Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (10 page)

“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?”

Dyler shot him a look. “How should I know? We didn’t wait to see. I hope our lads massacred the lot of ’em.”

On hearing he’d been stunned, Rienne took a closer look at the silent Jaspen. A worried look in her eye, she asked Paulus to give the two men beds for the night.

“You can’t expect them to make their way home after this,” she said. “Come on, someone help me get them upstairs. They need peace and quiet, not all these questions. And bring that brandy bottle.”

A couple of villagers came forward to help the two men stand. Taran would have helped, too, but Rienne flashed him a deterring glance.

He and Cal went back to their table. The evening had been drawing to a close before the two farmers burst in. Now Paulus shooed the rest of his customers out. Once they had gone, he sat down next to Taran and took a healthy swallow of his own brandy.

“That’s a bit close for my liking,” he said. “We’ll have to start sleeping with scythes by our beds if this carries on. Kingsmen won’t always be there to chase the demons off.”

When neither Cal nor Taran commented, he shot them a narrow-eyed look. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with what you wanted to talk to me about.”

Rienne came back down the stairs and Taran glanced at her questioningly. “They’re both sleeping,” she said. “They should be alright by morning.”

He turned back to the barkeep. “I don’t know for sure, Paulus, but it’s a very strong coincidence if not.”

He told his tale and Paulus listened quietly, sipping his brandy until Taran had finished. Then he shook his head.

“I really don’t like the sound of this. I never heard the like from your father, that’s for sure. A dead noble, a dangerous weapon you can’t return, and now these raids? This is serious stuff, my boy. If you’re prepared to admit you’re out of your depth, then you need help.”

“Well, yes, I know that,” agreed Taran, “but where can I go? You know the trouble my father and I had trying to find other Artesans. There aren’t any, at least not in Loxton province. Who could I turn to about something as serious as this?”

Paulus hesitated before replying and eyed Taran oddly. “I told Rienne today that I’d heard rumors about a witch being in command of the garrison near the Downs.”

“And I told you what we think of tales like that,” snorted Rienne.

“But what if it’s true?” Before any of them could respond, he stared pointedly at Taran. “What if it’s someone like you?”

Taran shook his head. “It can’t be. After all these years of searching, don’t you think I’d know if there were other Artesans nearby? And even if I’d failed to find them, my father would have known. He’d have told me.”

Paulus wagged a finger. “Amanus didn’t know everything, my boy. Too many swordsmen have come through here saying the same thing for me to discount it completely. But even if it’s not true, isn’t this Staff a military matter? If the demons are looking for it, there are likely to be more raids. The garrison ought to know.”

“I suppose so,” said Taran. “But even if you’re right, we can hardly go marching up to a garrison of Kingsmen and say, ‘Hey, does anyone here know anything about Andaryan weapons?’ You know what they’re like, they would laugh in our faces. We’d either be locked up as troublemakers or thrown out before we got a chance to explain.”

“Well, now,” said Paulus, “I just might be able to help you there. I’ve never told you this because I was asked to keep it quiet, but I happen to know a young chap in that garrison. His name’s Captain Tamsen. From what he told me, his commanding officer is quite interested in outlanders. Since you’ve asked me, my advice is to go there and ask to see Major Sullyan. Tell them I sent you; that should get you in. After that, it’s up to you.”

Taran held Paulus’ gaze. He felt sure the barkeep was holding something back, but he couldn’t think what or why. After a short pause, and because he lacked any other plan, he said, “Where is this garrison?”

“Only a couple of days’ ride away,” said Paulus. “Take the north road to Canstown then the Tolk turning. Someone up there can tell you exactly where it is, I’m told it’s well known.”

Thanking Paulus, they left and hurried home. The news of a raid so close to Hyecombe had made them all nervous and Taran bolted the door securely. He was feeling confused and uncomfortable and wanted to think through Paulus’ advice. Leaving Cal and Rienne to their fellan, he went to bed.

Early the next morning, Taran was joined in the cellar by Cal. Together, they stared at the damage to the walls and ceiling. The Staff still lay innocently on the floor, gleaming in the light of the lamp.

“Have you thought any more about what Paulus said?” asked Cal.

“Of course,” snorted Taran. “Haven’t you?”

“If we go to the garrison, we’ll have to take Rienne with us. I’m not leaving her here with the Staff.”

“Would you leave her if we took it with us?”

“Perhaps. Do you think we can?”

Taran shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to try. I can’t say I’m keen to handle it, but maybe we can rig up some kind of pack to carry it and use the wash tongs to lift it. That might work.”

“Have you made up your mind to go?”

Taran glanced at him. “Yes, I suppose I have. It can’t do any harm and last night’s shock has made it more urgent than ever. Has Rienne left on her rounds yet?”

“She went about ten minutes ago. She’ll be out ’til noon, I think. She asked me to go to Shenton for some medical supplies. The mail coach should be here in an hour.”

“We’d better get on with it, then.”

It was Cal’s suggestion to fetch the wash tongs from the scullery before finding a pack to hold the Staff. As he sensibly pointed out, if the thing resisted being moved, they would be wasting their time on a pack. Taran took a thick pair of leather gloves with the tongs.

“Do you really think you’ll need those?” Cal asked.

“How should I know? I just remember what it felt like to hold the Staff the first time and I don’t want to take any chances.”

After locking the cottage door against casual visitors, they went back into the cellar. Not that visitors were likely, but Rienne might return early and Taran didn’t want her around while they experimented with the Staff.

He positioned himself at the side of the depression in the floor. Once he had donned the leather gloves, he took the tongs from Cal. They looked not half long enough. He decided to poke the Staff with them first to test for a reaction. He glanced up at his Apprentice, who was watching from the opposite wall.

“I think we’d better be shielded,” he said.

Cal nodded and Taran sensed him reaching for his psyche, calling a protective flow of metaforce around him. Taran did the same.

“I’m ready,” said Cal.

Taking a deep breath, Taran leaned carefully over the pit, tongs extended.

As the tongs neared the Staff, it began to glow. Taran frowned; he hadn’t expected it to react. Tentatively, he extended his arm and the closer he got to the Staff, the brighter it glowed.

Suddenly, he lost his nerve and withdrew his arm. The glow faded.

“That didn’t look promising,” said Cal.

His pessimism goaded Taran. He decided to take a chance and just pick the thing up. Maybe it was meant to glow? The memories of his ordeal in Andaryon were hazy at best and he couldn’t remember if the Staff had been glowing the first time he’d held it.

“I’m going to pick it up,” he said, reaching out again. Swiftly he rolled the Staff into the tong’s wooden jaws and picked it up.

When the lurching, spinning darkness began to lift, Taran’s first impression was that he was too close to the fire. His skin was burning and he tried to move away from the heat. He felt hands on him, holding him down, and he struggled, because he really was too close to that fire.