Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  Only … one piece of the puzzle didn’t quite fit. Despite the rubble in Taran’s cottage and the energetic searching Sonten had forced his men to perform, Sonten didn’t yet have the Staff. He clearly didn’t know exactly where it lay. Maybe Taran had tricked him at the end—maybe he had been rescued before Sonten pried the final bit of information from him. Or maybe he had died under Sonten’s torture.

  If any of those were true, then Cal didn’t feel like giving up that vital piece of information without a fight. He owed it to Taran. He had come this far and held out this long, why not a little longer? Perhaps help would come. Surely some of the villagers had managed to escape and alert someone? Surely someone had noticed that all was not right in Hyecombe? Cal knew he had to hold on to that hope and pray that Sonten didn’t start on him again.

  Unfortunately, his hope was in vain.

  + + + + +

  “Bloody damned Albians!”

  Sonten’s patience was running out. His foresight in having Commander Heron take the vast majority of his company through the Veils well in advance of Sonten’s own arrival was a stroke of genius, although it had left him dangerously vulnerable when Sullyan and the pirates unexpectedly attacked him. The outcome of that skirmish might not have gone Sonten’s way had Sullyan brought more men with her. The General knew he had been fortunate to escape, especially as Taran had divulged the name of his village scant seconds before Sullyan’s arrival.

  Both Sonten and his Commander, Heron, were well aware of the swordsmen stationed at the Manor. Any Andaryan commander worth his pay found out early in his career where the enemy’s garrisons were and what their strength was. Plus, Heron had already fought Manor swordsmen during Rykan’s feigned invasion. These facts had led Sonten to order Heron through the Veils into Albia with instructions to head for the Manor’s vicinity. His reasoning was that as Taran was associated with Sullyan, his home village should not be too far away. Admittedly, this was a gamble, but it had paid off. Once Sonten had shaken Robin and the pirates off his tail, he had instructed his young Artesan messenger, Imris, to contact Heron and tell him the name of the village. It was then a simple matter for Heron to learn its exact location. As soon as Heron relayed this information to a jubilant Sonten, he received the General’s orders to take control of the village and wait for Sonten’s arrival. If he found the Staff before Sonten got there, he was not to touch it.

  Heron had performed his task well, the only slip-up being the escape of two villagers. The pair, surprised in the middle of a romantic liaison in one of the outlying hay barns, had somehow managed to slip the cordon Heron threw around Hyecombe and raise the alarm.

  Now, much to Sonten’s fury, the village was surrounded by angry Albian swordsmen. He had cursed freely when told of their arrival, as he had planned to be in and out before the province’s defenders learned of his occupation. Sullyan’s earlier attack on his camp meant he hadn’t had time to torture the Staff’s exact location out of Taran, and his current captive was proving reticent, despite vigorous persuasion.

  Frowning with impatience, Sonten dropped heavily into a comfortable chair by the fire, just across from Cal. He regarded the half-conscious young man with a calculating eye. Should he apply more pressure to the man himself, or should he use one of the villagers? He decided on the latter merely as a matter of expedience. He didn’t want the young Albian to die just yet.

  He was aware of the sporadic attacks from outside the village, but Heron had held them off with very few losses. Sonten wasn’t worried about being overrun. Had the defenders of this area wanted to send more men against him, they would surely have done so by now. He had only fired a few houses and wasn’t threatening anyone else, so they were obviously content to keep harrying him and watch what he did. They must think they had him pinned down. This made Sonten smile. How surprised they would be when he and his men disappeared from under their noses overnight!

  Sonten decided he had waited long enough. He snapped his fingers at one of Cal’s guards. “Fetch one of the younger village women. Make sure she doesn’t scream before you get her here.”

  He gave the order in a low voice so Cal wouldn’t hear. He was pretty sure the dark-skinned young man was too confused to make sense of what he might hear, but he didn’t want his surprise revealed too soon.

  As the guard left, Sonten sauntered over to Cal. He was bound securely to the high-backed chair, both arms wrenched behind him. Naked to the waist, his upper body showed the signs of Sonten’s persuasive methods. His eyes were closed, the lids puffy and swollen, his dark skin unhealthily pale. His head was hanging, but Sonten could tell by his breathing that he was conscious. He leaned over Cal and rested his hands on the arms of the chair. Cal groaned.

  “This is your last chance, lad,” said Sonten, his tone reasonable. “Why hold out any longer? It’s only a matter of time. All your friends are dead, and I know the Staff’s here somewhere. You have nothing to lose by telling me where it is. You might even save your own skin. And why not—haven’t you suffered enough? Why prolong this? What use is the Staff to you, anyway? You can’t wield it, you haven’t the skill. It’s obviously wrought some damage here. Do you want to leave such a dangerous item loose where anyone might pick it up? Who knows what could happen? Why not let me take it back to its rightful owner, and get it out of harm’s way?”

  Grinning, staring into Cal’s bloodshot eyes, he waited for the Albian to answer.

  + + + + +

  Cal heard Sonten’s voice as though through muffling fog. He couldn’t think straight. Hadn’t he and Taran tried to return the Staff? Wasn’t that what Taran had wanted? So why shouldn’t he do exactly as Sonten suggested and let the demon take it? He was on the verge of opening his mouth to do just that when an image of Rykan came into his mind. He remembered that Sonten was Rykan’s man, and whatever he could do to inconvenience Rykan had to be good. Why else had Sullyan fought him and given her life, if she had indeed died? Could he do any less?

  Thoughts of Rienne flooded his mind, and his heart clenched. He had no idea what had become of her after he and Taran had been taken. His fervent hope was that Bull had left her safely at the Citadel. Yet even if she was at the Citadel, with Sullyan dead, as Sonten claimed, Rienne would be all alone in an alien environment with no means of returning home. Cal simply had to survive this and deny Sonten his desire, if only to protect Rienne.

  His intended revelation concerning the cellar died in his throat. Instead, he groaned again.

  He saw the cottage door open, revealing the guard who had been sent to the tavern. He was accompanied by a girl of about fifteen, who he was dragging by the arm. She was struggling, but Cal didn’t immediately realize what her presence meant. She gave a gasp of shock when she saw him, and froze. Sonten took her arm, not too roughly, and propelled her toward Cal’s chair. She stood looking down at him with fear-widened eyes, one trembling fist held to her mouth. Cal stared at her, bewildered, then cried out as Sonten kicked his leg.

  “Well, lad,” said the General, his voice maddeningly cheerful, “what do you think? Is it a fair trade, her safety for your cooperation? What will her mother think if you allow her to be beaten and abused, all for something that is useless to you and belongs rightfully to me? Speak up. Do you understand me?”

  Cal understood only too well. He knew the girl, now that he could see her clearly. She was one of his neighbor’s daughters, and this was his worst nightmare come true. Watching Sonten torture Taran and being beaten himself was one thing. To let it happen to this innocent girl was another. He just couldn’t do it. He had been dreading this ever since waking in this familiar room with an aching body and sinking heart. The fact that it had taken Sonten so long to get around to it only meant that the man wasn’t wantonly cruel. That was something, at least. Cal could hope that if he told Sonten where the Staff was, the girl might be released unharmed.

  “You’re taking too long,” warned Sonten. He ran a meaty hand over the girl’s breasts. She cried out and
struggled, but he held her firm.

  A heavy despair descended on Cal. He couldn’t let Sonten go on. He moistened dry lips, but still could not speak.

  Sonten scowled. “Get him some water!”

  One of the guards hastened to obey. Once the dribble of water had eased his parched throat, Cal managed to rasp, “In the cellar.”

  Sonten grunted. “There! That wasn’t too hard, was it? You could have saved us both a lot of time and trouble, my friend. Now, where’s the access to the cellar?”

  “Under that lot,” rasped Cal, nodding painfully toward the mess of rubble in the hall.

  Sonten swung round. “What? Are you telling me the truth?” He slapped the girl’s face, causing her to scream in terror.

  “Yes, yes!” croaked Cal. “It was the Staff brought the ceiling down. We couldn’t touch it, and the backlash caused the cellar to cave in.”

  He collapsed back, his energy spent. With a vicious oath, Sonten flung the terrified girl at one of his men. “Take her back to the tavern. Get as many men as Heron can spare and find spades, shovels, whatever you can. It’s going to take hours to clear this bloody lot. Go on. Get on with it!”

  The man leaped to obey, dragging the sobbing girl with him. Sonten lunged toward Cal and gave his broken arm a vicious twist. Cal screamed.

  “I’ll teach you to play games with me, lad!” the General hissed. “Don’t think you’ll get out of this with your life. I’m not finished yet, either with you or your pox-ridden village!”

  He lumbered away toward the cottage door, roaring for the remaining guards to begin removing the rubble from the cellar entrance. Cal, thankful to be left alone, allowed his pain and the awful, droning buzz of the spellsilver to carry him into oblivion.

  + + + + +

  For the rest of that day, Sonten drove the men Commander Heron reluctantly spared from the cordon as hard as he could. They worked feverishly, urged on by the lash of Sonten’s tongue. Forming a chain from the cellar entrance to the cottage door, they slung rubble and masonry out into the street. Heavier pieces that couldn’t be lifted were hauled out on ropes pulled by horses.

  All the while, the enemy made life difficult for the besiegers, causing Commander Heron to request the return of the men he had detailed to help Sonten. The General refused, sending Heron’s runner rudely away. He would not allow the clearance work to slacken, not even when two of the men in the chain were hit by random crossbow bolts as they emerged into the street to dump their burdens. One of them was Imris, Sonten’s young messenger-Artesan. The General cursed his loss, although the lad’s death was an inconvenience rather than a tragedy.

  To prevent further losses, Sonten ordered the men to build the rubble up into a protective wall. This took more precious time, but once it was done they were able to work in relative safety. Heron refused point-blank to release any more men from the cordon to replace those Sonten had lost, so finally the General ordered the villagers to be herded together into the tavern’s largest common room and locked in, leaving only two men to guard them. This meant he had twenty able bodies shifting rubble. What was left of the cellar entrance was narrow, and only two men could get down the stairwell at a time to pass rubble out. Sonten organized his workforce into two shifts to work more efficiently.

  By late evening, one man approached him and said, “We’ve reached floor level, General, but there’s still heaps more rubble. It would help if we knew how far in the weapon is likely to be. Save us shifting more than we need.”

  Sonten grunted and walked toward Cal. He had left a guard on the young man, but it was hardly necessary. He had drifted in and out of consciousness all day and had been given no food or water save that mere trickle preceding his confession. He sat in his own ordure and the smell was becoming oppressive, but Sonten ignored it as he slapped Cal hard across the face. Cal’s head snapped back and his eyes opened.

  “Whereabouts in the cellar?” demanded Sonten. “Come on, man! Do I need to fetch the girl again? I will, you know, if you don’t cooperate. Resistance is hardly worth it now. We’re down at floor level. Where is the Staff?”

  Cal, weak and confused, didn’t immediately grasp what Sonten was saying. Lack of food and water, and the effects of the spellsilver, had finally rendered him witless. Exasperated, Sonten swore. He was so close now! If the Staff was across the other side of the cellar, it could still take his men hours to reach it. Cal could save them that time. Sonten slapped him again, more in frustration than with any hope of gaining answers.

  He snapped at Cal’s guard, “Tend to him, you snuffwit! See if you can get him to come around a bit. I still need him, do you hear?”

  The guard reached for some water and held it to Cal’s lips, but most of it spilled down his chin. Angrily, Sonten left him to it and went back to the cellar door, as near to the collapsed area as he dared.

  “Stop slacking, you useless lot! If we have to clear it all, we’ll do it, so get back to work.”

  + + + + +

  As the night advanced, Robin made his preparations. He showed Vanyr and Ky-shan the route through the fields by which he hoped they could gain access to Taran’s house. They would have to avoid the main street and approach the cottage from the rear, but at least the hedges round the fields would afford them some cover. With luck, the defenders would be too busy dealing with the attack Robin and Parren intended to unleash and wouldn’t notice Vanyr’s small band.

  Baily had strict instructions to hold as many of Sonten’s men as he could at the eastern end of the village. The last thing Robin needed was for all the Andaryans to come at him from up the main street, preventing him from liberating the villagers in the tavern. He hoped to push through swiftly and decisively, and dividing Sonten’s men was crucial.

  By the time everyone was briefed and in place, it was well past midnight. Robin checked with Vanyr through the substrate, even though they had agreed to keep metaphysical contact to a minimum in case either of Sonten’s Artesans should sense them. Robin had tried again but was unable to sense Cal. The spellsilver was still doing its job.

  Robin crouched with his men in the darkness. He couldn’t stop wondering how far he could trust Parren. All he could do was hope the sly young man would keep to the plan. He was impatient for Baily to commence his attack, but there were still a couple of hours to go. Only when the first rush was well under way would Robin give the order to engage.

  He searched the darkness, trying to spot the men in the cordon. Not for the first time, he wished he had some influence over the element of Air. The buildings Sonten had fired were still smoldering, and the resulting smoke was fogging the area. It would work against defenders and attackers alike, and Robin wished he could provide his forces with some advantage.

  This was the first time since Sullyan had left the Manor that Robin had spared any thought for his potential to become a Master Artesan. His excitement on learning he was ready had been buried by the events that had followed, and his dread that Sullyan might never return had killed any desire for advancement. Or so he had thought. She had a chance now, and the rekindling of his hopes for her had reignited his own ambitions.

  For the moment, though, that had to wait. All he could do was watch and prepare. His crossbow was wound and loaded, and he thought he knew where his first target would come from. He had managed to use a few bolts to good effect earlier on in the day when Sonten had rashly allowed his men to drop their masonry outside Taran’s front door. It was too good an opportunity to miss, and he had earned more admiration from Vanyr for his skill.

  Parren, predictably, had been unimpressed. “Weapon of stealth,” he sniffed disdainfully. “A coward’s weapon.”

  Robin didn’t bother to reply. Vanyr didn’t speak either. He simply stared hungrily at Parren. Robin sighed. He wouldn’t give much for the sallow man’s chances if the two came together during the battle, and he certainly wouldn’t have any regrets if the Commander’s sword found its way into Parren’s guts.

  Another hour o
f waiting passed. Suddenly, Robin detected the unmistakable sounds of engagement coming from the other end of the village. He frowned in concern. It was too soon! There was still another hour to go until dawn, and they had agreed to wait until the moon was down before engaging. Something had obviously gone wrong, but it was too late to worry about it now. Baily must be supported and the Andaryan forces must be split or none of them stood any chance. Robin turned to give the order to engage, but Parren grabbed his arm.

  “Not yet, you bloody fool! We’ll be striking blind. It’s far too early!”

  “I know that, Parren, but Baily’s in trouble. Can’t you hear it? We can’t let him take them on by himself. Whatever’s gone wrong, he’s in the thick of it and needs our help. And what about Vanyr and Ky-shan? If they go in on the back of this, they’ll walk slap into Sonten’s men. Come on, Parren, we must go now!”

  Parren stared angrily at him. “Alright, but it’s on your head. I take no responsibility, and I want it noted that I object to this course of action. If that bloody fool Baily’s got himself killed, then it’s no fault of mine.”

  “Gods,” snapped Robin, furious that Parren would stall him like this. “Your objections are noted, Captain. Now, let’s get on with it!”

  He gave the order for the bowmen to begin their salvos as the swordsmen behind got ready to rush the cordon. It was hard to see properly in the darkness, and all was noise and confusion. Under cover of the crossbows, the Manor forces at the western end of the village crept closer to the Andaryan cordon. They suffered losses from the defenders’ return volleys before Robin judged they were close enough for the charge. Slinging his bow across his back, he drew his sword and yelled, “Go, men! Go now!”

  His men surged forward to engage the enemy.

  + + + + +

  Sonten was so close. His taskforce had cleared most of the rubble from the cellar doorway and was making a path through the middle of the floor. Peering down into the small circle of light given off by the lantern below, the General became quite excited when he realized they had uncovered the beginnings of a depression in the floor. He might not have any Artesan power of his own, but he had witnessed Rykan working often enough to know that this was the likeliest resting place for the missing artifact.