The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (8 page)

Taking a last look, he gripped his sword and the Mark on the hilt. His sign. His infamy. No escaping it now.

He waited until they were standing on the green. Trian read something in his expression and rubbed his forearm. Luc kept his eyes on Imrail. “You should have told me,” he said, resisting a glare, his anger bubbling to the surface, his eyes burning with a light that made even the Warden exchange a glance with his wife. “I was tasked to help you. I did it willingly. You and Vandil said it was the king. You did not say he was my grandfather.”

Imrail eyed him impassively. “Your point?”

He stabbed a finger towards the general. “That man is my mother’s father. I deserved to know. I needed to know. No more secrets, Imrail. Your word on it.”

Imrail continued to eye him impassively. “You needed time to find yourself first, Anaris. You still do. Now, if you’re finished, we need to be on our way.” He glanced at Ivon and Ariel, nodding respectfully before moving off.

 “You all right, lad?” His father asked after a moment. The man’s ancient eyes seemed slightly guarded. Luc thought he understood. Clearly they expected he would hold them responsible for openly declaring him. Glancing between them, he knew he could deny them nothing. He had lost something of himself in recent weeks. Their return had ensured he at least would depart with some part of himself to hold onto.

“Yes,” he said finally, turning. “You seem to know a great deal. About the beginning.”

Ivon shrugged. “Too little, but enough to know we approach the end.” Ivon appeared to close his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he suddenly seemed exposed, haunted. “I spent too many years planning and wrestling with my conscience to consider what this moment might mean. You understand why we made the choices we did? You understand there was never any choice? I was born to face the darkness. I did not know my son was destined to defeat it.”

He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Ariel’s face had clouded over. Plainly the Warden was not the only one feeling exposed. “You move off at the beginning of the end as we know it,” Ivon went on. “I must yield,” he added softly. His face twisted slightly at the admission. “I will ride with you if you wish it. This . . . Ansifer . . . He is beyond feeling, beyond regret. He is one of the Fallen and a Diem of great power both. I do not see him easily defeated, Son, but together . . . perhaps together.”

Luc glanced at his mother. There were many things he was unsure of, but this was not one of them. “No. You’d be safer . . .”
Where?
There was an Earthbound city poised to move on the First City. One of the Furies, Maien likely, ready to seize the city out of spite. Vengeance and retaliation. No. Not even Alingdor was safe now, but Ivon leaving was wrong. He knew that instinctively.

“Look to your wife, Lord Ellandor,” Trian spoke up. “We will see to the south.” She hesitated. “You are redeemed. The Nations will remember it before the end.”

Ivon glanced at her sharply. “I did not ask for redemption,” he hissed.

“No, but your people need it. You have given them a future despite the bitter cost to yourself. You have already surrendered to the Tides as your brother did. Wait a bit longer and look to the future. The Nations will remember the will of the Warden before the end, and his sacrifice.” She turned, but added, “And his humility.”

“You will do as I ask and make for the First City?” Ariel asked in a quiet voice.

Luc wrung his hands. “Mother . . .” The First City. He had dreamed of it. Now he feared what would become of him and his people if he openly entered it. There were reasons, reasons he could almost unravel. “I will think on it,” he said finally. Stepping up to her hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her. This was one parting he did not think any of them able to endure a second time. Feeling a riptide of emotion surge through him, he shuddered. The air opened up to him, but he dismissed it. He was not sure how long he held her or if it was her holding him. He fought back a sense of panic when he reluctantly pulled away and turned to his father. So long now since they had lived here together. Breathing in deeply, he gripped the folds of the man’s nondescript earthen cloak. The Warden’s hands shook around him. When he finally pulled back, his father’s face was blank and devoid of color. Emotion. Swallowing, he masked his fear and gave them both reassuring nods. He stored the image of the pair in a distant place knowing that even if he did see them again, it would not be the same.

Trian embraced each in turn. It was surprisingly gratifying to see the reverence she held for them, and they for her.  

“It’s time, lad,” Ivon said. “Go in peace and without fear. We are with you.”

Luc nodded. Imrail approached leading Luc’s bay and a solid mare for Trian. Everything was ready, it seemed. Except him. He risked one final glance at the pair, realizing this was a moment they too had feared. He never would have expected them letting him go like this, letting him choose. It was what he needed now, no doubt, but after so many years and no certainty about the end, he knew somehow it cost them far more.
I will come back for you
, he willed towards them. He would see the memory of the White Rose and the Warden become something more.

As they mounted up and turned their horses to leave, Rew strolled towards them, running a hand through his hair. Apparently someone had quite meticulously seen to his needs. He had a saddled and provisioned horse and had arrayed himself in riding gear, knee-high boots, a buttoned overcoat, and dark trousers. He had a pair of knives sheathed at angles across his back that could have passed for twin short-swords. Something about the gear seemed to transform him from the knobby youth Luc had grown up with to a . . . He was not sure what. That determined look did not fit on his face. Luc wondered at the change.

“Luc,” Trian said. “Look.”

He followed the trail of her eyes back towards the inn. Abruptly he realized a handful of soldiers and villagers had spilled out. Not just a handful, he amended. Some raised arms. Some trembled. Some went so far as to exhale and were forced to reach for their kerchiefs. Not the parting he had imagined. But here they were. Founded to foster the son of the Warden and rear the last hope of Ardil, those that knew what they had been about from the start looked inward, wondering how they would move forward when what had brought them here was departing. He was not certain if they would find the answer.

Sighing, he took in the image. He had no words to convey his gratitude and settled for a fist pressed against the heart. Exchanging glances with those he knew best, he bit back an ashen taste. Finally, he turned Lightfoot—the name he had chosen truly did fit the bay—and let Imrail’s stallion take the lead.

No one spoke during the ride down the lane leading to the pass down into the northern Pentharan mainland, but there was no mistaking the cry of a hawk somewhere high above. Somehow he found it less and less disturbing.

Perhaps a half hour later they reached the Overlook. Difficult to summon the restraint not to turn his horse around for a final look. This time it seemed odd, him leaving and his folks staying. At least they were well and wielded the power to protect themselves. Despite what his father claimed, he did not think Ansifer would risk challenging the Warden in this lifetime, not without aid. Recalling his father’s eyes, the hint of veiled might and potency, his offer to join Luc appeared to have been genuine. He suspected the man had to rein himself in to keep from pursuing the Fallen right then. A hard thing for the man who had rallied the Nations during the Stand at Imdre.

 Turning his eyes to the Overlook, the outer edge of the mountain retreat, he caught several figures emerging from the keep. Avela was already standing beside her horse. She nodded towards them, though her eyes stayed on Imrail. Luc did not expect the Lord Viamar himself to come forward with a few of his retainers, one of them the Lord Denail himself.

“It seems you did not give thought to saying goodbye,” the Lord Viamar said, still in the flowing robes of his office. He did not seem so gaunt now. There was a sheen to his eyes, a glow. The Lord Viamar looked him up and down and nodded to himself. “My apologies for making the declarations public. Should you choose to stand with me in Alingdor, it will be worse. The news will spread beyond the boundaries of the nation. This is my will, your mother’s will, but we leave it for you to decide.”

Eldin Viamar drew himself up. This was the symbol that had held the nation through the hunger and famine, through war and bloodshed. The world revered the Sparrow and White Rose. What they would make of Luc was impossible to say. “I wish you well, my boy, and would have you know the hard choices we must make are never easy. Take your ease on the road and remember the oaths of the men under Imrail are to you now. You saved Peyennar, now you must see to the Nation. Two nations.

“Ancaida is broken now, or soon will be. They are a hardy people, though, and must be given relief if what we fear is true. Do not forget it. Do not think the Furies will lightly give up any foothold they have achieved. We are beginning the greatest muster of our times. The Nations must swiftly follow, even the lost people of Bevronail. If Almara can aid us, it must be soon. Everything we do must be aimed at protecting our people and still committing unparalleled forces to buffer Iron Hold and Val Mora. It is there the final stroke will fall.”

The Lord Viamar went on. Luc made mental notes of his suggestions, his knowledge of the southernmost nation, its capital—built on water with an island sanctuary for the noble houses of the land?—but he realized it was not in the tones of the Lord Viamar the man spoke but as his grandfather. He shook his head somewhat in disbelief. For some time his only intent had been to spare Peyennar the wrath of the Furies. Now he knew he had to look to the Nations. It took some effort to resist the powerful forces at play in the wild skies above. His father understood innately he had attained abilities that ranged well beyond the Tides, but he was still a foal seeking to find his place in the vastness of the world. Letting out a breath, he lowered his head and slowly felt his knees bend slightly. Giving the Lord Viamar a bow, it was the rough embrace that followed that conveyed everything he felt for this man. Eldin gripped his shoulders a moment before pulling away.

Remounting, he waited for Imrail to give the signal. He was surprised the smooth-faced man had chosen only a light escort. Perhaps he meant to reserve the bulk of their forces for the nobles bound for Alingdor with his mother and father and the king. Even then, though, something seemed off. These days the Shoulder held more men than Peyennar had ever seen. Plainly something was afoot.

After passing under the arch leading to the hills, their small party remained silent. Under the light of the moon and the stars in the distant north, he and Imrail carefully surveyed the slopes. There had been so many changes since his time in Peyennar. He had seen himself change from the stolid, perhaps a little naïve, idealist intent on protecting his people. Knowledge of the Fallen and the Furies had changed him. Knowledge from a hidden place, too. They had cut through the plagued lands of the abyss known as Perdition, the Third Plane, and tread the distant parts of the known world. All of this to bring him here and prepare him for this moment.

He was making for the open world now. He suspected they would need at least a day’s rest at the Landing before turning west. He also suspected Imrail and Ivon had other plans.

Imrail chose to keep to the cover of the peaks to their left. Luc managed to ignore the acrid remnants of the Angrat invasion. These parts were still under heavy patrol. More than once a pair of men would appear out of the shadows, greeting them with bows and murmurs that all was well. Imrail did not take their reassurances for granted. For some reason the man had donned the garb of his office. He did not wear the light scale armor that Vandil wore, but the trimmings of the Companions, a black coat with lines of silver along the sleeves and at the cuffs and collar. Today he had three insignias pinned at the collar, the Sparrow of House Viamar and silver spear on the left, and the Mark of Chaos on the right. The sight made Luc grip the reins.

About halfway down the pass they dismounted and led the horses on foot. Luc felt a tinge of anticipation building within him. It suppressed some of fatigue he felt. Imrail had a faint gleam in the eye now, and Rew had slipped a silver flask out. Perhaps it was the open air or the knowledge that they were moving to counter their enemies, but something about being on the move felt right.  

The remainder of the night passed with them carefully making their way down the rugged slope. Twice more men immerged from the darkness with the word everything was quiet. Just as a suggestion of dawn flickered in the east they reached the base of the hills, the gateway to Penthar. He was surprised to find a considerable campsite waiting for them, tents pitched, a light meal prepared, and several men moving out on errands.

Hireland stepped forward to greet them, giving Imrail a bow. “Welcome, General. All went well I trust?”

Imrail nodded, leaving the saddle and tossing the man the reins prior to peeling off his gloves. The tall man surveyed the work of the men a moment before nodding that everything met his satisfaction. Moving off, runners filed in to make their reports. Clearly Imrail had planned their departure precisely.

Swinging a leg around, Luc dismounted and ran a hand through Lightfoot’s mane before he strode towards Imrail, leaving the bay to pick at the grass.

“. . . whispers of menace,” Mearl was saying. “Something moving. Scouts to the south ran into a small pack of Angrats, but put them down. Despite their defeat the northern passes are hardly safe, my Lord.”