Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  Confused, Marik tried to think around the sickening throb of pain. Sonten’s boot landed once more, encouraging him to lucidity.

  “Gently, Sonten,” reproved Rykan, “he’ll remember in a minute.”

  The Duke held a naked dagger and he brought its point round to caress Marik’s throat. The Count swallowed compulsively, the movement causing the blade to nick his skin.

  “Oh, dear,” purred Rykan, “I seem to have drawn your blood, Count. Now, would you like to answer my question or shall we play a little first?”

  Staring up at the Duke, Marik forced a small, hard smile onto his face. Rykan’s frown was his reward. “You can do what you like to me,” he rasped, “but at least you can’t do her any more harm.”

  The frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

  Marik let his disgust at what this brutal man had done to the helpless Sullyan color his reactions. His eyes filling with tears, he spat, “She died of your cruelty, Rykan. Yes, I rescued her. Yes, I took her out of that awful cell you threw her in.” His voice rose, anger fuelled by the fear of death. “You’d more than half-killed her anyway, but I wasn’t going to let you complete what you started. I only wish I’d had the courage to do it sooner. Perhaps then I could have saved her life. But at least I saved her from having to give her powers to you!”

  Gathering his strength, he spat in Rykan’s face.

  The Duke cursed and reared back. Curtly, he motioned to Sonten and the stocky General laid in with his boot again. In despair, Marik felt his shoulder blade break under the repeated vicious kicks. His breath was forced from his body and he was unable even to scream as the toe of Sonten’s boot thudded home again and again. Rykan stood watching, his expression thunderous.

  Too badly injured for lucidity, the growing commotion in the trees didn’t mean much to Marik, but he did see Rykan’s head snap round and heard him barking orders at his men. Hastily, they ran for their mounts.

  “Finish him!”

  Rykan flung the words at Sonten. Already halfway to his horse, the command forced the General to turn back. Drawing his sword, he lumbered toward Marik, only to stumble to a halt as a large group of yelling men burst into sight, crossbows thumping as they came.

  Barely conscious, Marik saw Rykan wheel his bay stallion, cursing Sonten’s hesitation. Still swearing, he spurred the nervous animal toward Marik, deliberately setting the horse at the Count. Yet despite the raking spurs and dragging reins, the battle-trained stallion leaped over the Count instead of trampling him. Roaring his fury, Rykan yanked cruelly on its mouth before kicking the beast away.

  Forcing his eyes wider, Marik recognized the pirate Xeer leading Ky-shan’s men in pursuit of the Duke. Desperate to stop Rykan escaping, Marik gathered his waning strength and yelled hoarsely at the top of his lungs.

  “She’d never have given her powers to you, Rykan, but before she died, she passed them on to me! And I intend to see that you never win this war.”

  Dimly, Marik registered Rykan’s furious face as he spun round in the saddle to glare at him.

  Caught on the ground as Xeer’s men rushed closer, Sonten heard Marik’s words. Drawing his dagger, he threw it as hard as he could at Marik’s prone body before scrambling clumsily onto his horse. Even as the blade thumped home, ripping an agonized scream from his throat, Marik heard Rykan’s enraged roar.

  “Sonten, you lackwit! NO!”

  His vision red and blurred by pain, Marik was only vaguely aware of horse hooves trampling next to his head. Spiking agony prevented him from protecting himself. Fortunately, the horse belonged to Xeer, who had stayed behind while the others engaged Rykan’s guards. Slithering down, Xeer grasped the hilt of Sonten’s blade and yanked it from Marik’s back, throwing it after its retreating owner. Then he roughly hoisted the helpless Marik and slung him over his horse’s withers. The violent movements tore at the Count’s wounds and he shrieked, close to passing out.

  Xeer leaped into the saddle of his curveting horse yelling, “I’ve got him, lads! Quick, follow me!”

  The pirates abandoned their attack and crowded after Xeer as he turned and galloped for the Plains. Marik felt the pirate’s hand gripping the back of his jacket, steadying him as best he could over the horse’s neck as they pelted dangerously fast through the dark forest. The yelling of men and pounding of hooves was loud in Marik’s faltering ears.

  For all his agony and fear, Marik felt a strange satisfaction. He had managed to taunt Rykan with the one thing guaranteed to make the Duke pursue him. Thoroughly enraged by Marik’s resistance and convinced that he had now been twice deprived of the power he so obsessively desired, Rykan’s pursuit showed he was determined to take the Count at all costs. Marik had convinced him that if he could just recapture the Count he could still have Sullyan’s powers, and their acquisition would set the seal on the outcome of his challenge. This, Marik felt, was worth dying for.

  In total darkness, it was a nightmare ride. They were all riding blind, although Rykan’s men would have the slight advantage of hearing their quarry ahead. Fading in and out of consciousness, praying to die while pain tore at his body, Marik was aware of the pirates forging on at whatever speed they could hold, only their sense of direction guiding them. As the yawning chasm of the Void finally came to claim him, Marik vaguely heard them yelling for reinforcements. He desperately hoped the rest of his command was nearby as they galloped recklessly toward the Plains.

  + + + + +

  Sullyan couldn’t leave the battlements. Robin, Almid, and Kester stayed with her the whole day, but with the final battle so close now, Anjer had gone to rest while he could. He needed to be fresh for the following day when he would personally lead the Citadel’s defense.

  Pharikian replaced him as Sullyan’s eyes. She protested at Andaryon’s Supreme Ruler acting as her liaison, but he brushed her objections aside, saying he was as concerned for the Count as she was. He stayed by her as darkness fell and was able to tell her that Marik had regained consciousness as Rykan’s captive. Her heart shriveled inside her, hope for the Count’s survival diminishing fast. Yet Pharikian also sensed the pirates come charging into Rykan’s camp, and they realized all was not yet lost. When he relayed the words Marik yelled at Rykan, Sullyan smiled grimly.

  “We could not have thought of a better way to convince him to follow.”

  Pharikian nodded and tightened the arm he had placed around her shoulders. “If the Count comes out of this alive, I’m going to make him a Lord of the Realm.”

  She stared up at him, a proper smile slowly forming. “That should please your daughter.”

  He grinned, glad to see her somber mood lifting. “It would rather neatly solve the problem, wouldn’t it?”

  “He has to reach the Citadel first,” said Robin, and Sullyan sighed.

  Turning to his guard, Pharikian instructed that Anjer be fetched from his rest. “Alert the Velletian Guard to incoming troops,” he added as the man hurried off.

  When Anjer learned what had occurred, he swiftly ordered Kryp and Ephan to give the pirates every support. It would be a delicate balance, because they couldn’t afford to lose Rykan now. With the enemy so close to the Plains, darkness had not brought the usual cessation to the fighting, and the Hierarch’s hitherto secret reserves were readying themselves to form the Citadel’s last line of defense. Both generals reported fierce fighting and a savage push by Rykan’s men to force their way onto the Plains. Anjer gave the order to slowly fall back and encourage them on. Dryly, Ephan remarked that encouragement wasn’t necessary. He had only just been able to hold them that extra day as it was.

  Pharikian relayed all this to a tight-lipped Sullyan. They remained on the battlements, anxiously awaiting the pirates’ and Marik’s arrival. Xeer was no Artesan, and Marik seemed mercifully to have lost consciousness, so they had no contact with them. After about an hour of constantly scanning the darkness, Sullyan stiffened. Robin felt it and leaned forward, straining to see in the darkness. They could just ma
ke out movement through the closest trees.

  The Hierarch saw it too. “Here they come,” he said, and sent a command through the substrate to Vanyr, who was waiting with a full contingent of Velletian Guard to shepherd the pirates home. Sullyan watched intently as Vanyr’s well-trained men charged the pirates’ pursuers, causing them to veer back into the protection of the trees. Xeer on his overburdened horse, followed by the remnants of his band, thundered on toward the Citadel.

  Sullyan didn’t wait to see them in. She was already running for the Tower stairs, leaping recklessly down them, desperate to tend to Marik’s hurts and see him safe. Robin followed.

  Knowing that Xeer would reach the Palace courtyard and be relieved of his burden before she reached the Tower base, Sullyan made straight for the infirmary. As soon as she burst through its doors a Healer waved her to one of the smaller rooms. With Robin shadowing her heels Sullyan entered the room, seeing the Count’s body already laid on the bed. Coming straight to his side, she took in his grey, sweat-sheened face, blue lips, and slack features. Deshan was bending over him, removing the Count’s bloodstained clothing. Silently, Sullyan helped. When they had finally stripped the Count, the extent of his wounds became clear. Sullyan sucked in a breath.

  The right shoulder blade was broken clean in two, one half sticking out through mangled flesh. Rykan’s boot had made a mess of the left temple, where there was a huge and spreading bruise. Sonten’s enthusiastic kicks had also broken and cracked a few ribs, and Deshan suspected a punctured lung. The worst wound, however, had been inflicted by Sonten’s knife. The serrated, nine-inch blade had entered Marik’s back and lodged against the spine, and Xeer’s hasty removal had done yet more damage. They would need to probe deeply to assess the extent of the harm, but Sullyan already knew by the look in Deshan’s eyes that he feared the Count might never walk again.

  Master Physician and Master Artesan regarded each other over Marik’s body. Sullyan’s look was challenging.

  “I will not accept an outcome in which the Count is crippled,” she said.

  Deshan eyed her grimly. “It will take much time and effort. We must find the extent of the damage, lessen the swelling, check for severed nerves, mend broken bones, and that is all supposing his spine is intact. If it is not ….” He paused, shaking his head.

  Sullyan looked down at Marik’s face. He lay on his stomach, his head turned to the left. Reaching out, she gently stroked his discolored cheek.

  “He risked so much for me. He kept me alive when no one else could. He undertook this mission for me, and I will not fail him now. I care little how long it takes, Deshan, but while I have breath, strength, and power within me, I will not rest. This is your area of expertise, Master Healer, so I give you control of my power. Direct it and use it as you will. But let us waste no more time. We need to know what we are dealing with.”

  Deshan drew a deep breath and Sullyan felt his offered psyche. Accepting the contact, she melded with him, and together they began working to repair Marik’s wounds.

  Robin didn’t disturb them. He sat by Sullyan’s side, mutely offering his strength if she needed it. Without acknowledging him or diverting her attention from the delicate work Deshan was performing, she accepted and made use of her Captain’s power. No one else entered the room, but Sullyan was vaguely aware of a tall, lonely female figure keeping an anxious vigil outside the door that long night through.

  + + + + +

  As grey light streaked the dawn sky, General Sonten emerged from his tent. He stood in silence, regarding the two great armies drawn up facing each other on the Plains. He grimaced. Contrary to his expectations, the Hierarch had been able to summon sufficient numbers from his supporters to confront and hold Rykan’s swelled forces. Constrained by the rules of formal combat, Rykan was now compelled to engage the Hierarch’s troops in an all-out battle for supremacy. If he lost, he would have to capitulate. To say that he was unhappy about this was a gross understatement, and he had spent much of the previous night taking his displeasure out on Sonten.

  The General glared at the distant Palace towers, reaching like bared fangs into the new light. No one in the Citadel could possibly be aware that Rykan’s failure to secure Sullyan’s powers was not the first, but the second blow to his far-reaching plans. The Duke’s total confidence in her eventual surrender had not only led him to issue his challenge prematurely, but had also given her friends the time and opportunity to spirit her away. However, taking her captive and forcing her to give up her vast strength had not been part of the Duke’s original plan.

  “That bloody Albian Baron!” growled Sonten. “Why did Rykan ever listen to him?”

  His scowl deepened. It was the Baron who had given Rykan the Staff, the terrible weapon that would have made taking the human witch’s power possible, and because of this, he felt entitled to make demands of the Duke. Quite why the Baron was so eager to see Sullyan destroyed, Sonten didn’t know, but Rykan was quick to see the merits of the fanatic’s proposal. The subsequent loss of the weapon and Sullyan’s escape had taken the Duke’s fury to new and terrifying levels. Sonten still found it hard to believe that such a fragile and defenseless young woman had resisted the brutal Duke for so long. Yet despite Rykan’s fury at her defiance in the face of considerable pain and torment, Sonten knew he had conceived a reluctant respect for her, doubtless an uncomfortable sensation for one who habitually treated women like disposable playthings. It was something Rykan would never admit, not even to Sonten, and Sonten would certainly never dare mention it.

  “Still,” he muttered, “she’s dead. That should please the Void-damned Baron. Now all we have to do is win this bloody war.”

  Despite the shock of being confronted by more men than he had expected, Sonten retained his confidence that the Hierarch had no idea of Rykan’s true strength. The outcome of the Duke’s personal challenge didn’t necessarily depend upon metaphysical prowess, so Rykan could still emerge the victor. Sonten assumed that Anjer, a man he both hated and respected, had been unwilling to rely on what he knew of Rykan’s strength and had ordered some of the Hierarch’s closest reserves to mobilize. Even so, Sonten didn’t believe they could stand against the true strength of Rykan’s forces. He consoled himself with the thought of Anjer’s shock when Rykan’s own reserves entered the fray.

  Marik’s claim that he had been gifted Sullyan’s power had planted a worm of doubt in Rykan’s mind. Sonten had managed to calm the Duke by assuring him that the Count had been mortally wounded by his desperate knife throw. His actions had initially enraged the Duke, just when it seemed that Sullyan’s coveted strength might still be his, and Rykan had been apoplectic when Marik escaped him yet again. No one but Sonten had dared approach him since, and it had taken the General some time to convince Rykan there was no chance of Marik surviving such a deadly wound.

  Sonten was aware that much of Rykan’s rage stemmed from the shock of realizing that Marik was fighting for the Hierarch. His initial outrage at the Count’s daring rescue, when they had all thought him a puling, spineless coward, had cooled, set aside to be dealt with later. The Duke had been convinced Marik would hole up somewhere in terror of his life, so his incredible reappearance at the head of a well-trained band and his audacity in attacking Rykan’s supposedly protected position had inflamed the Duke beyond measure. Rykan simply couldn’t believe Pharikian’s actions. Far from slaying the traitor out of hand, or at the very least incarcerating him, the Hierarch had actually recruited the lackwit, and set him against his former lord. To Rykan, this was another indication of Pharikian’s failing faculties, one more insult for which both he and Marik would pay.

  Sonten shook his head and sighed. As the light of the new day grew, showing him more and more of the Hierarch’s forces, doubt formed in his heart. Not because of the potent Artesan powers Marik had supposedly acquired; even if Sonten was wrong and the Count survived, he wasn’t concerned about that. It would take the Count many days, if not weeks, to recover from such
serious wounds, and Rykan had always derided Marik’s pitifully weak Artesan gift. Even if the human witch had passed her vast store of knowledge on to him, he would be hopelessly untutored in its use. Rykan would easily crush the worm.

  No. What troubled Sonten was the niggling worry that the Count might somehow know about Rykan’s plans. There were already more men facing them than Sonten had bargained for. What if Marik had heard something that led him to suspect Rykan’s true strength? What if last night’s wild chase through the forest hadn’t finished him off? What if he had reached the Citadel alive and managed to whisper his suspicions to Anjer? Anjer would certainly have sent runners through the night to demand more men from his supporters.

  Sternly, Sonten shook himself and thrust the doubts aside. No, it wasn’t possible. Marik couldn’t have known. Not even the Duke’s regular troops knew of his reluctant conscripts. They had all been kept well away from the palace by trusted commanders, drilled separately under harsh routines. Marik had been watched while in the palace, and although he had managed to keep his mercy visits to Sullyan secret, neither he nor his men had ever left the palace compound.

  These extra forces drawn up in readiness on the Plains had simply been brought in by a nervous opponent—one uncertain of victory. This would work in Sonten’s favor. The Duke’s forces would press forward with determination and their officers would drive them from behind and spend their strength extravagantly. His Grace would win the day, and Sonten would gain his reward.

  He gave a hard smile. The Duke’s towering ambitions and the plans of his despised yet powerful Albian supporter were about to be realized. Turning on his heel, the General went to inform Rykan that battle was about to be joined.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pharikian and Anjer paced the battlements in the early morning breeze. The slight thaw of the previous day had continued overnight and the wind had lost its bitter teeth. Yet it was still strong enough to snap and stream the banner flying impudently above the Duke of Kymer’s tent, well to the rear of his battle lines.