Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (9 page)

Smiling nervously, he took the packet of herbs. If her prediction came true, he would be in danger of losing his livelihood. He passed her a few coins.

“Thank you Rienne, I’ll see what I can do. Will you be in tonight?”

She tucked the coins into her bag. “Probably,” she said. “The boys usually like a drink at the end of a long week.”

Taran heard the cottage door open. Cal jumped up from his seat by the fire to relieve Rienne of her bag. While she went upstairs to change, Taran made fellan, a dark, aromatic and bitter drink brewed from the seeds of the fellan plant. He handed her a cup when she returned and she sat down next to Cal.

“Well?” she said. “Did you have any success returning that weapon?”

“We tried,” said Cal, “but it didn’t go as we planned. Something went wrong with the portway and it blew up in our faces.”

“Blew up?” echoed Rienne. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means don’t go down the cellar,” said Taran. “A lot of plaster’s come down and it’s a real mess.”

“You mean it literally blew up? Were you hurt?” She looked them over, relieved to find no sign of injury.

“Not physically, just a bit of backlash,” said Taran. “Nasty headache, that sort of thing.”

“I’ve got willow extract, if you need some,” she offered.

“Thanks Rienne, but it’s nearly gone now, which is more than I can say for the Staff.”

Watching the sombre expression darken Taran’s face, Rienne remained silent. She was out of her depth. They weren’t injured, so she had nothing to offer.

Cal seemed to sense Rienne’s unease. “Are you any closer to deciding what we should do?” he asked Taran, even though they had puzzled it through while waiting for Rienne. “I don’t fancy building another portway around it, that’s for sure. What about moving it, building one and then carrying it through?”

“If you’re volunteering, be my guest,” snorted Taran. “The last thing I want to do is touch the thing again. Something about it seems to be making the Veils react, but I have no idea what it is. I don’t know what to suggest. My father has nothing in his notes to cover situations like this. As far as I can tell, he never came across such a thing. And there’s no one else we can ask.”

He sat with his eyes downcast. As if trying to lighten the tension, Rienne said, “I saw Paulus earlier. He’s got a company of Kingsmen at the tavern, on their way back from dealing with some outlander raiding somewhere farther south. He said he’d heard them mention demons.”

Far from relieving the tension, her words made Taran stiffen.

“What? Andaryans raiding through the Veils again? But what about the Pact?”

Although he’d known little enough, Taran’s father had told his son about the agreement brokered to stop Andaryans raiding wholesale into Albia. Apparently, some twenty years ago, a Senior Master—the highest of the eight Artesan ranks—had somehow managed to convince Andaryan nobles to curb their aggression. Raiding still went on, but it was mainly perpetrated by slavers from Relkor, the Third Realm. Rienne’s news was bad indeed if Andaryan raids were starting again.

Taran felt a peculiar cold sensation run the length of his spine.

“I don’t know anything for sure,” said Rienne hurriedly. “All I know is that Paulus overheard the swordsmen talking and thought they had mentioned demons.”

“Dear gods, I hope not,” said Taran.

His heart suddenly turned over and he swore. “Cal, what if they’re looking for the Staff?”

Cal’s dark eyes went wide with fear.

A note of dread in his voice, Taran said, “I need to talk to Paulus, see if he overheard anything else.”

The early dark of an autumn evening covered the fields. It was broken briefly by an eerie shimmer appearing over newly turned earth. There were no eyes abroad to see it or the band of riders emerging with cautious stealth from its depths. Illuminated by the swirling light, their horses’ breath stirred the chilled air. Then the controlling mind released the structure and the shimmer vanished.

“Right, lads,” came the husky voice of their commander, “you heard what his Grace said—maximum chaos. Hit ’em hard, keep ’em guessing. Kill any who get in your way but don’t hang around. And don’t forget, lose touch with either Race or me and you won’t get back. His Grace won’t wait for you to catch up. Let’s go.”

The thirty-strong band followed its commander toward the edge of the field, tracing the line of its boundary hedge. Lights shone from the houses in the distance and the horses strained at their bits as they caught their riders’ tension. Well trained and obedient—it didn’t do to cross Commander Verris—the men curbed their restive mounts, waiting for the order to charge.

Soon they reached the outskirts of the hamlet, still unseen. Slit-pupiled eyes scanned the gloom; teeth gleamed in the lamp light as lips parted in predatory smiles. Verris took them as close as he dared before forming them into prearranged groups. He intended to cause as much panic and confusion as possible; if some of the villagers were killed, that would only add to the havoc.

He checked his men—they were ready. He took a small flint from his pouch and dismounted, then kindled a small flame in the earthenware bowl he had brought. He passed it around to the men and they each dipped a tarred branch into the bowl. Once the torches were lit, Verris tossed the bowl aside and remounted. He grinned in anticipation as he raised his arm, gave a cry, and released his eager band.

With whoops and yells, making as much noise as possible, the raiders set heels to their horses and raced into the hamlet, tossing firebrands into thatch, barns and vegetable gardens. The noise and the torches brought the villagers pouring from their homes, desperate to douse the flames. Any villager unfortunate enough to stumble into the path of a raider was cut down, but, obedient to their orders, the invaders didn’t actively seek victims. Chaos was their goal and chaos they caused.

Unfortunately, the raid didn’t go as smoothly as planned. Alerted by other attacks in the province, the local garrison had sent patrols to watch. Normally, they wouldn’t have stood a chance of countering such a random raid, but as fortune would have it—or misfortune—a small unit of Kingsmen had been offered billeting by the hamlet’s elder. Aroused by the noise and trained to react swiftly, they raced for their horses and prepared to repel the outlanders.

From his vantage of safety, Verris yelled for a retreat. Not all his men heard the call and he sacrificed them to the swordsmen.
Serves them right,
he thought as he galloped away, the rest hot on his heels. Their deaths might teach the others to pay closer heed.

As he yelled at his men to close up, Verris raced for the open fields where they could lose their pursuers in the dark.

After supper, Taran, Cal and Rienne walked to the inn. It had no name as it was the only tavern in the area, drawing its clientele from the surrounding farmlands and the village. Because of this, it was only full at the end of the week, and this was when Taran felt most comfortable. Folks from the outlying farmsteads were not as familiar with his nature as the villagers, and he and Cal could relax with their ale.

Paulus, who had been a good friend of Taran’s father and knew very well what they were, had a philosophical outlook. He took their custom happily, knowing their coin was as real as anyone else’s. He also often accepted Taran’s help behind the bar and the wage he paid supplemented the small amount of gold Taran had inherited from his father. Taran’s strength also helped relieve Paulus’ back.

They entered the large, smoky common room with its warming smells of food, and found a vacant table by the wall. The barkeep came over as soon as he saw them; it was early yet and he still had time to chat. He brought their drinks with him—mugs of dark, mellow ale for Taran and Cal and mulled wine for Rienne. They smiled appreciatively as he set the tray on the table and sat down.

Taran opened the conversation.

“Rienne said you had a company of Kingsmen here, Paulus. Are they still around?”

“No,” he said, “they moved out earlier. Got word by messenger of more trouble, they said, though I don’t know where.”

“And you don’t know any more about them other than where they came from?”

Paulus flicked a glance at Rienne. “No, I don’t. What’s your interest in them?”

Taran hesitated. He knew Paulus well—the man seemed more like an uncle than a friend—and he’d often listened to Taran’s tales of woe when some experiment or other went wrong. But this latest problem was more serious and the Journeyman didn’t want the details spread around the village. He knew about Paulus’ love of gossip and if his neighbors learned that he had an Andaryan weapon concealed in his house and that its rightful owners just might come looking for it, he and his friends would be forced to leave quickly. However, if he wanted more information, he was going to have to tell Paulus something. He made a decision.

“Would you mind if we waited behind tonight? There’s something I’d like to tell you but it had better be in private.”

“If you’re prepared to buy beer all night, I’ll listen to anything,” said Paulus.

“I’ll help behind the bar, if you like.”

Paulus grinned. “Well, I’ll not turn down the offer. Just don’t scare away any customers.”

Taran made a face. “I’ll be over when I’ve finished my ale.”

He was as good as his word and worked hard behind the bar. The tavern grew crowded as many people seemed to have seen or heard of the Kingsmen passing through and wanted to compare theories with their neighbors. Taran heard all sorts of speculation, but no one knew anything for certain.

The talk had long since turned to other topics, the rumors too insubstantial to hold the drinkers’ attention for long, when a sudden commotion turned all heads. The door was thrown wide with a crash and two men staggered in, one supporting the other. Both were obviously down to the dregs of their strength.

“Raiders. We’ve seen raiders!” rasped one of them, his words shocking the crowd into momentary silence.

It didn’t last long. Chairs scraped back as people surged to their feet, some running to help the two men, others bolting out the door.