King's Artesan: Artesans of Albia trilogy (Artesans Series Book 3) Page 12

  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 of 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 t
o 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.

  “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 even 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.