The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (20 page)

The man’s face became stark red by the end of the declaration. “Is there someone with a scrap of intellect to treat with or is the nation so craven it has been reduced to the lordship of thugs and bandits? Where is the king? Viamar has been cordial in the past. It is for him I have abandoned my senses and forced my closest kin to leave behind all that they value.”

Altaer unslung his bow. Slowly, deliberately, he unsheathed his sword, spreading his hands while he carefully set them on the ground. “The king is here, my Lord Thresh. You
are
Ronan Thresh, are you not?” The Ancaidan blinked, glancing at Altaer in surprise. Quickly scanning the rest of their party, he spotted Imrail instantly, appearing to pause and take a double look. Trian held his eye longer. Something about the woman made him swallow. Luc, peeling off his gauntlets, slid out of the saddle and handed Avela the reins. He seriously considered throttling both men. King? He found himself glaring. They were all born fools. He was going to have to put a stop to this even if it meant he was going to have to leave and never return.

“My Lord Thresh,” Luc managed to begin evenly, “our offer of aid is legitimate. Food, water, bandages, fresh linens, tents—whatever you need. All we require is word of what has brought you to Penthar.”

“I am unfamiliar with . . .” The man’s cautious expression suddenly seemed to take on a look of concentration. “Wait, you . . . seem . . . familiar.”

“Perhaps you know his parents,” Imrail suggested lightly. “I understand they are well traveled. This is the son of Ariel Viamar, Minister Thresh.”

“The Lady Viamar herself?” Ronan Thresh said in open amazement.

“And the Warden.”

For the first time the man looked uncertain, glancing at some of his men behind him. There was the barest hint of hope in his eyes when he turned to face them again. “Is the Lord Viamar dead then? His daughter? We have heard scant news.”

“Not dead,” Imrail said, folding his arms. “In a matter of days they will be in Alingdor to announce what you and a few others have been the first to hear. The Furies are rising. They sacked Alingdor and abducted the king. This young man saved him, and us. You are not only looking at our next Lord, but the hand that will guide us all in our final stand against the Legion. He is known by another name, but I think it wise if we see to your people first. We will have time to exchange accounts of what brought us both here after. Just know our offer is genuine and had we been able, we would have seen to your people sooner.”

“I . . . appreciate it,” Ronan Thresh said a touch unevenly, still looking at Luc.

 “Might as well get to it,” Rew said. Something about the plight of the Ancaidans seemed to leave a determined light in his eyes. Luc felt it as well. Growing up in Peyennar had left them sorely ignorant. He hardly understood war, but he did understand peace. What he could not fathom was the gross negligence and injustice that had led to the plight of these people. Exchanging an extended glance with his friend, he recalled the night the Earthbound had stormed the Shoulder. This could have just as easily been his own people had it not been for a little luck and the active memory of his uncle. Taking in a long breath, he began by unbuckling his sword belt. He did not think they would be moving on any time soon.

It took some time to bring the Ancaidan campsite to order. Beyond the immediate needs of food and shelter, some of Thresh’s men were wounded. Seeing no sign of Imrail—no doubt intentional—Luc had the men leading their packhorses begin by settling in for the remainder of the day. He instructed near a dozen to go through their provisions and lay out stores to prepare a meal; he told them to spare nothing. Others left for the wood with orders to bring kindling for campfires and cut saplings to erect a pavilion; they had some canvas they could use for shelter if it rained. Trian and Avela took ten more men laden down with all of the bandages and ointments the factor had supplied them with in the Landing. Satisfied they would see to the wounded and the women and children, he ordered tents erected and was a little surprised to find himself paired with the Ancaidan lord himself. He did not have much skill putting up tents, but he had observed Vandil’s company enough in recent weeks to catch on quickly. Water proved to be the most pressing issue. They did not have enough. There might have been a stream or small pool further off in the wood, but they did not have the time to go off and look unless one of their scouts chanced on a source. Luc had started to issue orders for a swift team to make for Alingdor and send for immediate aid, but Altaer told him there was a sizeable town within a half day’s march to the south. Uncertain what the Lord Thresh would think about moving his people so soon, he ordered a dispatch to the town to procure what they would need. Imrail being absent he had to dip into his belt pouch for the coin. Altaer said the fistful of gold tolmars he pulled out would be more than adequate.

It was going to be next to impossible to leave these people, he realized. The Ancaidans looked as if they had been run through a meat grinder. This Ronan Thresh did not seem a bad sort. A shrewd man to be sure, but sensible enough not to put on airs. The man must have had steel in his guts to flee his homeland. That was all the proof Luc needed to know something was desperately wrong in Ancaida. After it was apparent they were here to help, the tension among the Ancaidans lessened noticeably. Some of that had to do with Trian weaving her way through them skillfully. The woman never ceased to astound him. More often than not she left him in a daze.

“Are the two of you betrothed?” Thresh asked him, noticing Luc following her movements. “You seem a bit young to be married.”

Luc kept his hands moving. “No,” he answered stiffly. What would she say if he asked? The damning memories never gave him a moment’s peace. It might have been nice just existing, not being baited at every turn. Well, he no longer needed his mother’s foresight.
He knew
. The rest was up to her. How much time they had left was uncertain. That was the rub. War was unavoidable, but if he could delay them long enough to rally Valince and make a move on the Mountains of Memory. . . .

Something in that last thought made him stiffen. For a moment, the sliver of a second, he achieved a level of perception almost as if the chords of fate and the power of Memory and Eternity had become linked. Instinctively he realized this would be less about the Furies and more about the unseen force moving to face him.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Ronan said under his breath. “I daresay there’s something compelling about the woman. The two of you seem . . .” The man seemed to search for the right word. “. . . well-matched.”

“You didn’t offend me,” Luc said. “I’d ask, but it’s a bit complicated.”

“I see.”

Luc shrugged off the man’s inquisitive look. He was surprised he had answered at all, but he did not want to give the man any reason to mistrust their intentions. “I’m finished with this side,” he said. “I’d better check in with the others.”

Moving off before the Ancaidan Lord could respond, he was well aware his face was flaming. No way to disguise it. His chest felt uncomfortably tight, too. Striding through the compound, he forced the discomfort aside and brought his mind back to the matter at hand. To the south Imrail’s men were making progress getting the canvas shelter set up; to the east small teams hovered over pots and kettles. Seeing him moving through the compound, Urian steered towards him. Luc had no idea where Imrail had gone to.

“Everything all right?” the bowman asked. “You look . . .” The Companion caught himself and trailed off. Seconds later he gave Luc a sidelong glance. “If this Lord Thresh said something to offend, I can attend to it.” He was fingering the blade at his side. “Politicians are a peculiar breed. Ancaidan politicians are worse. Self-important and condescending. Manipulators, too. I suppose it’s because they can’t match our strength or Tolmar’s influence. Say one thing and an Ancaidan will read three meanings you may or may not have intended. Be careful with that one. He has his own interests to look to. They may not be ours.”

 Luc nodded, still having some difficulty putting the Val Moran out of his mind. He was finding it more and more impossible of late. “Everything’s fine,” he said firmly. “It has nothing to do with him.”

“As you say. Anything else?”

Luc thought about it, still moving. He stopped abruptly. Nightfall was approaching swiftly. At the edge of his awareness he detected the movement of the Tides, images outlined in a brilliant blue, brighter and more penetrating than the sun at high noon, a suggestion of memory and power. More. He hadn’t realized he was still consciously connected. “One thing,” he said, aware he was still breathing hard. “Our defenses. Imrail picked a fine time to disappear. Best we not forget the Furies.”

“I’ll see to it,” Urian said.

“Thanks.”

Feeling a little unsettled, Luc wandered a bit. The movement helped work out some of the stiffness and kinks from the ride. He thought he heard the word water on more than one set of lips, but it was the look on the faces of the Ancaidan women and children that troubled him. Most stood huddled together in small groups waiting for Trian and Avela to look them over. The two women looked up at his approach. At the moment Trian was seeing to a girl who might have been fifteen. Like the others, her white skirts were smeared with dark streaks. Her cheeks, also sooty, showed white lines where they were tear-stained. The girl seemed to grow deathly pale when he came to a stop beside Trian.

“They’re afraid,” the Val Moran said. “Seems they’ve been moving on foot for days. Did you find out what happened?”

“Not yet.”

Nodding, Trian soaked a fresh washcloth and cleaned the girl’s palms, scored with cuts and puffy inflammations. She took her time, asking the girl to lift her skirts slightly. A man—Eubantis, he realized—hurried forward with a kettle steeping with fragrant herbs. Bowing, he poured it into a bucket the two women were sharing between them. Soaking the cloth again, she wiped the girl’s face. A pretty thing with hair the color of honey, he realized. Odd that. Most of the Ancaidans had hair an off shade of red and brown, somewhere in between, a few with a sandy coloring. While the two women saw to their needs, the Ancaidans waited patiently, if a touch anxious. At the moment he knew he was the focal point of their attention. When Trian was satisfied the girl would be fine, Lenora handed her a bit of bread and cheese and forced her to drink a mouthful of water from a skin.

Seeing this was likely to take most of the evening, he bent to kiss the Val Moran’s forehead. Her eyes, already deep pools that could make a man forget his own name, widened noticeably. The answering smile that touched her face was well worth the discomfort a display of emotion around strangers elicited.

Moving off, he scanned the perimeter. They were too spread out. A messy business with no way to ascertain if Eridian or Naeleis had pinpointed their location. Spotting Rew hauling blankets and provisions to the tents, he had to blink twice to keep up with his paces. Back in Peyennar Rew was notorious for ducking out of anything strenuous, but at the moment he hardly seemed the same man. Responsibility had been something Allard Acriel and Amreal had discussed to no end. Rew had none. Everyone knew it. He was not sure what Master Acriel would say now had he been here to witness this. Likely something dismissive. Old ways were hard to break. That said, Luc was not so sure Master Acriel would have been right, not anymore at least.

With the world still brushed in a shade of cobalt blue, he worked his way back to the First Minister. The man was engaged in a quiet exchange with a tall man wearing white and gold. “My aid,” Thresh introduced, “Olhm Grivas.”

Grivas inclined his head politely. “My Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” he said, bowing. “Our thanks. Your arrival was . . . fortuitous.”

Luc acknowledged the gesture with a return nod. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come sooner,” he said. “If you’re satisfied with our efforts for the moment, I think it best if we discuss a few matters.”

“That might be best,” Minister Thresh agreed. “A little apart perhaps. We have certain . . . reservations.”

Luc motioned the man to follow. The worry over finding a source of fresh water would have to wait. Moving north a ways, he felt his conscious mind continue to wrestle for a solution. Where was Imrail? he wondered irritably. After clearing the area where the tents were being erected, he came to a halt and turned to face the Ancaidan nobleman. “You were saying?” he asked as smoothly as he could manage.

Thresh glanced at his aid, a hard-faced man who had a crisp air and serious eye, hair an off-shade of white and almost totally bald at the Crown of his head. His movements were still vigorous, though. “The guaranteed safety of our people is our first concern,” Grivas began. “Lord Thresh has three sons. In his current position, it is customary for one of them to assume his office. That may be some time off yet, but we have had no word of the other council members. We would like assurances the Pentharan Crown will recognize the legitimacy of Minister Thresh’s claim and will make efforts to secure it while safeguarding our people.”

Luc could only look at the man. Had they walked under the skies of the Third Plane, such claims would hardly matter. “You have every assurance your safety is as important to me as that of my own people. I don’t know your laws, but if what we suspect is behind this, behind you fleeing your homeland, I will do whatever I can to restore you to your office. If you wish it, I will have your people housed in Alingdor. The city in the south—Triaga, I understand—may have been built for just such a need. If that is satisfactory, you may join us. We will have a sizable force making for the south. I will be requesting more men. I mean to move into Ancaida itself to deal with the Fallen and the Furies.”

“Move into,” Thresh said, glancing at his aid. “In what capacity? Is it your intent to see the streets under martial law and Pentharan rule? And these . . . Furies. We are familiar with the term. A year ago I would have dismissed such notions as imprudence.” He hesitated, some memory clouding his eyes. “I see now we are caught up in something larger than the events of a single city.”

Luc waited a moment, wondering what might have prompted the man to believe him so readily. He had expected some sort of opposition or objection. Seeing the man fall silent, he went on. “I have no wish to rule your people, Minister Thresh. My mother would not only disapprove but would likely censure me. I myself would like to fulfill my allotted role and die in peace. Nothing more. An end. And a beginning. Hope for you and yours and a world free of the mounting darkness. I will see the suffering of the Nations end or endure the same fate you do.”

Thresh did not respond, searching his face. A trace of doubt still lingered on his gray-cast features, but that look took Luc in fastidiously. The Ancaidan Lord saw his intensity, the ripple of hate that flashed across his features, storms only barely contained behind the eyes. “You offer no guarantees and only hints of a bleak future,” he said finally. “Nothing to ease my people or our plight. Mere words without assurances. But . . .”

Luc growled. “Bleak? If that’s so, we have yet to see it, Lord Thresh. There will be misery and suffering enough to make us all wish it was only the loss of the Powers and the unchaining of the Forerunners we have to fear. There are no assurances. The world is about to rue the day they heard even the mention of the Unmaker and the Furies. We have given you our word. Stay in Penthar or travel south under heavy escort. No Nation will be left to face the darkness unaided should they ask for assistance.”

“I was about to say I believe you,” Thresh muttered, wiping a sheen of sweat off his forehead with his shoulder. He turned to face his people. “You are young,” he added, the bitterness ripe on his lips. “Young to speak with such authority and conviction. There are hints in what you say, and in what you do not say. You have encountered the Furies?”

Imrail chose that moment to reappear. “I am afraid that is one tale that would take quite some time to explain,” Imrail said. “Perhaps it would be well to do so over some refreshment.”

Master Thresh lifted his chin. “I would prefer to wait until my people are seen to.”

“Elhador Imrail,” Luc introduced. “Captain of the Companions, General, and Steward of the First City.”

Imrail shot him a glare, smoothing it rapidly. Luc just looked at him. The man’s timing was no doubt deliberate. No sense in letting the charade go on without making it clear he would push back with just as much force. Amreal had declared it with a decisiveness that was almost prophetic. If Imrail’s elevation in the First City was that certain, no sense in putting it off.

It was a moment before he realized Rew, Avela, Altaer, and several men had joined them. Avela’s open mouth made it apparent his voice had carried. A significant title, one advancing the man in rank above even Vandil as he understood it. Luc folded his arms behind his back. He doubted his mother would fault him or attempt to block him. He owed Imrail that much. And Amreal. At the moment the image of Amreal was all he could see.