not in a blast of rage. It was a peaceful breath, and the essence of his enemy. His to wield. His to marshal. Not to destroy or shatter, but to restore and bring balance. That was how he conceived it. A lingering thought. A final caress, benign and benevolent.

Then all became silent.

Less than two days after retaking the Elegran Heights, Rew Acriel limped through the surfaced streets of the dead city—dead even occupied by a formidable force. The hanging miasma of smoke and ash was still so thick many of the men had taken to wearing kerchiefs. After the complete and utter disaster in the Lower City, their armies were on the retreat. Quite the feat for General Vandil to maintain order long enough for the Pentharan divisions to quit the capital and regroup north of Rolinia, but rumor of the loss of the Lord Siren had spread. Now men already on edge from the engagement with the Earthbound stood at precipice. At least their victory on this side of the crossing had been total and complete. Beyond that was another tale altogether. By nightfall the Ancaidan capital was nightmarish beyond anyone’s worst fears, as he himself had witnessed.

Making for the mouth of the onetime inn, now apparently the base of their operations in the Heights, Rew guided the nearly white-haired young woman into the entrance, hand on her elbow. They stood close enough he could feel the warmth of her skin beneath her unclasped cloak. Being around the girl set his teeth on edge—he had little knowledge of women, Peyennar being isolated as it was, but this was more than that. Behind them General Armenis Vandil, Avela Lanspree, Trian, and a girl he knew next to nothing of followed closely, their escort breathing audible sighs of relief when they reached the entrance. Despite clear evidence their forces had taken a firm hold of the isle, Vandil and Trian were visibly disturbed. He understood the feeling himself, his insides in conflict.

Nodding to the Redshirts on duty at the door, Rew took another glance at the inlet while under daylight. After what they had seen and lived through, crystalline rays of unsullied light were enough to give a man reason to wonder if any of it had been real.

Striding in, he was struck by the polished floorboards and the intricately carved handrails, the tapestries, lamplight, and the warmth of the wide hearth. The hearty aroma from the kitchens should have been enough to lighten the mood, but the temperament in cramped inn was anything but celebratory.

The arrival of General Vandil brought men to their feet almost immediately. A dominant presence, his bearded face revealed little emotion. Not quite cold, but distant. Gesturing at a silver and black coated man, they continued on into the main hall. Pallets lined either side, Ancaidan tending Pentharan, Pentharan tending Ancaidan. There were also a significant number of Guardians. Following their guide, they continued through the ranks of men, stone-faced men who never blinked other than when they took in the women, the Val Moran and Tolmaran getting as many more looks as the pair of striking Pentharans. Taking a slight left, they continued to the east wing, reaching a set of carpeted steps up to what was easily the most heavily guarded corridor in all of Ancaida. Right then, perhaps the Nations.

Eventually they were ushered into a chamber where gear had been piled high against the walls. Several men stood around a map-covered table as ornate as any of the other surroundings. The musty odor of sweat and humidity gave the room a rank feel. Rew met eyes Lars and the Companions huddled at the other end. The evil-eyed Urian had a bleak shade to his sweat-laced features.

Vandil moved forward first, then Trian. The General took in the assembled men. “What news?” he demanded tersely, tense. “Where—”

A sudden stirring in the hall made him pause. Turning, Rew felt a chill run through him. Ivon Ellandor appeared, a half dozen cloaked and hooded men trailing him. The man’s features bore a striking similarity to Luc’s, but where Luc was young and raw, the untamed wind, his father appeared a man from another age. He was not young, but not old. Strong like the bowels of the earth, commanding beyond the authority of kings. His gaze was enough to make one tremble. He more than matched Vandil’s bulk, and stood a hand taller. He looked them over briefly, pausing over Trian. Vandil inclined his head, waiting. Unexpected from the daunting general. He did not look in awe exactly, but for one of his standing there was no doubt who held the higher rank in Penthar.

“Welcome, General,” Ellandor said. “I am pleased to see you unharmed.” A slight meeting of eyes with Trian communicated much the same, even if his expression did not alter.

“You as well, my Lord Warden,” Vandil acknowledged with a fist pressed to the heart. “How is the Lord Viamar-Ellandor?”

Ellandor worked his lips a moment, the only indication he was troubled. “The same,” he said, the words conveyed in a tight, somewhat power-touched tone. “We have done what we could. I am hopeful others may be able to do more. More than hopeful. He hangs on, which bodes well, for what purpose we do not know. The burns were worst, but he’s cold to the touch and . . . and it is hard to say if he is even here.”

“There are rumors of a . . . presence in the city,” Vandil whispered. “A force of wrath. Could it . . . ?”

Ellandor shook his head. “There is no way to be certain. What I do know is this: The Furies are moving and actively marshaling the Earthbound against us. This was not just a trap, but a desperate move. Perhaps they hoped to destroy my son . . .” He trailed off momentarily, tugging on his dark cloak. Dark like the eyes. Eyes that raged. “Well, they did not succeed. I
will not
let them succeed.”

Rew felt himself grow a little more relaxed. The resoluteness in the man’s voice was something. No, he hoped it was more than just
something.

“There is more,” Vandil said, eyes narrowed.

Ellandor turned, perhaps still brooding over his son. If the man was an enigma, at least one thing was evident. There was no doubt he would lay waste to anything within earshot if it would bring back his son.

After several seconds of pained silence, a throat cleared. That brought Ellandor’s attention back to the general. “There is,” he said finally. “I am afraid the Diem have brought word of the direst kind.”

Vandil waited. Everyone just waited.

“Tolmar has fallen,” the Warden finished quietly.

The girl beside Trian flinched. Vandil stood still a moment, then flung back around, rigid, face white as winter. Rew staggered himself, hand gripping the side of his head. Images suddenly flickered before him. He had to clench his mouth shut to keep from retching. A hand seemed to touch him in concern, then another. It was several moments before he could recover.

When he was finally able to blink the moisture out of his eyes, he realized Ellandor was standing nose-to-nose with him. “Out with it, boy. Now.”

Rew exhaled. “I can see the future,” he said, almost as if to himself. A future hardly certain. The Lawless reaching the heights of greatness. A people forgotten rising from the shadow of ruin. Ships—a fleet of ships.

And the author of all misery.

“What do we do?” He was not aware he had spoken.

Ellandor appeared to step closer to him, if that was possible. “Do?” he said, voice hissing and low, barely concealing a fountain of rage. “We rally the Nations. That will be your task, Armenis. My son will recover. He must. If he does not, all is moot. You, Rew Acriel, will be making for Emry, as has been commanded.

“Make your preparations, General. This is your moment. I am returning to my son. After we will reclaim the Lower City. All will be well.”

“As you command, my Lord Ellandor,” Vandil said gravely.

Ivon Ellandor nodded. Rew watched the man withdraw, noticing a momentary flicker of the eyes towards Trian for her to follow. Something kept Rew from following. In his mind’s eye he saw it. The beginning. Or, depending on one’s perspective, the ending.

He was uncertain which outlook was the more desirable. Shaking his head, he felt a shudder build up within him. Maybe it was the sudden draft that entered, a draft like a feral wind.

A wind that would soon sweep over all of existence.

THE END

OF THE SECOND BOOK OF

~ THE WAR OF THE FURIES ~