Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (4 page)

“You’re trespassing, Albian.”

The man’s arrogant manner and rich clothing confirmed Taran’s immediate suspicions—he was an Andaryan noble. Taran’s sleep-muddled mind struggled to frame a reply but he wasn’t given the leisure.

“The penalty for trespass is death.”

Taran stared, knowing he was trapped. The huntsmen stood with bows unnocked but he knew how swiftly they could draw and shoot should he make a threatening move. And though the ugly giant birds they had were hooded and leashed, they could be loosed in an instant if he tried to run. His only chance lay in the bargain he hoped to make.

He opened his mouth to answer but was again interrupted.

“However, I came out this day for sport. What do you say to a duel, Albian, to determine your fate? If you win, you’re free to leave. If you lose, you submit to my will.”

The noble’s pale, slit-pupiled eyes were avid and he fingered the hilt of his sword as he spoke. The motion drew Taran’s gaze. Events were moving a little fast for him despite this seemingly favorable turn. He had not expected things to work out like this—according to his father’s notes, he should be the one making the challenge—but in the end, did it matter? And what choice did he have? The noble had him at a severe disadvantage and would be within his rights should he decide to kill Taran out of hand. Even if he wasn’t, there was nothing Taran could do about it. No one would protect him if he could not protect himself.

He gathered his courage and faced the noble. He looked a little younger than Taran’s twenty-eight years but Taran had faith in his own skills. He was taller than the noble and he was agile and fit, there was no reason to believe he would not win. And the noble was an Artesan, Taran could sense it. He didn’t know what rank but that wasn’t immediately important. His father’s notes indicated that Taran only had to force a draw to win the right to the noble’s aid. If he turned out to be incapable of teaching Taran himself, his duty would require him to find someone who could.

“I accept,” he said, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice. The younger man grinned and Taran frowned. Those slit-pupiled eyes, unique to the Andaryan race, made his facial expressions unfamiliar. Taran would have to be very careful when reading his moves in the duel.

As he watched this exchange surrounded by his escort, Sonten’s heart filled with contempt. That the Albian was alone was foolish enough, why was he accepting challenges as if he had a choice? Where was his second to agree the rules of combat? Didn’t he know that without witnesses, such agreements were void?

His derision grew when he realized the Albian wasn’t even going to bargain terms with Jaskin. The Andaryans’ love of dueling and the complicated haggling that preceded such bouts was well known throughout the five realms. This outlander must be naïve indeed if he thought Jaskin’s honor would constrain him to the codes. The General huffed. Honor was not involved when fighting outlanders.

He began to relax. His nephew’s plan had worried him because it carried an unnecessary measure of risk. But if Jaskin’s opponent was so ignorant of the codes, then he wouldn’t be much of a threat. Sonten could enjoy the duel and their first experimental use of the Staff would bring them another step closer to success.

He elbowed the nearest huntsman. The man moved out of his line of sight and spread his cloak over the General’s head, shielding him from the strengthening sun. Sonten saw Jaskin’s glance and acknowledged the gesture, patting the weapon that rested against his thigh.

He crossed his arms over his ample chest and watched as the duel commenced.

Taran followed the noble as he moved away from the huntsmen, seeking room to maneuver. Suddenly he stopped and turned, staring into Taran’s eyes. Taran studied him without locking gazes. It was tempting to stare back but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would be a mistake. He needed to focus his attention on the noble’s body; if he turned out to be the experienced swordsman he seemed, his eyes would give away nothing.

Taran raised his sword to the salute. With no warning, his opponent lunged at him, blade aimed directly at Taran’s chest.

Despite the distance between them, Taran was caught off guard. Wrong-footed, he parried awkwardly, only just managing to slide away.

He tried to protest but his opponent didn’t give him time, immediately lunging into another strike that clashed on Taran’s hastily raised blade. The contemptuous look in his cat-like eyes told its own story and Taran realized protest was futile. The noble was after sport and Taran was his prey; there would be no quarter given and no respect paid to the rules.

Dismayed by this flagrant disregard for the codes, Taran struggled to force his mind back to sword play. He must not let his fear and outrage interfere with his skill. Those opening strikes, treacherous though they were, had alerted him to the talent and lack of moral code he was facing. The noble wouldn’t be an easy conquest. He was fighting on his own soil and by his own terms. Taran was the usurper, the outlander, and he was alone.

For the first time since conceiving the plan, Taran acknowledged this flaw. But it was too late now, he was locked into this fate. He threw himself into the combat, determined not to lose.

He cut and blocked, grateful that his skill had saved him from injury during those first deceitful moves. His pulse raced. His opponent was coming at him again, striking at his unprotected left, causing Taran to veer sharply aside. He swept his blade around, hoping to catch the noble off balance, but he had already danced out of the way.

Taran circled the noble warily, searching for weak points. The sun’s heat was increasing, he was sweating profusely. He lunged at the noble, forcing him back across the dusty ground, but the man disengaged and came at Taran again, giving him no time to draw breath.
We’re too evenly matched,
thought Taran,
there’s no advantage.
Sunlight struck blindingly from steel as his blade clashed and rang on the noble’s, labored breaths grunting through his throat.

They struggled back and forth for half an hour or so. Taran was bleeding from many superficial cuts; he was bruised and sore, but so was his opponent. Neither, it seemed, could gain the upper hand. Now that Taran’s early anger had been forgotten in his struggle for survival, he began to despair. A strange heaviness was weighing his arm and he was having trouble holding his own. He was dismayed; his stamina was usually greater than this. But his concentration was centered on his opponent’s latest flurry of vicious cuts and it took him a while to figure out what was happening.

He couldn’t understand it. What he suspected should not be possible. He and the noble hadn’t learned each other’s pattern of psyche, there was no way the other man could be affecting Taran’s life force. But it was undeniable. Insidiously, and contrary to all the rules and codes, the noble was draining Taran’s metaforce and using it to empower himself.

Outraged and confused, Taran’s mind shut down like a steel trap, cutting off the other’s leaching force. In panic, he accessed his psyche, using his own Artesan skills to bolster his flagging strength.

“Foul,” yelled his opponent. “The use of metaforce is forbidden by the codes.”

Taran saw the watching huntsmen stir at this cry. Infuriated by its hypocrisy, he realized he had walked straight into a trap. He couldn’t impeach the noble though, it was too late. And anyway, there was no one to believe him.

As he automatically blocked a low swipe to his leg, Taran recalled a glance exchanged between the noble and someone among the huntsmen. Coupled with the strange eager light in his opponent’s eyes, these signs should have warned Taran that something was amiss. Yet it had passed him by and this new failure only increased his frustration.

Enraged by the deception, Taran attacked with a burst of vicious strokes. The noble gave way before him but there was a knowing look in his eye. Now Taran understood that he had planned this all along. He had never intended to honor the contract. With no witnesses to speak for him, Taran was totally unprotected. He would have cursed himself savagely if only he’d had the strength.

He heard a strident call as someone among the huntsmen yelled, “Use your own powers. He’s broken the rules, after all.”

Alone and without an ally, Taran went cold, realizing the full extent of his peril. A surge of righteous rage flooded his soul. He might have been careless and foolish in allowing his opponent to accuse him, but he wasn’t the one who had broken the codes.

The noble’s treachery meant Taran was free to use his powers. He did so and soon his opponent, in response to the call, formed a ball of Earth element, which he flung at Taran’s feet. Too slow to counter it, Taran stumbled. Now they were fighting on two levels. This was highly dangerous as it was impossible to concentrate on sword play while using an Artesan’s skills.

Icy fear made Taran shiver. This bout would end in his death unless he could defeat the noble.

Exhausted though he was, he redoubled his efforts.

Sonten moved stealthily, hoping neither fighter would notice his approach. He’d felt relief on sensing Jaskin’s drain of his opponent’s strength but it turned to rage when the Albian failed to succumb. Fearful for his nephew’s safety, the General needed Jaskin to end this duel. He watched closely and eventually saw his chance. As Jaskin drove his Albian opponent backwards with a succession of powerful lunges, Sonten cried, “Use the Staff, boy.”

He tossed the weapon across the beaten earth.