The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (22 page)

Puzzled, Luc felt his heart miss a beat while he crossed to her tent. Pausing at the entrance, he quietly called her name. No answer. Hesitating, he bent slightly to enter. He was shocked to find her still awake, wrapped in her blankets but seated cross-legged with her elbows on her knees and head in her hands. She was gripping a kerchief tightly. Suddenly alarmed, he bounded towards her. An immediate sense of fury held him, ripped through him—an awakening that sent shudders through him and stabbing pains through his temples. Kneeling, he dismissed it and caught the girl in a fierce embrace. “What happened?” he demanded, scanning the tent.

The Val Moran did not answer. “Trian,” he said, taking her shoulders. “Trian!” Still not answering, she just clung to him. What under the One had happened? “Damn it, Trian, I can’t do anything if you don’t answer. What happened?” Why wouldn’t she answer? Her sobs pierced his soul, as if it was not already bruised beyond repair. Maybe he deserved it.

She did not.

Shifting so he could sit, he pulled her to him. He tried not to think about the feel of her pressed against him. Her soft, supple curves were absorbing enough, midnight hair, luminous eyes, and skin so smooth he could not distance himself from the ever-present need and yearning that balanced the nightmares—images and memories he was not prepared to face. He knew what it was he feared, yielding to the past and shedding his flesh for his native form, but this was what he was now. Perhaps what he had to be. To learn. To know fear.

To love.

“Elloyn, I swear you’ll stop my heart if you don’t stop this. I’m here. I’m sorry if something happened, if I did something. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

She pulled back slightly. He felt her flinch and was immediately sorry he had used her name. Wiping her eyes with the kerchief, she launched herself at him. Totally unprepared for their lips meeting, he was shocked by her savagery, by his own. He felt his fingers fumbling at the throat of her blouse, hers pulling him free of his overcoat. Her exhale against his neck made him shiver. The same surreal merging he recalled at the Edgewood inn took place. It was a melding of mind and spirit and one beyond any sense of shared intimacy he had ever known, whether in this existence or in the other. He would never need to doubt that she was linked to him in some indefinable way. Inhaling her scent, he realized he had never been so uninhibited. It never occurred to him to hold back. He did not want to. Rolling over, she spun with him. The woman had taken the worst parts of him and embraced them. She had denied herself for him. On every level imaginable he knew he would always love this woman—what she had been, what she was, and what she would be.

 “Luc.” The hand fingering the strap of her shift froze. “You’re not going to stop . . .” She flushed, taking his hand. “You have a tendency to stretch the bounds of modesty.” Looking at her, he could not resist a grin. Knowing her own Val Moran restraint rivaled his own, he said nothing. He could not say anything, so overwhelmed was he by the experience. Taking in her lush red lips and ripe figure, he forgot himself but held on to a strain of decency when it became apparent she was waiting to see what he would do next. He wanted more, much more, but not here in the wild. Well, that did not describe it, but he could sense her mind. Rolling over onto his back, he was grateful when Trian nestled into him. Whatever it was troubling her seemed to have become settled in her mind. He did not want to bring it up, not with the dull ache continuing to pulsate through him.

 “You did a remarkable thing tonight, Luc,” she said, her hand running over his exposed skin. “I wonder if it’s that kind of compassion which will lead us to victory.”

“Or defeat,” he muttered.

She just looked at him, pushing up slightly. With his eyes locked on her he felt foolish for feeling moisture settle into his eyes. She was here in his arms. That was enough. In some ways, now that the moment had come, he knew this was all he truly wanted. There was a lesson in it he would have to consider. To preserve this they would have to find a way to beat back the Furies.

Seeing his face cloud over, she pulled him to her. “Just kiss me and promise me you won’t forget this moment. What it means to me. Not now or ever.”

He did that, with a tenderness that was not forced or practiced. Just holding her stretched the limits of his restraint, yet she deserved more. He was not looking forward to daybreak, but for the moment allowed himself to just revel in the feel of her in his arms. He did not think he would be getting any sleep—he was certainly not about to try.

* * * * *

The next morning the wind was ripe and new out of the west, but warm fires dotted the camp and the laughter of children filled the air. He and Trian walked with Rew and Imrail through the Ancaidan segment of the camp. He moved as if a touch bemused. If anyone suspected anything, they did not comment. Trian seemed herself again, but he worried about what had caused her frantic state to begin with. He had asked, but all she had said was he would find out soon enough. Nothing too terrible then, but something he intended to uncover.

That morning was the first time he had ever experienced children running up to him tugging on his sleeve to show him some small wonder or other. Some of the boys held slings made by Imrail’s men. With no game to aim at, they shot at birds in the sky and at stakes lined up in ranks of four. For the older folk, it was the smell of fresh bread baking in coals and water enough that all of the Lord Thresh’s household was able to wash thoroughly. Clotheslines had been hung and there was movement enough to make it seem the Ancaidans were preparing for a feast or high day. When the supplies finally arrived out of the south they would have more reason to celebrate. Today there was just a feeling of general hope and optimism that made him grateful Imrail had asked him to accompany them.

Minister Thresh bowed when they paused at his tent. He had an arm around his wife’s shoulders, a slim woman still young and quite charming. She curtsied low and took Trian’s hand. The First Minister smiled and spoke with some relief.

“It seems the long night has passed,” he said. “My advisors held a brief council during the night. We have agreed your motives are just and your cause worthy of whatever aid we can provide. We will join with the forces of Penthar in the war against the Furies. Some years ago a mystic told me to await a sign. I see it on the standard you had raised during the night.”

Luc turned sharply, groaning when he saw it.

“The banner of the Lord Siren,” Imrail said simply. “We call it the Mark of Chaos. Consider what you have agreed to, Lord Thresh. If you choose to side with us you are siding with the forces of Chaos. General Vandil will be raising an army that will make Imdre seem a skirmish. Our goal is simple. Give every oath and pledge to follow the Powers in their move against the Unmaker. Death and destruction are about to be unleashed. This will not be over any time soon. Knowing that you are free to recant. There will be no lasting shame or repercussion. And you need not decide now.”

Ronan Thresh had to swallow twice before he could speak. When he did it was with a glint in the eyes that Luc had seen on the faces of other men. “I saw what they did firsthand. We are with you, General. And with the Lord Siren.”

“Good,” Imrail said. “Then I’m afraid we must take our leave of you. We have a long road ahead and little time to spare. My hope is that you will be close to border by the time we rejoin you. It will be a difficult journey, but we will ensure you are given wagons and provisions enough to see to your comfort. Rest assured these men are among the finest in the nation. Landon Graves and Eduin Lars will have the charge. They have orders to ensure you have input on matters of import. Will that be sufficient?”

“More than sufficient, if they hold to your orders.” Plainly the man still had some reservations, but that was hardly unexpected.

“Then we will take our leave of you now, Minister Thresh. Go with the Giver.”

“You as well.”

Luc extended a hand to the man and offered him a nod and a firm shake of the hand before turning away. With the Val Moran beside him, he realized suddenly a ride to Alingdor accompanied by the outlander and a few days waiting in peace did not seem such a horrible thing. Turning back to their section of the encampment, he found Lightfoot saddled and waiting for him. Taking Trian’s arm, he helped her reach her mare. At the moment her dark eyes were touched with a grave tenderness that made his throat feel numb.

Climbing into the saddle, he turned his eyes north. That way the jewel of the nation waited: Alingdor, First City of Penthar.

It was there the world would first learn what had become of the lord of the shattered city.

They set out under relatively clear skies. The First City stood approximately two days north via the main highway. Outside of his short stint in the port city, these paths would take them through the most settled parts of the nation. Without a formal escort, they made good time. For the first few hours Luc rode in the rear astride Trian. She caught him off guard when she asked him if he was sorry they had stopped. Feeling his face heat up, he did not need to clarify what she meant by
stop
. He had not wanted to stop—almost could not bring himself to stop. He doubted he would ever shake the image of the woman in a shift that revealed more skin than it concealed.

He realized she was waiting for him to answer. “Yes and no,” he said finally. No sense hiding anything from her. She would have seen through the deception. “Yes because . . . well . . . you know. And no because I love you enough to wait until you’re ready. All I see are the flames and the darkness.” A broken city. He sighed. Hardly a future worth devoting oneself to. That was his birthright, and the only promise he could make to any woman. They had certainly known one another longer than the weeks she had been in Penthar, but what they had now was still new, a fresh morning dew under a dawning sunrise. Still, he’d be a fool to expect any women, even her, to commit to such bleakness.

Abruptly he realized Trian had jerked her mare to a halt. Anxious he had said something to offend, he drew rein and turned the bay, hitching forward until they sat only inches apart. The words had just rolled off the tongue. If she—

“You what?” she whispered.

Instantly he realized what it was she was getting at. “Trian, you know how I feel.”

“Yes, but . . .” He cursed his tongue when tears leaked out of her eyes.

“Will you please stop?” he whispered. “I promised you . . .”

“My Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” the young woman said around a rich laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand, “I have said it before. You are far too good for this world. This . . . I never would have believed it back in Val Mora. We have plenty of time to discuss it—not to worry or fret about it—but you should know I love you too.” Extending her arms, she pulled his face to hers. Her kiss was full, if light and brief, but no one missed it. Pulling back after a moment, she ran a hand through his hair. “I doubt waiting will be a prospect either of us will savor. But I have waited a long time already, I think. A little while longer will give us time to become properly . . . reacquainted. Besides, there are still a few of those Val Moran customs that set your teeth on edge I am tied to. For now, we should move on. I know the truth now. That will have to suffice. The others are waiting.”

He was pleased the woman had some difficulty pulling her eyes away. If the memory of the woman the night before had not already become permanently ingrained, the look in her eyes at that moment was one he did not think he would forget anytime soon. He did not think he could face the Furies knowing she did not love him.

Now he would not need to try.

Avela and Lenora, riding just slightly behind Imrail, looked notably pleased. “A pleasant morning, wouldn’t you say, Imrail?” Avela murmured.

The general gave her a glance that seemed slightly wary. “Wonderful,” he said a bit sourly. Luc did not know why the man chose that moment to give him a withering look before picking up the pace.

Sometime in the late afternoon they reached a considerable town at least two to three times the size of the Landing, perhaps more. This one had no walls or gates; it simply spilled out across the level plains, isolated sentry posts visible in a distance. The southern gateway into the First City, Avela called it. No need for Imrail to point out the section to the east that had been razed when the siege had been at its worst. It stunned him to find the Ardan had penetrated this far into Penthar, on Alingdor’s doorstep no less.

Over the years the town had held various names, but under Viamar’s reign had come to be known as Marthon, a significant center of trade and industry, Imrail told him. On its western flank farms and homesteads dotted the landscape. The mill and granary were both sizable and within view a half mile outside of the town. To the north and east homes and other establishments seemed intermingled. Reaching an intersection just south of the town, two men in rusty coats seated on wagons exchanged looks when their party passed. One took off his rimmed hat respectfully as they passed. Imrail acknowledged the gesture with a firm nod. In their uniforms the Companions were likely to garner similar attention. All openly displayed the emblems of House Viamar and the Mark of Chaos. Symbols they held in high esteem, he realized, even if one was beyond their understanding. At the moment he saw only the overlay of a forgotten time. The image made him grit his teeth.

Just shy of Marthon the highway expanded, straddled by a pair of heavy stone peel towers that all but announced the Crown’s interests. Sentries on the upper levels must have sent word of their approach as at least a dozen men in dull brown coats stood at attention to greet them. Imrail brought his stallion to a halt and acknowledged the officer who stepped forward. It appeared he recognized the general.

“My Lord Imrail,” he intoned, bowing. His bronze-colored uniform appeared of a finer knit than the others, and the hint of gray in his dark hair gave him an air of authority. He wore the crest of House Viamar on his left sleeve and was armed with a short sword with an easy draw. “We had word you might be passing through,” he added, “but we were expecting a full company. I trust all is well. If not, we will attend you. My name is Liam Oden, Third Rank. Welcome to Marthon.”

“Sergeant,” Imrail acknowledged, surveying the imposing post. His face appeared to cloud over momentarily, but he masked it. “These are the Companions,” he said somewhat absently. “Some of them at least.”

Oden scanned their small party. He looked the Companions over first, Urian’s greasy features giving him a start. He glanced speculatively at each of them in turn. Just as his eyes reached Luc, Imrail cleared his throat. The man drew himself up immediately. “Forgive me, Lord Imrail. We are honored. If I may, rumor had it the Companions have been combing the wild for the Lord Viamar. Have you any word of the king?”

Imrail nodded, exchanging a glance with Luc. “We have word of him, and more. We will need rooms. I think the garrison will do. I suggest you accompany us. There are substantial matters to discuss. Is Reardon still in charge?”

“Yes, my Lord. He is”

“Excellent. Join us.”

The soldier acknowledged the order with a smart salute. Turning, he issued a sharp command for a horse to be brought. Short minutes later they were riding through Marthon under Oden’s light escort. Still unused to larger towns and cities, Luc found himself paying particular attention to the locals they passed. And some others of a decidedly seedier sort. He knew being raised in Peyennar left him with certain . . . disadvantages. Like Aldoren’s Watch—simply known as the King’s Watch in the south, he had discovered from the Ancaidans—it seemed a gathering point for all sorts. They passed Tolmarans selling and buying wares, a Val Moran who appeared to be browsing, and even a Martyren standing at a saddler’s door with a pipe hanging from his lips. A pair of men in dark jerkins caught his eye most noticeably, however.

“Lawless,” Altaer whispered.

“I noticed,” Luc responded. He kept them firmly in view for as long as possible.

Outside of the strange mix of folk on the move, he paid particular attention to the town’s layout. Not far in they passed a tap room, the Dancing Barrhead, which stood across from an inn and stable. Locals, who like most Pentharans approached work with a seriousness, appeared a reserved sort; the outsiders were anything but. Not surprisingly Rew sighed noticeably when they passed the tap room; Urian’s nod of agreement made Luc wonder if he was missing something about outings such as the one he and Rew had undertaken in the Landing. Along the way they passed a carpenter’s and cooper’s shared workshop, a teamster’s yard and considerable warehouse. Evident Marthon had a functional, orderly design, most of the homes and establishments appeared confined to branching side-streets. Those buildings nearest the highway seemed of newer work, angular roofs, fenced in entryways, cobblestone paths, and narrow gardens or work areas. Altaer, observing his interest, pointed out a foundry, scrivener’s office, mason’s shop, and an apothecary that caught Trian’s eye. Alingdor had a strict policy on only permitting men licensed through the Guild Commission to conduct business. The law required the issuance of permits and certificates, a matter that at times was one of heated debate, he said.

At this hour the vast majority of townsfolk seemed headed home, though the highway was still busy. Sentries moved in pairs. The Companions’ uniforms drew unavoidable attention—though perhaps that was the point—Imrail and Urian receiving second and third glances and nervous bows. The sight of Avela and Trian on horse made some of the women they passed curtsy. Rew, riding in the rear with Luc and Altaer, commented on some of the differences he noted between the sprawling town and Alingdor. The community was clearly one of more than moderate importance. With a fully manned garrison, Alingdor maintained a permanent presence. He wondered what impact the coming war would have. This place seemed exposed. Another duty he had to attend to. Just one of a growing number, it seemed. Inhaling, he gripped the reins firmly and attempted to put aside the worry.

Reaching the garrison a little under a half hour later, Oden moved off ahead briefly to announce their arrival. The structure dominated the heart of Marthon. Gated and standing grimly, it seemed somewhat out of place. Still, it sternly overlooked the highway and reminded outsiders to be wary of bringing trouble. With only one point of entry, it appeared secure. Several men stationed at the entrance looked them over and exchanged flashing looks. Imrail’s gear and badges of office appeared to carry some weight, it seemed. Glances at Avela confirmed who these men and women were; Luc was discovering the auburn-haired woman was one of some repute.

“This is Captain Imrail,” Oden announced. “We are here to see Reardon.”

“General now actually,” Urian advised.

Imrail gave the bowman a scathing look. “We’ll need rooms as well,” the general added sourly. “See to our mounts.”

Trading looks, no one looked about to dally.

“At once,” several echoed.

Oden did not wait to show them in. Taking them across the yard, they dismounted and tied off their horses. Luc scanned the impressive grounds, eying the yard, store areas, work sheds, and watch towers. The men they saw moved with purpose, but there were a noticeable number of women as well. Inside through a guarded corridor, they bypassed bisecting wings, passing administrative offices, common areas, billets and work stations, until eventually they reached what appeared to be a conference room with an adjoining briefing room twice again as large as the sitting room in his home in Peyennar, this one only starkly furnished and littered with documents. At their entry a man of some girth with an unkempt black beard looked up from behind a desk where he was leafing through a stack of missives. He gave their small party an annoyed look before he realized who it was standing before him.

“Imrail!” he roared, standing, both hands repositioning his belt so he could resettle his bulk above it. His pasty white features instantly took on a grin. “Heard you were in the northern wastes wading through Ardan. What word, Captain?”

Imrail wasted no time. “Viamar’s safe. We found him.” Moving forward, he crossed his arms. “The White Rose has named her son to succeed him. In a few days Viamar will be making the declaration official. Wait,” Imrail added when the man’s mouth dropped open. “You’re looking at him. The Lord Viamar-Ellandor. I’ve ordered this image,” he fingered the collar of his coat, “this symbol displayed wherever the Sparrow is. See to it. We are moving to wake the nation.”

Reardon gaped. Swallowing, the heavyset man took Luc in again. Whatever he saw in that moment made him glance away. Reaching a knee, he bowed his head. “My Lord.” He looked up slowly. “There were rumors . . .” He swallowed again. “If I may say, you favor your mother. My name is Anton Reardon, your man. How may we serve?”

Imrail responded. “We met the Ancaidans camped to the south. Why did no one move to confront them?”

Reardon glanced up at the man. No missing the flat edge to the general’s tone. “They never came this way,” he explained. “We did receive word Draiden sent a delegation. Must have been days ago now. You’re saying they never made it?”

Imrail’s face took on a ridged look. “I had no such word. Which way did they go? And why the delay? There was a skirmish south of Aldoren’s Watch. That must have been weeks ago now. The Ancaidans fled. They pose no threat. We have given them assurances. I need a team to scout for signs of the missing men—right now. Make sure it’s at least two hundred strong, the best you can muster. This may be trouble. I suggest Oden lead it. Can he handle it?”

Reardon rubbed his beard. His eyes grew flat. “Yes, Captain. I believe he can.”

“General now,” Avela murmured.

The man whistled. “About time,” he said, grinning again. “You staying the night? I can have rooms ready.”

Imrail shook his head. “We made no secret of our arrival and there are some outsiders who may have taken an interest in us. I’d rather we leave at nightfall and make for the First City.” The general glanced at Luc. “If you approve, of course. I have a feeling once your folks learned about our engagement with the Earthbound north of the Landing, they made for Alingdor will all speed. You’ll no doubt want to see the city and spend some time reacquainting yourself with them. I also have some . . . tasks to attend to.”