Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

The Staff still lay quiescent; it hadn’t reacted to the primal element. But when Taran’s metaforce touched the portway, there was a subtle change. Frowning, he glanced at Cal, but his Apprentice hadn’t noticed. When he looked back at the portway, his skin began to crawl.

  Slowly, ominously, its color was changing. Usually portways were translucent, an opalescent mist shot through with the odd spark of silver or gold, occasionally red. This one, however, was beginning to take on a greenish tinge, much like the color of the Staff. Taran didn’t like it one bit.

  Either Cal sensed Taran’s unease or he finally noticed what was happening. He shot Taran a look. “Why’s it doing that?”

  Taran bristled at the question. “How should I know? Maybe it’s something to do with the Staff. It’s an Andaryan artifact, who knows what effect it might have? Let’s get this over with, Cal. The sooner that thing’s back where it belongs, the happier I’ll be.”

  Cal raised no argument and Taran turned back to the portway. Exerting his will, he drew power to activate it. The shimmer grew hazier, as it should, but the strange color intensified. Taran felt prickling down his spine and tried to ignore it. Gently, he put pressure on the portway. His usual method was to push with his metaforce, sending his power slowly through the Veils until they were breached.

  This time however, it didn’t work. The surface tension of the portway refused to give. He tried twice before withdrawing, frowning in puzzlement.

  “What’s wrong with it?” said Cal.

  Taran shook his head. “There’s resistance. Didn’t you say there was resistance when you tried to close the last one?”

  “Yes, but it was nothing like this. It didn’t turn that weird color, either.”

  “Alright, here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to try once more, but if that doesn’t work, I’m going to make a sudden thrust and break a hole just large enough to push the weapon through. Then we’ll back out and shut the portway. Ready?”

  Cal shrugged and nodded.

  Taran gathered his strength and pushed down on the portway. It refused to budge. With a swift warning to his Apprentice, he drove a needle of force at one spot in the center of the portway, directly over the Staff.

  There was a soundless detonation. Brilliant green light flooded the cellar and Taran and Cal were hurled violently against the walls. They struck forcefully and slumped to the ground, stunned.

  Taran was first to gather his wits. Alarmed, he saw the portway was swelling, glowing brighter, building toward an overload. He sprang to his feet in panic: if he lost control of it, the uncontained metaforce could kill them.

  “Quickly, Cal,” he yelled, dragging at his Apprentice, “help me shut it down!”

  Using all of Cal’s strength as well as his own, Taran tried to unravel the structure. It resisted him, the green glow deepening every second. “I’m going to break it,” he snapped. “Watch yourself.”

  His heart pounding, he aimed a bolt of their combined power against the portway. With a hideous shriek, it shattered, releasing uncontrolled energy that rebounded around the cellar. Taran and Cal dove to the floor, crouching as low as possible.

  When it finally dissipated, they struggled to their feet, the aftershock ringing in their aching ears.

  Cal stared around the cellar. “Bloody hell.”

  Plaster had been ripped from the walls and parts of the ceiling. The depression in the floor was much larger than before, and it was smoking.

  The Staff still lay in its place, completely untouched.

  Cal glanced at Taran, his dark eyes huge. As the dust of the explosion began to settle on them, Taran shook his head. This was beyond his experience and he spread his hands in hopelessness.

  “I think we should leave it, go back upstairs and padlock the door,” said Cal. “We need to think this through.”

  Taran could only agree.

  + + + + +

  Heading for her last patient of the day, Rienne walked through the peaceful village. The pale autumn sunlight felt good on her back. She walked easily, her medicine bag light on her shoulder. Its lack of weight reminded her that she was getting low on supplies and she knew she ought to visit the herb seller in Shenton. However, she didn’t relish the exhausting ride on the elderly, badly sprung mail coach. Then she smiled, thinking perhaps she could get Cal to go for her.

  As she flipped the braid of her long dark hair over her shoulder, she considered how lucky she was. A responsible trained healer of twenty-five, she had found her vocation as well as her true love. Growing into a slim, attractive young woman out of an awkward childhood—she was the youngest child with four demanding older brothers—gray-eyed Rienne had eventually discovered a talent for healing. Once the long years of study and training were behind her, she had searched for a town or village lacking a local healer. Luck had brought her to Hyecombe, where she had met Cal. Just over a year later, she felt settled. She and Cal intended to marry one day, Taran had offered them a home, and Rienne was firmly established as Hyecombe’s healer.

  Life was looking good.

  She passed the bakery and emerged onto her own street. A small hamlet, Hyecombe only had two streets, but it did boast a tavern. Rienne made her way inside, pausing on the cool flagged floor to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

  The main room was warm and smelled of smoke from the huge fireplace. Rienne threaded her way through the empty tables, making for the bar. As she passed the door to the little private room she saw a group of men inside, talking in low tones over jugs of malty ale. Clad in combat leathers with swords by their sides, they were obviously Kingsmen.

  She frowned, wondering what they were doing here. The military didn’t often visit Hyecombe. Before the civil war nine years ago, each local lord had responsibility for his own demesne and small villages like Hyecombe were protected by their own farmhands and laborers. However, once Prince Elias Rovannon quelled the uprising and killed those responsible for murdering his father, King Kandaran, he’d been determined not to suffer the same fate. So he changed the old order, and Lordsmen became Kingsmen. Garrisons were established throughout every province and trained swordsmen loyal to the Crown relieved farmhands and laborers of their protection duties.

  Now, each village had an appointed elder initially responsible for keeping order. Any issues too weighty for the elder to deal with were referred to the local garrison, but Rienne knew there had been no incidents in Hyecombe. So why had the Kingsmen come?

  Remembering why she was there, she put them out of her mind. “Paulus?” she called, slipping her bag from her shoulder.

  “In here, Rienne,” came the muffled reply.

  She walked through the door at the side of the bar into the storeroom behind. She smiled a greeting. “Evening, Paulus.”

  The storeroom smelled thickly of hops and malt, ale and old wood. The tavern-keeper, a balding man in his middle fifties with missing front teeth and work-roughened hands, looked up from the barrel he was scrubbing. His dour expression lightened as he saw her.

  “And a good evening to you, Rienne. How are you today?”

  He straightened, trying to suppress a grunt, but there was no fooling Rienne. She set her bag on the floor.

  “I’m fine, Paulus, which is more than can be said for you. That back looks bad. It’s been painful again, hasn’t it? You haven’t been following my advice.”

  He looked sheepish. “How do you do that? Been taking lessons from that young man of yours?”

  She wasn’t to be sidetracked. “Never mind Cal, where’s that assistant I told you to get?”

  Paulus ducked his head. “I’ve not found one yet. I can’t really afford to pay one, not on the amount of customers I get. Mind you, if I had more like that lot out there, it might be a different story.”

  Rienne’s skilful fingers explored the sore muscles in Paulus’ back. His hard-faced wife had left him over a year ago and he had been running the tavern alone ever since. Her acid comments and sour face were missed by no one—least of all her
husband—but her strong arms and capable hands had at least relieved some of the burden.

  She stopped probing and turned to rummage in her bag. “What are they doing here?”

  He grimaced, massaging the small of his back. “There’s been some trouble farther south apparently and they’ve been sorting it out. Gods, but they can drink.”

  Rienne frowned, a packet of herbs in her hand. “What sort of trouble?” She hoped they weren’t going to be overrun by brigands. The High King’s forces were generally quite successful at keeping order but there were always bands of brigands around and they favored remote hamlets like Hyecombe.

  Paulus shook his head. “From what I’ve overheard, it sounds like outlanders.” Beckoning Rienne closer, he lowered his voice, confiding, “They’ve been talking about them being from beyond … you know … the Veils.”

  Rienne smiled. Despite Albia’s history of occasional attacks by raiders from other realms, most people refused to believe such beings existed. If they were talked about at all it was in whispers, as if speaking of them might make them more real.

  Rienne had no time for ignorance or prejudice. Knowing how interested Taran would be, she tried to find out more. “Have they said what type of outlanders?”

  Paulus grimaced. Gossip was his trade as much as ale; customers who kept their voices low and their business close to their chests did him no favors no matter how much they spent.

  “I only heard snippets as I served their ale. But one of ’em mentioned demons, I’m sure of it.”

  Rienne stared at him. Andaryans were indistinguishable from Albians except by their eyes. Their alien, cat-like pupils, almost colorless irises, and warlike ways caused most folk to refer to them as demons.

  “Andaryans? Are you certain?” She knew that at one time Andaryans had raided freely through the Veils. Soon after her arrival in Hyecombe, Taran had told her that around twenty years ago, a bargain had been struck with them and their raiding had greatly decreased.

  “That’s what I heard,” insisted the barkeep, warming to his tale. “Sounds like they were pretty vicious, too. That’s why these lads were sent to sort it out. They’re a crack unit from that garrison up near the Downs.” He caught her eye, looking at her strangely. “You know, Rienne, I’ve heard it said there’s a witch in command up there.”

  She laughed in his face. Paulus might be a tavern-keeper and peddler of gossip, but he was also Hyecombe’s elder and respected as such. His status as the area’s largest business owner lent him a certain authority, which he cultivated. He was not usually given to such fanciful statements.

  “Oh really, Paulus. Come on, you know who I live with. I don’t fall for stories like that.”

  But Paulus remained serious and the odd look never left his eye. “I mean it, Rienne. If you have to fight demons, you want to follow someone who knows their ways.”

  Rienne was prepared to grant that point, she supposed it made sense. However, she knew from Taran’s desperate searches that there were few, if any, Artesans left now, besides him and Cal. He would certainly know of any who were so close by. She presumed that was what Paulus meant—the terms “witch” and “Artesan” were interchangeable in most people’s minds.

  She dismissed the barkeep’s gossip. She couldn’t imagine that a company of Kingsmen, hard-bitten, rough and uncompromising as they usually were, would be willing to follow an officer who possessed the generally despised Artesan gift. It was far more likely that their commander was simply an experienced and effective leader.

  “Well,” she said, “whoever they’ve been fighting, I hope they got rid of them. I have enough to do around here without treating people wounded by raiders. Now Paulus, I want you to take these herbs. Infuse two pinches in warm water and drink the infusion twice a day, morning and evening. And find yourself an assistant, even if it’s only a boy who can mop floors and scrub barrels. Otherwise, your back will seize up completely, and then where will you be?”

  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.”

  Chapter Six

  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 ho
rses’ 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.