The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (13 page)

“Luc!”

That scream made him pause and glance behind him. Like some warning voice from memory, he jerked himself back to the present. He was almost certain this had not been the first time Elloyn had reined him in. Of all the others, only she ruled him. Clutching a hand to his face, he felt himself slide to his knees, recalling the Dread City in ruins and the host of the Faithful scattered.
Trian.
Feeling something—someone—holding him, he scanned the perimeter. Everywhere he looked he saw men shielding their eyes. Ahead there was no sign of any imminent danger, other than some shrieking sense within that warned him otherwise.  

With pockets of white flame still throwing off a piercing light, he was able to detect what the Val Moran must have well before. Stunned, he hardly moved. One Sypher he should have expected. This one would have ripped through Peyennar had he not confronted it, challenged it; now he suspected it would relentlessly pursue him until one of them fell, to the utter ends of the earth and beyond if necessary.

One he expected, a creature of ancient power and menace, arrayed in the armor of the ancients and wielding a black sword with the power to maim flesh and rend the soul.

What he had not expected was the second figure. A creature of fallen grace and glory. Even from far off he recognized the face—the Sypher was making no attempt to mask it—a woman’s face, perilously colorless. Once he had thought it Maien herself. Now he knew. Of a slighter size than the other, this one was no less chilling to behold. She too held a black sword between her gauntleted fists and raven armor hidden beneath illusory robes.

“Two,” he breathed.

This one must have escaped on their exit from the Third Plane outside of Edgewood. Now he knew the truth, though it brought him no comfort. It had not been Maien but a second Sypher. Still standing frozen, he gathered himself for a confrontation he was not sure he could win. These were creatures to make even the Unseated—the Forerunners—flee. War and Ruin alone commanded them.

And he had helped one of them, if not both, escape.

“You do not know yourself,” the first Sypher said, striding towards him. Its tone was arresting, commanding, cavernous and hissing and chilling to the bone. “The One commands us; we will not be ruled by you. Release us.”

With his conscious mind unleashed, he started forward. The ripping of his flesh made it next to impossible to see through the blinding light and the burning pain.
So be it
, he told himself. A hand caught him. Two hands.

“Luc,” Trian said urgently, “this is their plan. Stop before you lose yourself.”

“I must break the Ban,” he whispered. Forbidden to end the ancient
armistice
until the appointed time. Unari had broken it. But he had been born to end it. “Finishing them would be worth the price, Elloyn.”

Her sudden intake made him flinch. Taking another step forward, a final step, he felt himself cross a once inaccessible divide. There would be no quarter here for the Legion and the Unseated. Not knowing exactly what it was he did, his active mind burst open. He gave in to the images, the memories, the guilt and the grief. No turning back now. Once he had purged the Dread City itself. The price had been too high, though, and that with a rival force rising. Feeling himself beginning to become disconnected, he was dimly aware of the wind picking up and the skies breaking open. Forces absent during the five thousand year watchful peace—peace between the Powers, misery for the Children—were returning. He reveled in it. He would become it.

“Boy,” Imrail hissed. Abruptly he felt something shaking him and attempting to pull him around forcefully. Lowering his sword, he panted.
Imrail.
And Rew. “It’s over, boy. You’ve won. Don’t do this. The Giver take me,
do not
do this!”

He’d won? Turning, he glanced towards the edge of the wood. Under the light of his eyes and the naked power he’d revealed, the twin Syphers dissipated into nothingness. Their presence as spirits were no less daunting. But they were fleeing, no doubt. One was wounded, he thought. It was not a comforting thought.

Now there were two of them free to wander the wild and wreak havoc. Hardly a victory. Perhaps he could give chase. He might have had his flesh not felt torn and ripped open. He might have had the Val Moran not fully pressed herself against him. She was weeping. He couldn’t stand her weeping.

Slowly yielding to her insistent cries, he dropped to his knees, panting. His head throbbed so hard he was not sure he would have any memory of the encounter. He certainly did not recall how he reached his tent.

Or what came after.

Two days later they reached the serviceable gates of Edgewood, a tidy frontier town founded under one of Eldin Viamar’s more recent initiatives. They arrived several hours prior to nightfall. After the skirmish, Imrail had made up for the delay by pushing the previous day’s march well into the night. If Vandil had been disciplined on the road to Peyennar, Imrail had pushed them to their limits, perhaps intent on keeping to some timetable he and Luc’s father had set. Now the sight of the walls was welcome.

After facing the Syphers, the collective mood of the company had been difficult to gauge. Some moved on horse with black looks, while others wore the clash like a token or badge on their sleeves. Following the encounter he had slept most of the night and the morning after. Chills and convulsions had worried Imrail and Trian both. He had been told Rew had not slept that night at all. The entire company had been awed by the display, but worried he had done himself some irreparable harm. No disputing most were still uneasy. Few met his eye now. He was sorry about that. Imrail’s men had worked well into the morning attempting to erase all memory of the skirmish. An Earthbound basecamp in the wood had been torched. No doubt word of the encounter would eventually reach the Furies. He was hardly proud of the outcome, but took some satisfaction from the thought.

At this hour the gates were still open. A significant company of men in gray wearing the emblems of House Viamar on one sleeve and three shoots of grain on the other held watch. Lookouts had given them advance notice of their arrival. Imrail rode forward, tight-lipped. It seemed only days since they had left the orderly community. Where Vandil had a blunt persona, Imrail’s was more refined and distinctive. The general was admitted without delay. Their full company followed, taking no liberties with the safety of the Lord Siren. Luc ached for the days when the Oathbound had held him in virtual ignorance and his only worries had been keeping watch at the Overlook or scouting the lower passes. Now he was moving to openly declare himself against the Furies. He had made his choice. There would be no turning back now.

A suggestion of movement caught his eye. Luc followed it to where a tall man in silver and black worked his way through the locals. On seeing him, Imrail raised a hand and brought the company to a halt. When the man reached Imrail’s stirrups, he bowed slightly. He appeared to take a forced breath before turning and reaching Luc’s stirrups. With one arm locked across his chest, he took a knee. Caught off guard, Luc exchanged a glance with Trian. This was one of the last things he would have ever expected to see.

Lars. Eduin Lars on his knees.

Leaving the saddle, a gust of wind picked up. Luc passed the reins to Graves. He still found it odd when his boots hit the ground; he felt himself wading through unseen currents, existing outside of memory. Readjusting his sword belt, he was grateful when Imrail made a motion for the man to stand. This was proving to be difficult. Perhaps it was because they had endured days together under the pall of the Third Plane. Perhaps it was because they were pledged to him now.

“Eduin,” Imrail said, chiseled features noticeably pleased. He clasped arms with the Companion who appeared to breathe somewhat easier after the gesture.

“Lord Imrail,” Lars responded. He had Imrail’s height if not the breadth of shoulders, and moved with crisp strides and sure feet. In his uniform, with eyes a striking blue, he would have dominated most rooms. Now he looked hesitant. “My Lord,” he added finally to Luc, voice no louder than a murmur.

Taking a forward step, Luc extended a hand. The man did not flinch when he took it, but his return grip was noticeably slack. “It’s good to see you, Lars,” Luc said, genuinely grateful the man had been spared any lasting harm after their flight through the Third Plane. Riven had explained the man’s reluctance to accept him. As simple as failing the Lord Viamar the night he had been abducted. Luc could hardly begrudge the man for being loyal to the king. He just hoped the man would find it within himself to let it go.

“Report,” Imrail said.

Lars nodded. “We’ve been fully briefed, my Lords,” he said. He did not have the arrogant hitch to his strides or stance Luc remembered. If anything he appeared a touch introspective. A remarkably changed man. Shaiar, the Third Plane, could do that to a man—that is, if the man trapped there ever managed to escape. He suspected they had been among the first to do so since the Stand at Imdre. “We had word of your victory over the Legion. And of the Lord Viamar’s rescue. The company you sent ahead is camped to the west. It seems the Landing—the name has stuck—it seems the Landing has been anticipating your arrival for several days. Other than that all appears well. No sign of the Ardan or Earthbound.”

“We had a skirmish two days ago that will make them pause before making an attempt against the Lord Viamar-Ellandor anytime soon,” Graves said grimly.

Lars glanced at the man, confused. He did not recognize the soldier. Imrail responded before Lars could probe the man. “We won’t be staying long, Eduin,” the general said. “We’ll need to notify the factor. She’s the only one with room enough to house the men. They need a day at least. Two would be better. The horses need it too, but we don’t have the time.”

Lars nodded. “She anticipated as much,” he said. “There’s quite a bit of room on the lower levels. It might be tight, though.”

“We will have to manage.” Imrail scanned the street, adding, “Let’s get moving. Seems she is not the only one who anticipated our arrival.” Luc glanced in the direction the man was gazing at. He flinched at the crowd that had assembled. This was no small gathering. Half the town appeared to have descended on the northern gate. “Well, Anaris, welcome to the Landing,” Imrail said. “Looks like someone is intent on having word of your ascent spread throughout the nation.”

Luc regarded the man coolly. “I wonder who,” he muttered.

Imrail came close to grinning. Returning to the saddle, he waited for Luc to mount before starting forward.

Taking in the street, he quickly caught himself gaping. It was entirely possible the whole town had gathered to observe their arrival. They lined the street on either side. Townsmen hoisted their sons and daughters onto their shoulders hoping for a better view. Women whispered among themselves; most were far too inquisitive to curb their enthusiasm. Imrail and Lars commanded the majority of the attention. Luc stayed in the rear, riding between Trian and Rew. If this was the reception the factor had prepared for them, he wondered what she would do when she learned of his folks’ planned arrival. For Luc the sight of so many people in once place was daunting, but these were a well-mannered, diffident folk by all accounts. Few understood the omens that had spurred the company to these parts. Better they not know, he thought. If what he had been told was correct, a score of similar communities had been founded in the last decade, men and women who settled the remote parts of the nation hoping to start anew. Few knew the underlying reason: to cushion Penthar and set up a network of easily accessible and defendable positions. Siren’s Landing, they called this town now. A reminder that if the Earthbound came here, it would be on his watch. A terrible, crushing burden. He could only ride in silence, shielding his eyes from the bright colors of their apparel and the pomp of the occasion.

“There were moments, like this, when I wanted to strangle your grandfather for permitting such displays,” Imrail said beneath his breath. Luc blinked. He had not noticed the man slowing to ride alongside them. “There were times when I was certain he would reassign me, I was so insistent his safety came first. I would have put him in a cage to protect him. Perhaps to spare him. I understand the lesson well now, my Lord.

“You ride through the Landing without acknowledging her people and the memory will have ripples that will live on a hundred years. With you, who knows how long? If nothing else, these folk deserve to know who commands the nation and what price he is willing to pay to see it free.” Imrail looked at him. “That is your intent, correct? To save them? The Almarans—some of them—thought you would have the same lust for power that drives your kin.”

Luc squeezed the reins.
His kin.
He did not think he deserved that. Meeting the general’s eyes, he thought the return gaze he directed would make the man wilt where he sat in the saddle. Not Imrail. Still, it was no surprise that if there was anyone he was open to listening to, compelled to accede to, it was Imrail.

“General . . . ” he began.
What had the Fallen done in Almara? Spread fear and panic, no doubt. Seized power, too.
There were a few shouts that muted out the response. He shuddered and had to blink several times before he could add, “. . . I have no sense of myself or who or what I am. I’m . . . afraid. I . . . feel . . .” He searched for the right word. “. . . lost.”

The words felt ripped from him. He did not think he could have acknowledged the point to anyone other than Amreal. But he was gone now. Imrail regarded him keenly. There was a hint of knowing, perhaps understanding, in that look. “Not lost,” he whispered. “Just passing through. You will find yourself and awaken. And know when and where you are most needed.”

Luc shook his head. “You say that now,” he muttered bitterly. “What if I had not taken up his emblems? Would you have ridden away? There were others who did so before.”

Imrail chuckled. “Anaris, you surprise me. I thought you knew. The Lord Viamar was my master. You are . . .” He paused, then added, in a serious tone with slight touches of emotion, emotions that clearly troubled him, “. . . you are also my friend.”

Luc inhaled.
His friend.
 He caught Trian extending a hand out towards him. Rew seemed intent on ignoring them. Somehow Imrail understood the reference to another Plane of existence. Shooting the man a grateful look, he pulled Lightfoot to a halt. Slowly he dismounted. A bitter taste was on the lips. He did not fear the Furies, not as he should. He did not fear the waking force that would eventually rise to give challenge to the Nations. He feared this much more.

Glancing around, he marked a gray-coated man who appeared caught up in the moment. The man paled when he made straight for him. On reaching him, Luc stuck out a hand. He thought it was trembling. “My name is Luc Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Some call me . . .”

“. . . the Lord Siren,” the man finished, bowing. It was hardly smooth or practiced. “How m-may I serve?” That too was slightly off balance.

Quickly finding himself encircled by the throng of onlookers, Luc rubbed the back of his neck. He almost swayed. Avela worked her way towards him, though. Resting a hand on his arm, she raised a hand and called for a little room. “The Lord Viamar-Ellandor would like to see some of the town, maybe meet some of her people. Can you arrange it?” she asked.

“At once.”

Giving the woman a grateful look, he swallowed and started forward. These folk did not know him, but someone had clearly spread word of his kinship with the White Rose and the Lord Viamar. More. Word of his true nature. He was not sure which he disturbed him more.

* * * * *

Three hours later the streets were all but vacant and the last residue of daylight was a pale glimmer in the west, the sky cloudless and the night cool. Luc felt spent. They had perused almost every main street, openly moving up and down Edgewood, locals scrambling to reopen their establishments. Imrail had given the men leave to spend the evening as they would; several had taken the opportunity to stroll through the ordered streets. A taproom facing the town square saw the most activity, but Avela had him moving in and out of almost every open establishment a few streets over, spending coin freely, steering him with a hand on his elbow. When he did not speak, she would comment for him. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor was impressed with this, would like to see that; he had an interest in the proprietors and residents and where they originated from. They visited a pastry shop and sampled assorted sweetbreads. A tanner had handbags that caught Trian’s eye, dyed coats and belts and boots that impressed Rew; he did not have any coin but Avela seemed to have an endless supply. She laughed and tossed the young man a pouch that made him gape when he looked inside. Luc caught himself grinning. While the two women visited a seamstress’s shop, moving from rack to rack of linen, cotton, wool, and silk apparel, Imrail led him to a nearby smith’s shop where a stout man beamed over the tools of his craft he had on display.

All in all the visit proved instructive, if at times awkward. Trian and Luc were inundated with bows and curtsies from the young and old. Murmurs and whispers of the Lord Siren made him grow cold; for the moment Elloyn was a name only those in their inner council were aware of. That was something at least. He was troubled at how many went out of their way to sneak a peek and felt himself grow almost as fatigued as he had after the encounter with the Earthbound a few days prior. Seeking the unity and center with the Tides helped some. His native affinity to the elements, still something of a mystery, felt more a buzz in his ears. By the time they returned to the town square he was ready to turn in.

Having been alerted to their arrival, the factor stood waiting on the doorstep of a sizable structure near the town inn. Two broad pillars supported the enclosed entryway. He had been told the building housed several administrative offices and served as the official seat of government for the small town.  Leaving their horses and gear for grooms to handle, Imrail met the woman with a nod and a word of greeting. Kalyn Tanaran appeared young for such a noted office, perhaps of an age with Avela or only a handful of years older. She handled her duties capably, though. And she knew his mother.