The Sword of Ardil: The War of the Furies Book 2 (49 page)

Grivas and Gantling rode up to them. “It’s true,” the Ancaidan whispered, face gray in the torchlight. “You . . .” He drew in a breath. “There’s nothing left, is there?”

Trian shook her head.

Urian had shaken off some sense of foreboding. Cutting across their front lines, he reached Mearl, gesturing sharply. The pair conferred for some time. When finished the veteran nodded bleakly. Finally Urian wheeled his horse and approached. “I’d say you’ve succeeded in getting their attention, my Lord Viamar-Ellandor,” the bowman said. “They’re coming.”

“I know.” Luc said it softly. He felt the slight brush of anticipation.

“I suggest we form ranks immediately.”

“Do it,” Luc whispered.
Hurry
.

Urian saluted and rode off.

Well, he had wanted to take the fight to the Furies, but perhaps they had already succeeded in demonstrating to their enemies the Nations would not roll over. He hated delays, but something told him they would not have to wait long.”

* * * * *

No one objected to Urian being given the charge. Luc chose not meddle in the bowman’s preparations. The man knew what they were facing as well as any. He had to keep his wits about him and stayed focused on Caldor. Urian took a third of the men and formed them into ranks six across. Sword hands and spearmen made up the bulk of the foot, archers taking up positions just to the rear, the freshest mounts on standby. He sent sentries out into the night. A team of men tended the horses while the rest of the outfit sought their bedrolls, most choosing to ignore them. Their nervousness was offset only by some sense that Luc would not fail them. The Redshirts saluted when he passed, the Ancaidans nodding familiarly. Not the best of circumstances. He had intended to push all the way into the dead city, and still would, but they would make their first stand here.

Conscious of the former Diem’s probing attacks, he chose to stay linked to the Tides. He could not afford a lapse or momentary break in concentration. All appeared quiet for the first hour, but Luc detected movement in mass. At least twice while sending out probing Tides he felt surges from the south. The Fallen was proving relentless. The second time, staring out into the darkness, Ansifer sent an eddy against them—that was how his mind’s eye saw it—a blast of force he barely deflected. Gritting his teeth, his eyes watered. The follow up strike was a third volley of arcing power, this time the Tides in its purest essence. Raising the Ruling Rod, he slammed his will against it. Sparks ignited in the night sky, showering down like a rainfall.

Staggering from the backlash, reeling, he lost his footing. “Arrows!” Urian snapped. Luc sat up, panting, seeing double. The ground seemed to shudder. It heaved. Seconds passed. Longer. Before he knew it the men on the front lines were fully engaged. Ears ringing, he lurched to his feet. Trying to bring himself to focus, he heard the cries of beasts so bent and twisted he perceived something inherent in them that he had not been able to place before. These were creatures of the Third Plane, bred for one purpose: The annihilation of the Builders.
Angrats
, he thought with a savageness that seized him. Consumed him. He had been right—Ansifer would not wait to engage them.

Unsheathing his sword, he blinked. Once to clear his eyes. Twice to remember. There was no going back. Pressing forward, he waded into the thick of it, unaware of the men forming up around him.

He baited me into a trap. Now there are too many.
Reaching the front line, he swung at a beast that leapt at him, growling. The rolling advance was an avalanche; the front lines met, men digging in, howls reverberating in the night. Frantic
, he hewed at fully armored Angrat that bore down on him. These resembled the ones during the assault on Peyennar, but they moved with a shocking speed, eyes alight, fangs exposed. His sword penetrated the armor, but met the creature’s hide and barely made a dent. Turning, he jerked his sword back and struck again, this time hewing at an outstretched arm. Archers appeared to slow the others some, but not much. These were no ordinary foes, he decided. Someone was coordinating their offensive, someone who had made them strong and mobile, a unit that moved in concert. Hacking with his sword, a Silverband on his left screamed. Luc shifted his weight, sword slicing through the skull of the beast. Suddenly he realized the air had taken on a twisted feel, rank. The left side of their lines was exposed.

A fool
, he cursed himself.

Fumes like a rising mist were beginning to spread. Lethal fumes.
Seeing men fall, his unconscious exploded, some concussive blast surging outwards from him. Three Angrats clawing forward, yellowish fangs exposed, poised to rip him to shreds, flew back—hurled by the untamed force, ashen flesh exploding, piercing through the frontlines of the Earthbound host. Not waiting, he unleashed everything in him. They had to hold. Sword extended, he struck. Not just with the Tides—the currents washed through him, into him, out of him, ice filling his bloodstream. Before him the Angrat host hesitated, shrieking. Arrows caught fire in midair. The ground heaved, dust and dirt becoming a spray. Feeling numb, he sent out a strand of Disintegration that cut forward in a horizontal line, slicing through the Legion. Simultaneously the lightning came. Caldor lit up again in the distance, blow after blow striking at the dead town. Conscious of someone moving up beside him, he was aware of a figure with both hands stretched out.
Trian.
The air shimmered and sparkled. It opened. Shadows sped earthward, flying over the milling Angrats. The display was horrific. Creatures out of the forgotten past summoned to serve, to destroy. In seconds they passed over the battlefield and tore into Caldor with a vengeance. His awakened mind perceived immediately what
she
had done. If Caldor was silent before, a maelstrom ripped through the Ancaidan town. Deathshades and Ardan became exposed, the night itself turned against them.

Far in the distance the onetime Diem appeared to pause in dismay. He had brought forces to bear to face Siren. He had not expected this. Elloyn had come, co-equal of Maien. Now in full command of the dead. Even here she wept for them. Perhaps for what she had done or been forced to do. Pulling her to him, his heart skipped a beat as it had the first time he had seen her. Now everything they were or had been was bared, stripped away. They were alone in a foreign land, in an existence, he was becoming less and less sure of. She did not let go.

Urian, sensing the shifting balance, ordered archers to press the offensive and foot to horse. “Press them, you slugs! Redshirts, advance! Watch for—” The sound of the ground heaving behind them made him pause. Luc immediately tensed. Waiting, cold and detached, he continued to survey the south, glancing to the north just once. Calling for his bay, he side-stepped a thrashing carcass. Seeing his look, Urian’s evil eyes narrowed.

“You mean to march on the town now.” It was not a question.

“I will not wait one more second,” he whispered, arm still clutching Trian by the waist.
Luc’s thought,
Ivon Ellandor’s son. “I will have him on his knees begging the Giver for forgiveness. Begging the world for forgiveness.
I
am here.”

Urian nodded with a long intake, seeing his bare-teethed snarl.

Violent movement from the north made them both turn. The approaching force was of a size the sound of their passage was almost painful. An image floated above them, some standard lit up even in the night. The Mark. Torches undulated, a tidal movement reaching the crest of its height and power. No doubt about it. The armies of Penthar had come.

Imrail had come.

Riding forward, the general took in the men still engaged at the front. His stallion was covered in a lather and his sword was unsheathed. Leaping to the ground, he tossed the reins at a passing soldier. His strides quickly took him to Urian. After conferring for several seconds, both out of earshot, the man glanced at his arriving aides and issued orders for the Redshirts with him to reinforce their lines and sweep forward. He sent runners off immediately to the other outfits. Only then did he approach Luc and Trian, bowing slightly. His rugged features had a set look, eyes missing nothing. “A beginning,” he whispered. “Like Imdre and not. You are both changed. I am sorry for that, but I’m afraid there’s no time now. Worse is yet to come.” He closed his eyes momentarily, exhaling. Luc detected just the faintest hint of a shudder. When the man reopened his eyes, though, he had a deliberate, set look on his face.

“Lars, send the word,” he said coldly. “We are retaking Caldor. As soon as that’s done, summon the remaining Companions. We ride together.”

The advance team the man assembled looked grim and deadly. The Sons of Thunder took the lead, Landon Graves, dark-faced for a Pentharan, riding up and down the column of men, determined, authoritative now. He led the pride of Alingdor’s forces. They were to take the lead in closing the remaining distance to Caldor. Gantling used the Redshirts to form a wedge around them. Even the Angrats broke before their forward push.

Other outfits streaked in on horse, Altaer’s scouts and bowmen cutting in to the east and hammering the now fleeing Angrat host. Lars sent Lieutenant Tanis to the west, Ildar’s host taking a reinforcing position, holding the supply lines together. They would be the last unit to engage the enemy, but if all went well, would not see any fighting this night.

Eventually their makeshift command center became silent. For a moment Imrail silently looked him over. Finally he turned. “Come with me, Anaris,” the general said softly. “I need a word.”

Luc hesitated. He was still joined to the Tides, but felt on the verge of keeling over. He had felt nothing from the Fallen for some time. If there was any indication Ansifer had chosen to flee, this was it. But somehow Luc suspected the Fallen still had some dark design to fall back on.

Imrail called for fresh rations and water. He had men wipe down Luc’s armor and towel him off. Luc chose to clean his own sword with a proffered cloth. Still breathing hard, he wondered at the delay. He needed to be at the helm of the advancing forces. Something in the general’s expression held him, though. Even here the man was in command, runners constantly on the move. One sentry reported they had won the field. Two more sent by their lieutenants called for orders. Imrail, surveying the battlefield with a look that weighed every corner of it, every scrap of ground and hint of movement ahead, nodded to himself.

“Order the outfits to sweep through Caldor,” Imrail said. “Have them split up into teams. I want horse, archers, and foot in each scouting team. If the Diem Sevion is sighted, remind them he is not to be engaged.”

“There are reports of . . . I don’t know what to call them, Sir . . . Specters perhaps . . . engaging the Ardan.”

Imrail raised an eyebrow. “I’ll leave the ghosts to the Lord Siren and the Lady Elloyn. You have your orders. Go.”

That done, Imrail turned to Luc. Two soldiers stepped forward with a skin and some decidedly grainy rations. With his gauntlets tucked into his belt, he drank a mouthful of lukewarm water and bit into the hard rations that had no taste. Slowly the others filed in, Altaer and then Lars. Avela rode up at a gallop. Imrail helped her out of the saddle, wordlessly running a hand through her auburn hair. Landon Graves returned reluctantly. That left Rew, Lenora, and Lars. And the
girl
who Luc refused to acknowledge.

“This is the end,” Imrail began. “I have issued orders in private I will now make clear. Any of the Companions who survive the night will be charged with the protection of the Lord Siren and Lady Elloyn until the end. Your path will lead you far from here. I ask that you remember the Earthbound city in the north and see our northern fences are secure. Do not forget, though, your path leads you to the Mountains of Memory. The Unmaker awakes. You must ensure the Nations rise up in force by whatever means necessary. You have seen. Others have seen. Some will rise with us. Others will refuse to believe. I fear Gintara will be the hardest to convince.”

“You speak as though you won’t be joining us,” Avela whispered, her hand on the general’s arm. That hand trembled noticeably.

The man glanced at her. “It was the Lord Siren’s will that I remain in Alingdor. Ivon Ellandor has departed the First City so I must return.” Luc’s head came up. “We will speak of that when we may,” Imrail told him. “Tonight I ask you to remember your oaths and other charges. There will be difficult times ahead.”

“I need to be on the field,” Luc whispered, almost pleading. Men were dying. Dying for him.

“A king does not join the battle while there are those still able and willing to do his bidding.”

“I
am
not
a king,” Luc snapped.

Imrail took a quick step forward, gripping Luc by the buckles of his light armor near the throat. For a moment his face appeared contorted. “The day you speak so again within earshot of
your
people—your men—you will wish I was around to save you. Remember Peyennar and the sacrifice of the men and women who gave up their lives, their safety, to give you succor. Not for Siren. For Ardil and the people of Penthar, the heir of Ariel Viamar and Ivon Ellandor. When you speak so you slander their names, the Lord Viamar’s name. Was that what Amreal taught you? The Oathbound? To sulk? If so, something has sorely been left out of your education. You have as much obligation to them as you do to the Dread City. To the Companions who sacrificed
everything
to see you reach this day. You were barely out of infancy when Ingram gave up his posting in Alingdor for you. Will you shun him and the others when you come into your power? Or will you use them as tools on the field? You have leagues to go yet before you understand or match the men who faced the Last Stand at Imdre. You understand me?”