Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  “There, you lackwits, there!” he yelled, pointing. “Concentrate on where the floor dips.”

  They were tired and flagging, and Sonten urged them on with threats and promises. They renewed their efforts, staggering under the weight of the rubble and plaster they were handing up the chain in buckets. Eventually, one of them straightened an aching back.

  “My Lord, I think we have it!”

  “Let me see,” snapped Sonten, shoving his way past the men at the head of the ladder. Awkwardly descending—his unwieldy bulk was never meant for ladders—he gave a predatory grin. Amid the wreckage he could see the Staff’s unmistakable shimmer.

  It lay innocently in the center of the depression, glittering very gently, completely unaffected by its dusty incarceration. Sonten knew that its main component was a form of spellsilver, one in which the effect was somehow reversed so that instead of blocking or repulsing metaphysical function, it actually attracted and amplified it. He didn’t understand it and experienced a momentary twinge of regret for the untimely demise of his nephew, remembering the many secret hours it had taken Jaskin to learn how to use the priceless weapon. Sonten would have to start over again, and once more in secret, for if the Hierarch learned of his plotting then Sonten’s head would go the way of Rykan’s.

  He grimaced. It was a drawback that Commander Heron had no familial ties to him, but at least Heron’s current level of skill was greater than Jaskin’s, so that should be an advantage. Promotion and an increase in pay would place the Commander ever more firmly in Sonten’s debt, and maybe the General could find some other, tastier rewards for the man once he learned his particular weaknesses. Every man had them, as Sonten well knew, and he was adept at exploitation.

  Now, however, possession of the Staff was enough. Wary, mindful of its lethal potential, Sonten stretched out his hand and grasped the metal rod.

  A shock ran through him and he almost dropped the weapon. He had half expected a reaction from it, but he realized almost instantly that it wasn’t the weapon creating the noise he had heard. It was his men. Hearing the cries and the unmistakable ring of steel, Sonten understood what was happening. His men were under attack from the Albians.

  Angry with his shaking fingers, he secured the Staff within a specially designed scabbard on his belt. “Out of the way,” he growled, and shoved roughly at the men in the cellar. Heads appeared above him and a hand was extended to help him out of the hole. He batted it away. “Find out what’s happening!” he barked, and the heads disappeared.

  He hauled himself out, panting his fury. If this was an all-out attack rather than another feint, he would have to disappear sooner than planned. Yet for that he needed Heron, and presumably the man would now be directing a counter-attack. Cursing the loss of Imris, Sonten sent a man scurrying for Heron while he urged the rest out of the cellar.

  Chapter Nine

  Vanyr, Ky-shan, and the seamen had made their way successfully toward the edge of the village without raising the alarm. Finding an unoccupied, burned-out house they crouched in the darkness, awaiting the sounds that would confirm Baily’s attack had begun. When it came, Vanyr shot Ky-shan a glance. Surely it was too soon? The seaman merely shrugged and raised his sword, indicating it was time to go. Vanyr followed as the others surged from the shell of the house, running through the darkness, alert for Sonten’s men.

  They heard yells from the western end, telling them that Robin’s forces had joined the attack. A quick movement in the gloom beside him warned Vanyr just in time as a swordsman aimed a lunge at his breast. Vanyr raised his blade to parry the stroke, and Ky-shan ran the man through. He dropped and they pounded on, following Zolt’s lead toward Taran’s cottage.

  Another man ran across their line of sight, but he either didn’t see them or he thought they were his comrades, for he carried on, heading for the western end of the village. Vanyr had seen where he had come from and he grabbed Zolt by the arm. “Is that the one?” he hissed, pointing at the small house.

  Zolt nodded. They pitched up against the back wall of the house and crouched down. There was a wooden door to their left and a window above them, through which lamplight and the flickering silhouettes of men showed. Zolt raised his head and glanced into the room beyond.

  “Cal’s still there, tied to a chair. I can’t tell if he’s alive. There’s at least one other man in the room, and there are others just outside.”

  Vanyr nodded to Ky-shan, who turned to the hulking forms of Almid and Kester. “Go on, boys.”

  The giants stood either side of the wooden door and delivered simultaneous kicks with their huge boots. The door splintered and shot back, one hinge shattered. The twins surged into the room, followed by Ky-shan, Vanyr, and the rest of the men. Vanyr could see the inert form of Cal slumped in the chair, but ignored him. Ky-shan had instructed Almid and Kester to guard the young Albian, and Vanyr had other prey on his mind. While Almid casually dispatched the man closest to Cal with one sweep of his huge sword, Vanyr scanned the cottage.

  He caught sight of a heavily-built figure and roared with fury when he saw the artifact hanging from Sonten’s belt. It could only be the Staff. Sonten heard him and turned, his eyes widening as he recognized the Commander of the Hierarch’s personal guard. Shoving frantically through his men, the General fled the house. Vanyr lunged after him and Ky-shan ordered his men to follow. Bellowing, they spilled out into the street, the seamen’s blades ringing against those of Sonten’s men.

  + + + + +

  Robin and Parren, at the head of their men, had punched through the enemy cordon and were making headway toward the tavern. Robin gave a tight grin of satisfaction. The smoke, the darkness, and the sound of two separate battles was clearly confusing the Andaryans. Their Commander, whom Robin recognized from his short time as Sonten’s prisoner, had seemingly deserted his men. Robin had seen him go running off in the opposite direction. Maybe, he thought, the man was going to help lead the second battle, against Baily’s attack force. Whatever the reason, their Commander’s desertion had left this half of Sonten’s militia leaderless and lacking clear orders. They were milling, unsure whether to defend or fall back.

  A swordsman lunged at Robin and the Captain blocked the stroke, turning the enemy blade aside with a twist of his sword. The man stumbled into his neighbor and Robin immediately chopped forward, shearing through the man’s sword arm. There was a harsh scream as the Andaryan dropped to the ground, and Robin leaped over him, looking for his next opponent.

  The space before Robin was suddenly clear. A gap was beginning to open on his side of the battle. Yelling, he urged his unit forward, opening the gap wider. The Andaryans’ disarray and lack of cohesion suited him just fine, but he found a moment to hope that Baily wasn’t suffering as a consequence.

  Seeing Sergeant Dexter’s flushed face beside him, Robin yelled, “Keep herding them away from the tavern, Dex. Push them back toward the eastern end.”

  Dexter nodded and relayed the order. Robin took a moment to glance over his shoulder through the gloom, trying to check on Parren’s whereabouts. There was another mass of bodies behind him to his left. It seemed the sallow Captain had managed to draw the other Andaryans away from those fighting Robin’s band. Nodding in satisfaction and trusting that Parren would continue to keep them occupied, Robin concentrated on pushing farther into the village.

  + + + + +

  On his stool beside the tavern bar, Elder Paulus stirred uneasily. He frowned at the empty beer kegs and upended tankards, using his disgust at the mess to keep himself from showing fear. The villagers looked to him for guidance. So far, none of them had been hurt—at least, not seriously—and Paulus wanted to keep it that way. Nonetheless, all this passive sitting around, waiting for others to determine their fate, was grating on his nerves.

  Penned in the tavern for many hours now, the villagers had caused no real trouble. They knew they were far outnumbered by the demons that had invaded their village, and on Paulus’s advice hadn’t e
ven rebelled when the girl was taken. Her mother had gone into hysterics when she realized they were going to sit by and watch her daughter be taken away, and many of the men had raged at Paulus, unable to understand his stricture against resistance. Yet Paulus knew there were too many armed guards for the villagers to take on, and he believed the girl would be returned unharmed if they behaved themselves, as the man who took her told him.

  Paulus had won the argument and the men sat tight, doing their best to calm the girl’s mother. Their mood, though, had turned ugly. When the girl was returned, terrified but mercifully unharmed, Paulus felt sick with relief. He accepted the villagers’ grudging apologies, but realized the girl’s wellbeing didn’t mean the demons would leave without harming anyone.

  Once the girl had calmed down, he quietly questioned her, telling her to pretend she was still weeping and distraught, and to whisper her answers so the guards wouldn’t overhear what she had to tell him. From her replies, he guessed that Sonten was looking for the artifact Taran had told him about before leaving the village. What it was and what the demon intended to do with it, Paulus had no idea. He decided not to tell the villagers that the invasion of their homes was Taran’s fault. Neither Taran nor Cal had been popular before they left, and if the villagers learned that this was their doing, neither man would ever be able to show his face in Hyecombe again. They might even turn on Cal, should the demons leave him alive. After cautioning the girl not to reveal this information to the others, all Paulus could do was keep alert and be ready to react to whatever happened next.

  When the demons had roughly herded all their prisoners together in the main room and left only two of their comrades on guard duty, Paulus took the opportunity to prime his fellow captives. They had all heard the sporadic noises during the night and guessed there were Albian swordsmen outside the village trying to dislodge the demons. The villagers might only be farmhands, bakers, and shopkeepers, rather than trained fighters, but surely they could overcome two lone demons if they worked together? Using whispered comments and concealed gestures, Paulus directed them to whatever might be used as a weapon. Broken ale jars—or even whole ones—could do a lot of damage, and ale tankards were nice and weighty, handy for women to throw. So stealthily did Paulus work that when the noise of attack broke out in the street, he and the villagers were fully prepared to help their rescuers win the day.

  He leaped off his bar stool yelling, and the other men quickly snatched up their chosen weapons. They charged the two demons standing by the locked door and overwhelmed them, attacking whatever part of their bodies they could reach. The crunch of bone and the shattering of stoneware almost drowned out the screams. Then they turned their attention to the tavern door, and Paulus couldn’t help but wince as it gave way under their kicks. The women grabbed tankards, stools, brooms, whatever came to hand, and poured out of the tavern behind their men.

  It was still dark and the noise outside was deafening. Paulus wanted to yell at the villagers, to form them into some kind of cohesive band, but their blood was up. Some of them raced toward a mass of fighters on one side of the street while others split away, heading for a second battle raging farther on. Whooping and roaring their anger, they added their weight to the fight.

  + + + + +

  Sonten’s impatience was turning to panic. His men were only just holding Vanyr and the seamen. His feverish eyes raked the predawn gloom. Where in the Void was Heron? Sonten might have possession of the Staff, but he couldn’t use it. He needed Heron if he was to escape as planned. Protected by about fifteen of his men, he retreated slowly before Vanyr’s onslaught, making for the main street where the horses were. When Heron finally came running, bringing welcome reinforcements, Sonten thrust the Staff into his hands.

  “Do it now,” he grated, his eyes wild. “I’ve told you what I want you to do, so get on with it. Let’s get out of here!”

  Despite the chaos around him, Heron eyed the Staff. “I don’t like this, General. It goes against the grain to sacrifice so many of our men. And I’m not sure I’m capable of doing what you want. I’ve only opened a large trans-Veil tunnel once before, and I don’t have the strength or skill to fix its destination.”

  Sonten couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t the man see how desperate their situation was?

  “For the Void’s sake, man, get on with it! This thing amplifies metaforce, remember? You’ll be at least twice as powerful as you were before—I’ve already told you that.”

  “But the people, General. The risk is—”

  “Sod the bloody risk, Heron! They’re only Albians. This is our lives we’re talking about.”

  Sonten was furious. Heron had raised this objection before when he had first heard about the plan. Despite the General’s assurance that the Staff would vastly amplify his power, Heron wasn’t confident. He had blathered on about the risks involved in opening any kind of rent in the Veils so close to occupied dwellings. Sonten had laughed in his face. He had no regard for the human population of Hyecombe and couldn’t understand why Heron would bring it up again.

  Despite his General’s anger, Heron tried one last time. “But it’s not just—”

  Sonten shifted slightly. Heron’s eyes widened in shock as he stared down the length of the General’s sword, its tip pressed just below his sternum.

  “Do it, Heron! Just do it.”

  The Commander swallowed and nodded. Sonten removed his blade and watched avidly as Heron concentrated his will on the Staff.

  Sonten had deliberately not told his Commander how long it had taken Jaskin to learn to use the Staff. He assumed that Heron’s Adept-elite rank would overcome that problem, and anyway, he was only going to use it to open the Veils. Once they were back in Durkos, there would be time aplenty for Heron to fine tune his control.

  After a few seconds of intense concentration from Heron, the Staff began to glow. Ripples of blue, green, and grey light raced up and down its length. Heron glanced up at Sonten, his face alive with power. Forgetting the fight raging around them, the yells and screams and roars of angry men, the General grinned. His plan was going to work.

  Heron turned and raised the Staff. He gestured with both hands. The grey gloom of early dawn began to shimmer in front of him. Suddenly, Sonten could make out the outline of a portway. He clenched his fists in triumph. Let the rest of his men perish along with the thrice-damned human villagers! He could easily glean more from Rykan’s estates before the Hierarch annexed the lot. Despite the failure of Rykan’s challenge and the disastrous war with the Hierarch’s forces, there were plenty who would follow Sonten’s banner, plenty who would cleave to his cause. Especially once he had outlined his plans and made Heron demonstrate what the Staff was capable of. Rykan had never been liked, either by his peers or his men—he had been too cruel for that—but Sonten was known as a fair lord and a generous one, provided his orders were followed.

  He shook his head. Rykan had been such a fool. If only he had listened to Sonten instead of allying himself with that scheming Albian Baron. If he hadn’t wasted time pleasuring himself with the human witch, he would have been Hierarch by now, without any of that messy dueling business. Yet that had been Rykan all over. The obvious and brutal approach when subtlety would have been more apt.

  Yelling above the din for his bodyguard, Sonten told them to grab the horses.

  + + + + +

  Captain Baily pounded past the backs of the houses, his men crowding his heels. They had had a hard time of it at the eastern end of the village. The light of the lowering moon had betrayed them, and they had been spotted by a sharp-eyed demon scout before they were fully in position. Baily had been forced to engage the enemy far earlier than Robin had planned.

  They suffered significant losses before recovering from the resulting disarray. The demons fought hard, harder than Baily had expected, refusing to be distracted by the sounds of another attack coming from the western end of the village. Baily’s men were rapidly outnumbered and lost ground fast i
n the darkness. He knew he had to pull out or risk losing his entire command. Making his decision, he yelled, “Fall back, lads. Retreat.”

  They obeyed and followed Baily, who decided to slip back through the fields and come through the houses from the north, to provide backup for Vanyr and Ky-shan. He knew his men would be massacred if they stayed where they were.

  Glancing over his shoulder into the growing light, Baily felt relief when the demons decided not to pursue him but instead ran to help their fellows in the main street. Calling to his men to rally them, Baily plunged back between the houses to rejoin the fighting.

  + + + + +

  Sonten’s defenders jostled around him and Heron, the horses whinnying and curveting as men yelled and swords clashed close by. One of Heron’s underlings bellowed in Sonten’s ear, “There’s another unit of Albians coming, General! They’re forcing our lads back up the street toward us. I don’t think we can hold them off.”

  Sonten cursed. The man was right. They were on the verge of being overwhelmed. His orderly escape was in danger of falling apart, and he abruptly decided on a radical change of plan. Heron was still concentrating on expanding his tunnel and could spare no attention for the General. Screaming at his men to abandon the horses, Sonten barked a command to retreat.

  “Heron,” he yelled, “finish that damned tunnel!”

  The Commander was concentrating so hard he barely acknowledged Sonten. He made an ambiguous gesture that Sonten chose to interpret as readiness. Giving Heron no further thought, the General shoved the nearest men into the shimmering portway. No chance he was going first.