The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (9 page)

Imrail exchanged a glance with Luc. “Draiden will have patrols sweeping through the nation, considerable patrols. We will put them down. What else?”

Mearl came the closest to smiling Luc had ever seen. He was a drab man for sure, but dependable. Plainly he had been holding something back. “The Companions arrived at the Landing. And word from Vandil at last.”

Luc froze.

“He’s giving chase, my Lord,” Mearl continued, this time with his eyes fixed on Luc. “They found the trail. No word on how he and Urian managed it, but it appears Vandil knows how we fared in Peyennar against the Earthbound’s offensive. He is content to leave Imrail and Draiden with the defense of the northern parts of the nation, under the Warden and House Viamar’s authority of course. And yours. He may choose to assume command in the south at Triaga. That’s all we know, for the moment.”

Imrail clasped the man on the shoulder. “Good news at last,” he said, not masking his relief. It was the oddest thing. Imrail was normally about as dour as a crusty apple. Now there was a light in his eyes. “We’ll have a foothold into Ancaida and someone competent to see to our southern flank.” He rubbed his face, thinking. “I have to get him a message, Mearl.”

“He anticipated just such a need, my Lord. He left two of his men at the Landing. They have instructions on how to reach him.”

“Excellent.” Imrail turned to Luc. “Well, Anaris, it seems your luck is holding. We’ll see for how long.” He glanced at Hireland, a direct look. “Something to eat for the Lord Siren and then you had best be off and on your way. We leave at noon. Have your men make ready for the Lady Viamar-Ellandor and the noble houses. We may not see them for some days.”

“Yes, General,” Hireland said. Luc had seen the flicker in the young man’s eyes at the mention of his name. It made him exhale heavily.

Returning to the ring of tents, he found Avela and Trian already moving their things into one of the tents. Rew lingered by the fire and spooned himself a bowl of a stew. He looked a bit on the haggard side. Choosing to join him, Luc unbuckled his sword belt and carefully set it aside. Hireland looked about to protest when he emulated Rew and filled a bowl for himself. He did not feel hungry precisely, but was eager to see dawn break prior to turning in. He had said his goodbyes and had now an opportunity to look to the future. The part of him that would always linger in Peyennar would have to vie with the part that existed in another time and place.

They were chasing history now—the long forgotten past and the uncertain future. The Furies had come, refusing the call of the Giver. He was the answer. He was the face to make Ruin pale and return to the depths she had spawned from. They would know wrath and misery. That much he vowed. And before the end, he promised himself they would know his sorrow.

“I thought it was pronounced
Sirien
,” Rew said somewhat offhandedly. Allard Acriel’s son had sprawled himself out near the fire, bowl balanced between the knees. The fire itself was substantial and gave off a liberal heat in the crisp early morning autumn air. Imrail’s men had pitched five tents around it, the terrain dotted with countless others. Heavily armed men kept watch, dangerous men in matching midnight black coats. He’d heard the Sons of Thunder were the Lord Viamar’s most lethal outfit, unmatched. Now they were his men. His people. He swallowed hard at the thought.

Searching the sky and feeling his blood pulsing at the power and memory it contained, he thought he could almost pierce the haze on the horizon, thin clouds veiling the northern skies of the world. At the moment a faint glimmer to the east shone through. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned to face Rew, a grimace coming to his lips. He thought he would rue the day they had ever set foot in the Landing where the name had been revealed, but then his folks had access to other insights. Amreal had known, too. Was he the only one who had been blind to the truth? Well, if there was anyone who deserved to know, it was Rew.

“Guess something gets lost in the translation,” Luc responded. He gestured at the bowl. “That any good?” He had set his own aside, his stomach a touch tender.

Rew shrugged. “Good enough. It’ll do after riding through the night in the cold. It’s freezing. Is it always like this? Somehow I imagined there would be more . . . excitement.”

Luc studied his friend. Plainly something was eating at him, but Rew would tell him when he was of a mind to. He was sorry Rew had been dragged into the middle of this, but knew him well enough to see there was no resentment. Perhaps a bit of uncertainty and discomfort. Shifting, he sank to the ground and tried not to think about the twin blades sheathed at angles across Rew’s back. The Mark of Chaos was visible on the hilts. Seeing them was another reminder of the memories that sometimes randomly resurfaced, hidden impressions he had once sought to contain. At the moment he was too tired to claw at them. “I imagine there’ll be more than enough excitement before the end,” he said finally. “We have a long way to go.”

“They gave me my own tent,” Rew said, apparently not hearing him. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that.”

Luc shook his head. “Not me.”

Rew eyed him carefully. It was a moment before he nodded. “Denail then.” He sighed. “Don’t think I’ll ever be rid of the man now.”

“He didn’t seem all that bad,” Luc disagreed.

“You have no idea, Luc. No idea.”

Nodding absently, he leaned back. Dawn was breaking. Moments later Trian and Avela appeared, taking up places near them. Shortly after Mearl moved forward automatically, gesturing at a pot hanging over the fire on a suspended iron rod. Avela dismissed the man with a slight shake of the head.

“I can’t read you,” she said softly, not looking at Luc. “Either of you. I thought you should know, my Lord.”

He glanced at the auburn-haired woman. “I understand.” He was not sure what else to say. Fingering the dirt, he resisted the memory of the earth under the pall of the Third Plane. There had been no light or life there, not in the soil, not in the air. Nowhere. Only beings of abstract memory. Rubbing his temples, he struggled to distance himself from the images that flashed across his eyes. Somewhere in the hills above his folks were preparing to depart.

Amreal would not be with them.

He was not sure whether the others ate. Rew slipped away a few minutes later and Avela and Trian stood, announcing their intent to do the same. The night had been long, the northern Pentharan landscape unyielding. Prior to moving off Trian regarded him. Slowly, perhaps tentatively, she inched forward and caught his hand. “Do you feel it?” she whispered. “Why do they wait? Their eye is fixed on us now.” He looked at her sharply. At the moment he felt nothing. Only a gust of air off the Peaks. And a far off hint of power calling to him that thundered in his ears. He needed to seek the Tides. At the moment Trian’s crystalline features were caught in a look of determination. “Do you know what we need to do?” she finished.

Absorbed by the feel of her eyes and distinctive curves that showed even in her riding apparel, he did not respond immediately. Difficult to fight the foreign sensations and still find the will not to take her in his arms in full sight of the men. What were they going to do? Was Ancaida already lost? “We move south,” he said finally. “They’re waiting for me.”

She nodded, still uncertain. Squeezing his hand again, she looked about to do more, then hesitated. Hard to say what she was thinking. “We had better try to sleep,” she said. “It’s going to be a long day. I think Imrail means to push hard for the Landing.” She turned, then paused, eyes taking him in. Her long hair shifted in a cross breeze. The sight of her in the dim backdrop of the world should have been reassuring, but he almost thought he saw someone else.
Something
else. “They are waiting for you to try and seize the Sword. The Fallen are relentless. They will not back down, not with the whips of War and Bedlam to drive them.”
Naeleis
. “Seems to me this Mardanin Far is of two minds. I recall he yielded before. He is watching, isn’t he?”

Luc stood and caught her arm. “Trian,” he said, a bitter taste on his lips, “what about your sword?”

The words left him in a rush. The effect was instantaneous and brought a blush to her cheeks, and a smile he marked even with her not facing him. “We can negotiate the price, my Lord Siren.” She glanced at him and winked. And then he was suddenly alone.

Imrail was still engaged in any number of tasks Luc was content to leave to his oversight, not that the man needed him. Imrail was just that good. He suspected the man would have been promoted sooner had it not been for his role as Viamar’s captain. He had been a reserve general, Ayden had said, a title that gave him sufficient influence throughout the nation. His role as one of the Companions exempted him from any authority outside of the Crown. Somehow the man had gathered the others. It would be something to see Lars and Riven again. All of them. This time he only hoped he would be able to counter whatever move the Furies were preparing.

Deciding it best to turn in, Luc made for his tent. Someone had already set out fresh linen. Peering into his blanket roll, he sighed when he caught sight of the Rod. He was going to have to find a safer place to hide it.

Stripping off his clothes, he stared hard at the tent flap. He did not relish the thought of falling asleep. Sleep meant dreams. Dreams and memories not of his making. Steeling himself, he knew there was nothing for it. Days to the Landing and Alingdor after, if he chose to risk that road. Pulling the blankets up under his chin, he kept a hand on his sword. It was some time before his thoughts gave way to a deep-seeded exhaustion. And the dreams.

* * * * *

Making his way through the compound, Imrail strode back to the inner ring he instructed remain secure at all times. Hireland and his squad of men were on their way and should have the advance site ready by nightfall. If all went as planned, they would reach Edgewood, now likely known as Siren’s Landing, a small town just west of Peaks and within a few day’s march of Alingdor, in less than four days. Glancing at the fire surrounded by a ring of carefully arranged stones, he did not quite feel the heat. Nights in these parts were exacting. He’d been awake the night the enemy had sent the subfield of Perdition against them. Somehow he suspected that action had only served to accelerate the changes in the boy who just a short time prior had served among the Oathbound.

He wondered what would become of Peyennar now that it had fulfilled its purpose, rearing and protecting the line of the Warden and the White Rose. Ingram, his old mentor, seemed to think it important he stay on. Perhaps with some effort the mountain community would withstand the years ahead and become more than the fledgling village it was. Master Renfather seemed to think so. For Imrail, at the moment, it was the nation and the Silver City that concerned him. Before the end, Ardil would have to return to some level of influence and stability. The Warden had seen to some of it, but a great deal depended on what Sathon would do when he returned to Almaran shores. Well, that was well outside his purview and something the lad would have to consider.

Siren. Sirien in the Annals. The White Rose had anticipated the day and assembled nobles of every house and community of influence. Angtan, a staunch Viamar supporter, standing for the Administrators; Reagan and Dunham for Anneth; Baldwing for the Watch. A score of others. The shock at Viamar’s announcement had been palpable. Siren was a name spoken only among the learned. Even the wise thought it an invention of some academic. Now the truth was standing among them. The matter would prove the subject of fear and paranoia if not carefully handled. For the Companions and the Sons of Thunder—soon the First City herself—there was a renewed sense of purpose. Perhaps hope. Penthar was rising to heights she had never known. For the world, who was to say?

Lowering himself to one knee, he extended a hand slightly, studying the flames in the dim morning light. He considered attempting to allow his waking mind to probe the site, but the effort would have drained him. Vandil knew his importance and would not get careless.

“Imrail?”

He dusted off his hands and stood quickly, turning.
Lanspree
. The woman had come to a stop a few feet short of him. Still fully garbed, he shied away from her eyes and blanketed his thoughts. He did it automatically now. “What is it, girl?” he said. Even in his own ears his voice sounded harsh. He sometimes wished he could smooth it around the edges. Sometimes he did.

She sniffed. “Why do you insist on calling me ‘girl’; it’s always ‘Off with you,
girl
’ or ‘On your way,
girl
.’ ” She took a step forward, then stopped. Her skin suddenly took on a shade almost a perfect match for her sun-streaked hair. Hair like spun gold. At the moment she was visibly unsettled, outraged perhaps. The sight set him slightly off balance. “You are just about the coldest brute this side of the Plains of Power.
Girl!
Humph. Next you’ll be asking me to mend your trousers and launder your soiled garments!”

Imrail regarded her coldly. “You will do as I say, Lanspree.”

The woman threw up her hands. “I have been doing what you said for eight years, Imrail,” she hissed. “Eight years in the service of the Lord Viamar. Maybe it isn’t enough. Not anymore. Have you considered that?” She finished it quietly, surprised she had spoken so freely. Carelessly. She had been a flighty girl, some claimed, but that had been years ago now. Ingram had left for Peyennar by the time the Lord Viamar had placed her under his care. A girl with a strain of Ardil’s blood, he was certain. He had visited her folks more than once. They resided in the Guild’s Quarter of the First City, her father a Guildsman of some repute. In her youth there had been wild rumors of someone with her unique talent, rumors that eventually reached the eyes and ears of the Crown. Her father had put a stop to it and reached an arrangement with the Lord Viamar. The other Companions had come to their attention under similar circumstances.

The years the Warden had lived in Peyennar had been relatively quiet, the Stand having ended some years prior; then a watchful peace, with rumors of the Storm coming; then Andus and the Siege, black years for the Companions. Imrail and the others had served as silent assassins crossing the nation for word of the Ardan. Thankfully the Lord Viamar’s tax exemptions had spurred innovation. Just as one tide had turned, Viamar’s sudden abduction had caught them off guard.

Now the World-Axle had come to a halt and a new page in the Annals was being written. He had been so driven there had been no time for anything other than duty and service. She knew that and now mocked him for it. She did not know the truth he had sought to spare her, though: He had never intended to serve another master or mistress. Avela, Riven, or Lars would have succeeded him under the rule of the White Rose while he stayed in service of the Lord Viamar until the man’s death. Now he served the Chaos Master and the Lord of the Winds. He shivered at the thought, a distant part of him instinctively becoming cold with dread. He and Vandil had spoken of it briefly in Peyennar after convincing the boy to join them. Vandil himself had been shaken. The boy commanded memory and power. Or would. But he had some grievous sin hanging over him he feared. That fear might prove a weakness.

“Imrail,” Avela said softly, “it’s over now. He bent fate. It’s time to let go.” 

“That is hardly certain . . .” He caught himself before adding “girl.”

She sighed and covered her face with both hands before glancing skywards. “Why must you always be so stubborn? Do I have to come out and say it and shame myself? At least the Lord Viamar-Ellandor is honest with himself. And others. Modest and humble almost to a fault. You, however—”

He snarled. “Would you have me reopen all of my wounds? I was there with you from the start. That should be enough. I endured the scorn of my peers for not bedding the palace servants or looking to the
girls
in the Merchant’s Quarter. I told Viamar to put a stop to it and end the Lawless in the Watch. Eight years, you say. Eight years and you did not once speak your mind or share your thoughts. Why should it be any different now?”

He finished it with a finality he expected would have given her cause to end any discussion on the subject, now and forever. The rustling of tent flaps told him the Lord Viamar-Ellandor was still awake and peering out at them, his mouth hanging open. Imrail ignored him and began to stride away. Avela took two steps and had him by the wrist. Not anticipating the move, he grimaced at the icy indifference she displayed at nearly snapping bone in two. He did not risk moving further.