by Cas Peace
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 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.
“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?”