Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  The trans-Veil structure shot sparks and Heron reacted wildly, grabbing the General’s arm. Sonten angrily shook him off.

  “It’s not ready, General,” cried Heron. “I don’t have full control … it won’t come out where you—”

  “Doesn’t bloody matter,” spat Sonten. “Just hold the damned thing open.”

  Heron’s eyes were wild and his face deathly pale. The General ignored him. The Staff had plenty of power, and it didn’t really matter where the tunnel opened as long as it was somewhere in Andaryon. Once the first men to enter had proved it was safe, Sonten could make his escape.

  + + + + +

  With a savage cut to the throat, Robin dispatched his opponent and drew a breath, using the brief lull to glance around him. He was pleased with the progress they were making, but could not understand what had happened to Parren. He and Parren were supposed to be supporting each other, driving Sonten’s forces away from the village and out into the marshy ground around the pond, yet Robin’s command were doing all the work themselves. There was no sign of Parren.

  A sudden commotion to his left caused Robin to spin round. With relief, he saw the remnants of Baily’s command come pouring down through the houses to engage Sonten’s flank. This gave him respite to try to locate either Parren or Vanyr. He could see neither man, but what he did see, to his dismay, was the unmistakable shimmer of a trans-Veil portway. Limned against it like a blue halo was a tall figure wielding what could only be the Staff.

  Robin went cold. Summoning his strength, he yelled, “Torman!” There was an answering shout from somewhere in front of him. Abandoning caution, Robin linked with Vanyr.

  Sonten’s man is opening a tunnel. He’s got the Staff and he’s getting away!

  Vanyr’s response was tight with strain. Don’t worry, I’m on him. If he tries to use the tunnel, we’ll follow, but it’s not ready yet.

  Reassured that Vanyr had the situation covered, Robin again scanned the mêlée for Parren. There was still no sign of him, but in the slowly growing light Robin could just make out some of his men outside the tavern. Before he could wonder what the sallow captain was doing back there, an Andaryan swordsman aimed a lunge at Robin’s chest. Whirling, he deflected the stroke, his blade ringing on his opponent’s as he sidestepped, avoiding the backslash. There were more Andaryans facing his command now as those from the eastern end were rallying the ones surrounding Sonten. The battle was turning desperate.

  + + + + +

  Sonten screamed at Heron to hurry even as he continued to shovel men into the portway. He knew nothing about the mechanics of anchoring such structures and had no understanding of the risks or pressure Heron was under. All Sonten knew was that Vanyr and the seamen were bearing down on him, battling their way ever closer. Without warning, he grabbed at the Staff in Heron’s hand.

  “Quickly, man, it must be now!”

  He dived into the dangerously unstable tunnel, dragging Heron behind him. Struggling to maintain the structure, Heron tried to resist. He pulled back on Sonten’s grip, desperately holding on to his connection with the Staff.

  “No, General! It’s too early! If I don’t anchor the portway, it could implode with all—”

  Sonten wasn’t listening, furious that his carefully prepared escape was being jeopardized. First he had lost Imris, and now he had to leave the horses. Maddening though this was, it was incidental compared to his and Heron’s safety. And if it came down to priorities, even Heron could be sacrificed provided Sonten escaped with the Staff. He could always find another Artesan open to bribery—or coercion. Heron’s frantic resistance was earning him no favors. Sonten wasn’t about to relinquish his grip on the Staff.

  Neither was he going to listen to Heron lecture on how an Artesan’s power worked. All he knew was that his escape route was in existence. Seeing Vanyr and the seamen closing rapidly, Sonten bolted as fast as his bulk and Heron’s resistance allowed.

  With Vanyr’s furious roar echoing in his ears, Sonten fled.

  + + + + +

  Cal opened bleary eyes. The bearded face of a huge man loomed over him. He would have flinched had he not been so exhausted. The man quickly introduced himself, and Almid’s low murmur reassured Cal. He felt the giant’s hands working loose the bonds around him, and prepared himself for pain as the circulation returned to his broken arm. What he wasn’t prepared for was the return of his Artesan powers when the spellsilver knife blocking them fell to the ground. It was as if a thick cocoon of wool had been abruptly ripped away.

  Hot agony shot up Cal’s shattered arm. His scream of anguish was echoed and amplified by his suddenly accessible metaforce. Cal grabbed for power to dampen the pain. He was only half-conscious and so didn’t wonder at the vast amount of power that flooded through his broken body. Still screaming, he pulled at it, soaked it up, and reached for more. His use of power was uncontrolled, uncontained, and metaforce leaked wildly into the substrate, fueled by his anguished screams.

  + + + + +

  Vanyr knew he was gaining on the General. He also realized that Heron was not fully in control of the portway. He could feel its instability through the element of Earth from which it was formed. Casting aside thoughts of his own safety, he had eyes only for the two fleeing men and the artifact they carried. As he ran, he tried reaching out with his own metaforce, wondering if he could disrupt Heron’s concentration. If he could wrest control of the Staff from Heron, he might be able to seal the end of the tunnel, trapping Sonten inside. He was aware that Heron was metaphysically stronger than him, but Sullyan’s words concerning his ranking five days ago had given him new confidence.

  Exerting his will, Vanyr latched on to the strange signature of the Staff. He could now feel Heron’s pattern of psyche and sense how tenuous his grip on the Staff was. Ignoring the weird sensations the Staff sent crawling through his body, Vanyr succeeded in severing Heron’s connection to the weapon. Triumphant, he saw the enemy commander stumble and then glance fearfully over his shoulder.

  Vanyr grinned, but his triumph faded as a strange and ominous rumbling came from behind him. Glancing over his own shoulder, he frowned at the eerie ripples advancing toward him, warping the air. The figures of men seemed to bleed, their shapes flowing like muddy water. Sound warped too, the cries and screams of men swelling and ebbing in his ears. He felt sick.

  He grabbed for the substrate, trying to control the strangely fluctuating power. Before he could act, a shockwave barreled into him. The sound of a thousand souls screaming in agony whipped Vanyr around like fluff in a gale, making him gasp in pain. He stared, helpless, as the weirdly augmented scream rebounded wildly through the tunnel, blasting over Sonten and his fleeing men. Vanyr’s eyes widened in horror as the tunnel wavered on the verge of collapse.

  He shielded instinctively, turning to yell furiously over his shoulder at Ky-shan and the seamen. “Cover your ears! The tunnel’s collapsing! Go back! GET OUT!”

  Without waiting to see if they obeyed him, he plunged his metasenses into the Staff, grasping at the vat of power with no restraint. He took a deep breath, for the ripples of the shockwave had reached the far end and were racing back toward him with mindless fury. He saw Sonten and Heron fall, both men crumpling like slaughtered deer. Clapping his hands over his ears as the wave raced over him, Vanyr fell to his knees. His body was blasted and shaken like a rag, yet his mind clamped desperately over the tunnel’s structure as it shuddered around him, threatening to fall apart. It ripped at his senses and he screamed, fighting to hold it together. The sound wave bounced back once more, punching him flat to the ground, searing his nerves and burning them raw. In anguish, he called upon the power of the Staff, just enough to direct the tunnel’s opening. He forced himself to crawl forward, desperate to snatch the Staff from Heron’s hand. He had to make it out before the tunnel collapsed completely.

  Holding his connection to the Staff was agony. Its power charred his barely shielded mind. Needles of hot pain lanced into his eyes and boil
ing liquid spilled down his face, making him shriek. On hands and knees, he blindly forced himself forward, pace by tortured pace, crying with pain as he grimly held on to the tunnel.

  One thought kept him going, distracted him from his agony. It was the image of Sullyan fighting for Bull’s life as the big man lay unresponsive after his heart seizure. She would never have given up on him, and Vanyr knew he could not give up now. Everything she had suffered—at Rykan’s palace, in the arena, and then to save her friends—could not be wasted. Without the Staff, she stood no chance of life.

  Vanyr could not let her down. Setting his teeth in a rictus of urgency, he clamped his mind around the disintegrating tunnel.

  He had no idea if anyone else was left in the structure. He had no thoughts, no time to speculate, no capacity for anything but this bitter battle for survival. He felt it like a sword in his back when the Albian end of the tunnel fractured, broke, and collapsed. He shrieked aloud as it raced up behind him, tumbling and buffeting his body as it imploded, shattering all around him.

  Flinging himself forward with a last, muscle-wrenching effort, he clawed desperately for the tunnel’s end.

  + + + + +

  The structure’s collapse sent a vast sound wave booming through the village. Every window was shattered and buildings were flattened. Once the aftershock had died, there wasn’t a single person left standing in the ruin that had once been Hyecombe.

  Chapter Ten

  Even while she slept, Sullyan’s metaforce surrounded her psyche with gentle healing. Moving through her blood and flesh, the amber essence encouraged bones to knit and new skin to grow. It was a soothing process, an unconscious process once set in motion, and Sullyan’s dreaming mind lay cocooned in power.

  The onset of searing agony ripped through her, shattering her dream. The force of a loud boom pressed against her ears. She thrashed and yelled, gripping her head in her hands to stop her skull from splitting apart. She instinctively burrowed into her psyche, blindly seeking refuge in the depths of her power.

  It lapped about her, protecting her from the worst of the pain. Ignorant of its cause, Sullyan lay gasping. The sudden movement had made her injured wrist throb and she feared she had undone some of the healing. When she was certain her body had sustained no further damage, she opened her eyes, blinking and shying away from a dark shape looming over her.

  She felt a hand touch her shoulder—Rienne’s hand. As her vision cleared, Sullyan could see the healer was speaking, but she still had her hands clamped over her ringing ears. She forced her hands down, wincing as the healer’s worried tones echoed in her mind.

  “Sullyan, are you alright? What on earth was that noise? Surely it can’t have been thunder?”

  Still struggling to recover, Sullyan didn’t reply. The blast—if that’s what it was—must have been truly huge if Rienne had felt it. Or maybe the healer was only getting an echo of what Sullyan had felt. Rienne’s arm slid around Sullyan’s shoulders, and she used the support to help her sit.

  “What is it, Brynne? What’s happened?”

  Soothed by her metaforce, the pain in her head was subsiding. Sullyan rose with Rienne’s aid, mindful of her throbbing left arm. “Pass me my robe,” she croaked. Rienne complied and helped her tie it around her waist.

  “Please tell me what’s wrong!”

  Rienne’s voice wavered with fear, yet reassurance would have to wait. Sullyan knew time was of the essence. If the shock was what she feared, others would be in desperate need of her aid. She had been lucky; her metaforce had shielded her.

  “Oh,” she moaned, “I hope the others shielded in time!”

  She staggered toward the door as Rienne grabbed her own robe to follow her out.

  The passageway was in uproar. Servants with torches rushed about, and somewhere someone was screaming. Ignoring the confusion, Sullyan made straight for the room allotted to Bull and Taran. She flung the door open and rushed in. Both men lay collapsed in their beds, Bull moaning softly and Taran deathly still. Panting with exertion, Sullyan sought their minds, giving a huge sigh of relief when she found that Taran was merely stunned. Bull was in pain but essentially undamaged.

  “Rienne, stay with them. They are alright, but if you have any willow extract to numb their pain, they will be in your debt forever. Save some for me, if you can.” She turned to leave the room.

  “Where are you going?” cried Rienne, but Sullyan had no time for explanations.

  She ran to Pharikian’s chambers, pushing past his page and barging in without ceremony. She went cold when she saw the ruler of Andaryon laid out on the floor, blood coming from his ears. She bent to examine him, immediately realizing that he had protected his mind at the expense of his body. It was only his eardrums that had suffered. Gently, she helped him back to consciousness and got him sitting up. The door swung open and his senior page appeared, white faced, shocked, and frightened.

  “Norkis, tend to his Majesty. He will be alright in a few moments. Get him something to drink. Tell him I am dealing with it.”

  Without waiting for his nod, she left.

  Marik’s rooms were next, but neither he nor Idrimar were there. She ran on through the dimly lit corridors, wondering where she would find any of the generals at this early hour. Not all of them would have been abed, of that she was sure. The problem was solved for her when she suddenly saw one of Kryp’s lieutenants running toward her.

  He skidded to a gasping halt. “Oh, Lady, can you come? General Kryp’s had some kind of attack. Ephan, too. I think they could be dead.”

  She urged the man on and soon found Kryp and Ephan both lying silent and ominously still on the council chamber floor. Examining Kryp first, she could see there was no hope. The man’s brain was charred; clearly he had not been quick enough to shield. Ephan was another matter; he was in a bad way, but she thought there might be enough to salvage.

  Working fast, ignoring the blinding, jagged migraine stabbing in her own head, she cocooned and sealed Ephan’s damaged mind within a protective barrier of his own metaforce. He would have to wait until she felt stronger before she could help him any further.

  The lieutenant was bending over Kryp, clearly distraught. Roughly, she pulled him upright, too urgent for soft words. “Kryp is dead, man, but Ephan needs your help. Keep him warm and comfortable and move him to his bedchamber as soon as you can. We will do more for him later.” She gave the traumatized man a shake. “Can you do that?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “Where will I find Anjer?” she asked, but the lieutenant shook his head. She bit back a curse and left the chamber at a run.

  Back out in the corridor the wall sconces were being lit. Clearly someone was trying to restore order. One of the calmer servants directed Sullyan to Anjer’s private chambers. Entering the suite without knocking, she opened the bedchamber door, startling a naked Torien who was weeping by her husband’s side. Anjer, also naked, lay unconscious in the great bed, and it was all too obvious to Sullyan what the two had been doing when the shockwave had struck.

  Torien was hysterical and completely unaware of her state of undress.

  “Oh, Lady Brynne, thank the gods!” she wailed, throwing herself into Sullyan’s arms. “Anjer’s collapsed! I don’t know what happened. We weren’t doing anything … excessive. He just screamed and went still. I think he’s dead! What am I going to do?”

  Sullyan pushed her away and went to Anjer’s side, placing her hands on his sweat-sheened face. She shot Torien a sharp look. “Get a robe on.”

  The young woman whimpered and stumbled toward her robe, one hand clamped to her mouth.

  Turning back to Anjer, Sullyan had to probe deeply to find his consciousness. Because he had been otherwise occupied at the time of the blast, he had not shielded his mind and by rights should be dead. Sullyan’s probing, however, revealed a surprising fact. Anjer had been expending power to prevent Torien from conceiving as a result of their lovemaking. Unable to understand why he would—the
y were married, after all—Sullyan realized that this use of power had inadvertently protected Anjer’s mind. Although his consciousness was buried deep, it was still there.

  She ran a weary hand over her face and sat on the bed, her mind still linked to Anjer. She absently covered Anjer’s rather magnificent body with the comforter. Torien had now belted her robe, which was just as well because the Hierarch suddenly entered the room. He was unsteady on his feet and looked haggard and old. Seeing that Sullyan was working he didn’t disturb her, but turned instead to the still-weeping Torien. Anjer’s wife flew into his arms and he murmured words of comfort.

  Once Sullyan had done for Anjer what she had already done for Ephan, she turned to Pharikian. “How are you, Majesty?”

  He managed a smile over Torien’s head. “I’m alright, Brynne. Or I will be, given time. How is Anjer?”

  Sullyan glanced back down at the Lord General’s ashen face. “He will be well with expert care. Although I fear that none of the Artesans in the palace will be fit to give it for a while.” She paused. “Majesty, I regret to tell you that General Kryp is dead. He died instantly. Ephan is still with us, though. Do you know where I might find Marik and Deshan?”

  The Hierarch’s face showed pain over the news about Kryp, but he replied steadily enough. “Deshan will be in the infirmary, I expect. Marik and Idri should be in their chambers. But what about you, Brynne? And have you any idea what caused all this?”

  “I have a hellish headache, Majesty, as we all will for some time. As to what caused the shockwave, I very much fear that someone was attempting to use Rykan’s Staff, and lost control while working. They will almost certainly be dead, as will anyone else caught too close.”

  She rose, trying to force down the pain. “I am afraid for Robin, Timar. Very afraid.”

  As the Hierarch had said, Sullyan found Deshan in the infirmary. Because of the large number of Artesans in the Citadel, the infirmary was shielded by walls coated with spellsilver, just enough to block the effects of a substrate scream should an injured Artesan lose control. This protection meant that not only was Deshan unharmed, he was also completely unaware of events. Mercifully, Marik and Idrimar were also there, giving Deshan the opportunity to check Marik’s shoulder before the day’s work began.