Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (5 page)

Taran was distracted as the Staff skidded to his opponent’s feet. The noble snatched it up and it flared blindingly, blue and green light rippling down its length. He drove at Taran with his sword but even as he parried the blows, Taran felt his opponent calling up power. He stared in shock—the Staff’s flickering tip was pointing at his heaving chest.

A killing bolt of pure elemental energy flashed from the Staff. With a wide-eyed look of horror, totally unnerved by this unforeseen event, Taran only just managed to twist sideways. He was showered with dirt as a sizzling bolt of Earth power pulverized a rock behind him.

Fear and anger goaded Taran and he leaped at his opponent, lunging into broadsword strokes he had learned from an itinerant swordmaster years ago. The noble had obviously expected Taran to be stunned into inaction. Taran rained blows onto his blade, striking viciously, trying to keep him off balance. There was a discordant clang and Taran’s sword arm went numb. The noble roared a curse as his sword was sent spinning from his hand.

“Yield,” panted Taran but his opponent didn’t falter. Raising the Staff, he attacked Taran with renewed ferocity. Huge bolts of Earth energy shot from its tip, forcing the exhausted Journeyman to deflect them.

Taran’s powers were stretched far beyond their straining limits. Terrified, he only had one choice and he grabbed it, throwing all his remaining metaforce into one vast Earth shift. The ground bucked beneath his opponent’s feet, nearly toppling him, and Taran rushed him. Ignoring the Staff’s awful power, he brought his sword around in a powerful backhanded sweep. The noble’s head suddenly dangled from a half-severed neck.

The body collapsed, spraying blood, and the deadly Staff fell at Taran’s feet. Spattered with red, still gripped by terror, he stood panting heavily. Trembling, he leaned on his sword.

There was shocked silence.

There was a roar—“Treachery!”—from the huntsmen and they leaped into action, rushing toward Taran, baying for his blood.

Trapped, exhausted and facing certain death, Taran panicked. Sheathing his sword, he snatched the Staff and channeled his own power through it. Unthinking, he called up his reserves and threw the largest barrier of Earth element he could manage against the rushing men. The effort of using the alien weapon burned his brain and the pain was excruciating. Yet the yelling huntsmen were flung back, momentarily stunned. Taran used the respite to take another gamble.

He called a feeble Earth ball and lobbed it behind the huntsmen’s horses, even that small power causing him incredible pain. This time luck was on his side and the horses stampeded toward him. Gasping, half-blinded by pain, Taran managed to grab the reins of a passing horse and wrench it to a halt. Agony shot through his arm as it nearly popped out of its socket. The horse curvetted wildly and Taran had to scramble into the saddle, still holding the Staff tightly. Before he’d even found his balance, he was kicking the horse toward the hills. Hopefully he could shake his pursuers and relocate the portway.

For a while, he thought he might succeed. He turned the horse, racing through the maze of hills, trying to hide his tracks. Fear gave him strength but he knew it wouldn’t last. As he crested a rise, he risked a glance over his shoulder, his laboring heart lifted by the absence of pursuit. His lungs heaving, he sent the horse pounding down the far side of the hill.

His relief was short-lived. Inevitably, he heard racing hoofbeats; some of the hunters had regained control of their mounts. The portway was still some way off and he risked another backward glance.

A desperate denial escaped his lips. The huntsmen had brought a tangwyr with them. The creature’s hood had been removed and that could only mean one thing.

They intended to fly it at him.

The tangwyr’s ferocity was legendary, even in Albia. Without a bow, Taran stood little chance of protecting himself as it was trained to bring down men. As a Journeyman, he had mastery over Earth and could influence Water, but these elements wouldn’t help him here. Neither could he dismount and use his sword. If he did, the huntsmen would be on him.

His breath sobbing painfully, he kicked the horse once more.

He heard a raucous cry and gasped in terror; the hideous creature was free. Another glance behind him revealed that the riders had slowed, evidently expecting the tangwyr to do their work for them. Despite his straits, Taran felt satisfaction—his use of power had taught them some respect, at least.

Respect, however, had no value in the talons of a tangwyr.

As he cursed himself for a fool and for allowing himself to be trapped—how many times had he tried to drum caution into Cal’s head?—he glanced up. Horror overtook him, turning his muscles to water. The awful spectre of a swooping tangwyr filled his vision.

He threw himself off the horse, landing heavily. The Staff dug into his ribs and he felt the rake of talons on his shoulder. As he struggled to his feet, the downdraft of powerful wings nearly knocked him back down. He heard the creature swoop away up the hillside, wings booming as it beat for height. Panicking, coughing, Taran fled, praying the portway was nearby.

He was sure the hill looked familiar and the thought galvanized him. He could sense the portway but his endurance was fading fast. His throat was raw, his chest tightening painfully as he pushed himself past his limits. His muscles were burning and losing their strength. He was weakening rapidly.

The ominous beat of giant wings grew louder behind him.

Wildly, he looked around, knowing the portway was near. Suddenly, his vision cleared, showing him what he’d been praying for—an opalescent shimmer hanging in the air. He gathered his will and sent a panicked command through the Veils to Cal. Relief flooded him as his Apprentice responded and he saw the portway ripple, a sign that Cal was alert.

He sprinted toward it but was brought up short by a harsh scream from above.

Horrified, he looked up and stared directly into the mad red eyes of the tangwyr. It plummeted, its sinewy neck twisting toward him, serrated talons aimed at his heart. He had nowhere to go and no room to dodge, but he couldn’t risk leaping into the portway in case he took the thing with him.

Unthinkingly desperate, he raised the Staff. He grabbed for Cal’s strength and felt his friend’s compliance. Empowered, Taran took an almighty risk with both their lives and channeled their joint metaforce through the alien weapon.

It glowed incandescent and bucked in his hands. Taran screamed with the pain of controlling it. He forced his will on it, his lungs still gulping air, and directed its tip at the tangwyr’s breast.

Deadly energy roared out, causing the plummeting monster to twist aside. It was too slow. Raw power caught the leading edge of one vast sail-like wing, charring the feathered membrane to a crisp. With a piercing shriek, the creature curled around itself, cartwheeling toward the ground.

Taran didn’t wait to see it hit. Near to fainting with pain and exhaustion, he cast himself into the portway, blindly trusting Cal to bring him safely through.

Sonten was cursing as his horse pounded after the huntsmen. He kicked it up the next rise, hoping to see the kill. Roaring instructions his men couldn’t hear, Sonten saw the tangwyr’s swoop. He watched in speechless fury as the Albian Artesan, Jaskin’s intended victim, used the Duke’s priceless Staff to escape the monstrous bird.

But it wasn’t until the dying raptor’s shrieks had faded that he realized the irreplaceable Staff had vanished as well.

This shock, coming on top of his nephew’s brutal murder, made Sonten’s stomach heave. Awkwardly, he slid from his lathered horse and fell to his knees. Already tasting the Duke’s wrath and feeling the sword twisting through his guts, Sonten retched helplessly while his men rode to him.

He was on his feet by the time they reached him. His face was an unpleasant shade of purple, his body quivering with rage. The huntsmen dismounted while he strode up and down before them, their heads hanging in shame.

His voice tinged with panic, Sonten harangued them.

“You lost him. You bloody lost him, you useless rabble. Why did you let him get away? He murdered my nephew, the Albian bastard, he deserves to die. And he’s taken that damned Staff too! What am I going to say to the Duke? How do I explain that one? Well? Does anyone have anything to say?”

They were silent.

Sonten glared in fury. His plans were ruined and his shocked brain was working feverishly. He was going to be in fatal trouble unless he could come up with a suitable story. In the meantime, his rage demanded a scapegoat.

“Well?” he roared.

The men flinched and their leader stepped forward. “My Lord, he was too quick. We couldn’t reach him in time. He was out of bowshot, so I thought the tangwyr was our best chance. I never thought he’d … ”

“You never thought?” raged Sonten. “That’s about right, Perik! Thinking was never your strong suit. Well, you’ve made your last mistake. This is a disaster and someone has to pay for it. Guess who it’ll be?”

He stared menacingly, knowing he was being unfair. Perik had done his best. His frustration at the man’s escape was deepened by the knowledge that he had used the Staff instinctively, whereas it had taken Jaskin many sweaty days to learn how to influence the thing.

The thought of his nephew’s body lying on the blood-soaked ground made Sonten seethe. All that risk and effort wasted, all their plans thrown away. And now his own position—indeed his very life—would be forfeit when the Duke discovered the Staff’s disappearance.

Terrible fear swamped Sonten. He trusted these men, they had been picked for their loyalty, but if one of them should mention …

Panic overrode reason and his sword whipped from its sheath. Fat he undoubtedly was and not as skilled as some, but Perik never saw the steel that punched through his ribs and heart. He was dead before his reproachful eyes fastened on Sonten’s face. His dying gaze was ignored, his limp body allowed to slump to the ground.

Sonten turned his back on the dead man and stared at the rest.

“Let that be a lesson to you. If even one of you breathes so much as a word of this … I won’t tolerate fools and I won’t stand for failure. Do you understand?”

They shuffled uneasily, murmuring assent.

“You all know what that murdering bastard looks like. He’s trespassed on my lands once, he may do so again. You’re all charged with watching for him. Constantly, do you hear? I want no slacking, no matter how exhausted you get. I want to know instantly of any Albians in my province and I want them detained alive.

“Galet, you’re now leading huntsman. Think carefully about Perik’s fate and make damned sure you don’t suffer the same. Am I clear? Good. Now pick that up, get back to my nephew’s body and follow me back to the mansion. I have to speak with Commander Heron before I return to his Grace, and on top of everything else I now have a bloody damned funeral to arrange.”

Still swearing, Sonten clambered onto his mount. Viciously, he kicked its stocky sides. The beast flung up its head and grunted. Lumbering into a canter, it bore its angry rider back to his estate.