Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  He was aware they were nearing the end of this campaign. Fresh troops were due that morning—hence his early rise—and the push they had begun four days ago would be consolidated over the next few days. He hoped it would not be much longer before they could go home. However, that was when the real conflict would begin and Heron was less than comfortable about his lord’s plans for the future. Not that Sonten had told Heron the details, of course. The commander knew how ambitious Sonten was—every bit as ambitious as the Duke—and he was sure Sonten had some self-advancing scheme that would involve him. He had hinted as much a few days ago when he gave Heron the order to intensify their campaign.

  Knowing Sonten well, Heron was aware that something had happened recently to upset the General, but he had no idea what it was. All he knew was that after the incident in Durkos—Jaskin’s unfortunate murder—Sonten had been beside himself. Something had happened to make him afraid, even terrified. Something more serious than his nephew’s death.

  Heron could only assume that what Sonten had so obviously dreaded had not come to pass. Yet he had still worn the air of a man under sentence of death. His mood was uncertain and his unstable temper shorter than usual. That however, was all in the past. Now, he was positively bullish. Now, he was back to his old scheming self. And now he had let Heron know that once this Albian invasion was over, he had plans that closely concerned his commander.

  Heron was not pleased to hear it. He was loyal to Sonten but fearful of what those plans might be.

  Sighing, he turned from his thoughts. Verris had straightened and was striding toward him.

  “Got a good haul from that last town yesterday.” The man was gloating, clearly trying to irritate Heron.

  “Good for you,” said Heron tonelessly.

  His look of disgust made Verris’ grin widen. “How’ve you done?”

  “I’ve had more important things on my mind,” snapped Heron, tired of the baiting.

  “Oh, more important things, Heron, eh?” Verris imitated Heron’s voice with snide accuracy. “What’s more important than being rich, I’d like to know? Don’t you like gold? Or are you too good for wealth? I forget, you’re relying on your precious lord to see you alright, aren’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you. Your fat and ugly general doesn’t care a pig’s fart about you. I’ve heard him talking to his Grace. All he’s worried about is his own advancement. You make one mistake, Heron, one tiny little slip, and you’ll see that your flabby general is the same as the rest of us. Look after yourself, because no one else will.”

  Heron stared into Verris’ pale, slitted eyes, knowing the insufferable man was right. He, Heron, was only valuable to Sonten as long as he obtained the results the General required. If he failed in his duties, he would be replaced. But that was only natural; a commander was only as good as his last successful campaign. If he couldn’t fulfil his orders, he deserved to lose his post.

  However, he was spared the task of replying; the blank look on Verris’ face told him that his fellow commander was in communication with the Duke, no doubt getting ready to receive the fresh troops. Verris turned his gaze back to him with a predatory gleam.

  “Here we go, Heron. Mark my words, I’m only a few days away from promotion into his Grace’s personal bodyguard. So you enjoy the war, my loyal friend, but don’t forget what I said.

  “You’d better rouse your men. We have to make sure these Albian bastards don’t know what’s hit them. By the time our boys have finished, they won’t know which way to run. With any luck we’ll keep them guessing and stop them from hitting us all at once. And this time, Heron, I’m doing things my way. There’s no fun in running away all the time. My lads want a bit of action, not all this peasant-baiting.”

  Heron stared in alarm. “Remember your orders, Verris, or you could jeopardize the entire campaign. Don’t forget, every available man is needed for the war. If you get your command embroiled in a pitched battle, you’ll run the risk of serious wounds. You know what that means.”

  “Don’t be such an old woman, Heron, I know my duty. I just want some fun. Don’t worry, I won’t involve your lads, even though I’ve heard some of them moaning about all this soft stuff.”

  Heron doubted that. His men understood why they weren’t supposed to engage the Albians. He gritted his teeth to stop Verris seeing his frustration. It never did to let the man know he’d riled you.

  Just then, he felt the tingle that heralded the opening of the substrate. His argument with Verris was forgotten as both commanders concentrated on the fresh troops emerging into the Albian dawn.

  Chapter Twenty

  The morning was gray and overcast with a wintry chill. Taran roused slowly, unsure of where he was. He was unaccustomed to sleeping in the open and his back ached fiercely from the hard ground. He looked around at the sleeping Bull and Robin before noticing the empty place beside Sullyan’s tiny saddle.

  He sat up carefully, as much in deference to his tender back as to the others’ slumber. He saw Sullyan standing by the rock where he had kept watch the night before. She was braiding her glorious hair with quick, deft fingers. As she was turned away from him, looking out over the land, she didn’t see him watching.

  He rose quietly and walked over to stand beside her. She turned her head and smiled, raising her brows in query.

  During the night, he had come to terms with what she had told him, although he was still hurt that his father had hid the Artesans at the Manor from him. However, he had pushed it to the back of his mind. Now, he wanted to discuss his conversation with Cal from the previous evening.

  “Have you spoken with the General since last evening?” he asked.

  If she’d been expecting him to refer to last night’s conversation, she showed no surprise. “I spoke with him at first light. Why do you ask?”

  He was relieved. “Then you’ve heard about the invasion.”

  Cal had told him what he’d heard about the Andaryan forces pushing farther north. Taran hadn’t wanted to be the first to tell Sullyan.

  She finished her hair and pulled on her jacket. “Yes, the situation is growing worse. But if it comforts you, Taran, I believe there is more to this than a desire for revenge, even for the death of a noble. The sooner we obtain more information, the better. Are the others awake yet?”

  She turned without waiting for a response; Bull and Robin were already rolling to their feet and the aroma of fresh fellan soon filled the damp air.

  They ate a quick breakfast of bread and cheese. Nothing unusual had occurred during the night and both Bull and Robin were dismayed to hear about the advancing outlander forces.

  “Things are getting serious, Sully,” said Bull, shaking his head. “This isn’t some outraged lord looking for revenge over the death of a courtier. An invasion on this scale points to someone with real power. Who would risk such an aggressive act, what could they hope to gain? Who else commands that many troops, apart from the Hierarch?”

  Taran watched as Sullyan considered the question. “To my knowledge there are only two lords powerful enough to mount such an invasion, but I cannot see the Hierarch granting either one permission to do so. What reason could he possibly have for upsetting the balance we have achieved over the last twenty-odd years?”

  “Would they need the Hierarch’s permission?” asked Taran. “Perhaps one of them fancies gaining some glory and status for himself by proving his forces against ours.”

  Sullyan shook her head. “That is not how their society works, Taran. Minor raiding by hot-headed heirs or young bloods is one thing and the Hierarch might turn a blind eye to the occasional sortie, despite the Pact. But this is a full-scale invasion, guaranteed to incur retaliation. As the Hierarch outwardly supports the Pact, I can see no reason why he would agree to any action provoking such hostilities.”

  Taran frowned.

  “The Hierarch is Andaryon’s supreme ruler,” she explained. “The Fifth Realm’s ruling structure is power-based, so he is always the most p
owerful Artesan. This means he can also raise the largest war-host.

  “When a new Hierarch takes the throne, all the other lords pledge to obey him. In return, he is honor-bound to support them and would be forced to use his own troops in their defense should their lands suffer attack. Any noble who acts without the Hierarch’s approval would have his overlord’s support withdrawn. No high-ranking lord would risk that unless he intended to challenge for the throne.

  “To my knowledge, there are no other Senior Master Artesans in Andaryon, so there is no impending challenge to the Hierarch’s power. And neither of his highest-ranking nobles—Tikhal, Lord of the North, and Rykan, Duke of Kymer—could raise sufficient men to challenge his massed forces. It remains a mystery and we will have to wait and see what light Marik can shed on the situation.”

  Abruptly, she changed tack. “Now, gentlemen, before we start our preparations for the day, there is something I want us to practice. Journeyman—have you ever participated in a Powersink?”

  Taran was intrigued. “No, not really, although I understand the principles. I’ve used Cal’s power to augment my own, but it’s not the same thing, is it?”

  She smiled. “Not at all. In order to create a Powersink, each Artesan must enter a collective psyche. One by one—starting with the lowest rank—we overlay our patterns until they form a meld. The power builds as each new pattern is absorbed. Then, once we are all linked, any one of us can use the accumulated power with no restrictions. There is no overriding control. For you—and I mean no offense—it will be a heady experience as between the three of us, we wield tremendous strength. You will have felt nothing like it before and I want us to attempt it now so that if we need it in an emergency, you will know what to expect. But heed this warning, Taran. It could overwhelm you.”

  “I’m ready,” said Taran. He saw Bull and Robin grin and knew they could sense his eagerness.

  Judging by Sullyan’s cautionary tone, she could, too. “Just be sure you have yourself well under control,” she warned.

  He nodded but was almost trembling with anticipation. He saw her eye him thoughtfully before she said, “This is how we proceed. Taran, you will lay out your pattern first. Bulldog will be next, followed by Robin, then me. We will go slowly so you have time to assimilate the buildup of power. Then, when you feel you are ready, I want you to throw a shield of Earth force over us—over the entire camp—as if we were under attack. Do you understand?”

  He nodded again, wanting to get on with it, desperate for this new experience.

  They faced each other over the fire. Closing his eyes, Taran surrounded himself with his psyche before laying it out in the substrate in the center of the group. Bull overlaid with his and the two patterns melded strongly. There was no guiding hand on the resulting force and Taran felt a thrill deep within his soul as the power levels rose significantly. Then Robin came into the structure and Taran saw why he was potentially much stronger than Bull. Despite being the same rank, the Captain’s pattern was far more subtle and complex than the big man’s, capable of channeling huge amounts of metaforce.

  Taran felt himself swelling with the depth of power being raised; his whole body tingled with potential. And then Sullyan’s psyche was added to the glowing structure.

  As her pattern merged flawlessly with the others, a vast Powersink appeared. A seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy was waiting to be tapped, controlled and directed. Taran thought his skin would burst. He would be invincible with such power at his command. He could lay waste to a thousand cities—an entire realm—and never notice what he’d done. Transported, he began to call on the power to see how it would feel.

  A shock slapped him. He felt like he’d been slammed against an invisible wall and his head snapped around in surprise.

  Sullyan was staring at him with huge black eyes, her iris obscured. He felt her rebuke and recalled her instructions.

  “Shield,” she snapped and he immediately obeyed, throwing a dome of Earth force over them all, including the horses. He hadn’t even had to think about raising earth, the dome had formed the moment he’d shaped it in his mind. He had never felt so full of potential.

  Sullyan’s pupils contracted as she inspected the shield. “Very good,” she approved. “Now release it.”

  He found that harder, letting go of the energy, the seductive call of power. His instincts fought against it, he didn’t want to give it up. Eventually though, he realized he must and it slipped from his mind, returning to the Powersink. His soul protested the loss.

  As the others disentangled their patterns, the energy field dissipated. Taran gave a deep sigh and returned to himself. When he raised his head, Bull and Robin were laughing at him. Even Sullyan was smiling.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Good thing the Major didn’t give you the whole lot,” chuckled Robin.

  Taran swung around on Sullyan. “What does he mean?”

  She threw up her hands, as if to ward him off. “I only released half my force. You were not stable.”

  “I was,” he said, lying outright. There were more grins. “Oh, alright.” He smiled reluctantly. “But I didn’t know how glorious it would be.”

  “Hence the need for caution.”

  The Major’s tone took the sting from her words. It was an intimate tone and the look in her eyes—mingled pride and approval—gave Taran the impression he had just passed some kind of test. He blushed. The moment of intimacy was broken as Bull and Robin began to break camp.

  Once they were mounted, Sullyan said, “We should arrive at the Count’s mansion before darkness. As we ride, I suggest we practice the shield technique until we are sure we can all mesh perfectly. In view of our situation, I feel it would be prudent.”

  They moved into the gray morning. As they rode, they practiced with the Powersink, giving Taran time to prove he could handle the temptation. After a while, Sullyan, clearly satisfied with his progress, instructed them all to call out “Shield,” at random moments, as if they were under attack.

  This ploy worked so well and they were all so proficient at an instantaneous and perfect structure that when the crossbow bolt thumped sickeningly into Bull’s left shoulder, pitching him forward onto his stallion’s neck, the shield came into being simultaneously with Sullyan’s barked command.

  Robin swore and grabbed Bull’s reins, using his free hand to steady the big man. Sullyan wheeled Mandias, seeking the source of attack.

  “There,” cried Taran, pointing to a band of riders galloping toward them out of some trees to the west.

  “Ride,” yelled Sullyan. “Taran, hold the shield. Robin, support Bulldog. We must try and outrun them.”

  As they spurred their mounts to a flat-out gallop, the Major pointed ahead. “Make for that range of hills. We can lose them there.”

  They fled their attackers, Robin using some of the Powersink’s vast resources to flood strength toward Bull. The big man had recovered enough to stay on his horse and keep up with the others, but his face was ashen, drawn in pain. There was an ominously spreading stain around his left shoulder where the end of the bolt could clearly be seen.

  “Taran,” snapped the Major, “take the shield. I will try to turn them back.”

  Taran took full control of the shield, expecting it to be tricky as they were moving so fast. However, the vast store of power flooded out on his command and he found deflecting the murderous bolts being shot at them no great effort.

  He watched as Sullyan, throwing glances back over her shoulder, began placing obstacles in the riders’ path. There were ten of them, mounted on sturdy, speedy horses. The riders’ clothing was dark and unmarked.

  She managed to bring down the two leading attackers with her first Earth barrier, riders and horses sprawling together in the dirt. The band, surprisingly, seemed unprepared for offensive moves but soon got smart. They spread out, making less obvious targets.

  Sullyan then began lobbing balls of force at the horses’ feet. They exp
loded on impact and she managed to eliminate two more. This brought the odds down to six to four and even with one of the four wounded, their pursuers obviously didn’t rate their chances. Suddenly they wheeled their mounts, leaving their quarry to ride on alone.

  Sullyan let the horses run a little longer before giving the order to rein back. The powerful stallions were hardly blowing as they slowed to a walk. She brought Mandias alongside Bull, studying his sweating face with concern.

  “How is it, my friend?”

  “I’ll live,” he rasped.

  She patted his leg. “Be sure you do.”

  They entered a small range of hills, losing themselves among the baked-dry mounds. Sullyan and Taran held the shield intact while Robin used the energy to support Bull and numb some of his pain. Finally, they found an area Sullyan considered defensible while she dealt with Bull’s shoulder, and she directed them toward some fallen boulders at the foot of a slope. The space behind them was just wide enough to camp. They halted the horses and dismounted, Robin helping Bull off his mount. The big man grimaced despite Robin’s soothing flow of metaforce.

  Gratefully, he sank to the ground and Robin stripped off his blood-soaked shirt. His hugely muscled torso was sheened in sweat, the ugly metal bolt sticking obscenely out of the flesh. Sullyan inspected it gravely. It had sunk to its metal fletching in the muscle at the top of the shoulder, nicking the collar-bone. Its tip was barbed and whichever way it was drawn, it would leave an ugly wound. Bull sat quietly, breathing heavily, waiting for the pain.

  “Bulldog,” said Sullyan softly, “do you have any firewater with you?” He nodded carefully. “Good.” She turned to Robin and Taran. “Robin, increase the flow of metaforce until he sleeps. Just remember to keep an eye on his heart. Once he is unconscious, I will draw out the bolt. Taran, have you ever seen Rienne cauterize a wound?”