The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (31 page)

He found the men formidable enough. Expertly trained and held in reserve for this moment, tools shaped to shake the world at its foundations. To a man all paused and came to attention when they passed. Walking with Trian on his arm and his mother and father a step or two behind them, there was no disputing the respect, the reverence, these soldiers held for House Viamar. His identity only recently disclosed and the winds coming alive before him, the sight of the rapid mobilization lit a fire in him. After eons spent in waiting, the moment had come. There would be losses, but the world would awake free of the Earthbound and their shameless masters. It was a moment the Nations had been awaiting, one deserving of some sign or sendoff.

His mother’s slight intake made him pause and look back. She was staring above. “Ivon, did you—?”

“Not me,” his father answered.

Glancing in the same direction, the warping air and pulsing energy held his eye for a few seconds only. Wherever he looked the work had come to a sudden standstill. Now they would know and never doubt.

Satisfied everything was proceeding according to plan and in due order, Imrail touched his arm. “It’s time,” he said. Nodding, Luc glanced at his folks standing a little to the side. Raising an arm in farewell, he took his leave. He was reluctant to do more out in the open. Retreating to the palace grounds, it took some effort to contain the forces sheering through him. It was happening more and more of late. He was changing, no doubt, becoming something that privately terrified him. Something he could almost remember.

This part of their plan was one he hardly favored. He supposed his folks had insisted. His reluctance to turn it into a spectacle meant the pair would be remaining behind. Well, they did have a great deal to see to. Moving off with the ever-present escort forming up behind them, Protector Kirran in the lead, they met Urian and Altaer at the palace entrance. Nodding towards the two men, he distanced himself from the elemental forces churning within him and tried not to think about the Mark of Chaos still visible in the northern sky.

The ride through the city proved uneventful for the most part. His discomfort at being the focal point of so much attention was somewhat offset by the feel of the open air. He had no doubt the people of Alingdor would soon forget him. Life under the rule of the White Rose and the Lord Viamar would remain relatively unchanged. Under daylight and with an escort numbering well into the hundreds, he still had difficulty coming to terms with the size of the First City, but managed to maintain a controlled expression. The residents of Alingdor were gracious, though after a day it was hard to say if the people even knew who they were. No matter.

After circling the Administrator’s Quarters, where hundreds of bureaucrats, diplomats, and other officials important to governance of the realm were housed, many who left their posts to witness their passing, they crossed to the Merchant’s Quarter and indulged in a meal at an inn with a reputation for being the finest in Alingdor—calculated on Imrail’s part as the support of the city’s merchants was imperative. It ended with the four of them reemerging into the city with a full throng of people waiting for a glimpse of the Lord Siren.

So much for anonymity. It appeared the word was out.

Their last stop prior to nightfall was a ride through the Guild’s Quarter, the hub of industry and innovation in the nation. With night coming on, Imrail appeared increasingly anxious. They passed craftsmen of every kind imaginable, foundries, masons, carpenters, metal smiths, tanners, jewelers, and more. Large warehouses were owned and separately operated. Most goods were shipped directly to the Merchant’s Quarters. The especially industrious regularly sought foreign markets and shipped them to the Sunstreet Markets in Tolmar or even further by way of Aldoren’s Watch. He had to admit the experience was riveting.

The day concluded with Imrail calling a halt just prior to sundown. Glancing at Luc, he looked, perhaps for the first time, a touch apprehensive. “I think it’s time,” he whispered, looking pale.

“What is it?” Luc demanded, tensing. Wheeling Lightfoot, he nearly unsheathed his sword. The movement made the escort under Kirran’s command instantly come to attention.

“Something I’ve been avoiding,” the man muttered. “Something your arrival appears to have forced me to consider. You are many things, but not what any of us expected. Will you stand with me, Anaris?”

“Imrail—”

“Yes or no, boy.”

Luc sighed. “Of course.”

Imrail nodded, still in no way relieved. “Let’s go then. It isn’t far.”

Hitching forward, Imrail continued to lead their party. Running a hand through his short-cropped light brown hair, he held the reins with the other. He did not appear to be keeping as close an eye out for trouble as he normally would have. With no idea what was troubling the man, Luc dropped back and exchanged a glance with Avela.

“I think he’s sick or something,” he confessed. “He hasn’t seemed himself the last day or two.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed, my Lord,” she said pleasantly. “He hasn’t spoken to me of it. In fact, he hardly says anything at all. Perhaps you should ask him if he needs to be relieved of his duties.”

He chose, rather wisely on his part, not to respond. He thought they were nearing the western gate, Seafarers Way. Aldoren’s Watch stood within a two day march. The street, still not empty—likely never truly empty in Alingdor—continued in a westerly direction. Not towards the heart of the city then. They walls were close. Perilously close. What was going on?

As they neared the gate, Imrail made a motion towards Protector Kirran and Altaer who dismounted and sought entry into an attached gatehouse, more an extended compound hugging the city wall for several streets. Leaving the saddle, Imrail indicated they should emulate him. Once they were all standing in a semi-circle around him he momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. When he reopened them a dogged light of determination rippled across his square features. “We have a problem,” he admitted.

No one responded.

“I had every intention of staying another day or two and complying with the Lady Viamar’s wishes. Making your presence visible and known to the nation. Night before last I had a visit.” He paused. “It was Naeleis.” Luc froze, blood becoming ice. “Warning me what would come. Warning me about what I intended. It seems I have gained his interest and attention.” Imrail caught the sudden intensity in his return look, the hate the mere mention of the name evoked.

Nodding soberly, Imrail turned to glance at Avela. “I have a message ready to send to your father,” he told her. “I’ve indicated it was my intention to call on him before we left. After our guest made himself known to me, it occurred they would only become targets. My hope was to ask for your hand in person. I will still do so, but have delayed the delivery. You may answer as you will. But I will not risk the lives of your folks.”

Shocked, instant tears spilled down her cheeks. “Elhador . . .”

“I will be dead soon,” he told her, openly taking in the image of the full-figured woman, “but I will die whole. I have written testaments witnessing the transfer of my estates and holdings. I have little else to offer.

“As for you,” he said, turning to Luc, “a predetermined timetable has been set. We are well behind. If we do not leave quickly, I doubt we will arrive in time.”

“Who told you this?” Trian asked carefully. “Surely not Naeleis.”

Imrail glanced at the young woman. Something in her tone told him she already knew. Imrail let out a breath, still looking at Luc steadily. “It was a shade of the Fury, not a form of flesh. The most accurate description is a veiled presence. The force of his will . . . I am not telling you this to frighten—”

“Naeleis doesn’t frighten me, Imrail,” Luc said flatly, flexing his hands. “That makes two of them in Alingdor in the last day. Damn it, I warned you.
I warned you!
”

“Calm yourself,” Imrail snapped, looking around quickly. “Better you know the truth now and not wonder later. You will have to find some way to . . . impress upon them your intent to destroy them. I have no doubt they are in awe of your arising. The Annals make mention of the terrible War of the Furies. You are named, if only in fragments and passages. Several have been lost. But Unari is mentioned. You are Unari. The Storm. The Furies are no doubt unwilling to confront you directly, but they have tools. Be warned.”

“I have had enough warnings,” he snapped. His mother and father had already lectured him to no end. “Who told you we’re running out of time?”

“Amreal.”

Stunned and horrified at the same time, Luc swore.

Urian, Altaer, and Kirran chose that moment to approach. Scanning their faces, the two bowmen waited some distance off. “Might as well get inside,” Imrail muttered. Glancing at Luc, he added, “We’ll discuss it later. We’re going to be spending the night here. Your folks will be by after nightfall. Come on.”

Head reeling, Luc would have shaken off Trian’s hand had it been anyone else. Amreal.
And Naeleis.
That one would pay for his crimes. Soon if he had his way.

* * * * *

Alingdor’s walls were no less imposing by nightfall. With four gates and manned posts stationed at key junctions throughout the First City, the battlements appeared fairly accessible. From what he could see they were staffed at all times. Tireless work and thankless. Kirran led them down a shadowy street directly into a structure that buttressed the wall. Ducking inside, the post appeared in good repair. Several Protectors were already there. Their gear, while formal, was hardly for show. These were clearly capable men, grim-faced, steely-eyed. Hard to say how much Viamar’s abduction had impacted them. The king’s unlooked for return, however, along with the Lady Viamar and a son and heir, had no doubt bolstered their faith in House Viamar. One could hope so at least.

Acknowledging their curt bows and salutes, he kept his mouth clamped shut until they came to a corridor separated by adjoining quarters, cramped and narrow, and a slightly larger common area. As they entered Rew and Lenora stood. Riven was with them.

“Wait,” Imrail said warningly when the Companion opened his mouth to speak.  

Luc unbuckled his sword belt, slamming it down on scuffed table leaning directly against what appeared to be a section of the city’s walls. He was not sure what infuriated him more, Amreal or Naeleis making their first appearance to the general. Or both. “When?” he demanded.

“Amreal last night,” Imrail told him. “Naeleis the night before.”

 “How . . . ?”

“He didn’t say.” Imrail knew he was not referring to the self-proclaimed Lord of the Legion of the Earthbound. “You should be glad some part of him is still out there actively looking out for us. Your parents were when I told them. Now you can choose either to stay fixated on his memory or move forward. I believe you know what he would have you do. As for Edenthror Isar—this Naeleis—I would be wary. His enmity knows no limits. He means to make you suffer, as you made him suffer. I have no doubt whatever’s going on in Ancaida is his handiwork. I tell you again. Be careful. They are not going to just hand you the Sword of Ardil. You will have to wrestle it away from them, and will only regain it at great cost. If anything, they intend to use it against you.”

Still looking at him, Imrail held up a hand. That look was direct enough. “You aren’t ready to face
him
yet. Trust me, I know.”

Not ready
. He shot the man a dark look. “Did you tell my folks? About Naeleis?” he demanded.

“I’m telling you,” Imrail said, crossing his arms. “What you decide to tell them is up to you.”

Luc glanced at Kirran. “You’re to wait until I’m gone.”

“Understood, my Lord.”

“Eridian was here, too,” Luc admitted. “That just leaves Maien.” He would have paced had there been more room. The post was more than a little confining with its low ceiling and narrow breadth. “She won’t wait to weigh in. She’ll plot and plan in secret. But she’s bold. Bolder than the others. She’ll have her eye on us the entire way south.”

“Perhaps,” Imrail said somewhat patiently, “but there isn’t much we can do now. Everything’s been set in motion almost exactly as you had designed. In some ways, things have come out far better than any of us expected. We may not be winning, but we’re certainly not losing. Take some comfort in that.”

Exhaling, Luc felt his ire begin to cool. Slightly. From rage to an anger that knew no bounds. Imrail seized the opportunity to go on. “I expect your folks will be here after nightfall. They will be moving out for the King’s Watch to install Kalyn Tanaran. My recommendation is that we set out well in advance of dawn. We’ll have to swing around the city before joining up with our forces. I’m undecided about moving south with all speed. For now, we can at least choose the more unlikely route.”

Luc, looking at Trian, barely contained a flood of emotions at the word that Amreal was somehow still out there. Avela was similarly overwhelmed at Imrail’s sudden declaration. Reaching him, the woman looked about to embrace him. Seeing the tears in her eyes, he let the matter drop and left the two to a moment likely years in the making.

Glancing at Rew, he looked at his friend curiously. “Where have you two been?”

Rew rubbed his face, looking cautious. Riven stepped in politely. “Young Acriel here has somehow taken the first step in cementing relations with the Smith’s Guild,” he said. “We have two master craftsmen willing to work directly for the Crown and oversee the requisition and forging of arms to outfit the Nations. They were hoping to meet you.”