Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  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.

  “It’s Jaspen and Dyler,” exclaimed Paulus. Taran only vaguely recognized them; they were from one of the remoter farmsteads.

  Those who had run outside returned, confirming there was no immediate sign of raiders. The two men had been helped into chairs by the fire and Rienne’s competent tones cut through the villagers’ urgent questions.

  “Be quiet, give them some space. Paulus, can you bring some brandy?”

  When Paulus produced a bottle of brandy, Rienne made each man take a healthy swallow.

  “Leave them be,” she snapped as the crowd once more clamored for answers. Used to obeying her commands, they subsided but stayed close, forming a loose ring about the two men.

  Once the brandy had taken effect, Rienne asked, “Do you feel up to talking now?”

  One of them, a thin, lined man with faded blue eyes and calloused, work-worn hands, glanced fearfully up at her.

  “We was attacked.”

  “What, raiders attacked your farm?” demanded Paulus. “Are Tula and the girls alright?”

  The man shook his head.

  “No, they wasn’t after the farm. They wasn’t even on our land.” His voice was hoarse with exhaustion and he took another swallow of brandy. “They was bein’ chased by a group of Kingsmen. Me and Jas was goin’ home through the fields when we heard ’em comin’ from over Brookbarn way. There was about twenty of ’em, all ridin’ hell for leather, and the Kingsmen was comin’ up behind ’em. We dodged for some trees quick as we could but the demons”—there was a sharp intake of breath from the rapt crowd—“they had seen the trees, too, and they headed straight for us. The Kingsmen, they chased in after ’em and caught up to some of the stragglers. There was a lot of screamin’ and clashin’ of swords, and some of the demons got cut down. Jas, here, he got caught in the thick of it and one of the dead demons crashed right on top of him. He was pretty well stunned and I ’ad to push the brute off ’im before we could get away.”

  “What happened to the raiders?” asked Taran. “Where did they go?”

  Dyler shot him a look. “How should I know? We didn’t wait to see. I hope our lads massacred the lot of ’em.”

  On hearing he’d been stunned, Rienne took a closer look at the silent Jaspen. A worried look in her eye, she asked Paulus to give the two men beds for the night.

  “You can’t expect them to make their way home after this,” she said. “Come on, someone help me get them upstairs. They need peace and quiet, not all these questions. And bring that brandy bottle.”

  A couple of villagers came forward to help the two men stand. Taran would have helped, too, but Rienne flashed him a deterring glance.

  He and Cal went back to their table. The evening had been drawing to a close before the two farmers burst in. Now Paulus shooed the rest of his customers out. Once they had gone, he sat down next to Taran and took a healthy swallow of his own brandy.

  “That’s a bit close for my liking,” he said. “We’ll have to start sleeping with scythes by our beds if this carries on. Kingsmen won’t always be there to chase the demons off.”

  When neither Cal nor Taran commented, he shot them a narrow-eyed look. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  Rienne came back down the stairs and Taran glanced at her questioningly. “They’re both sleeping,” she said. “They should be alright by morning.”

  He turned back to the barkeep. “I don’t know for sure, Paulus, but it’s a very strong coincidence if not.”

  He told his tale and Paulus listened quietly, sipping his brandy until Taran had finished. Then he shook his head.

  “I really don’t like the sound of this. I never heard the like from your father, that’s for sure. A dead noble, a dangerous weapon you can’t return, and now these raids? This is serious stuff, my boy. If you’re prepared to admit you’re out of your depth, then you need help.”

  “Well, yes, I know that,” agreed Taran, “but where can I go? You know the trouble my father and I had trying to find other Artesans. There aren’t any, at least not in Loxton province. Who could I turn to about something as serious as this?�
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  Paulus hesitated before replying and eyed Taran oddly. “I told Rienne today that I’d heard rumors about a witch being in command of the garrison near the Downs.”

  “And I told you what we think of tales like that,” snorted Rienne.

  “But what if it’s true?” Before any of them could respond, he stared pointedly at Taran. “What if it’s someone like you?”

  Taran shook his head. “It can’t be. After all these years of searching, don’t you think I’d know if there were other Artesans nearby? And even if I’d failed to find them, my father would have known. He’d have told me.”

  Paulus wagged a finger. “Amanus didn’t know everything, my boy. Too many swordsmen have come through here saying the same thing for me to discount it completely. But even if it’s not true, isn’t this Staff a military matter? If the demons are looking for it, there are likely to be more raids. The garrison ought to know.”

  “I suppose so,” said Taran. “But even if you’re right, we can hardly go marching up to a garrison of Kingsmen and say, ‘Hey, does anyone here know anything about Andaryan weapons?’ You know what they’re like, they would laugh in our faces. We’d either be locked up as troublemakers or thrown out before we got a chance to explain.”

  “Well, now,” said Paulus, “I just might be able to help you there. I’ve never told you this because I was asked to keep it quiet, but I happen to know a young chap in that garrison. His name’s Captain Tamsen. From what he told me, his commanding officer is quite interested in outlanders. Since you’ve asked me, my advice is to go there and ask to see Major Sullyan. Tell them I sent you; that should get you in. After that, it’s up to you.”

  Taran held Paulus’ gaze. He felt sure the barkeep was holding something back, but he couldn’t think what or why. After a short pause, and because he lacked any other plan, he said, “Where is this garrison?”

  “Only a couple of days’ ride away,” said Paulus. “Take the north road to Canstown then the Tolk turning. Someone up there can tell you exactly where it is, I’m told it’s well known.”

  Thanking Paulus, they left and hurried home. The news of a raid so close to Hyecombe had made them all nervous and Taran bolted the door securely. He was feeling confused and uncomfortable and wanted to think through Paulus’ advice. Leaving Cal and Rienne to their fellan, he went to bed.

  + + + + +

  Early the next morning, Taran was joined in the cellar by Cal. Together, they stared at the damage to the walls and ceiling. The Staff still lay innocently on the floor, gleaming in the light of the lamp.

  “Have you thought any more about what Paulus said?” asked Cal.

  “Of course,” snorted Taran. “Haven’t you?”

  “If we go to the garrison, we’ll have to take Rienne with us. I’m not leaving her here with the Staff.”

  “Would you leave her if we took it with us?”

  “Perhaps. Do you think we can?”

  Taran shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to try. I can’t say I’m keen to handle it, but maybe we can rig up some kind of pack to carry it and use the wash tongs to lift it. That might work.”

  “Have you made up your mind to go?”

  Taran glanced at him. “Yes, I suppose I have. It can’t do any harm and last night’s shock has made it more urgent than ever. Has Rienne left on her rounds yet?”

  “She went about ten minutes ago. She’ll be out ’til noon, I think. She asked me to go to Shenton for some medical supplies. The mail coach should be here in an hour.”

  “We’d better get on with it, then.”

  It was Cal’s suggestion to fetch the wash tongs from the scullery before finding a pack to hold the Staff. As he sensibly pointed out, if the thing resisted being moved, they would be wasting their time on a pack. Taran took a thick pair of leather gloves with the tongs.

  “Do you really think you’ll need those?” Cal asked.

  “How should I know? I just remember what it felt like to hold the Staff the first time and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  After locking the cottage door against casual visitors, they went back into the cellar. Not that visitors were likely, but Rienne might return early and Taran didn’t want her around while they experimented with the Staff.

  He positioned himself at the side of the depression in the floor. Once he had donned the leather gloves, he took the tongs from Cal. They looked not half long enough. He decided to poke the Staff with them first to test for a reaction. He glanced up at his Apprentice, who was watching from the opposite wall.

  “I think we’d better be shielded,” he said.

  Cal nodded and Taran sensed him reaching for his psyche, calling a protective flow of metaforce around him. Taran did the same.

  “I’m ready,” said Cal.

  Taking a deep breath, Taran leaned carefully over the pit, tongs extended.

  As the tongs neared the Staff, it began to glow. Taran frowned; he hadn’t expected it to react. Tentatively, he extended his arm and the closer he got to the Staff, the brighter it glowed.

  Suddenly, he lost his nerve and withdrew his arm. The glow faded.

  “That didn’t look promising,” said Cal.

  His pessimism goaded Taran. He decided to take a chance and just pick the thing up. Maybe it was meant to glow? The memories of his ordeal in Andaryon were hazy at best and he couldn’t remember if the Staff had been glowing the first time he’d held it.

  “I’m going to pick it up,” he said, reaching out again. Swiftly he rolled the Staff into the tong’s wooden jaws and picked it up.

  + + + + +

  When the lurching, spinning darkness began to lift, Taran’s first impression was that he was too close to the fire. His skin was burning and he tried to move away from the heat. He felt hands on him, holding him down, and he struggled, because he really was too close to that fire.

  Abruptly, he heard loud voices. Someone was yelling in his ear. He tried to shout, “Shut up,” but his throat wouldn’t open. Dispassionately, he thought he sounded like a strangled pig.

  Then a large quantity of icy water dumped over him and the shock made him yell. He opened his eyes and found both Rienne and Cal staring down at him, she with an empty bucket in her hands.

  “That’s better,” he heard Cal say. “I think he’s coming back.”

  Rienne said, “Thank the gods. I really didn’t know what else to do.”

  The words had no impact on Taran. His head was ringing and his ears were full of water. He tried to rise and felt Rienne holding him up.

  “Taran, can you hear me?” he heard her ask. He considered that, not really sure what it meant.

  “He’s not fully conscious,” she said, her voice sounding oddly muffled. “Get him into bed, Cal, and get these wet things off him. I’ll give him something to help him sleep and perhaps he’ll be better when he wakes.”

  Taran was aware of being carried to his room and couldn’t help wondering why Cal had turned white. His skin, hair, clothes, even his eyelashes were white. Considering how dark the young man’s skin usually was, this struck Taran as irresistibly funny. He tried to laugh, the strangled pig sounding even worse. But the effort was too much and he slipped into darkness.

  + + + + +

  Cal helped Rienne strip Taran’s clothing. The healer wrapped Taran in the coverlet and gathered his sodden clothes, which were as smothered in white plaster dust as Cal was.

  “Here,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “take these to the scullery.”

  Cal took the sopping bundle and walked unsteadily out of the room. Rienne stayed a moment, looking down at Taran. She was genuinely fond of him and hated seeing him like this.

  Sighing, she left him and made her way to the scullery. The last thing she wanted to do today was wash a load of chalky clothes, but it seemed she had little choice. On the way, she passed the door to the collapsed and ruined cellar where Cal and Taran had been trapped for two hours. Her lips pursed as she thought how fortunate the two men had
been in their escape.

  When she entered the tiny scullery, she saw Cal slumped in a heap on the floor, tears welling from his eyes.

  “Oh, Cal.” She flew to his side, holding him quietly until the tears subsided. She took his face in her hands and made him look at her.

  “This has gone far enough, do you hear? If the Hodgekisses next door hadn’t heard that ceiling come down, I don’t know what might have happened to you. Paulus had to break the door down. The cellar’s a ruin and the floor up here’s none too safe, either. What on earth did you think you were doing?”

  “Trying to move the Staff,” mumbled Cal. “We were going to take it to the garrison.”

  “Oh, you’re going then, are you? Well, for one thing, that damned Staff isn’t going anywhere, it’s totally buried. And for another, the two of you are going nowhere without me. Not that either of you is fit to travel at the moment. Look at you, you’re covered in plaster dust. I’d better heat some water for a bath.”

  She bustled off, leaving Cal in a heap. How, she wondered in exasperation, had they gotten themselves into this?

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, Taran woke from his drugged sleep. As he came to, it struck him that these disasters were happening far too frequently. Enveloped in shame, he decided enough was enough.

  Tears formed in his eyes—he had put his friends in terrible danger. Before, he’d been a fool and failure. Now he was also a murderer, and his remorse over the noble’s killing was becoming inextricably linked to how he felt about his powers. It seemed that every time he tried to increase his knowledge, he made more disastrous mistakes. Break his heart though it might, those around him would be better off if he renounced his Artesan powers altogether.

  And there was still the frightening and very real possibility that he was personally responsible for the resurgence of outlander raids, whether in retaliation for the noble’s death or in response to the theft of the Staff. Probably both. Taran’s heart raced in fear as images of dreadful repercussions crashed around his aching skull.